by Alan Garner
Her nose was crooked, and her chin stood all awry. She had hair lank as snakes, a hump on her back, one eye turned to the clouds, the other low on her cheek. She was the worst formed woman that Arthur had ever seen, and he tried to ride past without having to look at her.
“Good day, King Arthur,” she said.
But the king appeared to be deaf.
“What knight are you,” she said, “that you will not speak to me? I was seemly in my greeting, though not in my aspect, and you should speak to me, King Arthur, for I may chance to ease your pain, although I am foul to see.”
“If you will ease my pain,” said Arthur, “and help me in my need, then you can ask of me whatever you will, and it shall be yours, O grim lady.”
“Do you swear that upon the Rood?” said the old woman.
“Upon the Rood, and the Blessed Nails,” said Arthur.
“Why, then I shall tell you,” she said. “What women most desire is – their own way. And now, what I desire, King Arthur, is a young and handsome knight for bridegroom. Bring one from your court.”
“I have given my word,” said Arthur. “You shall have your knight. Believe me.”
“I do,” she said. “Now go on your way. It will soon be the New Year, King Arthur.”
He came to Tarn Wethelan in the first daylight of the year. The giant stood waiting, stiff and strong, his mace gleaming with frost.
Arthur gave him the sealed parchments, and the giant tore them open. He read each one and his breath came white from his nostrils.
“Wrong!” he said. The parchments tumbled across the snow like dead leaves. “All wrong! Now yield you, Arthur, and your lands, forfeit to me. This is not your pay, sir king, nor your ransom! Mine!”
“Wait,” said Arthur.
“No!” said the knight, and cried himself a king.
“Wait,” said Arthur. “Last evening, as I came over a moor, I saw a lady sitting between an oak and a green holly, and she was clad in red scarlet. She said all women will have their will; that is their chief desire.”
“An early vengeance on her!” roared the giant. “She who walks on yonder moor! It was my sister told you this!”
“If she is your sister, it is no matter to me, unless her answer was wrong,” said Arthur.
“It was not wrong,” said the giant knight. “Go your way, Arthur. I shall remember that I was once nearly King of Britain. You are free.”
Though free, Arthur rode sadly. And the closer he came to Carlisle, the sadder he became.
“What news? What news?” Guenever called from the battlements. “Oh, my lord Arthur, what adventure have you had?” And all the knights came out to hold his horse and to help him from his armour. “What news? What news?”
“Where did you hang the carl?” said Launcelot. “Or where have you displayed his head?”
But Arthur did not answer, and they thought that he was weary from the riding and sore from the battle, so they took him inside and bathed him and put new robes on him, and prepared a feast.
“The carl is safe for me,” said Arthur at last. “He is free from mortal attack. His castle stands on magic ground, and is fenced with many a charm. I was made to bow to him, and to yield me to him; and but for a loathly lady I should have lost my land.”
Then Arthur told of his adventure, and the knights of that Table were as shamed as he. “There is more,” said Arthur, “and it is the sorrow of my life. In return for her answer I promised that she should marry a young and courtly knight. And one of you must do this, or mark me a word-breaker to the world.”
The knights stood back from Arthur, but Sir Gawaine spoke. “I shall be your ransom,” he said. “Be merry.”
“No, Gawaine!” said King Arthur. “You are my own sister’s son. You are the last I would have married to the creature. You have not seen her, Gawaine, you have not seen.”
“I’ll take her, uncle, for your sake.”
“Thanks, thanks, good Gawaine,” said Arthur, in his heart relieved, and in his manner unable to conceal it, so that the queen Guenever turned her face aside. “A blessing on you, Gawaine,” said Arthur, “and tomorrow we’ll have knights and squires, and we’ll have hawks and hounds, none sparing, and we’ll away to the green forest in pretence of the hunt, and go and fetch your bride.”
Sir Kay laughed as if he were drunk.
And the next morning they went to the forest; Sir Launcelot and Sir Steven, Sir Banier and Sir Bore, Sir Tristram the Gentle, and at the head was Sir Kay. And as they rode over a moor they came upon the lady, sitting between an oak and a green holly, and she was clad in red scarlet.
When Sir Kay saw her face he nearly fell from his horse.
“Ai! Gawaine!” he said. “What a snout! Whoever kisses that must stand in fear of his kiss!”
“Yet one of our court must marry her to wife,” said Gawaine. “Will it be you?”
“Marry the ill-favoured witch?” said Kay. “No, no, Gawaine White Hawk: first come, first served! She is bespoke, and I would not stand between you for the world or heaven or hell!”
And all the knights took up their hawks in haste, and became busy with their hounds, and some pretended to catch a scent and rode off with great huloo and blowing of horns.
“For a little foul sight and misliking,” said Arthur, “you should not turn her away.”
Then Sir Gawaine brought up the lady before him on his horse’s neck, and so they went back to Carlisle.
That night was the wedding of Sir Gawaine. He placed the gold ring on the gnarled, grey hand, and at the feast he led her to the first dance, and such was his courtesy that no one sneered at the sight of the hobbling bride and the young groom, and he pledged her in the cup, and gently cleaned her chin when it ran with the wine that her slack mouth could not hold.
