by Lloyd Jones
Lou mumbled an apology as they climbed a flight of steps to the first floor.
‘There’s a viewing area above, and this is where we keep the crop,’ he said, pointing to a pile of empty hessian sacks and a couple of full ones.
‘We’ll have to salvage what we can from the two furthest fields, you’re lucky that Big M is an easy-going guy, the rest of us wanted to kill you.’
Lou felt miserable, but remembered his mouse deliverance and felt a bit better.
From the ceiling hung a festoonery of boots and shoes, including a couple of rugby boots.
‘Big M’s collection of footwear, it’s a bit of a joke among us. That’s the only place where they’re safe, away from the mice. But Big M likes to have his tootsies well covered, he likes a bit of style in his life.’
They heard a shout from outside, so they joined the rest. The mist was clearing quickly and the air around them was warming. Wafts of wheaty smells and hedgerow vapours began to flow on the air. The landscape below them was clearing, and they all seemed to be relieved.
‘Come into my hut Llwyd,’ said Big M. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’
They went inside one of the buildings, just the two of them this time, and sat down on facing bales. It was nice in there, with bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters and a drift of flower petals, mainly rose, on the floor between them.
It was a homely kind of place, sweet smelling and comfortable, with a couple of exquisite rugs hanging on the walls. In the centre, between them, was a low wooden table which held a large bowl filled to overflowing with fruit. In between the apples and pears and plums, Lou could see objects glinting in the growing light. He watched them, and wondered what they were.
‘Memory sticks, Llwyd. Flash drives, whatever you want to call them. I think you know what they are,’ said Big M. ‘Take a closer look.’
He was sitting in his usual pose, with his feet resting on the table. He had changed into a pair of brightly coloured moccasins.
Lou dropped to his knees and shuffled up to the bowl. He dipped his hands inside it and picked up some of the memory sticks. They were all identical, pearly white with the same silvery innards as the green, red and blue sticks which had led him such a merry dance. He piled them up in his left palm and played with them, then raised his eyes towards Big M, who said:
‘You tried to destroy me, Llwyd. Is that right?’
Lou returned his look.
‘I wasn’t really trying to destroy you, I was trying to kill off everybody else’s version of your life so that only mine was left.’
‘And then you’d get all the credit, right?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Llwyd, you can murder people, you can kill them off, but you can’t kill off their stories. It’s impossible.’
Lou looked down at the memory sticks and wondered what was inside them. He had some sort of idea.
‘How many versions of my life do you think there are?’ asked Big M.
He answered his own question. ‘Dozens, hundreds, thousands... there’s a version of me for everyone I’ve met.’
Lou allowed the memory sticks in his hand to cascade slowly back into the bowl.
This time it was Big M who dropped to his knees and shuffled to the table.
He fingered through them, picking fruit out of the way as he went, until he found one particular memory stick. He held it up to the light and grunted softly. Then he handed it to Lou.
‘That’s the one I like best. It’s the most complete. I wrote it myself, actually. Of course, it could be the least reliable of all the versions. You yourself will have to decide on that.’
Lou held it reverentially and stared at its inner corridors. He imagined the treasures inside: the whole story, unexpurgated, warts and all. Big M’s mythologial childhood, his great rugby days, his life afterwards as celebrity cook, comedian, style guru, all-round nice guy. Big M, the great giver of gifts, had probably given him the most valuable gift of all.
‘You know Llwyd, it’s actually much easier to be laid back and pleasant. It takes so much less energy, and you don’t have to spend half your life looking for alibis or avoiding people. It really is better for everyone, and you get to enjoy life more. Why not give it a try?’
Big M was back in his familiar pose. He looked content, at ease with himself.
‘It’s yours if you want it, Llwyd.’
Lou’s head jerked upwards, shocked.
‘What, this?’
Lou held the memory stick in the air between them.
‘Yes, my life story, complete. You can have it. Use that stick to write the story yourself. You can claim unprecedented access, original sources, the story as never told before...’
Lou began to splutter, but Big M waved aside his protestations.
‘No Llwyd, don’t bother with all that stuff. Just take it, do it. It’s my present to you, but on one condition.’
Lou knew immediately what that was.
‘Of course Big M, I won’t destroy it, I won’t mess around any longer. I’ll play it straight, I promise.’
Big M sat still for a while, his eyes gleaming.
‘We’ll see, Llwyd, we’ll see what you’re really made of. And do you know something, Llwyd? You could actually change my story a bit. Every story is warped with time, even our own individual stories. In the old days this story would have ended with Catrin returning home with you obediently and living a rather sad life, never fulfilling herself. But you can give it a new ending, Llwyd. It’s up to you and Catrin to change the ending, not to be helpless individuals swatted this way and that by the gods. Correction, it’s up to the whole of the human race to sort it out now.’
‘You sound as if you’ve given up,’ said Lou.
‘I haven’t given up on life, but I’ve almost given up on humanity,’ answered Big M. ‘Anyway, when this project is up and running I’m thinking of retiring. I’ll go back to Ireland, or maybe to the Isle of Man. That’s where my family comes from, you know. Sea all around me, I need the sea. It’s very important to me.’
