growth without effort Once and future : Part two

[Hialmar]

Part one may be found HERE

 

Once and future

Part two

Mr. Blackadda knocked on the door of the cottage. He was accompanied by his manservant Baldrick, by Padarn and and by Padarn's childhood friend Ruadhán, who had fled with his mother to Anglesey from Ireland when he was a baby nineteen years ago.

Someone opened the door of the cottage. It was an elderly man with a long white beard, wearing a sky-blue gown and a peculiar and odd-looking sky-blue head-covering. From his belt hang a gilded scythe.

"Sorry. I don't want to buy any dish brushes today. Good bye."

The old man tried to close the door, but Mr. Blackadda put his foot inside the doorframe.

"We are not selling dish brushes, Sir, we are here on behalf of the King."

A nervous glint came and went in the old man's gaze.

"And how may I help you? I've payed my taxes."

"It's not about taxes, Sir. I gather, that you are a bard. Is that correct?"

"Oh, that's a different matter, then. Yes, I'm a bard. Do you want to inspect my harp?"

"Among other things. May we enter?"

"Yes, yes of course. Come on in. And with whom do I have the pleasure to speak?"

"I'm Mr. Blackadda. This is my manservant Baldrick. I assume, that you know young Padarn and Ruadhán from the village?"

"Ah. Yes. Yes, of course. You grow up so quick. I am known under many names – "Keeper of hidden lore", "The Silver-tongue of Glamorgan" and "The Mauve Oracular Salmon", but you may call me ... Tim!"

"I see, Sir. And what do you occupy yourself with?"

"I remember past events and genealogies. I am a legal expert. I know the paths of the planets and the stars. I gather herbs and animal parts for medical use. I am an expert in poetry."

"Like a druid, then?"

"No, of course not. Nothing of the sort. Look: I own a harp, and I'm ready to use it!"

"Do you have a license for that harp, Sir?"

"Yes, it is hanging there on the wall, surrounded by my diplomas from The Taliesin Institute for Higher Bardology, The Glastonbury Foundation for Alternative Medicine and The Gordon Ramsay Award for Most Foul-tasting Potion in Britain. I'm also a member of the Gorsedd."

"I see. It's this one, right under the membership card of Welsh Association for Male Choirs?"

"Yes, that's the one. But you haven't explained why you are here."

"His Majesty is worried over the S.E.I."

"The S.E.I.?"

"Yes, the Supernatural Events Index. According to fresh statistics, the occurrence of supernatural events has continuously decreased by 89% over the last twenty years. His Majesty's council is well aware of, that we have to expect a certain cyclicity of boom and bust, but we are now running at an unprecedented low, which is a pity, considering how well supernatural events served the Latinate and Cymrophone establishment in the relatively recent past: Swords emerging in stones, swords emerging from lakes, amphibious abilities, miraculously good eyesight, walking trees, visions of Holy Grails, levitating furniture, age-delaying islands, powerful swans with the ability to pull small ships, invisible castles – et cetera, et cetera."

"But why are you asking me about these things?"

"I have an official report here, and I would appreciate a second opinion. An Oxford scholar was asked to write an official report, and he says (and I quote): 'The world is changed. I feel it in the water. I feel it in the earth. I smell it in the air. Much that once was is lost; for none now live who remember it.' (end of quote)."

Tim fell silent for a while, glanced at a big old book laying on a table, and then spoke reluctantly:

"Some knowledge is dangerous in the wrong hands. Don't tell anyone, but I guard the knowledge about the supernatural islands located in the Atlantic Ocean – one of them rotating around its axle and entirely made of glass. I guard the knowledge about the Earth circulating around the Sun. I guard the knowledge about the dragons asleep under Snowdon and Oxford."

"But that's ridiculous! Everyone knows, that the Sun circulate around the Earth!"

"Some would say, that some knowledge guard itself. May I ask, what King Maelgwn would do, if he had access to some supernatural item or ability?"

"He would use it as a secret weapon, in order to scare any potential attacks off."

The facial expressions of at least four persons present changed. Padarn was the first to speak:

"Wouldn't he use it, to defend Londinium from the Essex Army?"

"What do you say? Is Londinium under attack?", Tim exclaimed.

"Don't change the subject. Of course he wouldn't use it. If everybody knew the exact nature of the secret weapon, everyone would like to have one.", Blackadda answered.

"But, Sir ...", Baldrick interrupted, "Would the secret weapon have any use as a deterrent, if the Saxons weren't allowed to know that it existed and how dangerous it was?"

