Story

The first little story I ever wrote – which grew into a book

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

The Day Moon Met the Raven

A man who had for some time been travelling the road in all weathers, sat down at the roadside under a sheltering tree. His jacket was richly embroidered but his leather boots were dusty and worn from long walking. He had little coin in his purse but his pouch was full of papers covered with poems and interesting thoughts gathered here and there. He was tired, too tired to even be capable of assessing his own mood at that moment. He was, he thought, probably content.

As the sun sank and dusk fell he looked up and saw the moon rise and he realised that it was the Autumn Equinox, when the length of the day and the night, darkness and light, are equal. As he relaxed and watched the moon climb higher into the sky his mind drifted and he began to assess his own life, dispassionately. His memory drifted here and there across many years.

Awakening from his trance he realised that he had been joined by a white cat and a raven. He thought they must be hungry and began to feel in his pocket for food of some kind but the Raven, seeing his intention, said,

”Sir, don’t let us trouble you, for we are not hungry. We came to sit beside you only because your appearance interested us.”

With that, they began to discuss him as if he was not there, but also as though they could read all his thoughts.

The cat said ”He seems to me a miserable man with a sad life. Look at his boots and the lines that run down by the sides of his mouth, Raven, and he clearly has no money. I would say he is a terrible failure. He has nothing. He looks homeless and I am convinced he has no wife and no children.”

She paused to clean an ear with her paw and looked thoughtful.

” I expect he has travelled much too, and those types who keep feeling the need to move on seldom manage to keep many friends. Doubtless he is also unemployed or he wouldn’t be sitting here dreaming. It all looks like doom and gloom to me. How very sad! ”

”Squawk,” said the Raven, cocking his head at the man and considering, ” I see him quite differently. I see a man with laughter lines round his eyes and he clearly loves beauty, just look at the jacket he wears! And he may not have much in the way of coin but he is generous with what he does have or he would not have begun to search for food when he saw us. He is kind I think. He does seem to have a lot of papers in his pouch and I suspect, by the dreamy look in his eyes, that they are poems so maybe he has, not a job, but a talent. Also he is tall and strong and I doubt he lacks for food. I suspect he is also armed, a dagger slipped into his boot perhaps.”

The Raven hopped onto the man’s shoulder to get a closer look. The man smiled at that.

”As for being much travelled, well yes, but is it really true to say that a rolling stone gathers no moss? True, he probably has left friends and loved ones behind, but just imagine all he has seen on the way and all of the people he has met. I think he has had a rich life and must be happy and could even be congratulated.”

The Raven and the Cat then proceeded to squabble and the man feared the Raven might be eaten, so he spoke.

”May I interject in this argument for the sake of your peace?”

”Yes, please do”, said the Raven, hoping for an end to the fight and some wisdom.

”I suppose so” said the Cat, shrugging and sounding gloomy, ”Much good may it do, for I expect none.” She sat grooming herself again, looking bored.

”Well” said the man, ”It seems to me that you both see things from only one point of view. You, dear Cat, are entirely negative and this charming Raven sees only the good and the positive in all.”

”So”, said the Cat, expecting to lose the argument, ”Tell me I am wrong then. Go on.”

At that the Raven looked pleased but sighed in a way only a bird can.

”The truth is,” said the man, ”that you are both right but without each other you are both wrong.”

”How so Sir?” said the Raven, looking puzzled.

”I am both happy and sad.” the man replied, ”The sum of all you say is true. But if only the negative was true I would just sit here and give up and if only the positive part were true then I would have learned nothing. The positive and the negative work together in my life. Joy is my desire and I have often had it but I know that sorrow, which I also have had, can bring depth to feeling and we can’t appreciate the one without the other. So I sit in the middle and am content. We all need balance!”

With that, the man stood up.

”I will continue my journey now”, he said. ”I wish you both well and safe paths.”

The cat turned her back and pretended to look at something else, as Cats always do when embarrassed and the Raven said,

”Sir I will come with you if I may. I have always liked travel. I sense that you are restless at night and perhaps when you are tired I can lighten your day?”

The man smiled and nodded his head. As he began to walk off he said, under his breathe,

‘’Gold leaves spin, falling, bringing sadness and delight. The balance is held.’’

 

 

A Love Story ~ Rosa & Arjuna

/ A. Gouedard / 3 Comments

Two lovers
separated
by the stretch
of open ocean
endless sky
moonlight passing
day to night

Arjuna’s window pointed west
While Rosa’s looked out to the east
Of their love they both were sure

Only water lay between them
Only time would be the test
Whether love could long endure

They had vowed to watch the moon
Each one in their lonely room
Far apart, but close in heart

They watched the silver face
Passing in and out of sight
Held aloft in lovely light

Counting moons
The months passed by
In time Rosa ceased to cry
She had now become enamored
Of watching starlit nights
And changing skies

Counting moons
The years passed by
Arjuna drowned his tears in books
Slowly he began to write
He described the stars
And all the glories of the night

He described all she saw
As they watched the sky together
Together yet so far apart
They reached a sweet contentment
Beyond the reach of lovers art
Contemplating all they saw

Did they ever meet again?
If fate was kind I think they did.
Where it was I cannot say.
May the light of heaven lead them.
The moon has never shone so bright
As I saw it shine tonight.

Into the West

/ A. Gouedard / 1 Comment

Beautifully written pieces, observant and imaginative – i like it very much so i am reblogging it so that others can enjoy it too

Lady Tamara Winterwolf's avatarLady Tamara Winterwolf's Nightflight

Every morning, when I wake up and go to my kitchen the first thing I do is look out of the window towards the sea. In this winter months the sea usually looks like a big dark jelly . Sometimes quiet, some other times shaken by the wind. There are mornings though that this darkness gets replaced by the most beautiful silver shine on the sea. Like this last nights. My window looks towards West North – West. This last few nights in the middle of my kitchen window there was the moon, big and round. Smiling, she was greeting me face to face. While I would be preparing my first tea she would be slowly sinking into the cuddling sea. The following morning I came down the same time like every other morning, 4.45 sharp and was surprised that the shining  face of the moon shifted more to the…

View original post 272 more words

Travel Tales #4 – Malaga to Melilla

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Sophie and Charlie travelled from Malaga to Melilla on a boat full of Spanish soldiers returning to their postings in Melilla, a Spanish enclave on African soil. Travelling too was a crazy Australian boy, Carl, who, with nothing but a supply of chewing gum, for trade he said, a battered and completely out of date ‘Africa on a Shoestring’ and a spare jersey, was intending to hitchhike through Morocco into Mali and visit Timbuktu. He had allocated himself three months for a round trip. He had worked in London for two years and saved up for the time off but, despite this, had extremely little money. He seemed to think his plans quite unexceptional and easily achievable. Sophie thought he was an optimistic and very adventurous young man and probably very mistaken in his plans.

Charlie and Sophie weren’t carrying much themselves, the main burden of their possession being his guitar and her mandolin, which they had agreed they had to bring. They always found that, when travelling, music opened doors and made strangers friendly. It also passed the time when there was a transport delay. Sophie had not travelled outside her own country before but Charlie knew that music broke all language barriers. He had been just about everywhere and had chosen Morocco as Sophie’s first step out into the wider world because it was quite familiar to him, he had been there with his wife before, and he knew Sophie would be completely knocked out by what she was about to experience. Sophie loved Islamic design and he knew she was about to see more of that than she could ever imagine in one place.

