Gossamer
John Willowdown
Part I
 With a cornflower cap and a gossamer map he set out on Sir Silverbreath, his faithful steed, his willow-wand green with the first buds of Spring, his heart full of love like invisible wings. For a little while children ran before his horse which stopped every now and then outside familar doors to accept carrots and apples from maidens and housewives, smiling with his bright white teeth as they ran their fingers through his mane and sitting laughing on his back Prince Dandelion admired the lovely flowing curls of the damosels and wished that he might do the same. But he contented himself with chewing an apple passed to him by Grandmother Nixus, as thin now as a living skeleton though Dandelion remembered how once she had fed him at a bosom that had been warm, protective and ample. "Farewell Mother," he cried and bent down and kissed her, "I go to search for fairies and to seek my fortune in the Perilous Wood.' "Aye, aye," said Grandmother Nixus, wiping a tear from her ravished cheek, "every young man must test himself against the great world and the Powers that inhabit it." And she raised a tattered shawl to her face so that he might not see her weep. Butterflies accompanied him along the way and from her tree at the edge of the Wood Perilous a dryad looked out and laughed, admiring the strand of bright yellow hair that escaped from his cap and the bouquet of daisies he'd pinned to his sash. Her keen senses also took note of his blade, albeit it were sheathed in leather and shade - but the scent of burgeoning willow-buds caame to her and she knew it would never cut any tree in anger. "Ho, young sir Knight," she called down to him as he passed beneath her bower and glancing up in wonder to locate the golden shower of her laughter he saw a sight that would remain indelibly painted on his mind for all his years thereafter: a wondrous hamadryad, green-tressed and much endowed with beauty, with pointed ears and gold-flecked eyes to show that elven blood had mingled with her native sap and made a perilous Lady. "Fie," she cried and threw down a pine-cone at our hero, "is it the fashion this year for knights to be dour and churlish or has some mischievous, nine-lived stalker of rooftops made off with your tongue to use as a surrogate mouse to teach its gamboling young the arts of hunting and playful dalliance?" "My Lady," cried Sir Dandelion, abashed, "pray forgive my lack of manners and wit, I knew I might expect great marvels in the Wood Perilous but I did not know such splendour and beauty lived at the very edge of it. Name me a forfeit that I might strive to redress my gauche and inexcusable folly and, if you will, tell me your name, that I might know with whom it is I tarry." "I have many names," sighed the dryad, "but you might call me Morning Mist - and as for your forfeit, why, I claim from your lips a bright crimson kiss, the first of the day, unless you count the light caress of a dragonfly's wings that brushed the night-dew from my eyes that I might clearly gaze upon blue skies yet roseate with dawn and spider-webs still glinting silver and elf-tracks strewn across the lawn between the forest and the town. But tell me, sir Wanderer, I have given you my name and now you must give me yours - are you a prince of High reknown or just some hapless fellow, a youth in search of adventure, a dreaming poet, moonstruck and callow, a virgin in search of mystery, a flegdling knight bent on chivalrous errantry?" |
Part II
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For three days and nights he stayed with the Lady and she taught him many things he had not known previously, not the least of which were the ways of love for in these things hamadryads are not too different from men save in experience only, for the average span of a hamadryads life can be two dozen score and ten or for as long as her foster tree prospers. Nor was sir Silverbreath entirely lacking in feminine company for catching scent of an unfamiliar beast two young centaur maidens came calling on him on pretext of visiting Morning Mist and though Sir Silverbreath was quite astonished, never having seen such creatures before, he offered to share his hay and turnip mash with them but the centaur ladies mearely laughed and slyly asked him if he had any noodles. On the fourth morn of his dalliance however Morning Mist had grown tired of the arts of love and instructing her new friend and, reminding him of his adventure and quest, pointed out a likely track down which he might wend. "Heed not the taunts or missiles of gnomes and leprechauns," she advised him, "chastisement will but encourage them. A handful of sugar-cubes will buy their friendship however, for gnome and leprechaun both have sweet tooths, though be not overly lavish with your gifts or they will ever dog your route. Do not drink of fishless streams for their waters will give you troublesome dreams and eat not the purple fruit that grows on the sweet-smelling allacia tree for though it is exceedingly tasty it irritates the delicate bowels and will compell you to the bushes over excessively. Take love where and when you may but always repay your pleasure in kind though be aware, not all things appearing fair, are always what they seem. The Pookhas of widdershin streams can cast a most convincing glamour but after a night of sport with them you might find they have a horse's head and an indelicate taste for mortal