‘Why?’
Big M gave him a wry smile.
‘Oh, I don’t know. Wide open spaces? Mystery? Very few people? The sea’s a huge sleeping monster. I like its power, its beauty.’
‘You don’t like people very much?’
‘I like them individually, but as a mass they’re so destructive. They’re a plague, really. But they think they’re gods. That’s what mirrors are for, to remind them every day that they’re gods.’
‘And there aren’t any real gods?’
Big M took off his moccasins and massaged his feet. After a while he looked up at Lou and said:
‘You know that song about the three blind mice? My mother used to tell me a story about those mice when I was a kid. Bedtime story. She said the first mouse was a messenger from the vast plains of the North, at a time when there were many gods, gods of small things like rivers and trees. The mouse announced that all the small gods were going away and they would never return to Earth again, but that one of the gods would stay behind in the South, just in case...
‘Then a second mouse came from the South and said that the sole god who’d stayed on Earth had become lonely and had decided to join the rest, but he’d left a mouse in the East to act as a messenger between mankind and the gods...
‘Then a third mouse came from the East and told the people of Earth that all the gods were dead, but they needn’t worry because a fourth mouse would come from the West one day to save mankind...’
‘And what does all that mean?’ asked Lou, puzzled.
‘Not really sure. Mum was a great one for stories. I think she was trying to warn me that humans are a race of fibbers who are constantly changing the story to suit themselves. God was the best alibi they ever invented. But Lou, they really do have to face up to their responsibilities now and realise it’s up to them. No excuses.’
Big
M replaced his moccasins, got up, and stretched.
‘Anyway, that’s enough moralising for now. That’s another human minefield, preaching. Come on, let’s join the rest of them.’
Lou walked along, thinking about their conversation. He really did mean it; he was sincere when he made his pledge to Big M. But then his mind clouded over when he thought about his promise to Catrin about the baby and being a good father. Still, he really meant it this time.
They joined the rest of the group, who were still celebrating the return of Pryderi and Rhiannon. They looked different, more engaged and vital than the urbanites who usually milled around Lou. They were as sleek as the mice, more in tune with their surroundings.
A simple breakfast had been prepared and laid out on a table made of haybales. They were discussing the day’s plans, how they’d try to save what they could of the crop, who’d do what. The woman called Rhiannon pointed to the world below them and said: ‘Look, I can see the road again, and some walkers over there on the coastal path. People again!’
Lou left them and went to stand at the edge of the compound, trying to formulate some plans of his own. Below him the mist had cleared and the landscape had emerged extra sharp, clear and very beautiful. Fields stretched as far as the eye could see: there were countless vales with rivers between them; trees and hedges stitched together in a quilt of classical beauty. Lou felt very big and very small at the same time. He was a giant with a great story inside the miniature world of the memory stick, and he was also a midge in the rolling landscape of Wales. He might stay here himself, if they let him. If he could stand the country life. Town mouse, church mouse, country mouse. He’d probably scuttle back to brickwork eventually. Up to now he’d been a man who liked to gnaw his way through other people’s walls, other people’s cables. Perhaps it was time for a change. Time for a nice relaxing time in the country, a hammock slung between two trees, siestas in the afternoon sunshine. But there again, he’d have to work hard and that might not be quite so...
Lou turned round to see what the rest were doing. He swivelled, and held the scene in a long stare.
There was nobody there. Perhaps they’d gone down to the fields to start work. Perhaps they’d disappeared into the memory stick again. He had no idea, but he wanted to find them. In passing the breakfast bales he picked up a small, flat, freshly baked loaf, and took it with him as he started walking by the edge of the ripe corn, towards the second field. He tore off chunks of bread and ate them as he went, picking off blackberries and wild strawberries on the way. At some point he took his digital camera from a pocket and took a picture of the cornfield still standing, yellow under blue. It would be ideal as a screensaver if he went back to his college desk, to start all over again.
At some point he found himself calling, calling out a name.
‘Manawydan... Manawydan...’
It was the first time he’d ever used his full name, unconsciously, without thinking.
In that moment, his lips red with raspberry juice, alone in the cornfield under a vast blue sky, he felt like a small child calling out to his father.
Third Branch of the Mabinogion:
Manawydan, son of Llyr
After the seven men had buried Bendigeidfran’s head at the White Tower in London, Manawydan sighed with sorrow. ‘I am the only one who has no place to go,’ he said.
His friend Pryderi then offered him the seven cantrefs of Dyfed, as well as his mother Rhiannon. As Manawydan talked to Rhiannon he was delighted and agreed to Pryderi’s proposal.
With Pryderi’s wife, Cigfa, they began a circuit of Dyfed, hunting and enjoying themselves; they had never seen a place better to live in, or hunt in, or more abundant in honey or fish and a friendship developed between the four of them. They began a feast at Arberth, but as they sat there they heard a tumultuous noise and a blanket of mist fell. The mist became bright, and when they looked they could see nothing at all where they had once seen flocks and herds and houses, only the desolate court and the four of them remained.
They wandered through the realm living on wild animals, fish and swarms of bees but after a year they grew tired and set of for England to seek a craft and earn a living.