Dolphins leapt and dived beside the boat, shining silver in the sunlight as Charlie and Sophie shared the bread and churizo and olives they had bought in the market that morning. Sophie felt as if she was in a dream but one more intense than she would have been capable of imagining. The brightness of the light was intense.

The Australian boy made Sophie and Charlie feel older and wiser. Sophie was glad he made her feel wiser and not dull and boring too, as he might have done a few years before. Carl had met up with a young man from Senegal, called Gad, who didn’t speak English or French or any other European language, so they didn’t speak to each other at all, just signalled, as if across a wide space.

Gad walked bent half over because he carried a big, heavy kit bag full of jeans and other things to trade and didn’t want to let it out of his sight for a second. Gad clearly didn’t trust anyone much, certainly not Moroccans, and looked very disapproving when he saw Charlie and Sophie chatting with a Moroccan man as the boat, beneath a full moon, drew near Africa.

The Moroccan was returning home from Spain and said he went to Spain to trade in leather. Charlie had his doubts about the trade being in leather, but maybe unjustly.  If he was doing anything illegal it didn’t seem to be profiting him much. The Moroccan was not happy with the way Spanish people dealt with him and was taking advantage of the time on the boat to drown his sorrows. He was drunk. Sophie was a little surprised at this. She thought Muslims didn’t drink and that maybe it was even illegal for them.

Sophie shared Gad’s distrust to some degree, enough to keep a very close eye on the zipped up pockets of her brand new rucksack, but it was the soldiers who made her most nervous because they we carrying guns. Everyone and everything was unknown to Sophie, except Charlie, and she thought it best to exercise a little caution, at least until she had a better measure of where she was and where she was going. Charlie always seemed just a little too casual about safety and Sophie was not entirely sure if he would notice straight away if something was starting to go wrong so she always kept an eye open for both of them. Sophie felt safe knowing that if she pointed out a problem Charlie would know what to do about it. Charlie had no shortage of courage.

Charlie said that the Australian boy reminded him of his younger self when, years before, he had dropped out from his studies and, infuriating and disappointing his parents, taken to the road. He felt some nostalgic affection for the boy’s almost maverick attitude to life and his innocent presumption that he would get to his destination in one piece and to schedule, simply because he had named it. Sophie thought that if the boy didn’t reach his destination, and that seemed very likely, it would not matter because he was sure to get somewhere and that hopefully it would in some way be the right place for him to be. He said he just wanted to find a really peaceful place.

Looking out across the water, in the full moonlight, seeing the first hills of Africa draw near Sophie kept saying to herself over and over again,

‘That’s Africa, and this is me standing here, and I am looking at Africa. Between Africa and me there is nothing but a short stretch of water and some air.  It’s real and it’s Africa. This is really happening to me. I have to fix this moment in my mind forever.’

Sophie’s heart expanded with every wave and swell that bought them closer to the shore. She had a strong sensation of the space between Africa and her own front door and the fact that she had made a direct connection between them. The journey had begun only the morning before when she stepped out of her front door and walked to the train station and now she was on a boat miles from home. She could hardly believe what had been given to her and her heart was swelling with love and gratitude for life. She was going to step off this boat onto an different continent, a huge, hot, unknown, and entirely other continent.

Charlie and Sophie avoided, with some difficulty and an abundance of cautious mistrust, the persistent hustlers at the quay and found a cheap hotel for the night, Carl and Gad following them, suddenly startled like uncertain children in the dark. Sophie felt, in contrast, that she knew exactly what she was doing.

In the morning, there was no sign of Carl or Gad and Charlie and Sophie headed for the bus to the Moroccan border without them.

Sophie was really excited now. Melilla still had the style and atmosphere of Spain but now they were leaving that behind and crossing the Moroccan border, a muddy section of street with a few ugly huts on either side. They walked past the passport office by mistake because they thought it was a toilet block and were directed back to it when they reached the Moroccan barrier without their passports stamped.

The official in the office was relaxed and friendly and stamped their passports whilst joking and flirting with Sophie. Seeing by the passports that they were not married the man told Charlie that he should marry Sophie before he lost her because he could see she was a good woman and Charlie said that he maybe would but he’d have to divorce his wife first.

“Ah yes, this is one of the sad things about Europe. Too much divorce. Bring him to live here,” he smiled at Sophie, “Then he can have two wives. He must treat you like a lady”.

“Maybe I’m not a lady,” Sophie joked.

“Yes you are lady. In this country all women are ladies,” he said smiling.

Sophie found this first English conversation with a Moroccan man, full of smiles and joking, reassuring. It was a good start and took away some of her fear.

        Sophie’s head was constantly full of questions. Of course she wanted to go to Marrakech and Charlie had promised to take her there later but first he wanted to see Fes. Charlie had never been to Fes before but had come across a book that described the city as one of the wonders of the world, a place full of the most skilled artisans, locked in the past. He also wondered about travelling on to Essouiera, but had been there with his wife and children years ago and was not sure that, once there, he might not find himself over-taken by nostalgia and distracted by the memory of his wife. He said that it might not be fair to take Sophie there, although he very much wanted to see it again and knew that she would love it.

The Winter of the Unicorn

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

The Winter of the Unicorn

Outside the city walls, despite a hard winter, the granaries were still well filled. There was plenty for a great feast and for the rest of the winter too. The hens and geese were plump. The Baron and his men had been out on a deer hunt in the forest. The cellars were laden with heavy oaken casks filled with cider and mead.

The streets were brightly lit with lanterns and merry with song and chatter. Minstrels played festive music, glad to have been welcomed into the City.

Children well wrapped in wool coats and leather boots ran about throwing snowballs at each other and made ice slides in the streets to the annoyance of the old and infirm. In the morning when they woke they had enjoyed drawing finger pictures on window panes to embellish the work of Jack Frost.

The cooks were all preparing the winter feast. Everyone was looking forward to eating the Goose (except the geese of course). There would be puddings and pies and fruits and nuts from the fields and the forest and there would be frumenty, a great favourite of all. The poorer people were hoping to have a slice of Humble Pie, made with the heart and brains and other offal of the Deer.

When the festival of the Winter Solstice arrived and the old, old custom of tree dressing began, the plump Friar came to the tree he called the Paradise Tree outside the cathedral and blessed the tree in readiness for the time of Christmas Eve.

There was to be a play just outside the church on Christmas Eve and mummers were to adorn the evergreen tree with apples and communion wafers. Decked out in this way it represented the two mystical trees in the Garden of Eden; the Tree of Knowledge of good and evil and the Tree of Life. The play would be attended by many, both rich and poor.

In the morning the rich Baron stood, wrapped in furs with an armed guard behind him, on the steps of the Great Hall and gave ostentatious, but not overly generous, charity to the poor of the city. He despised the poor. He saw them not as men but as mindless vermin. He had not a compassionate or charitable bone in his body. He was unkind and even cruel. He washed his fingers frequently in a bowl of rose water a servant held beside him, wiping poverty from his hands on a delicately embroidered cloth.