flesh. Likewise, not all tree spirits can be trusted: lamia can assume the form of both fauna and flora - examine their teeth before you kiss them which are sometimes set on backwards. Beware the glades of woman-headed flowers and accept no invitations to inspect liana-girl's bowers. Male centaurs can be quite rude and gruff, whilst monotaurs should never be approached from the rear. If one should invite you to its cave never drink more than a cupful of its ale for, though it is an excellent brew and moderator, was never meant for human consumption (though dryads might imbibe it freely) and you will awaken three days later unable or unwilling to remember your name, a thousand cloven hooves clattering in your golden mane." And running her light green fingers through his hair she lightly bussed Prince Dandelion on the lips whilst he, torn between gay laughter and tears, made to fall on his knee to thank her but she quickly raised him and pushed him from her door. "Out with you now," she said. "I must away to visit Queen Hippolyta in the Land beneath the Crimson Mountain. When you come back this way bring me some brooch or pretty treasure found on your travels... Sir Silverbreath is waiting, anticipating new discoveries and the many types of fairy grass his new friends have told him of. One final warning," she called after him before vanishing into the thickness of her native forest, "tarry not in the Country of the Ancient Oaks, for though some amongst them are noble and most trustworthy folk, their liege-lord Quercus the Gnarled is a sly-minded fellow and has no love for humans. In deepest need or grave peril call upon Ozymandias Owl or Luneta Larkwit - they are trustworthy birds and will help yyou if they may but call not on them over-lightly for in magical transactions of this sort there is always some sort of bartering price either you or they must pay..." |
Part III
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Thus into the depths of the wood I rode, quietly watched by blue men in woad. An inquisitive crow dogged my toes, so it seemed, and curious water-rats warbled at me cheerfully from merry little streams. Once I came across a dull black river overhung with gloomy trees; no fish swam in its somnolent water and no ducks swam upon its surface and I wondered then just how I might cross it. "For the price of an apple," called a little voice from inside a clump of ferns, "I could tell you whether to go right or left to find the ruined bridge." "That seems reasonable," I told the grinning elf lad, "but what use would that be to me?" "For the lick and bite of a juicy fat carrot (I saw you give your horse one earlier) I could write you a note to give to the Three Sisters and they might weave you a spell to mend the bridge's fallen arch... you wouldn't have a skin of wine on you, would you, I'm feeling quite parched." "How old are you?" I asked, eying the little fellow cautiously. "A hundred and four," said he merrily, "but I don't look a day over a hundred, I know it. And I've never had a dry day or hoodwinked a sensible human yet," he added and winked." Leaving him chewing one of Grandmother's best carrots I proceeded down a rustic path and coming to the Three Sister's cottage, handed them the young lad's note, wondering what they might charge for their services but they told me not to look so nervous, they would gladly do it for free, though the eldest of them smiled and said that if I liked I might come and sit upon her knee. Warily I approached the old dame but she guffawed again and said that she was only having a game. Then the three old witches (which patently they were) set to, mumbling and grumbling, filling the thick forest air with the whisper of bats, invisible hats, the hind legs of toads and (best of all) a narrow stretch of temporary ectoplasmic road which they slung across the yawning gap between two halves of the broken bridge by which they had their cottage. "Quickly now," said the youngest, "an ancient crone as wrinkled as a furry cheese, with seven wattles on her nose and whiskers on her knobbly knees, "hurry across before it melts - Sir Silverbreath first with your valuable purse full of carrots and whatnot. Don't look down - if you fall in and drown there's nothing we can do to help you save perhaps for the kiss of life and as I am a respectable witch if I kissed you, you would then have to marry me and make me your wife!" Crossing the bridge I waved to the witches and watched their flimsy weave-work dissolve, Sir Silverbreath whinnying with relief, the stench of half-digested carrots emerging from between his chattering teeth. "It's just as well they were friendly," I told him, "I'm too young to be married, especially to a witch. I hope there's not too many more dark rivers to cross or hundred year old elves to barter with, our supply of apples and root crops would certainly suffer an appreciable loss." |
Part IV