Torches lit them to their wedding chamber, and by the light of the dying fire Sir Gawaine stood a long time at the window, seeing the clean, white hills under snow, and the young moon, and the peaceful, ageless stars. No echo of revels came from the hall. The castle was silent.
His bride stirred the fire, and the room spurted with yellow light. He moved his head stiffly to look at her.
She was watching him. He knew her by the silver gown, and the blue silk at her waist, and the jewels in her hair – but by nothing else. For he looked at the most beautiful woman in the world; young and tall and lithe; and she was crying with happiness.
“Oh, Gawaine!” she said. “Oh, my love!”
“What? What, lady?” was all he could say.
“I am under a spell,” she said, “to be myself for half the day, and to be the old woman for the other hours.”
“Why did you not say?” cried Gawaine.
“I must be accepted for my worst,” she said. “The man that will marry me then is the man I can trust; no other. And you are the man. And for that you shall have the choice – to have me fair by day or by night, as you will. Choose, now.”
“You are more dear to me than moon or stars,” said Gawaine. “With your light the darkness will be as day, so let us have our love together privately. Be fair at night for me.”
“Oh, Gawaine,” she said, “are you this selfish? I am the same beneath, by night and day, the same love, the same care. Am I to be hideous when all are present? Is Kay to jeer and stop his nose at me? When the ladies of the court sew their fine clothes, are my fingers to be claws? May I not take my place and be admired?”
“Hush,” said Gawaine, and drew her close to him. “I am so bemused that I cannot think. Let the choice be yours, my love, and have your will.”
“My will!” she said. “That is the answer to break the spell. When one man shall give me my will, then I am free from enchantment and for ever fair! The spell is broken that was laid on my brother and me, to make me hideous and him cruel. From this moment I shall be your gentle wife, and he shall be a valiant knight.”
In such a way did the black giant of Tarn Wethelan find release, and the grim lady of the moor win
the White Hawk: and of her he was as glad as grass would be of rain.
The mist will always come from the fen.
It bore on its breath the boating men,
Saxon, Viking, iron swords,
Burning thatch and crystal words.
And their sons’ sons and grandsons still
Built house upon house in the lee of the hill.
And the latest house shows on the wall
How they shuttered and barred the lord’s great hall
From the mist and what the mist must hold;
And what it is must never be told.
For the mist will always come from the fen.
And now it is killing the motorway men.
Alan Garner
id I ever tell you about old Damper Latham as lived at Fiddler’s Elbow, down by Redesmere, and made coffins for Jennings at Warford? He used to play trombone in the brass band along with Sam Woodall, Arthur Buckley, Bob Sumner, my uncles and old Tom Wood.
Well now. One night at full moon, when he was a young youth, Damper takes his boat and his draw net and goes fishing on the mere. And what should he catch but an asrai.
Now you must know asrai are water women, with long yellow hair and big eyes, and webbed hands and feet. They live at the bottom of deep lakes and such, and they come up to the top once every hundred years to look at the moon. Then they go back down again; for they can’t abide daylight. It kills them. And there’s this asrai in Damper’s net.
Well, Damper, when he sees this asrai in his net, he falls in love with her and pulls the net up into his boat. Asrai begs him to let her go, telling him as how she must get back in the mere before sunrise else it’ll be the end of her. But all Damper can hear is a bubbling noise of water and he doesn’t understand that. He sees she’s a bit upset, so he reaches down into the mere and pulls up weeds to cover her with and tells her that he means no harm, he says. But all she can hear is the sound of wind in the trees, not Damper.
Anyway, moon starts to set, and sky’s getting brighter with the sun, and just as it’s rising asrai reaches out her hand and takes hold on Damper by his wrist, still begging him to let her go, and him still hearing only the bubbles. And the first beam of sunlight comes and touches her hand, and she shrinks down into the weeds and the net, and when he pulls them aside, all he finds in the bottom of the boat is foam and a little pool of water.
And the skin where she’d held him feels cold and blue as death; and he can never get that arm warm again. Ay. Where asrai touched him, Damper has the chill of it on him for ever after, all the days of his life.
here once lived at the Amidaji temple a blind priest called Hoichi. He was famous for his speaking of poetry and for his playing of the lute, and his greatest love was to recite the stories of far-off battles.
One night Hoichi was sitting alone on the verandah of the temple. It was a warm evening, and very still, and Hoichi sang to himself the story of the great war between the Taira and Minamoto clans, which had been fought close by the temple seven hundred years before.
Behind the notes of his lute Hoichi listened to the sound of footsteps. Someone crossed the back garden of the temple. Then a deep voice spoke below the verandah. “Hoichi,” it said. “Hoichi.”
“I am here,” said Hoichi. “What do you want?”
“My lord is staying close by,” said the stranger, “with many noble followers, and he has come to visit the site of the Battle of Dan-no-ura, where the Minamoto slew the Taira. He has heard how well you sing that tale, and he has commanded me to escort you to him. Bring your lute, and follow me.”
“Sir, I am blind,” said Hoichi.