Out, beyond the city gates, a mile or so away in the fields where the ground was a patchwork of brown, bare frozen earth sprinkled by flurries of snow and deeper drifts against walls and hedgerows, a family lived by a frozen lake, close to a forest, in a wooden hut. They were a family of six; an old Grandfather and his son Dynawd, his sons’ thin, gaunt wife, Awena, who once had been very pretty, and their three very young children. All were pale, cold, dressed in rags and starving, as were many others in that land.

The family had done their best to ensure their survival but they were only allowed to keep a small portion of the harvest. The Baron and the City took the rest.

The fire in their hearth was meagre as, though there were plenty of fallen branches and twigs in the forest, these too had been claimed by the Baron as his own property and only a bare supply could be gathered. The Deer and all living things belonged to him too, by his sole decree and the support of his henchmen.

The Barons men rode out from the city frequently to check that the people of the land withheld no item of tax or stole from the forest.

The punishment for poaching or for gathering more than an allotted amount of wood from the forest was very severe, no less than death was ever granted. Dynawd dare not risk his life for his whole family depended upon his survival. He took what he could. His boots were a mess of mended holes. He spent his days plugging every hole that let in a draught or was outside in the snow with Awena scavenging while the old man watched the children. He felt impotent as he watched his family starve.

The winter had come early that year and been very harsh. Dynawd had never before found it this hard to survive and looking ahead he began to despair. There was nowhere to turn to for help. He looked at his wife and children with pity. His father could offer no advice.

The baby was always coughing in a way that caught at Dynawd’s heart. She was his only daughter. He loved all his children dearly and his wife and father too. He was glad his mother had died in a peaceful sleep in the summer. It was a better death than this.

Dynawd couldn’t sleep at night, partly through hunger and partly through sorrow. His wife clung to him in her sleep for warmth. He rolled her aside and wrapped the thin blanket closely around her and went outside.

The moon was full and the snow in the fields, the frost on the leaves, the icicles that hung from the eaves of the hut and the ice on the lake all glittered and sparkled in moonlight. How such beauty could also be so cruel in its consequences was a mystery.

Dynawd looked up. A bright star shone high at the apex of the sky. It was surrounded by myriad twinkling stars as if diamonds had been tossed on a black velvet cloth with one pure jewel at the centre, outshining them all. Dynawd was overcome by its beauty and sat down in the snow outside the hut and wept unashamedly. He was at his wits end and powerless to change anything.

As he sat there the memory of happier winters came to him from the time before the Baron came and seized all the land and murdered so many of Dynawd kin. Almost all of the old Wise Ones had been taken in a day and slain.

Then he remembered the Yule Log that used to burn in his family’s hearth for twelve days each year. Now, this was forbidden. It was a very hard wood and so considered to be of great value.

The memory gladdened Dynawd’s heart for a moment and he resolved that, come what may, he would get a Yule Log once again in this bitter year and some holly and mistletoe too if he could and maybe even a rabbit or a squirrel. What had he got to lose now, they were all going to die anyway. Despair brings desperate actions.

Dynawd stood up and as he turned towards his door to fetch a knife and an axe his eye was caught by a silver glimmer just inside the forest. A light flurry of snow had begun to fall again and Dynawd, squinting against the cold flakes that landed on his eyelashes, peered into the forest with blurred eyes. Now he saw nothing and, looking back briefly over his shoulder he went into the hut.

Dynawd came back out with the knife in his belt. He set the axe down by the door a moment because, to his surprise, he saw a graceful white horse standing beside the lake. He had no thought to try and catch it as, wild or owned, it was not to be his, so he just stood silent and watched it.

Then he saw the white horse bow its head and the ice immediately melted and made a pool. The horse drank. This made Dynawd very curious and he slowly crept forward, trying not to crunch the snow with his ragged boots but the horse heard him instantly and turned its head.

It was a Unicorn.

Dynawd stood transfixed, rooted to the ground. He had never seen such beauty; a Unicorn in the snow lit by moonlight, magical, unbelievable, yet there it stood. Dynawd could not have moved at that moment even if he had wanted to. He expected the Unicorn to flee to the forest and vanish like all dreams do.

Instead of fleeing the Unicorn came to him and stood before him calmly. Dynawd looked deep into the Unicorns soft starlit eyes and saw endless compassion and kindness and something a little like sorrow.

In a voice that was musical with the purity of a struck silver bell that seemed to come from far, far away, the Unicorn spoke.

‘’I have come to help you Dynawd. This land is stricken. The city takes everything. Your people cannot survive. Something must be done. You must swear never to forget your traditions or what your people believe.’’

‘’I swear this,’’ said Dynawd. He would have sworn to anything the Unicorn asked of him, but he agreed with every word.

‘’Kill me and take my horn. My horn must be used for good and never for ill. Your family shall eat my flesh and survive. My flesh will be one with your flesh and with it you will receive my blessings. ’’

Dynawd reeled back in shock. ‘’I can’t kill a Unicorn,’’ he said and tears filled his eyes.

‘’You must,’’ said the Unicorn, ‘’It is my wish and it’s why I am here beside you this night. You must do as I say and nothing less. You must kill me and your family must eat my flesh. You must take my horn and help your people and keep their spirit strong. You will be blessed by my spirit. I will live inside you. From now and forever no-one in your family will die in danger or of ill health. All will have a peaceful death in old age, just as did your mother, who I met long ago in the woods when she was a maiden. ’’

Seven times Dynawd refused to kill the Unicorn.

Seven times the Unicorn insisted he must.

Then the Unicorn said, ‘’I will make this easy for you. Go and lean your back against the oak tree over there and hold your knife out toward me. You may close your eyes if you wish but keep your arm and the knife straight and rigid. Go, do as I tell you.’’

Dynawd obeyed, but he couldn’t close his eyes. The Unicorn walked up to him there and looked at him gently and then raised its beautiful head, bearing its throat and pushed itself onto the knife, cutting the vein that held in life. Blood flowed down onto the snow as the Unicorn fell to its knees without a sound and it lay down at Dynawd’s feet.

Dynawd stood there, unable to move, but then he remembered the Unicorns words. He cut out the horn and took it. It glowed in his hand like starlight a moment and then dimmed to bone. Dynawd skinned the Unicorn and took it as meat to his home. He found it very hard to eat and swallow it but he knew that he must. He didn’t tell his family what it was.

The next morning Dynawd saw that his wife’s face was different. She looked so healthy and seemed to have some inner light. His father and children too looked strong and well. He stood and stretched himself and felt a strong vigour in his limbs that he had not felt for years and he could not help but smile.

He stepped out of his door and looked across at the Oak tree. He saws no sign of slaughter or death but a Holly tree grew there next to the Oak and it was weighed down with red berries and full of singing birds that had come to eat.

Dynawd wondered what the Unicorns horn could do. He had been told to use it to the good and never to the ill so he knew that it must have some power. He had seen the Unicorn melt a hole in the ice on the lake and so Dynawd thought that a safe thing to try. He touched the ice with the wand. The ice melted.

Then he went to a dead tree and touched it. At first he saw nothing but then, after a while, a few buds appeared. Dynawd had sense enough and respect enough for nature not to mess about with the seasons so he did no more than that. He returned to the house to sit and ponder. The horn was still in his hand.