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We camped that night in a moonlit glade, Sir Silverbreath living up to his name as he chewed happily at a patch of wood sorrel that he found and I was forced to do the same, though I augmented it with mushrooms and roots and made a sort of Perilous Stew. Morning proved my culinary skills non-poisonous and we continued on our chivalrous way, tightening our belts (or saddle-straps) to stop their excess chafing. By noon we had to loosen them again however for we fell in with a pack of boisterous dwarves on the way to a wedding in the forest hamlet of Little Son of Hastings and they needs must invite us to dine and drink with them, which we did willingly, repaying their generosity with songs and tales, which are as wine and red meat to dwarvish folk, the taller and more unlikely the better, with knockabouts to season them and jolly japes to act as salt. We traveled with them a little way but as Little Son of Hastings lay two leagues outside the Forest Perilous (just west of the Manse of the Happy East Breeze) we left them at dusk by the Pillars of Rust, which are two great lightning stuck trees where, our dwarf friends told us, two Giants had once been chained and imprisoned for wooing their stepfather's cousins but, calling on the Lord of Lightning, had broken the chains and killed their stepfather in a terrible fight and married the cousins who bore them twenty perfectly ugly Giantlings each, which is how little giantlings should be and they all (said the dwarves) got on relatively happily except for two sisters named Brunhildre and Bulimia who fought so much between themselves they had to be drowned then quartered as well. "Farewell, farewell," I called after our singing, knee-slapping friends. "Perhaps one day we shall meet up again and I shall tell you how I once pushed little Nellie Tightdrawers down a deep well!" (I didn't really - but that is the sort of tale that dwarves like best) "Farewell, Prince Dandelion," the dwarves called back "and noble Sir Silverbreath, whose front breath smells almost as sweet as that from his back!" Sir Silverbreath neighed and stamped his right hoof. He did not appreciate the humour of dwarves very much. Rain lashed down between the leaves, at first a gentle pattering but then a raucous clattering as cold wet water fell all about us, eager to infiltrate each nook and cranny and seek out the last dry place. Fortunately my travelling gear was sealed with wax; not so myself or Sir Silverbreath who, of a sudden, stopped moving completely and just stood there, letting the rain sluice off him, head-bowed, oblivious to my bellowed instructions to 'get a move on with you, you stubborn old nag!' But when his hocks had sunk a good four inchs into the lake all formed about him he saw the wisdom of my suggestion and dragged us miserably forward into the dull, grey deluge in search of some slim hope of refuge. Overhead the forest shook and rippled and swayed and oft repeated stabs of lightning lit up the gloom as if it were the noon of day (it was actually early evening). Not two hundred yards from us a tree caught fire - something in its resinous sap resisted > the downpour and it burned and writhed, engulfed in steam and dull orange flame, its agony and pain eerily mute yet all the more terrible in the steady falling of the rain. |
Part V
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I wondered if the storm extended to the edge of the forest and if it did, how Morning Mist fared and all the other folk that lived within the Wood. Sunk in thought I barely noticed Sir Silverbreath had stopped again until, looking up, I saw that we stood before a sort of mound or little hill and in its side was set a door and through a narrow diamond pane yellow light gleamed warmly and beckoned most enticingly. Dismounting and shaking myself I went to peer through the little window but its glass was mullioned and frosted and little could my eyes distinguish though placing my ear against the surface I thought I heard the sound of distant merriment and what seemed like the ticking of a thousand diverse clocks! Standing back I examined the door: it was big enough to allow several Giants ample entrance and that thought gave me pause but its knocker seemed of a size more fitting for ordinary sized folk such as myself and so, putting aside all thought of what possibly goblinish lord or ogre might dwell within I seized the dull brass bar and rapped. And rapped and rapped and rapped again... I could scarcely hear the noise it made above the downpour's dismal din. What hope then to stir any dubious, cloth-eared inhabitant snoozing within, feet up and snoring, a bottle of gin beside him. "Damnation!" I cried, so loudly that Sir Silverbreath shied and then began to hiccup. Eventually however, after knocking for a good fifteen minutes or more the great door opened a narrow crack and the wizened visage of an old elf looked out, not too thin yet not too stout, a puzzled but not unfriendly look upon his face, a musty old tome clutched in one hand and in the other an old cracked hourglass leaking sand. A mixture of dubious stains discoloured the front of a nightgown that might once have been lace. "Shoo, shoo, you pestiferous flea-bitten creature," he admonished and despite the rain, I marvelled at such uncivil a greeting and lack of neighbourly etiquette and grace but then I perceived he was not addressing either Sir Silverbreath or me but a hulking great wild-cat slouched betwixt his feet, so huge of girth it quite came up to it's master's knee, its mottled complexion displaying a most disdainful expression as it caught sight of us now and our wet condition. The reluctant feline eyed us hautilly and hissed defiantly at the swift-sluicing rain. It obviously had no intention of being ejected and I cannot say I blamed it. "Now then, Pushkin," the Old Elf admonished the giant cat which had dug its paws into the earth and refused to budge. Then glancing up he perceived the cause for his familiar's reluctance and noticing my presence on his doorstep his eyes went round with astonishment so that he almost dropped the book he was holding and quite forgot his hourglass. "Goodness Gracious," he said at last, "what on earth are you doing out there in this terrible weather - do come in and take your wet things off |