"Don't interrupt me Baldrick. The son of a Bishop's retinue and a garden gnome wouldn't understand complicated things like politics."

"Is any of the kingdoms going to assist Londinium in its time of need?"

"I'm not able to speak for any other kingdom than Gwynedd, Tim, but, at the present, His Majesty's council is of the opinion, that it's too early to form any opinion about the Essex-Londinium situation: It might be a false alarm. It might blow over. Essex may leave the area. Alarmism doesn't serve the common good, and to be honest: What good has Londinium ever done for us?"

"But if it isn't a false alarm, and what if Londinium is in real danger?"

"The options available for His Majesty's council are very limited. There is nothing we can do."

"But if Londinium fell, and were annexed to Essex in perpetuity? What would you say to defend your inaction?"

"We would say, that it then would be too late to change the state of affairs. Now, do you know any supernatural means, that could serve as a secret weapon?"

"Of course not. I'm a bard. Why would I know such things?"

Blackadda rose, approached the table, and opened the big old book. He glanced at the pages, and with a disappointed expression he closed the book again.

"That's The Book of Getafix, an ancient tome of dru- ... of bardic lore, written in an archaic dialect of Breton. Most of it consist of astrological ephemeridae. It would probably not interest you much."

"Let us return to the official report about the S.E.I."

"You asked for a second opinion, Mr. Blackadda. In my capacity as a bard, I would say, that supernatural events follow the astrological cycles of the planets and the stars. Some aspects between the two slower planets occur only rarely and many centuries apart. I would agree with the Oxford scholar, that the world is changed, but neither do I believe, that the change is permanent, nor that things are lost forever. It could, however, be centuries until the stars are right again."

With a disappointed expression, Blackadda left Tim's cottage, but before the group left the place, Tim whispered in the ear of Padarn:

"Gather all young men of the village and come here tonight, but don't tell Blackadda."

* * *

It was night. Blackadda and Baldrick had left for another village, and Padarn had left his Grandpa sitting before the open fire, enjoying a few glasses of metheglyn after dinner.

Padarn had brought Ruadhán and the other young men from the village to Tim's cottage. A bonfire burned in Tim's garden, and the light of the bright full moon fell over the farmstead.  Tim's door opened. The bard looked worried:

"If anyone is a coward – leave now. If anyone isn't willing to assist anyone under threat of war – leave now. If anyone fear the supernatural – leave now. The others may stay."

No one left.

"If you are willing to defend the innocent in the hour of their need, you are worthy of the ancient elixir of Getafix. If you are ready, step forward."

Padarn's friend wasn't known for his reluctance. Ruadhán brashly stepped forward, the light of the bonfire illuminating his freckled cheeks, his emerald eyes, his honest facial expression  and his fox-coloured hair. A very big cauldron bubbled over the bonfire, and unfamiliar aromatic scents filled the nocturnal air. Tim held a ladle in his hand. Then Ruadhán swallowed the fresh and still hot elixir.

How long time that lapsed could be anyone's guess, but it wasn't much, until Ruadhán clasped his belly and emitted a brief shout of pain. The group of lads took a few steps backward, and exchanged a few glances of concern. A few moments passed, and then a broad grin spread over Ruadhán's flame-lit face. He began to moan – not in the bad sense of the word – and it seemed like the elixir had a pleasant, perhaps even arousing effect on him, as he arched back, tensed his arm-muscles before himself and exclaimed:

"Did I tell you the story of Cúchullain and his warp-spasm? Now I understand how he must have felt. It feels ... Uh! ..."

In the flickering yellow-red light of the bonfire and the silvery light of the full moon, the other lads could see how Ruadhán grew taller and wider. Youthful muscles built by toiling at the acre, carrying wood and taking part in the village's armed self-defence practice now grew considerably bigger, and the rosy suntan caused by hard labour at harvest-time soon became more obvious, when Ruadháns widening and hardening back muscles forced themselves out of his linen shirt, together with his impossibly huge shoulders forming a powerful Y-shape none of the lads had ever seen before. 

"So good! So strong! ... So hard ... Look at me lads! I'm ... Uh! ... I'M INVINCIBLE!"

Tim didn't have any difficulties finding suitable candidates for the elixir now: The young men flocked around the cauldron, and it came close to a fisticuff before the serene authority of the bard restored some order and let everyone taste the content of the cauldron in an orderly fashion. Some of the young men, Padarn and Ruadhán included, drank from the ladle twice.