When Dynawd went in and closed the door Awena said, addressing Dynawd’s father, ‘’my, that was a strong wind to swing the door like that!’’

Dynawd said, ‘’It was me.’’

Awena looked startled and said, ‘’Dynawd? Where are you?’’

‘’I’m right in front of you Awena. Can’t you see?’’ Dynawd touched her arm.

Awena squealed and backed away.

‘’Do you see me Father?’’ Dynawd asked.

‘’No I don’t,’’ said his father. ‘’Try putting down the Unicorns horn.’’

Dynawd was surprised at his fathers’ words but did as he was bid and appeared as normal.

‘’How did you know it was a Unicorns horn?’’

‘’From old tales of invisibility my father told me and his father told him before that. Also I dreamed of a Unicorn all last night and I have my suspicions about that meat. Hadn’t you better tell us what happened?’’

Dynawd sat down and told them all that had happened. He showed them the horn and they passed it from hand to hand in reverent awe.

‘’You could kill the Baron maybe?’’ said Awena.

‘’No I don’t think so,’’ said Dynawd. ‘’That’s certainly a good deed to many as we would all see it but it could also be seen as evil and though the Unicorn said I must help our people he also said I must only use the horn for good. That may not include anyone’s death, including that of the Baron. There will be other ways.’’

‘’But the first thing we will do is move into the forest. I will build us a small shelter where we can be more hidden and safe for a few days and I will use invisibility to feed us while I think. We will go far, far in where our fire smoke can’t be seen. We will as good as vanish. I will see what else this horn can do.’’

And this they did.

One night before he went to sleep Dynawd left the Unicorn horn resting on a sack of grain. In the morning he saw that the sack was full of gold coins. They had wealth but Dynawd knew he must not use the horn just for his own well-being.

Dynawd thought hard and long in the forest. He was an intelligent man and his father was full of old stories to guide him so Dynawd also listened. Finally he came up with a plan. He didn’t fear for his families safety because the Unicorn had said they would all live long lives and die in peace.

Dynawd went alone to the City, using invisibility and leaving gold coin on the counters of shops until he was dressed as a wealthy man. Then tucking the Unicorn horn away he went and bought all else he needed with the gold. He bought fine clothes for his family and three horses and a very fine sword of old design for himself and rings of silver and sparkling jewels for Awena’s fingers. He knew this latter was an indulgence but also felt she deserved it. Then he returned home to fetch his family back to the City.

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas Dynawd and his family entered the gates of the City in splendour. The people bowed as they passed, even the Lords and Ladies. There was something in Dynawd face that inspired. They felt his inner beauty.

Awena who had once been pretty now shone with an inner light and there was no denying that she was the most beautiful woman any man had ever seen in that City. The old man looked wise and noble and the small children laughed and sang as they rode with him on his horse. The babe was in Awena’s arms.

Dynawd took a room at a simple tavern, which puzzled the rich and the poor alike. But wherever he went amongst the poor he was generous and it was obvious he had wealth. He was polite to the wealthy but didn’t speak with them much at first, preferring to observe the City whilst creating a certain mystique. It wasn’t long before he was invited to sit at the Barons loaded supper table one night.

The Baron asked Dynawd where he was from and Dynawd told him he was from the far side of the forest. The forest was known to be vast.

‘’I have travelled much,’’ said Dynawd

‘’You must have many travel tales,’’ the Baron said, ‘’I would like to hear some if you would oblige. I get bored here in the evening with these drunken louts who hang about the Court. I don’t trust any of them either.’’ The Baron was a little in his cups, as he so often was.

‘’I would be glad to oblige my Lord, ‘’ Dynawd smiled, thinking he had a huge stock of tales to draw upon, stories from his own race, stories with adventure and wisdom. He would be glad to tell them to this powerful, unkind usurper from another land, this man of no compassion.

After a time Dynawd started to create some tales of his own too in a way that was designed to influence the Baron in current circumstances as they occurred. In effect he had become the Barons favoured Bard, which was a powerful position of influence.

The Baron didn’t really even know what a Bard was; thinking it was just a poet and musician, an entertainer. But he came to regard Dynawd as a trusted friend who never did him harm. Occasionally Dynawd would seem distracted and say he was thinking of leaving but the Baron always begged him to stay.

The people knew very little of Dynawd or his wisdom and inner light but under his influence the Baron came to see that showing a little compassion could be an effective political strategy and even a delight. The compassion and love that poured from the Unicorns horn had the greater effect in the land and Dynawd’s family acknowledged that to each other and never forgot it.

While Dynawd told the Baron endless tales and gained his trust and advised him on serious matters Awena rode about the countryside, taking the Unicorn wand with her, helping, healing and feeding the people. She became well known and loved and they started to call her Unicorn Daughter and Lady of Light.

Dynawd and Awena were very happy in this life and they saw their people prosper and the Unicorns blessings revealed. They both lived to be more than one hundred and thirty years old and when they died their children kept the Unicorns horn and continued to help people all over the land.

The blessing of the Unicorns flesh was passed down, generation by generation until its history was lost in the mists of time but in every generation thereafter one Bard of great, slight, or no fame at all appears in that family and has the gift of the Unicorn.

They quietly do their best to help in any way they can wherever there is suffering and a need for secret charity. In this way it could be said that the Unicorn of Winter has outlived all others, who are just a beautiful memory and gone from this world.

The Pearl and the Olive Tree

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Moon pulled up a seat by the fire and began a story…..

 

The Pearl and the Olive Tree

”This is a tale of a sailor called Jack who comes from parts hereabouts. Some say he is a pirate but I say he is not. He is a clever seaman to be sure and a good fighter when he needs to be but he has a kind heart and helps many people, especially the poor.

Sailing homeward from the Barbary Coast with a cargo of Saharan salt and spices from the east is a dangerous journey and Jack and his crew have fought off many a pirate ship, when they can’t outrun them, and who would complain or think it wrong that in victory they take the pirates gold. It’s Jacks favourite joke that it’s a fair transaction.

Any one who saw Jack now wouldn’t call him beautiful. He has become weather-beaten and rugged over the years and has a scar on his face from a pirate captains sword that just missed taking out his eye, but when he was young he had beauty and women were enthralled by him wherever he went, not least for the fire and spirit he has in him.

Jack is one of those people blessed with a quick mind. He learns fast and remembers almost all he hears and he can speak many languages haltingly and French, Spanish and Arabic fluently. His travels to far lands have educated him in many things. He is also clever in trade. His ability to strike a good deal with a cheerful smile and much charm has increased his wealth, though he seems to care not for riches and there is a reason for this, as revealed in this tale.

My tale begins when Jack was but a young man of nineteen or twenty, in the days before he had his own ship. He was shipwrecked not far off Gibraltar. The Captain went down with his ship and all the crew were lost but Jack survived. At the last moment he had climbed one of the masts and as the ship took its final death roll he leapt into the broiling sea.

Jack was a good, strong swimmer but might have drowned if luck had not presented a large rock, almost a small island, just as his strength was fading. He lay on the rock panting and blessing his stars.