Part VI
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Sir Silverbreath did not need to be asked twice: as the Old Elf opened the door he ambled in and shook himself upon the mat - much to the disgust and chagrin of Pushkinn the cat who abandoned his cultivated stance of elegant disdain and with a dismal wail of aggrieved pain shot back down the corridor to escape this vile shower of vicarious rain. "Dear me," said the Old Elf, quickly protecting his evening read beneath the voluminous folds of his gown, "I hadn't realised that it was raining so hard - why, the two of you quite look half-drowneed. "Good Elf," I cried, removing my hat and squeezing its contents in a gentlemanly way upon the coconut Welcome mat, "I must apologise for my rude companion's lack of manners - he is but a simple horse who, despite his regal forebears, is somewhat lacking in social distinction (at this point my companion, with not inconsiderable precision, aimed a hoof in my direction), thinking only of carrots and hay." "Neigh, neigh," said Sir Silverbreath, "I can hold my own with the grandest of nobles; I congratulate you Sir, on your state of elegant preservation and if you will kindly show me to the stables, I will make myself comfortable." "Tush and nonsense," replied the Elf. "We are all equal here Sir, let's hear no talk of stables, you'll sup and dine at my own table." "Somewhat astonished at Sir Silverbreath's sudden capacity for speech I stood dumbfounded before perforce, I recollected myself, a process hastened by a prolonged fit of shivering and the clattering of my teeth. Inside the hill a thousand timepieces ticked and tocked and I did not wonder the Old Elf had not heard my knocks. The largest of his many chronometers seemed to be a large and bearded Grandfather clock, four times as tall as our host himself its lower extemities all encased in a thick woolen stocking. It struck the hour as we passed and despite its tartan muffler its ancient mechanism boomed so loud I nearly lost my balence. "Sir," I cried, "I have never heard so loud a time-piece, were it not for your precautions it might well have deafened me." "Eh, eh?" replied the Elf abstactedly, "the sock is not for soundproofing, lad - the clock's quite old and prone to colds.< I had it from my Grandmother." "Yet the others are so quiet," I said. "Not at all, young man," said our host as another began to trill and bell, "they are merely set to differnt regions - each tells the hour in some far-off place.. Time is no mere uniform construct, that would be a dull affair! This here cuckoo clock, for example, regulates the time in the mountainous land of Switz, whilst the crystal globe beside it is responsible for the days and hours on the far-side of Mercury. Each piece has its unique duty and chimes in accord with its allotted place in the universal calendar of harmony and beauty. "Do you mean to say these time-pieces (of which I surely perceive at least four hundred), not only display but are responsible for the time itself in diverse zones of cosmic space?" I gasped, a look of astonishment on my face (Sir Silverbreath showed not a whit of interest in these marvellous mechanisms but contented himself with rubbing hs leg against a sideboard). "Of course," said the Elf, "did I not just say so? - and this is just one room of many, my clocks number several thousand in all and it is a considerable task to keep them all well regulated, fed and oiled, I can tell you!" Before I had a chance to enquire the usual diet of clocks however the Elf continued: "My name is Tiresias the Younger and this is the Barrow of Time... but here's the Main Hall, take your wet shoes and socks off and come and dry yourselves before the conflagration. Allow me to serve you a little collation." He indicated a hearth so vast I stood aghast before it, not only on account of its uncommon size but the fact that it burned not coal or logs but broken timepieces and clocks... |
Part VII
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"But Sir," I questioned Young Tiresias, what is the meaning of this?" watching the clockfaces buckle and burn, hissing and ticking despondently. In their flames I thought to see the faces of a hundred imps moaning, groaning, grinning. "These clocks all told the Time in places that no longer exist." replied mine host dispassionately. Picking up an exquisite Ormolu piece from a pile on the floor by his feet he threw it on the roaring blaze. "That one told the time on a little world somewhere in Cygnus Minor," he smiled, "a pleasant spot for observing swans but alas it was struck by an asteroid just two hours earlier and is now no more than cinders and ash. Now where I wonder is that dratted cat? Pushkin, make yourself useful and prepare some chambers for our guests, its not often we get visitors so give them the best - the East Wing should do, it has a particularly lovely view of Egypt in the morning though do make sure you sweep it out. I passed it by the other day and thought I heard some creature snoring, probably some lazy sphinx, catching up on forty thousand winks... We stayed