by Alan Garner
Bash Tchelik lifted his arms, and the iron bands snapped like straw. He broke the collar about his neck with one twist. He kicked the iron from his legs. He grew. And as he stepped from the wall, the prince saw that there were great wings folded on his back.
Bash Tchelik went from the dungeon as a black storm, scattering the barrels in the passage, bursting the doors, and when the prince crawled from the cellar he found the palace wrecked and his wife stolen.
When the tsar returned from the hunt he did not blame the prince. “You did not know this man,” he said. “I have broken many an army on his lance, and he is not to be killed by any means.”
“If he breathes, he can be made to stop breathing,” said the prince. “I shall seek him and destroy him.”
“Stay here,” said the tsar. “I shall look on you as my son, now that I have no daughter, and I shall get you another wife. It is too late in my life for me to spend the years again in binding Bash Tchelik.”
“It is not too late in my life,” said the prince, and he took horse and left the palace.
He came to a castle, and from a window a girl called to him.
“Stay here, noble prince, and welcome, brother!”
He saw his eldest sister, and they laughed and wept together, and he entered the castle.
“My husband is the king of dragons,” she said, “and I am very happy. Our father must have known what was to happen, for the dying see the future, it is said, and you were the oldest in trust if not in years. Now you must go.”
“But why?” said the prince. “I have only just this moment found you, and finding was my first quest.”
“My husband has sworn that he will kill my brothers if he ever meets them again, because of the discourtesy he met with.”
“I shall stay,” said the prince.
“Then you must hide,” said his sister, and when the king of dragons came home, she asked him: “Dearest husband, would you really kill my brothers if they appeared?”
“The first two,” said the king of dragons, “I should roast. But the youngest I should welcome. So let him come out from hiding. I know he is here, for I smell Russian bones.”
The prince told the king of dragons about Bash Tchelik, and the king of dragons said, “Be advised, and stay here with us. On the day that Bash Tchelik escaped from the tsar, I attacked him with five thousand of my dragons, and I managed to escape alive, but only just.”
“I must go,” said the prince.
“Then take this feather,” said the king of dragons, “and if ever you need my help, burn it, and I shall be with you.”
The prince set out early the next day, and by evening he had reached the castle where his second sister lived. She was married to the king of eagles, and he too had promised to kill the brothers, except for the youngest, who had treated him graciously.
The prince stayed the night with his second sister and the king of eagles, and when he left, the king of eagles gave him a feather, to burn if he should need help.
And the third evening he came to the castle of the king of falcons, and found his youngest sister there, and the next day he took with him a feather from the king of falcons to strengthen him in his search for Bash Tchelik.
He found his wife in a mountain cave, alone, in rags, tending the fire. “What work is this for a princess?” he said. “Find me Bash Tchelik!”
“Run,” said his wife, “before Bash Tchelik finds you. I have no power with him. I am his slave.”
“He shall die for that,” said the prince, and he put his wife before him on his horse, “but first I shall take you to your father, to be safe while I kill this monster.”
He rode away, but there was only weeping from his wife, for she knew Bash Tchelik.
Bash Tchelik caught them before they had gone a mile, and he took the princess from the protection of her husband’s sword as a badger takes honey from wild bees.
“Prince,” he said, “you have stolen your wife. For that you must die. But I gave you a life, and now you have it.” And Bash Tchelik flew home to his cave.
Yet the prince did not let himself be beaten, and he went and took his wife again.
“Prince,” said Bash Tchelik, “I gave you another life. You have it.”
But the prince went again and took his wife.
“Prince,” said Bash Tchelik, “will you be shot with this arrow, or beheaded with this axe?”
“Neither,” said the prince. “I choose my other life.”
“Remember it is the last,” said Bash Tchelik. “The next one is your own.”
By now the prince had seen that no earthly weapon would harm Bash Tchelik, so he drew the three feathers from his pocket and burnt them. And at once the hosts of the dragon and the eagle and the falcon were with him, and they fell upon Bash Tchelik.
At the end of the day, the three kings flew unknown with the prince to safety.
“Our people are destroyed, and Bash Tchelik is not hurt,” they said. “Give up your wife, since nothing can win her back.”
“I can win her,” said the prince, but this time he went cunningly, and whispered to his wife:
“All things that live can die. Find out the secret of his life, and I shall lie close and listen.”
Bash Tchelik came home in the evening, and the princess said to him, “Tell me where your life is hidden, so that I may guard it the better.”
Bash Tchelik laughed, and said, “My life is in my axe.”
And when he came home the next day he found the princess kneeling before the axe, which she had draped with silk and adorned with spices.
Bash Tchelik laughed again. “Why do you kneel here?” he said.
“I honour the power that can vanquish falcons and eagles and dragons,” said the princess.
“My life is not there,” said Bash Tchelik. “It is in my bow.”
And the following day, the princess had decked the bow with fine ribbons.
“If I did not know that your husband lay dead upon my battlefield,” said Bash Tchelik, “I should trust you the less, but none escaped: so you may know that far from here is a mountain of crystal, and in that mountain there lives a fox; and in that fox there is a raven; and in that raven there is an egg; and in that egg is my life.”