In that moment he vowed to captain his own ship and never be ship-wrecked again. Jack knew that the captain of the ship gone down had been a fool who had made a huge mistake and the loss of all his companions was the result of it. He grieved for the friends he had sailed with and lost.

After a while, laying on the shore regaining his breathe, he saw an Olive tree and he crawled to its shade and leaned against it exhausted. Little else grew on the rock, just a few prickly pears growing in dry earth and some plants such as you might see at the edge of the desert. All else was rock. In the cool shade, out of the burning noon sun, Jack fell asleep.

When he awoke the sun had just fallen and he stood up and stretched, grateful still to be alive. He heard a sound behind him and turned.

A beautiful girl stood gazing at him in silence. Jack was confused but entranced. He stood, stunned by her beauty, her dark eyes, her long hair, her lips in a gentle smile. Her skin was brown and she wore nothing but a simple green cloth that blew in the breeze and a few leaves were twined in her hair, but to him she looked a queen, a goddess, and so he bowed.

”Don’t bow to me,” she said in a warm, soft voice ”I am but a maiden and grateful to a fate that has washed you up upon this shore.”

Jack replied ”I am awed by your beauty, my lady.”

”Ah! Your lady I am,” she said, ”for I have watched you while you slept and am already deeply in love.”

” I have never known love,” said Jack ”Never felt it either, yet I feel it now, so strong, I feel I will die if you are not to be mine.”

She moved into his arms and he kissed her with a longing he had never felt before. His heart beat wildly with a need to possess her and they sank to the ground. She tore off the green cloth and cast it aside and clung to him. Jacks heart leapt with joy, in an ecstasy of passion. They owned each other.

Passion subsided and was replaced by a sweet tenderness that felt like a life time of knowing each other and they lay together looking up at the stars, deep into the night. Jack didn’t even notice the cold night air. He said he would never leave her but would take her with him away from this rock. She just smiled, a little sadly, and nodded. Finally they fell asleep in each others arms.

He awoke in the morning alone beneath the Olive tree. He looked about. She was gone. With an awful sinking feeling of realisation he though it had all been a dream yet he felt a huge loss that ripped at his heart and bought tears to his eyes. He howled. He lay on the ground and beat the earth. He cursed his dreaming that had bought him this pain. He called himself a fool. But he knew in his heart of hearts that no other woman would ever satisfy him now, though he had one in every port. He was in love with a dream.

After a time he calmed a little and managed to eat some olives as by now he was very hungry. The olives strengthened him greatly. Now he felt love more than misery but told himself he had just had a wonderful dream and that the most important thing was to face reality and forget dreams and to get off this rock. He saw that the shore of Gibraltar was close and decided to swim.

Years passed and Jack achieved his ambition and became the captain of his own vessel, the Cormorant. She was a wonderful ship, and fast, and his crew were loyal to a man. They had much success. Though he laughed and joked and rolled about in the arms of many a woman when they went ashore Jack never fell in love with any of them, though he was kind and treated them well. All the women knew not to expect any commitment from Jack. The sea was his life, the sea and trade.

On one of their visits to the main Souk in Mali, where the camel trains come in from the Sahara with their cargo of salt, Jack completed a favourable transaction and had arranged for a caravan to convey a large amount of salt to his ship. After all was done he decided to relax a while and he went to the central square of the Medina to sip at mint tea and watch the world go by. His ear was caught by a storyteller and so he moved closer.

In the centre of a circle of interested listeners sat an old man in a striped robe, his hood up as protection from the sun. He sat on an old worn scrap of a carpet and there was a stick on the ground at his side and a small boy who now and then leaned against his shoulder.

The old man was telling a story about a donkey and a judge and his audience were roaring with laughter as Jack approached. The boy got up and went amongst the crowd gathering coins and then the old man began a new tale and Jack sat down to listen, sipping his tea and munching on almond nougat, which he had a weakness for.

The old man told a tale which gripped Jack the moment he heard mentioned of an olive tree that grew alone on a rock in the sea. The old man told of a beautiful young girl who lived in Tangier long ago, a girl who was an only child and the joy of her fathers heart.

”Many men wanted her as their bride,” the storyteller said, ”and came to her father with generous offers but he refused them all saying ”Only the man who wins my daughters love shall have her.” ‘

Jack leaned forward eager to hear more and storyteller continued his tale.

”It happened that she attracted the eye of a merchant, who was really a magician, and he determined to have her whatever her father might say but he went to him with numerous bribes. The girl would hide behind the pierced screens when he came and she disliked the look of him intensely. He was old and short and skinny and his teeth were black with many gaps and she thought he smelled of something strange that she didn’t like. The sight of him repelled her and made her sick to her stomach.

Eventually the magician came to the house with his final offer, a fortune indeed, but her father, knowing well his daughters dislike of the man, refused once more and told the magician not to come to his house again. The magician flew into a rage and swung his sword and chopped off her fathers head with one mighty blow. The girl saw all this from behind the screen and was both terrified and grief stricken but she had enough sense left to her to run from the house.”

”She ran from the house in a panic and headed down through the winding steps and passages that lead her to the harbour and she took a small rowing boat and rowed out to sea. As night fell she came to a rock. There was no fresh water and little to eat there but there was an olive tree. She was exhausted and it was so dark by now that she decided to rest there until the morning.”

”But she should not have supposed she was out of harms way. She thought the old man was just a merchant and she had no idea of his magical powers. But he knew exactly where she was and he came like a bat in the night and transformed into his own shape before her eyes. He lunged at her. She screamed and backed against the olive tree begging for mercy and, to the astonishment of both the girl and the magician, strong arms came from the tree and wrapped around her and gently drew her in. The dryad of the olive tree had taken pity on the poor girl.”

”The magician could do nothing to draw her out from the tree and the protection of the dryad and this angered him greatly. He placed a curse on both her and the tree.”

”All curses must have some conditions of restitution and the magician was wise enough to know this so he decreed that she must stay in the Olive tree forever and could only step out when a man stepped upon the rock, a thing that he believed would never happen. Furthermore, just to be safe, he added the condition that she would even then have to return to the tree after thirteen hours unless the man buried one hundred and one pearls at the foot of the tree and that one of those must be the most beautiful pearl in the world. Having completed his spell he left the island, content that his revenge was complete and to the best of anyone’s knowledge she is still held in the Olive tree to this day and no man has ever stepped on the rock,” the Storyteller concluded.

”Not so,” thought Jack, his heart flooding with joy. Being too wise to declare it publicly and risk others knowing this truth he kept it to himself but laid a pouch of gold in the old mans lap and rushed back to his ship.

No Captain has ever pushed his crew to load a cargo so fast. All he could think of was the beautiful girl who had not been a dream. His memory flooded with images of her and the feelings of that one night of pure love and joy he had spent with her and his mind was full of the determination to get the one hundred and one pearls and release her from the tree and into his arms forever.

He smiled a huge smile at his crew even as he shouted and swore at them to work faster and they nudged each other wondering,

”What’s up with the Captain, he is like a man possessed.”