with Tiresias for several days and watched him at his peculiar craft, making the timepieces for new-born worlds and seeing that those already in his care were kept in good repair and did not stray by as little or as much as a second in any given day. In the evenings we sat and dined before the fire and Pushkin the cat proved himself an admirable poet when suitably primed with kippers and fresh cream, for which he had an inordinate liking - although he was also quite partial to banaanas mashed with peppermint ice-cream. Taking advantage of the downpour outside, (which showed no sign of abating) he entertained us with epic verse and song, accompanying himself on an antique pewter harp strung with his ancestors whiskers. Ocassionally we caught sight of another extremely beautiful snow-white cat whom, Tiresias explained, was Pushkin's sister, a reknowned operatic singer, especially at night, but extremely shy with strangers. Once I saw her by moonlight through the glass of the Egyptian-facing guestroom window, wandering the dunes and practicing her tunes but when she saw me observing her she leapt down the entrance of a half-finished tomb, outside of which a tall blind Priestess was bent almost double across a great Loom spinning some fabric as dark as the night whilst stars fell behind her as flashes of light. |
Part VIII
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It would have been nice to step out into the desert sun, I thought in the morning but the window was quite stuck with paint. I wondered how the evicted Sphinx had got in but Sir Silverbreath told me (whether truthfully or not) that sphinxes, when they turn themselves sidways several times, are terribly thin and that it probably slipped in through a crack, so as far as venturing into Egypt was concerned, that was that. I daresay it would have contravened some minor temporal by-law anyway but my speculations raised a curious question, which I put to the Old Elf. "Tell me, good Sir, what time exactly is it here inside your workshop and home - do you follow the linearality of my nativee Earth? what patient march do the seconds, minutes and hours, so pleasantly spent in your industrious sanctum, so peculiarly observe?" But even as he answered me a great clock shaped like a giant elephant boomed out behind him, lifting its trunk twelve times into the air, trumpeting for all it was worth and when it had finished I was quite deaf for almost ten minutes, by which time, Pushkin informed us, it had finally stopped raining outside, at which news young Tireaias put his work aside to do a spot of gardening. "Flowers are almost as sensitive as clocks," he told us, "not enough rain and they shrivel and die - too much and they become quite water-loggeed. Everything in well-appointed means - eat up, eat up, your shoes and socks are nnow quite dry and it is Time you must be going. If you stay any longer you might upset the delicate balence of things and precipitate an early winter and a quest of your sort is no good when its snowing or when the cold March wind is blowing. Pushkin will accompany you part of the way and see to it that you do not stray - a downpour of this magnitude sometimes does things to the land, shifting longitude and latitude... We soon tired of Pushkin's haughty ways however and when we met up with a group of seaside folk carrying a consignment of smoked kippers to Son of Little Hastings, gladly gave him leave to accompany them, which he did with alacrity, whiskers twitching and tail in the air, whilst we journeyed on in the bright emerald forest full of butterflies and midges freshly hatched by the rain, a nuisance at night, so that we needs must retire early, I in my tent, Sir Silverbreath snorting and stamping all night, near driven quite mad, he said, by their bites (his capacity for speech, or what passed for my ability to understand it, lessened over the next few days as we left the Mound of Time behind and he reverted to his neighing and whinnying ways). Presently the forest grew dark and dim, the trees all crowded together and strange and I wondered if we might have strayed into the realm of Quircus the Gnarled, that querulous old oak whose name was a byword for malefic misanthropy and murderous machiavellianism amongst most sensible folk. I pulled out the somewhat quickly drawn map Morning Mist had provided me with which showed his region ringed in bright red but recalling the words of Tiresias about shifting latitude and longitude decided we must stick to instinct instead. |
Part IX
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But when we sought to retrace our path we found the way blocked by a swift flowing stream. fishless and dark, silent and stealthy, uninviting to look at and smelling unhealthy. And though we followed it east and west we found no bridge, broken or otherwise, nor friendly witches or elves in the bushes. We needs must journey further and deeper until presently, it seemed to me, the way inclined a little steeper to a high ridge where the beech and pine gave way to old oaks, all in serried lines, though many were withered and fallen with age and from their hollow, noisome trunks dark, unwholesome eyes peered out and I thought I heard them whisper my name. "Step forward, Sir Dandelion," they seemed to say, "and bow before great Quircus - it is long now since a mortal was foolish< enough to pass this way and now you must stay long with us, entertaining us with tales and