They came to Hereford, where they began saddlemaking. Their saddles were so fine the other saddlers wanted to kill them, but they were warned and Manawydan decided they should leave, although Pryderi wanted to stay and fight. In the next town they took up shieldmaking, but the same thing happened, and in the third, shoemaking, but the same thing happened again and they decided to head back to Dyfed.
Hunting on the way, their dogs found a gleaming white boar in a thicket and a huge fort, newly build. Pryderi went inside and saw a well with a golden bowl, but when he touched it his hands stuck fast and he couldn’t leave. Rhiannon followed to find him, and she, too, stuck fast.
Seeing she and Manawydan were alone, Cigfa despaired, but he swore he was a true friend. They tried their hand at shoemaking again, but their shoes were so fine the other shoemakers wished to kill them. So they took some wheat back to Arberth and settled there. Manawydan planted a field, then a second and a third. But when he came to harvest the first field, and then the second, he found them stripped bare. Keeping watch over the third field he saw a huge army of mice climbing the stalks and stealing the ears. He managed to catch one that was very fat and took it back to court.
He wanted to hang the mouse as a thief, but then saw a poor cleric approaching, who begged him to stop, a priest followed and then a bishop. The bishop asked him to name his price to spare the mouse and Manawydan asked for the release of Rhiannon and Pryderi and for the enchantment to be removed from the seven cantrefs of Dyfed, and this was granted.
Manawydan still refused, asking to know who the mouse was. The bishop told him the mouse was his pregnant wife and that he, Llwyd, had enchanted the land to avenge Gwawl, son of Clud.
Manawydan still refused, until Llwyd promised there would be no more vengeance and he saw Rhianon and Pryderi returning. Then he released the mouse who turned into a fair young woman. He looked around and saw all the land inhabited again, complete with herds and houses.
Synopsis by Penny Thomas
for the full story see The Mabinogion, A New Translation
by Sioned Davies (Oxford World’s Classics, 2007).
Afterword
The original Mabinogion probably took centuries to form and coalesce, but I wrote this book very quickly, in a couple of months, and I really enjoyed the experience.
First I read the preceding books in this new Seren series, and I got something from all of them, though I particularly liked Niall Griffiths’ boisterous contribution so I stole some of his sulphur for my own use. I like this idea of a modern take on the fables, though it directly contravenes the tradition of the Celtic storytellers, who told it as their grandfathers did, with no extra bits, in a formal and dignified manner. One factor I found especially interesting: were the authors looking towards the Old World as they wrote their stories, or towards the New World? When I was a young man I was actively aware of the ties and the traffic between Wales and Ireland, and I was conscious of the Celtic countries’ ancient (but never moribund) dance around each other, and around England too. I refer in my story to a special relationship, but not the arranged marriage between Britain and the US, rather the brotherhood between Wales, Ireland, Cornwall and Brittany, created by blood ties and the resultant cultural connections. Of course America has long been important to Wales; at least eight presidents have had Welsh ancestry, but with the recent blooming of a global US pop culture via TV and the web it seems to me that American culture has swamped Britain and skewed the island’s cultural axis, so that Celtica has faded from general consciousness, other than some woolly and romantic tosh seen on our screens, with the Potterisation of Merlin being a typical example. How many modern Welsh people have read that Irish classic The Táin? How many had delved into The Islandman by Tomás O’Crohan and Robin Flower, or Th
e Aran Islands by J.M. Synge? How many of them have heard of Sorley MacLean or his quintessentially Celtic poem, ‘Hallaig’?
The Mabinogion in general, and the third branch in particular, owes a great deal to Ireland, Manawydan himself coming from across the water. Originally a five-star sea god, he was made mortal by the Welsh and rendered as a clean cut nice guy, a Sean Connery figure who’d retired because he didn’t want the agro any more. In the American version George Clooney would be cast as a tired but still attractive ex-federal agent inveigled into one last assault on the Mob. He’s still cool and he’s still a fixer, but he wants to stay poolside with a tall drink and good company. This turn-the-other-cheek side to the Welsh Manawydan smacks of Christianisation, but I’m no expert.
Having written some pretty outlandish stuff in my time – I didn’t realise how strange I was until I wrote a book – I decided to play it straight with this story, mainly because I was writing to commission and didn’t want to let the side down. I would have loved to write it as noir or noir pastiche, and I think Malcolm Pryce would have had a field day, but I haven’t his talent. So here it is, my version of the third branch. I feel privileged to be part of this venture, since I’m in pretty impressive company. I have tried to reflect the huge, unpeopled landscapes of prehistory – the space, the light, the silence, the epic time spans. I have also tried to reflect the Celts’ fabled absorption with detail, as seen in their metal work and decorative artwork; the computer memory sticks in my story are the equivalent of decorated capitals in the Book of Kells. I’ve told the story from the viewpoint of the ‘baddie’ and I’ve tweaked his motives for revenge; I hope purists will forgive me. Otherwise I’ve played it pretty straight. I have to admit that during the process I felt no fellow-feeling with the original story-tellers, who would be appalled, probably, by the liberties I’ve taken.