But Jack was ever practical and as he sat in his cabin that night writing his log he thought of all the ways to get pearls without making anyone who was dependent on him or his crew suffer from the lack of the gold they earned and took. Certainly he could trade some gold for some pearls after the cargo was delivered and he could do that as a result of every trip but it would take long to get one hundred and one. Also one of them had to be the most beautiful pearl in the world. How would he find that and if he could find it perhaps he could never buy it, what might it cost and did anyone even have it? It might be at the bottom of the sea.

Jack had always avoided mermaids when they came swimming along side seductively. He knew they could lure a man to his death and had once witnessed one of his crew drown when he believed the mermaids lies and could not be stopped from leaping from the ship to join her. Some sailors say it is a happy death but Jack didn’t believe that for one moment.

Now, despite this aversion he decided to seek mermaids out whenever and wherever he could. He announced this to his men the next day with many heavy and serious warnings not to betray themselves to any mermaid.

‘’We will continue to deal salt for gold and to board any pirate ship that dare draw near us but now we become hunters of mermaids too. Beware their cunning for they hunt men and any man caught in their nets never returns. I have my reason for this hunt, which I do not share, but the share you get of our cargo wont change.’’

So Jack bought a pearl or two for gold after every trip and he never saw one that looked more special than the rest. He became a mermaid hunter. He developed an instinct about where they could be found and when. The mermaids came to know the ship and its crew and were amused at the frequent banter they had with Jack and the way he guarded his crew.  In truth the mermaids liked him and he liked them though he would never have admitted that. The mermaids were happy to give a pearl or two for the pretty gold coin they valued only as a trinket.

Jacks love of the life at sea never changed but the girl was always there in his mind and his heart.

Now I must digress, for a moment, for I too met a mermaid in a cove near here some years ago. She asked me to tell her a tale about a mermaid and i did and it so pleased her that, before she vanished with a flip of her tail, she placed a pearl in my hand. I know nothing of pearls so i just slipped it into my pouch, thinking it might have a use one day.

I had well nigh forgotten I had that pearl until I encountered Jack and he told me his history and the reason he hunts mermaids. We sat on the harbour wall and I listened to all he told me.

”How many pearls do you have now?” I asked

”I am unsure,” he said ”for I just this moment left a mermaid who unexpectedly gave me an ‘andful in return for a favour and a bit o’ gold. I ain’t yet counted ’em again.”

He took out a leather pouch and making sure no-one was watching he poured them out on the top of the wall to count them. He had one hundred and nine.

”One more I need,” he said, ”For these are all common pearls and I don’t yet ‘ave the one most beautiful.”

I looked at Jack’s pearls spread out before me and saw that not one of them stood out from another and then I remembered the one in my pouch and I recalled that it was certainly larger than these. I felt in my pouch and found it. I held it out to Jack and laid it in his rope calloused hand.

He said nothing but gazed at it long. It glowed in the light and there were gentle colours in its soft gleam. I confess that until now I had never looked at it properly. It was a pearl of great beauty and larger than the rest.

A huge smile spread across Jacks face, ”This is I believe the most beautiful pearl in the world!” he said.

He stood up. ”You will excuse me now,” he said, ”if i take a sudden leave of ya for ’tis time to set sail for a god foresaken rock and my beautiful woman. Ah but I don’t know ‘ow best ta thankee. Will ya take this pouch o’gold and the other nine pearls.”

I smiled at him, ”Keep the nine pearls as a gift for your girl and give me one gold coin. A gold coin and the sight of you smile is reward enough and I wish you good fortune in your quest.”

With many thanks and a smiling bow he left.

So, I am sure you all want to know whether Jack got his lady.”

Moon smiled at his listeners.

”Aye that we do,” said the landlord.

”Well,” said Moon, ”Jack made excellent use of a fair wind and sailed with all speed to the rock and rowed ashore alone. The olive tree had aged and looked far stronger. He clearly remembered the story and he buried the pearls at the bottom of the tree, keeping just nine.

All was well and as the story had foretold his love stepped out of the tree and straight into his arms. She was more beautiful than ever. Just as the tree had thrived, so had she. She was no longer a slender girl but a woman. I won’t try to describe their happiness or their passion but it was long before they returned to the ship.

They set sail for Tangier and Jack bought a house up high in the hills that look down upon the beautiful bay and the white mud walls of the town. Jack jokes that the curve of the bay is as beautiful as the curve of his woman’s hips but not half as seductive. They were married and nine pearls were sown into the neck of her wedding gown.

Though Jack still can’t resist the pull of the sea and trade and has a care for the welfare of his crew his wife always sails with him and she took to the life easily. He has eyes for no other woman and often says he can’t believe his luck on the only day he has ever been shipwrecked and he met her nor his luck in hearing the storyteller of Mali, for without that he would never have known how to free her or believed her to be more than a youthful dream.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Halloween Woods

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

The weather was foul. Rain beat on my windows and the wind howled down my chimney. The very thought of going anywhere made me shiver. I pulled the thick curtains against the cold and put on my favourite old sweater, the one with the holes at the elbows.

I had worked hard all day and the journey home on an overcrowded train had not cheered my spirits. So I was glad now to settle down with a good book and a hot chocolate by the fire. It was not the sort of night that made it inviting to go anywhere and so I was not very pleased when my friend called at my house, demanding I should go to a Halloween party right then with no warning even.

‘’In the middle of the week?’’ I said, thinking to use my need to get up for work in the morning as a reason not to go, as if the weather were not excuse enough.

‘’But it’s THE night!’’ he said. ‘’I think we should observe the old traditions and it’s best done at the right time, don’t you think? We are having the kids party on Saturday with a bonfire. This celebration is for us.’’

‘’If we MUST celebrate it at all,’’ I said, somewhat grumpily.

I couldn’t care less about all the ghosties and ghouls myself. As far as I was concerned Halloween was pathetic; all that dressing up as skeletons and ghosts or witches in black and purple. I didn’t like it when I was a kid either. I don’t even like pumpkin lamps. It just seems like a waste of pumpkin. If anything, I thought Halloween was a time to show some respect for the dead and not go cavorting about in silly costumes.

‘’But I have bought you a costume!’’ he said.

I groaned and sighed as he thrust a damp carrier bag into my hand. I unwillingly pulled out a white mask and a black hooded cloak. It could have been worse I suppose. I guess he knew he would never cajole me into a skeleton suit or a witches hat.

‘’I will put the heater up full blast in the car and you won’t be cold at the party,’’ he said. ‘’Don’t be such an old stick in the mud. Come on! It will be fun!’’

Well I can tell you this – it was not fun. He had a map reference to the party house and either his satnav was on the blink or it was cursed. We ended up on a back country road deep in some dark wooded area where the lanes got narrower and we just kept getting more lost. I felt more and more annoyed and frustrated.

I thought I saw some figures in the dark of the woods and the glint of a distant fire but when we pulled up we could see nothing. We sat there peering into the darkness and a shiver ran up my back, the sort that makes all the little hairs on your body stand on end. Alright, so I don’t believe in ghosts and all that but even to me those woods seemed spooky.

‘’This isn’t the right place,’’ my friend said, as if anywhere out here could be.

We drove on.

We rounded a bend and I swear I saw a clown run across the road, briefly caught in the headlights. My friend said he saw nothing. He said it was my imagination. I thought maybe he was right because I was pretty spooked by then. I was tired too. The trees were starting to take on a threatening aspect and I hate clowns so if I was ever going to imagine something bad it would certainly be a clown.