Padarn felt how the warmth of the elixir spread in his body, and a brief pain swiftly gave way for an exquisite feeling spreading through his veins, circulating in his veins, trickling like treacle with thunderbolts through his veins and spreading a sense of strength and power. The hair on the back of his head bristled, so did the fine hairs of his forearms. His growing forearms. Hig muscular forearms. Flickering bonfire. Silvery moon. Tight shirt. Painfully tight shirt. Ripping sound. Bursting out. His bulging brawn bursting out of his linen shirt and his woolen plaid trousers. The cool air of the late summer night touching his naked flesh. Surrounded by other young men. Surrounded by youthful bronzed or rosy flesh that became huge and hard and powerful ... Their cobblestone bellies ... The mounds of beef, that were their chests ... The strength ... He couldn't comprehend ... His strength ... His power ... THEIR strength and power ... He and the others ... Together ... Mates ... Becoming warriors from old tales and sagas ... 

"Look at you mate! Padarn Gadarn!"

Padarn Gadarn! Padarn the Great! Yeah! Uh! Padarn the Big! Padarn the Huge! All of them together. Legs of granite-hard beef that pushed each other apart, causing him to waddle ... His back like Ruadhán's back now ... All of them ... Wide ... The scent of dozens of young men's sweat ... Huge together ... Warriors together ... Defend ... The bonfire light and the moonshine on their elated wide-eyed confident faces ... UH! Ruadhán and some of the others roaring ... YEAH! Roaring, like the war-cry of many ancestors ... He had to join them and howl, too ... Beyond seven feet ... Couldn't believe ... Giants ... All of them giants ... Ruadhán was right: INVINCIBLE! INVINCIBLE! ... INV ... Uh!

* * *

"Say farewell to me, Grandpa, and wish us good luck."

It was two days later. Padarn and his fellows towered over the rest of the villagers, only wearing plaid kilts, sturdy leather-boots, belts and leather-wristbands. Some of them had decorative gilded torcs around their powerful bullnecks. Some of the young women watched them shyly at a distance. Some of the middle-aged women stared unashamedly.

Grandpa removed some tears from the corner of his eye:

"I'm so proud of you, Padarn. I've never seen anything as impressive as you and your friends, not even on the glorious day in my youth, when I watched some of King Arthur's knights ride off to punish Sir Bruce Sans Pitié and his villainous bunch of rogue cataphractarii. They had to kill Sir Tarquin the Dark Knight twice, or so they say. Yet, since Mr. Blackadda told me about the grave danger for Londinium, I worry for the future of Britain."

"A few days ago, I was the worried one, and you tried to dismiss my worries. Now you are the worried one. Don't be. Don't spend any thought on the abandonment of Calleva Atrebatum, and King Caradoc's marriage to an Anglo-Saxon princess. Dumnonia is unthreatened! Gododdin stands! Eboracum stands, inside its ancient Roman walls, whatever the Deirian Angles nearby attempt! Elmet stands! Viroconium and Pengwern stands! Caer Gloui stands, and don't blame the descendants of House Vitalianus for what King Vortigern did one hundred years ago. Caer Ceri, Cotswolds and Chilterns stands! Most of the Icknield Way is still in our hands. Essex may believe that Londinium will be theirs, but they haven't seen our might, yet. Don't worry Grandpa. You are Cunedda of Llanfair­pwllgwyngyll­gogery­chwyrn­drobwll­llan­tysilio­gogo­goch! Never forget that. Don't let us lose any time, by too long farewells. I don't say goodbye. I say: Till we meet again!"

They were too heavy to ride horses now, so they had had to dismiss the Roman cavalry tactics, which had been applied so successful a few generations ago, at Mons Badonicus in particular. The village blacksmith had told them yesterday, that he didn't have enough metal to make any lorica segmentata their size, so they had to fight unprotected. But why would they wear protection? Their ancestors in the past had considered chainmail and loricas to be the signs of cowardice, and they had entered battle naked or semi-nude. The fearsome war-spirit of a hundred generations of ancient Celts howled in his blood, and he was willing to meet the Saxons alone and single-handed, if needed.

It wasn't for the sake of perfidious Albion he was willing to fight: Not for the Kings in their regal halls, not for their ever-talking and scheming councillors in fine livery, not for chauvinism or self-service, but for the farmer women and children fleeing westwards from burning villages in the east, for peaceful craftsmen, who had lost their tools of trade in the tumult of wartime and become eyewitnesses to the human sacrifices the Saxons performed, for monks and nuns praying for peace and treating the ill and wounded in monastic hospitals. In a better future, decades or centuries from now, Welsh and Saxons would possibly be able to trade peacefully with each other, share knowledge of craftsmanship, reach out their hands to each other in friendship, and live together in the common pursuit of happiness, but this was not that time: He had to defend Britain from England. It was for Logres he fought, for the ideals held high back in the age of Arthur, the once and future King: For peace and happiness, for bravery, duty and self-sacrifice, for the protection provided by Law, for the heritage inherited from Druids and Romans, for Saint David and for the Holy Grail!