“Then I shall guide you,” said the voice, and Hoichi’s wrist was taken in a hard grip. “My lord and his assembly await your presence.”
Hoichi shuffled on his sandals and took up his lute, and went with the noble samurai. He heard the clank of armour as they walked.
They went some little way, and then the samurai called for a gate to be opened. Hoichi heard the unbarring of iron. Once through the gate, there came the sound of many hurrying feet, and Hoichi was led up some steps, and at the top his guide ordered him to remove his sandals. A woman then took his hand, and he felt himself to be in a vast apartment, where a great company was assembled. He heard voices murmuring, and the stiff movement of silk. The woman brought him to a seat, and the room fell silent. Hoichi began the story of the Battle of Dan-no-ura.
His skill made the strings of his lute give the sound of oars, the clash of ships, the shouting of men, the noise of surging waves and the whirring of arrows. He felt the room take up the thrill of war, and when he came to the end, to the final massacre of the women and children of the Taira, the company wept.
“My lord is well pleased,” said the woman, “and commands you to play before him for six nights. The samurai will come for you at the temple at the same hour tomorrow.” She took him to the steps, and Hoichi went in the same hard grip back to the verandah and the warm night.
“Tell no one of your visit,” said the samurai, and left him.
The next evening Hoichi went again to play his lute for the fine assembly, but his fellow priests noticed his absence from prayer, and when he was missing from his duties a second time they questioned him, but Hoichi said that he had important private business to attend to.
The priests were not satisfied, and they kept a secret watch on Hoichi. When he left the temple they followed him through the night, but he walked too quickly for them in the darkness, and they lost him. They searched everywhere for Hoichi about the district, but no one had seen him, and they were making their way back to the temple when they heard the sound of Hoichi’s lute.
They put out their lanterns and crept towards the sound. It came from the cemetery of the temple, where the Taira clan had been buried after Dan-no-ura. And there they found Hoichi. He sat by the tomb of the Taira Emperor, Antoku Tenno, and all around him were flames, like candles.
“Hoichi!” cried the priests. But Hoichi did not hear them. They called again, and then they braved the lights and went to him and shook him by the arm.
“How dare you!” said Hoichi. “When I am playing for a noble lord!”
“Hoichi, you are playing for the dead!” said the priests.
“Nonsense!” said Hoichi. “I am here in this palace, singing the Battle of Dan-no-ura, as I have done these nights past.”
The priests argued no more, but took Hoichi by force back to the temple.
Now Hoichi knew his danger. For by his skill he had conjured the ghosts, and each night he gave them more life from his art. They took substance from his lute magic, and were growing in power.
Before sunset the next day, the priests began their rites. They stripped Hoichi, and wrote holy texts and prayers over all his body. Then they laid him on the verandah.
“Be silent, very still,” they said, “and meditate. If you do these things, you will be free of the dead.”
And they left him, and went to pray for his safety.
Hoichi did not move.
Towards midnight the footsteps came across the garden, and the voice spoke. “Hoichi.” No answer. “Hoichi, my lord awaits your music. Hoichi!”
Hoichi lay still.
“Where is the priest?” said the voice, and Hoichi felt the verandah bend under the weight of the samurai, and the footsteps walked up and down – and stopped beside him. Hoichi was terrified, but he made no sound.
“Ah,” said the samurai, “here is the lute, but where is the player? I see no man, only two ears. Well, they are better than nothing. I’ll take them to my lord.”
The footsteps died away, and Hoichi kept his silence, though the pain could hardly be borne, and the priests found him in the morning, free from ghosts.
“It is difficult to write on ears,” said the priests.
‘Breadhorses’ is a boys’ playground game. The one that is ‘It’ has to carry each child piggyback the length of the playground. If he succeeds, he is given a lum
p of bread, now more commonly a piece of chocolate, and the two change places. If he drops his burden, he has to start again from the beginning with another boy, until either he completes the course or is unable to continue and has to surrender any winnings he may have acquired.
The incantation Kosko gry! Rommany gry! Muk man kistur tute knaw! translates as, ‘Good horse! Gypsy horse! Let me ride you now!’
My name is Ned.
I can’t whistle.
I can’t spit.
That’s why I’m always It
For Breadhorses.
A Breadhorse carries all the lot
And at the end all he’s got
Is chocolate.
They’re hurting me.
I feel too sick
To eat.
Hurting me! Hurting me!
Stop!
But the voice in my shadow
Whispered more:
“Kosko gry! Rommany gry!
“Muk man kistur tute knaw!”
Back home in bed
I wished I was dead.
“They know I can’t run.
“They know I can’t fight.
“They don’t know what Ned thinks at night.”
I said to my shadow,
I said to the floor.
So I made a horse. A Great Horse.
Destrier,
Armed with gold,
And me a man
In hosting harness,
Caparisoned and plumed!
The shadow thought,
“No, Ned.
“‘Caparisoned’ is bones outside.
“The weight’s the same.
“Kosko gry! Rommany gry”
“Muk man kistur tute knaw!”
And I looked at my shadow.
And whether I woke, or whether it was real,
My shadow grew bright
And I could feel
That what was dark
Was covered in light