An old friend of mine has a big clown doll that sits on top of his bookshelves. I guess his face is quite nice in a way with a friendly smile and everyone else seems to like it but I always imagine its smiling about all the evil thoughts it’s having and it’s eyes always seem to follow me. Only me, no-one else. I feel uncomfortable sitting in that room and the first time I saw it I had nightmares for a few nights after. I still get them sometimes.

In my dreams that clown followed me everywhere. He was always laughing. Sometimes in my dreams he played jokes on me that made other people laugh but I always knew he was evil. All his jokes were spiteful and malicious. I always woke in a cold sweat. Once I woke myself from a nightmare only to find the clown in bed beside me grinning. I screamed and jumped out of bed realising I had still been dreaming.

Other times were far worse. We would engage in some sort of hunt. He would say it was for some treasure or something that was good for me but I always knew that the quarry was me. Wherever I went he would hunt me down.

He chased me down empty moonlit streets where I had no shadow. He chased me through stairways and tunnels that became more and more narrow as I climbed panting upward. I hid in cupboards and he would suddenly be in there too beside me.

If I ever was foolish enough to think I had got away he would suddenly pop up like a jack-in-the-box right in front of me, laughing madly at my shock and panic.

Just as I was thinking this, there he was again in the full glare of the headlights. I jumped. He jumped too, to the side of the road and waved at us frantically. My friend saw him that time and started to slow, as if he was going to stop and ask the way or something. I lost my cool entirely and yelled at him, insisting he drive on.

We hadn’t gone a whole lot further when we saw the fires in the wood again. He pulled over and put the window down. We heard drums and laughter.

‘’This must be it, at last!’’ he said.

‘’What? Out here? I thought the party was in a house not out in the woods on a freezing night.’’ I was really annoyed now.

He got out. I had no choice but to follow. No way was I going to sit alone in a car out here with a clown, straight out of my nightmares, wandering about.

‘’I thought it would be a house too,’’ he said, ‘’but I guess it’s meant to be a surprise. I was only given a map reference. Come on. We have arrived just at the right time.’’

‘’The right time for what?’’ I asked, but he was already well ahead of me and didn’t answer.

As we stumbled along in the dark towards the fire, which seemed further away now, I kept falling over tree roots. This must be a very old wood, I thought. The trees were enormous and misshapen and they creaked and groaned in the wind. Their roots seemed to cling to my boots and I got tangled in briers that grasped at my cloak as I passed. An owl hooted somewhere far off.

We finally entered the clearing where a huge fire blazed. I saw no source of the drumming, which was becoming louder and wilder by the moment. Everyone was dancing in a circle around the fire. They all wore cloaks like my own and I couldn’t see their faces. They all wore masks. My own mask was simple and plain but their masks were in the likeness of birds and animals and all were distorted in hideous grimace. Again I felt the warning prickle of fear on my skin.

I stood at the edge of the clearing, too fearful to step out from the trees. The woods were threatening enough but compared to what I saw at the fire they had become a comfort. Each of the figures dancing around the fire threw a long shadow and each shadow was not human. The dancing shadows all had horns and wings and one was shaped like a bull, another was like no creature I knew of on this earth. The shadows twisted and writhed on the ground and did not follow the dance.

My friend seemed oblivious to all this. He went and joined the dance. He put on the mask of a jackal. They welcomed him. I heard him laugh and say ‘’I bought you some party food.’’ I instantly knew that was me. My feet froze to the ground and my head span.

I realised in horror that the shadows were sentient beings and they knew where I was. They began to break away from the dancing figures at the fire and move toward me, very slowly, almost imperceptibly, but they were coming for me. The trees were closing in on me as the shadows drew closer and closer. The dancers began to chant.

The chant held me spellbound. I felt as if snakes were writhing all over me but I couldn’t move.

I heard a twig snap behind me.

Something grabbed me. I managed to turn a little. I heard myself scream. It was the clown. My worst nightmare. I struggled. He was strong. He gripped me tighter. He started to drag me backwards. In that moment I wished I was dead. I must have passed out in sheer terror.

I woke up around dawn in my own bed. I was so relieved. It was just another horrible clown nightmare after all. But then I realised I was on the bed, not in it, and I was wearing a damp, muddy Halloween robe with a hood. I stood up. I was so confused. Then I saw them.

On the floor at my bedside were muddy footprints. Not my footprints. They were the prints of very big feet. Clowns shoes. He had rescued me from a horrible fate. Maybe he is possessive and thinks only he should be allowed to scare me or maybe he is not as bad as I imagined. I still don’t really want to find out but I am grateful. Whatever that clown is and whatever his motives he is no longer my worst nightmare. He is my hero.

As my grandmother always said – if you have a really bad dream it will never come true, reality will reverse it.

The Minstrel

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

Peering through a mist

parting a veil, dusty webs,

staring back at fate.

I see the entrance vividly,

the exit all too clear

 

He rode into London in a cavalcade

his lady seated before him, bedazzled by all they saw

exchanging glances with his boisterous brothers

they rode in a merry troupe, loud laughter and youth

lute and tabor, bells and fine embroidery.

They roamed the streets at night

joyful pups in a rainbow of rags and finery

mocking wealth they cocked a snoop at death.

They attracted wide attention.

 

red ribbons and green

her hair swings in the sunlight

her eyes, her arms, life

 

Ah! but to stay in the streets and courtyards would have been far wiser.

What does youth know, exuberant, thoughtless, unwitting.

Attention a flattery, alluring.

Beckoned through wider and higher doors

they entered in. Gardens of delight, sweet scents and song

gentle harmless beauty, so it seemed to him.

A peace fell upon him there, he dreamed in poetry.

Darkness approached. The shadow of a cloud on the grass as it crosses that summers sun.

 

lavender lady

seats herself amongst roses

charming, so disarming

 

Requests made, favours granted ,

twisted meanings, things not understood,

so many whispers in quiet corridors,

the web of intrigue draws tighter,

he spoke the wrong words too lightly

spilling his thoughts into treacherous ears.

This tale reveals all that was feared.

The shadow of the Tower looms closer.

He longs to leave this city, they will flee at night,

run to the countryside

where the hills are wide and sweeping,

where the willows lean gently

over the Avon weeping.

All too late.

He prays she got away.

 

dark walls draw inward

music screams loud in the silence

of la oubliette

 

this is not his final end, the world is too unkind

better to be forgotten than to suffer such a fate

still unsatisfied they dragged him out

it turns and troubles my stomach now

to watch the rest of this

the pain became too great and ceased, he rose

floating high above himself, looking down on horror

seeing things no-one should see

and my pen grows silent, as he fades away in light

 

red roses spread out

he flies above the woodlands

butterflies of light

 

 

 

Free Book on Kindle

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

The Raven & the Storyteller – Book One: The Paths is free on Kindle until October 1st

It can also be borrowed longer term after October 1st in the Kindle Library

 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_11?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=a.%20gouedard&sprefix=a.+gouedard%2Caps%2C271

The Hall of the Hearts Desire (novel extract)

/ A. Gouedard / Leave a comment

(This is an extract from The Raven and the Storyteller Book 2: Into the Deep Greenwood, which is available on Amazon on Kindle and also as a paperback)

 

‘’You fight well young Dylan but there was a moment when I could have grasped your sword hand. I didn’t take the opportunity but be more careful of that, be less enthusiastic, you moved in too close. A warrior must develop an internal stillness.’’ Moon said, ‘’ It’s long though since I saw that last trick you played. It can be very effective. Where did you learn it?’’