* * *

They had walked for many days. None had dared to threaten them, when they crossed the borders of several kingdoms. The last few days, they had followed the Thames valley. They could see Londinium now: The city-walls still intact. They could also see the army camps from Essex surrounding the old Roman city. 

All of the members of his brawny war band were painting their faces and chests with woad. Scent of woad and freshly woven wool and freshly tanned leather. Padarn had finished his war-paint – now with blue stripes over his massive chest and manly face –  rose, and began to talk. The brave and youthful faces of his friends watched him:

"Brothers! Comrades in arms! Logres' finest! Even though large tracts of Europe and many old and famous British lands have fallen or may fall into the grip of Woden-priests and all the odious apparatus of Saxon rule, we shall not flag or fail. We shall go on to the end. We shall fight in Brittany, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and strength, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be. We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight in the harbours, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender, and if, which I do not for a moment believe, this island or a large part of it were subjugated and starving, then Anglesey, Isle of Man, the Hebrides and the Isles of Scilly, would carry on the struggle, until, in God's good time, the Emerald Island, with all its power and might, steps forth to the rescue and the liberation of Logres."

And then they entered the battle.

 

POSTSCRIPT

The above is a fantasy-story, part comedy, part tragedy, not a historical short story, of course, and there are a lot of anachronisms for the sake of laughs, but, despite generously seasoning the story with elements borrowed from such high mediaeval chivalric fiction, which projected back fantastic and supernatural things on the time period 410-600 CE, I have not taken any liberties with the Anglo-Saxon expansion and the Romano-British kingdoms as such:

1. For linguistic reasons, Cerdic "of Wessex" most probably wasn't a Saxon, but a Romano-British petty king who allied himself with the Saxons, and it is highly unlikely, that the word "Wessex" was in use as early as the 6th century
2. The exact circumstances and date of Essex' Anschluss of London are not known from historical sources, but there is no attestation of London being under Essex rule until the early 7th century, and there might have been several failed attempts in the 6th century (although the latter is just conjecture). The frequency of Saxon artifacts inside Londinium's walls grow gradually in excavated layers from the 6th century, but there is no way to say with certainty if this is a sign of conquest or trade. That gives me enough leeway to tell something fictional about an undefined date sometime in the 530s or 540s.
3. The Kingdom of Mercia isn't attested until the 570s CE
4. Pengwern didn't lose a certain amount of independence from Mercia until the reign of Offa (757-796 CE), when any remaining political ties with Powys were cut

Edited October 9, 2020 by Hialmar
some minor historical and linguistic details, added postscript

[CardiMuscleman]

For someone coming from Wales there is a lot in this to raise a chuckle, for instance the "The Taliesin Institute for Higher Bardology" references the bard Taliesin  who is said to be buried in the town that bears his name Tre-Taliesin (which is half way between Aberystwyth and Machynlleth) and as for the elxir of Getafix, well, you only have to look at the effects to see why it belongs here

 

[Hialmar]

3 hours ago, CardiMuscleman said:

For someone coming from Wales there is a lot in this to raise a chuckle, (...)

Some of my in-jokes and the cameos I use are probably only noticeable to those who take an interest in the archaeology of post-Roman Britain or mediaeval chivalric romances, but the intentional blatant anachronisms are probably more obvious. Beyond the obvious influence from Blackadder, the sense of humor in this story is also influenced by T.H. White to a small extent. This story operates on several parallel levels. A reader doesn't need to recognise any of my jokes, in order to enjoy the growth, though, and it's entirely possible to read it as a run-of-the-mill sword-and-sorcery story.

Some time in the yet unforeseeable future, when the pandemic is over, and if tourists are still allowed to enter UK when the post-Brexit situation has settled, I would love to visit Wales, a part of Europe, which has been a part of my dreams and imagination ever since I read a handful of fantasy books aimed at youth and a few mediaeval Welsh tales as a teenager. I do not have any talent for foreign languages, but there exist three languages, that have a sort of hypnotic allure, despite the fact, that I don't understand a word of them: Icelandic, Cymric/Welsh and Irish Gaelic. All three were once used to produce amazing treasures of mediaeval literature.