song until your eyes grow heavy and your beard grows long." As I had not yet started shaving this seemed a gloomy prospect and I replied that my stock of tales was short and my singing voice regretable. "No matter," replied the vigilant things inside the fallen trees, "Quircus' pleasure at your torment and improvisation will be commensurate with your inconsistencies and all the more immeasurable and terrible. Step forward now and pay your homage." Shifting then from boot to boot I thought I heard a far-off hoot and remembered the parting words of Morning Mist. "Ozymandias, O noblest of Owls, where do you wander and where do you prowl? Sir Dandelion has need of thee and little Luneta Larkwit too: succour me now, I beg of you!" Nothing happenned. Had I merely imagined the hoot? Quircus was a monstous brute - the largest oak I've ever seen save, where most trees suggest a sense of inner peace and nobility, Quircus was mad, demented and obscene; the moss-hung slits of his eyes raked my soul with long, cruel inspection then closed a while in deep introspection. "Detain the human and his beast in the old bear-cave," he said at last, "this evening there shall be a feast and he shall entertain us. The Priestess of the Oak-worshippers comes to pay their yearly tribute. As is her custom she will be fasting tonight but perhaps tomorrow she will appreciate fresh horse-meat... Now I will sleep." |
Part X
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And as the Oak began to gently sway and snore, half a dozen pits between its massive roots opened up and a swarm of ugly little half-men erupted from their disguised doors - things that had a look of goblin about theem but with thick and toughened skin like bark and living twigs and leaves for hair. Reaching out with gnarled and noduled fingers they grabbed and guided Sir Silverbreath and myself and pushed us to the aformentioned cave, pinching at us maliciously, muttering amongst themselves as all around, horrendously, the gathered oaks chortled and creaked and unseen eyes continued to peep. The bear-cave stank of leaf-mold and bones and once we were inside it several of the tree-folk made a chest-high wall of stones to partially block its entrance, two of them standing guard outside whilst the rest went off to forage for root-things and flesh to serve up to mad Quircus' guest, the priestess of the debased tribe that foolishly thought him a god. I paced up and down, exploring the cave, hoping I might find some other exit but finding none and only managing to bump my head several times on the low and rough-hewn roof with stalactites like rotten tooths. I returned to Sir Silverbreath and in amongst his saddlebags found the last of his carrots and half a dozen old dried fruits. Munching them to keep out strength up we waited for the evening feast. Presently I fell asleep. I was awakened by the sound of our tree-folk guard dismantling the wall. They escorted us roughly to Quircus again where the Priestess and her accompanying train had arrived: two dozen or so small wights, wrapped in robes that all but hid their features. One of them was juggling balls whilst others played on lyres and flutes. Before the gnarled old Oak lay open chests, filled not with gold or gems or treasure but ancient scrolls and musty books! Quircus, it seems, was more of a scholar than a mere collector of jewels or filligree of fine-spon gossamer and his tribute was in erudite works... he revelled in wisdom, knowledge and words. "Step forth, Prince Dandelion, and entertain us if you will," he said. "Tell me some tale I have not heard before; sing me a song of your native halls, amuse me and keep my ancient ennui at bay. A tree has plenty of time to study - who knows, perhaps I might even let you liive if you have something new or original to say... |
Part XI
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By firelight I told the tale (trees are not overly fond of fire but Quircus had lit one as a courtesy) of how Sir Notable Bream, appurtenanced in shining mail of bright and silvery flashing scales one time set out from Errant Town to seek and slay the renegade Whale that had turned aquatic traitor and was goading fish to Spanish trawlermen's nets in return for nothing more than casques of virgin olive oil to lubricate his sensitive skin. I told of how the last mayor of Jonestown, Ebeneezer Scrier, had contrived to marry five wives by assuming the identities of soldiers killed in foreign wars and had only been found out when one of them arrived home unexpectedly, washed up on his native shore after having spent the last seven years inside the belly of that selfsame renegade whale, having slipped out one night after that disreputable creature had developed hiccups after gorging on five omelettes and just as many Hawaiian pizzas (with extra pineapple and anchovie). I sang the Lay of Bertram O'Shea, who made a living travelling in Ladies Underwear and Cutlery, going from nobleman's house to nobleman's house by day, sharpening their knives and polishing their silver then secretly visiting their wives and sisters at night to instruct them in love and other things that bring a peregrinatic leprechaun despicable delight . I regaled the trees with stories my grandmother had told me whilst sitting on her old arthritic knee or whittling rustic squirrels from lumps of rough wood whilst she laboured in the lavatory or pounded woolens with her Three-proned Dolly; I bemused them with accounts of terrible battles I had read of in Greek and Roman histories by Herodotus and Aurelius, by Plato and Anonymous and of how Marco Polo was the first Scotsman to sail solo across the South China Sea with only a bag of peppermints to support him ** in a canoe made entirely of noodles and how, on his return to Europe nobody believed him and he was, by way of punishment for having incurred the wrath of Marie Antoinette, given over to a pack of rabid and bulimious French poodles. |