“Then I can sleep secure,” said the princess.
The prince went straight to the king of dragons, who took him on his back to the distant mountain, and with his fire he split the crystal, and the red fox that had shimmered like a ruby in its clear heart ran out. But the king of eagles pounced on it from the sky, and ripped the fur a darker red. Up sprang the raven, and fled on the wind, but the king of falcons closed with it, and the talons met in the raven’s heart.
The king of falcons brought the raven to the prince.
Across the world, Bash Tchelik woke from his sleep, and sped roaring to the mountain. He found the prince by the broken crystal, fox and raven at his feet, and a smooth, white egg in his hand.
The prince looked at Bash Tchelik. Bash Tchelik looked at the prince. The prince’s fingers tightened on the egg. There was a tiny, splintered sound, and the shell was crazed with lines, faint as smoke. The fingers tightened. Yolk ran shining on his wrist.
This tale is usually called The Pear-Drum. And what is a pear-drum? Here’s the only description I’ve found: “[It was] a good deal like a guitar in shape; it had three strings, but only two pegs by which to tune them. The third string was never tuned at all, and thus added to the singular effect produced by the pear-drum’s music. Yet, oddly enough, the music was not made by touching the strings, but by turning a little handle cunningly hidden on one side.” This seems to be a description of a form of hurdy-gurdy; but I think it was a pear-drum.
nce, not twice, and never again, there were two girls called Blue-Eyes and Turkey, one for the colour of her eyes, the other for the colour of her dress. They lived on a moor with their mother, the dog, the baby and the pig. Their father was a sailor in far-away lands.
One
day, Blue-Eyes and Turkey walked upon the moor.
Iram, biram, brendon, bo,
Where did all the children go?
They met a Wild Girl playing on a pear-drum.
When she played, a little man and a little woman came out of the drum and danced.
Blue-Eyes and Turkey said, “Give us the pear-drum.”
“You would have to be bad,” said the Wild Girl, “for me to give the pear-drum to you. Come back tomorrow.”
So Blue-Eyes and Turkey were bad. They shouted. “Raah!” They spilt their food. “Splat!” They would not go to bed. “Naah!” They scribbled books. “Scrat!”
And the next day they went onto the moor.
Iram, biram, brendon, bo,
Where did all the children go?
They met the Wild Girl, playing on her pear-drum.
“Were you bad?” she said.
“We were bad,” they said. “We shouted: Raah! We spilt our food: Splat! We would not go to bed: Naah! We scribbled our books: Scrat!”
“You were only a bit bad,” said the Wild Girl. “You would have to be worse than that.”
So Blue-Eyes and Turkey went home and were worse than that.
They threw cups on the floor. “Crash!” They threw plates at the walls. “Smash!” They tore their clothes. “Rrrrrip!” They jumped in the mud. “Splash!” They pulled flowers from the garden and let out the pig. “Oink!”
And the next day they went onto the moor.
Iram, biram, brendon, bo,
Where did all the children go?
They met the Wild Girl. “Were you worse?” she said.
“We were worse,” they said. “We threw cups on the floor: Crash! We threw plates at the wall: Smash! We tore our clothes: Rrrrrip! We pulled flowers from the garden and let out the pig: Oink!”
“You were only a bit worse,” said the Wild Girl. “You would have to be worst than that.”
So Blue-Eyes and Turkey went home and were worst than that.
They broke the chairs. “Crack!” They whipped the dog. “Thwack!” They tipped the baby. “Waah!” And they gurned their mother. “Yaah!”
“Blue-Eyes and Turkey,” said their mother, “if you do not stop, I shall go away, and a new mother will come, with glass eyes and a wooden tail.”
But they thought of the pear-drum, and they said, “Tomorrow we will be good. When we have the pear-drum, we will be good again.”
“Tomorrow,” said the mother.
The next day, Blue-Eyes and Turkey went onto the moor.
Iram, biram, brendon, bo,
Where did all the children go?
They met the Wild Girl. But she had no pear-drum.
“Where is the pear-drum?” they said.
“It is gone,” said the Wild Girl. “And I am going too.”
“But we did worst, as you told us. We broke the chairs: Crack! We whipped the dog: Thwack! We tipped the baby: Waah! We gurned our mother: Yaah!”
“You did worst, as I told you,” said the Wild Girl. “But I did not ask that, nor did I want. You would have to be worstest, for me to give you the pear-drum; but that I cannot see. And now your mother has gone away, far, far away to your father in far away lands.”
Blue-Eyes and Turkey walked about on the moor; and when evening came they went back to their house. There were no lamps lit, but in the glow of the fire they saw through the window the glitter glitter green glass of a mother’s eye. They heard the thump; thump; thump of a wooden tail.
Iram, biram, brendon, bo,
Where did all the children go?
They went to the east, they went to the west,
They went where the cuckoo has its nest.
Iram. Biram. Brendon. Bo.
And the Wild Girl wept.
aiko was a great killer of goblins, and the best of his servants was Tsunna.