Part XII
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The visiting Priestess and her entourage appeared quite taken by my skill but Quircus seemed restless and fidgety, tapping his roots and creaking occasionally in a decidedly abstracted manner. "Whilst some of the details of your account are new to me," he said at last as the fire died down, "I was not overly impressed with your syntax or grammar nor your general decorum and lackadaisical manner: I prefer a more measured, bardic and regulated style with more emphasis on historical exactitude and less on supposedly humourous anecdote. Nevertheless, I will give you another chance tomorrow evening though if I find you've not improved its the cooking pot not only for Sir Silverbreath but for your wretched self too. But now I perceive its well past midnight, a time when humans generally like to snooze. Back to the bear-cave with you, I shall sit up and read a bit, the Viking Chronicles, or possibly Hamlet, comparing it to a rare edition I recently acquired, Omelette, by Sir Francis Bacon, by which it was quite obviously inspired although the wily Bard of Staffordshire strenuously conspired to deny it. That night I dreamt that Quircus came and held me in some foul embrace: his questing branches brushed my hair, I felt dark roots inside my brain, quivering, trembling here and there, seeking out my best-kept secrets and finding them quite lacking in interest. When morning came I felt quite drained, limply listening as the Priestess and her fellows broke their fast. A tree-creature brought us a plate of food: rabbit stew and potatoes (mashed) but my hunger was little and I amused myself using the knife as a chisel, inscribing 'Prince Dandelion was here' on the wall of my prison while Sir Silverbreath looked on in mild amusement and derision. "If you don't want those potatoes," he seemed to say, "they'll go quite nicely with my bag of hay." He seemed uncaring of the fate that Quircus had in store for him - but then, for all his noble attributes, Released from the cave at last I tried to glimpse the foreign Priestess but her face was hidden neath a cowl. Why did she pay allegience to Quircus? from what country did she hale? But my speculations were perforce curtailed when Quircus rustled all his leaves and bade me tell him some more tales. "Tell them well,"he hissed with a sibilant sussurus bordering on the sinister "or they might well be your last. Sir Silverbreath will join us presently - my chefs are just deciding how best to present him - roasted, grilled or lightly basted... I can't remember the last time I tasted a nice piece of horseflesh or wait, now I recall, it upset my tum and gave me the runs. Still, I'm prepared to give it another shot, smothered in sauce and piping hot!" "I had not realised oaks were carnivorous," I said, barely masking my revulsion. "Generally, we are not," admitted Quircus, however, the growth and maturation of my central nervous system, stimulated and exacerbated by my intense regimin and private study and scholastic discipline helped foment the affectation which I have since found agrees with me - I am not your common forest tree but a paragon of rare and frequently quite hungry sagacity... Begin please, if you will, whilst I cleanse my palate with this vintage claret, a seventy-six, I believe, not too taxing and delightful with cheese." |
Part XIII
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I told him of Odysseus and Peter the Pink Platypus, of Fat Boy Slim and Ho Chi Min, Ahkneton and Oedipus. I sang of fair Penelope and pale, distressed Persephone; of Mama Roux and Betty Boo and Jungle Jane's calamity... Gilgamesh, I briefly mentioned and Mencius the quite Contentious, Winnie and Tigger and Eeyore and Roo and the Great wicked Kaliph of Kalamazoo. I touched upon the Faust of Goethe and the monster made by Frankenfurter; I sang him Zappa and Etta James, I played "Deserted Cities of the Heart" on glass harmonica, followed by a lively rendition of "Where the Streets have no Name". Halfway through the Sack of Troy Quircus yawned and dropped a branch. Abandoning long-winded Horace I tried to rouse him with Jack Vance but clearly his interest was flagging fast and straining my ears, I heard quite aghast, his whispered aside to 'prepare the horse and serve the hors d'oeuvres (with white wine, of course)'. In desperation I sang The Lumberjack Song but even Monty Python's Flying Circus failed to amuse the querulous Quircus. Clapping his branches that I might desist he gave the signal for the feast to begin. I saw two creatures with great curved cleavers making for the ursine cave, the chef's hats o'er their brutish features making it perfectly clear they did not mean to give him a shave... Whether through arrogance, folly or simple negligence I had not been deprived of my knife; thoughts of my own survival rudely dismissed I jumped up and raced after them determined to save Sir Silverbreath's