One day these two were crossing the plain of Rendai when a skull rose in the air before them like a bird from its nest and flew towards a place known as Kagura ga Oka. Raiko and Tsunna followed the skull, and came to a ruined house.
“Warrior-master,” said Tsunna, “I’d go careful. I can see a woman in there, through the window, and she’s bones old.”
Raiko chose a sword from the bundle Tsunna held, the right length for the house, and the right strength for the purpose, and he climbed over the rubble into the building.
The woman stood in the middle of the floor. She was dressed in white, and had white hair. She opened her eyes with a small stick, and the upper eyelid fell back over her head like a hat.
“I am two hundred and ninety winters,” she said, “and I serve nine masters, and the house in which you stand is haunted by demons.”
“Thank you, mother,” said Raiko, and passed into the kitchen. There were holes in the roof, and he could see that a storm was approaching, and as the clouds gathered, so there gathered into the room a pack of goblins, but they were not quite in the world yet, and Raiko did not attack them, for he knew that he would hit only the mist, and they, too, could not hurt him. They soon went.
“Are you safe, master-warrior?” called Tsunna.
“Yes,” said Raiko. “An old woman and a few ghosts, that’s all.”
“Well, look for trouble,” said Tsunna. “The old woman has disappeared, but I don’t like what’s coming now. It’s just outside the kitchen.”
“Stay where you are,” said Raiko, “and keep watch. I’ll shout if I need you.”
As the storm broke there came into the room the tiny figure of a nun, but her face was two feet in length, and her arms were white as snow and thin as threads. She laughed at Raiko, and disappeared.
Raiko stood his ground in that house all through the storm and that night. The goblins dared not invade the world while he was there, but tried to frighten him with shapes.
Just before cockcrow Tsunna said, “I think we’ve beaten them.”
“This is the dangerous time,” said Raiko. “If they don’t win before dawn this place will be free of them, and they will have lost a gate into the world.”
“I can hear footsteps,” said Tsunna, “but I can’t see anybody, can you?”
But Raiko could see. A woman entered the room, young, lovely, more graceful than willow branches, and even though he knew that she must be something else, Raiko was held by her beauty. And while he stared, threads enmeshed him. They seemed to come from her hair, or they were her hair, a billowing web of stickiness.
Raiko swept his sword at her, but it moved slowly and the blow was soft. She screamed, and vanished. Tsunna jumped through the window, and found Raiko with the sword embedded in the floor planks, and the foundation stone was broken beneath.
The point of the sword was missing, and along the blade ran white blood.
In daylight Raiko and Tsunna dismantled the house. They destroyed things of horror built into the walls, and under the foundation stone they revealed a hiding place, and in the dark two eyes glowed like the sun and the moon. “I am sick,” droned a voice. “I am in pain.”
Tsunna brought a light, and there below the foundation stone was a monster of many legs, covered with glistening hair, and with a broken sword point in its belly.
Raiko pulled the creature from the hole and killed it. When he removed the sword point, nineteen hundred and ninety skulls poured out, and spiders as big as children. Raiko and Tsunna had grisly work that day.
This is a translation of a notice issued by the Japanese Government.
Whereas our Commander-in-Chief intends to visit the Nikko Mausolea next April, now therefore you Tengu and other Demons inhabiting these mountains must remove elsewhere until the Commander-in-Chief’s visit is concluded.
(Signed) Mizuno, Lowrd of Dewa
Dated July 1860
few years gone, Anno 1670, not far from Cirencester, was an apparition: being demanded, whether a good spirit or a bad? returned no answer, but disappeared with a curious perfume and most melodious twang. Mr W. Lilley believes it was a fairy.”
These earlier inhabitants of Britain were small; their houses were round huts, roofed with turf; their weapons were made of flint or bronze, and they were no match for the later Celtic invaders, who had iron swords. It is among the Celts – the modern Cornish, Welsh, Scots, Irish – that fairy beliefs are strongest even now. They were the first to have dealings with the fairies in Britain.
The native people were driven by the invaders into the woods and hills, from which they carried on guerrilla warfare – ambushes and skirmishing raids by night. They were feared for this, and it was believed that they had magical powers. And at this point, they took over the second characteristic that has shaped our ideas of them as fairies today. The solid hill-people started to acquire traditions that had been associated with nature spirits and the souls of the dead.
It is understandable. They came and went like shadows in the night: they lived among the rocks and trees: and their huts, thatched with turf, resembled small hills, or green burial mounds.
It would pay the hill-people to encourage the superstitions. They could not win against iron, face to face, in the open, by day. But night, and fear, made all the difference. A blow-pipe is still more deadly in the jungle than a rifle.
As the centuries went by, the conflict between the races wore itself out. Trade was possible, and marriage, but the hill-people were very slow to give up their own way of life. In fact, they seem to have hung on as a race apart until about a hundred and fifty years ago. The last fairies are supposed to have been a tinker-like group of nomads in Caithness, in the remote north of Scotland, but I think there are still areas where the fairy blood is strong.