life. Even as mad Quircus laughed, enjoying at last the entertainment provided by his unwitting guests, a blood-curdling yell rose up from the men in the garb of the Priestess and throwing back their covering cowls they revealed themselves, not as servants of that Lady but none other than my old dwarvish friends, freshly returned from Little Son of Hastings. And now, the Priestess herself, rising from the banquet table, similarly threw back her hood and lo! she was no visiting initiate at all but beautiful Morning Mist herself, blue eyes flashing and green hair flying. "A rescue! A rescue!" she sang and the merry dwarves took up her cry and threw themselves upon the Oak's tree-creatures, slashing at them with dirks and scimitars. From out of the sky dropped half a dozen full grown owls . "For Ozymandias and a Quircus-free Forest!" burst out from their sharp, curved beaks, their talons eager and outstretched to gouge the eyes and flesh of foe. |
Part XIV
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Nor where they alone: a hundred fierce little birds, led by Luneta Larkwit, of a sudden filled the air, flying about the tree-things eyes and pecking at their arms and thighs. From out of the forest too came badgers and deer, fox and wild swine and even a young female bear, at least six-foot-nine! "Well-met, Prince Dandelion," called out the hamadryad grinning, "we came for a feast but also a grilling!" And picking up a brand from the fire she advanced upon the incensed Quircus and thrust it at his quivering foliage. "Fie, ignoble Oak," she cried. "The Wood Perilous has suffered your demonic depredations for too long and at last its folk have risen up to rid themselves of your wrong. We do not mind your erudition or wit but alas, your heart has been quite soured by it and instead of sharing your knowledge with humility and good cheer you make it instead a tool of oppression and dastardly fear. But now your onerous reign is finally over and we shall burn out all your roots and those of the other corrupt trees that follow you. Of old this girth was ever a happy place, a place where man and beast might happily linger and go about their business - tomorrow it shall become so again, your tree-things banished, your dark rule vanished, your collection of tomes returned to the libraries from where they were stolen and offered up as tribute, your acorns purged and offered guidance in the correct behaviour for good woodland flora." "I'll see to it myself, Begorrah!" piped up a young Irish dwarf who, despite his apparent youth (he was only a hundred and fifty-two) had a doctorate and several diplomas in higher education, remedial councilling and the development of quite novel aromas although he never, he confided, quite took to the marking of exams and much preferred a life of wandering, adventuring, if sometimes in an outrageously dissolute manner, with dwarves of comparable temper, a passion for ale and a love of rude humour. Quircus writhed and Quircus sniffed, unhappy with the bright orange flame already burning his leaves and fingertips, miffed at the complacency that had lulled him through the centuries into such a perilous state of lax security such as now so dangerously threatened his accustomed and quite comfortable suzereignity. He had grown lapse and now this haranguing harridan of a hamadryad had played him for a complete sap. Perhaps a spot of plea-bargaining was in order... "Water!" he screeched and reached out with his roots to a nearby stream to try to douse the growing fire but it lay too far beyond his grasp - he moaned and gasped and gave a sneeze > as he felt the cruel and ticklish flames licking at his ancient knees... "Put your self-righteous rhetoric aside, Ma'am," he implored Morning Mist, "you are a spirited and handsome wench and I would be willing to take you as my bride: together we might exert our joint influence upon the Wood Perilous and rule it side by side." "Monstrous scion of self-interest!" retorted Morning Mist, thrusting her brand at the evil oak's loathsome eyes, glaring this way and that now as he realised the enormity of the plight assailing him. "I would sooner wed with a garden shed than take you to my bridal bed; your days are numbered, no longer shall you plunder the Wood Perilous, exacting tribute from its neighbours. A rotten canker must be burnt out that the good earth might regenerate - it is a sound, age-old ecological principlle and I am here to enforce it. The Folk of the Wood need or want no self-appointed ruler and we have been remiss to allow you to appropriate to yourself such grandiose illusion and misuse of power. The Forest belongs not to any individual tree, plant or species but to every blade of grass and flower!" Quelling the pang of compassion and sympathy that, for all her words, nevertheless rose up within the breast of Morning Mist, she watched the flames grow higher and higher until the sap and resins of the Oak themselves took fire and Quircus became a great writhing torch burning on his own death pyre. "It was the only way," she said at last, as with a final tortured gasp the old tyrant breathed his last and crumbled into blackened ash. No more would the folk of the Wood Perilous be burdened with the querulous Oak - they had finally removed his deep-rooted yyoke and the rest of the forest breathed a sigh of deep relief from tap-root to high sun-lit leaf. The End |
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