‘’From Emerald, Sir,’’ Dylan replied.

‘’I would be pleased to meet her,’’ Moon said. ‘’I begin to think we may have the same homeland. Emerald is not a name from that land but as Skillywidden said, some of us have several names. She seems very elusive.’’

‘’Ah yes,’’ said Dylan laughing, ‘’I never met anyone so hard to catch. But she will be home soon enough. All will meet here on May Eve.’’

Glancing at the old book Dylan had left on a log Moon went over and picked it up before sitting down on the grass and taking a drink from his flask. He wiped the lip and passed the flask to Dylan. Moon flipped through the worn pages of the book and then sat holding it. The leather was warm and smooth in his hand. He stroked it absentmindedly and felt again the soft footfall of an old memory, just out of sight.

‘’I see you like to read. You enjoy all the old tales?’’ Moon asked.

‘’Oh yes,’’ said Dylan, ‘’they are full of lessons and yet you don’t feel as if you are learning. The old stories enchant me. I have read almost all the books in the cottage.’’

Moon nodded.

“How did you come here?  You were born in these woods?’’ Moon asked, changing the subject.

‘’No Sir, but I was young when I came. I came here by chance, to escape. I never left. I don’t really know where I am from, though it can’t be very far. I do recall a few details but I most clearly recall my need to escape.’’

‘’Would you tell me this tale? I would be glad to hear it?’’ Moon asked.

‘’If it interests you I will tell it but with all I remember it’s not so very much to tell. I was a boy of about six and there were some festivities in the city. Much of the entertainment was so close to my home that I could sit on a step and watch without straying far from the house. I was trusted not to run off. My favourite performer was a man who did some magic tricks with mirrors and boxes. He also told wonderful tales as part of his act. Being small I was enchanted by all this.  I often saw him talk with my mother.

One morning he asked me to help with his trick and I stepped into the magic box. I cannot say what happened because I still don’t know. I seemed to fall into a sleep in there and when I was awake again I was not in the box but in the back of his cart and I wasn’t in the city of any other place I saw before. He said I fell asleep on the journey and the box must be only a dream. He had a power. I never questioned anything he said.

I begged to be taken back but he told me not to worry and he would take me back soon.  He said he had a use for a lad like me and that I should forget about home for now. He said I had been apprentice to him by my mother and that this was a wonderful chance for me. Later he received news that she had died and he showed me a letter, my family seal upon it.

Perhaps if I had not run away we would one day have gone back to that city but I did run away. I was so confused and unhappy at the news of my mother’s death.

I escaped one night and ran to the woods because I didn’t know which way else to run. I was afraid of the wood at night but I was lucky and I met Dewberry who made me laugh all the time. I have been here ever since and have no idea to this day of where that city was. I am happy here and have no great inclination to find it after so long. I think of my mother sometimes. I do remember her face. I missed her very much for a long time. But she is gone. I saw the letter. Now I stay here and learn to be a warrior so that I can protect the woods and anyone who is badly treated.’’

Moon wondered about this story. He had no idea how long the boy in the city had been missing and many boys went missing.

That night Moon spoke with Wilf. Wilf was very interested in the news but he too had no idea how old the lost boy might be by now.

 

15.

 

Moon and Dylan met again next day by the pool, where Skillywidden sat fishing. He seemed a very patient fisherman as they sat there long and he caught nothing. Wilf was watching the water closely. Dylan remarked on the lack of fish.

Skillywidden laughed.

‘It’s a long time I’d be here for sure,’’ he said ‘’if it were fish I was after for there are none in this pool that I know of at all. I’m fishing for dreams and I caught a dozen or more already lad. They are resting there in my net keeping fresh. One of ‘em may be yours tonight.’’

Dylan peered at the net just below the surface of the pool but to him it seemed entirely empty. Having known Skillywidden for a while he didn’t question further. He liked the idea of having a dream from Skilly’s catch and hoped he might have one that very night.

‘’Let me tell you a story,’’ Moon said, settling down with his back to an oak tree. ‘’It is a tale of the power of the word and the sword.’’

Dylan settled to listen and Skillywidden went on with his fishing.

‘’In ancient days a knight, who had fought many great battles during his life and all in honour of great and just causes, was returning from war, hoping that the people of his homeland might remember him. One night, on his journey he stopped to rest beside a waterfall. He lit a fire and had not sat beside it long when an old woman appeared. She held a scroll. She sat down beside him and spoke,

‘’Lord Knight,’’ she said, ‘’I have waited here for your return so that I might deliver this scroll to you. It will tell you of your true quest. It is the quest of your own destiny. Follow it and you will be rewarded. Follow it not and your life will be wasted in endless struggles and all you do will come to no purpose. The choice is yours to make. Here is the map.’’

Handing him the map she continued, ‘’ This map that will lead you to your true hearts desire. Few people really know what this is. They imagine they want or need this or that but they are never replete, whatever they may gain. Only the deepest desire of the heart can satisfy. Many people live their whole life and never know or find it. I offer you this opportunity, take it or not as you will. ’’

With these words she vanished.

It was all so sudden and strange that the Knight might have thought it all a dream if it were not for the very real scroll he now held in his hand. The Knight felt he must follow this quest for if he did not he would think about it and wonder ever after. This choice seemed like no choice at all.

The warrior travelled far as he followed the map and he had many adventures on the way but one day he came to a dark castle on a mountain peak. The map showed this as his destination. The castle seemed abandoned. Uncertain what next to do he decided to shelter there for the night, in the roofed courtyard. It had begun to rain. He fell asleep in a sheltered corner and he had a strange dream. He dreamed of three statues and each statue had a chain attached to it that led off into the darkness. One chain was made of iron, one of jade and one of silver.

A voice, in his dream, said, ‘’we all must make choices.’’

He knew he must choose one of these chains to follow and, wondering what each chain signified, he chose the one made of silver.

He was awoken by a sound, the sound of a door creaking on its hinges. He stood and saw that the huge oak door on the other side of the courtyard had swung open. It opened into a gloomy passage way. Along the wall ran a fine silver chain that gleamed as if with its own light. He took hold of the chain and followed it into a deepening darkness. It became so dark that he could see nothing. He went along until he reached another door. The door was inlaid with an inscription in silver.

The inscription said, ‘’All is dream. All is story. Speak seeker.’’

The Knight, by instinct, knew what to say.

‘’All is dream. All is story,’’ he said.

The door swung open and the Knight entered a vast hall made of huge blocks of dark stone, both walls and floor, with a high vaulted roof open to the night sky. The hall was filled with fires. Each fire burned in its own grate and each grate was of a different shape and design. The Knight walked slowly around the hall looking at each grate. Some were decorated with fruit, some with weapons, some with flowers, some with faces, some with crowns but he was drawn to one grate and returned to it over and over again. It was larger than the others and made of cast iron. It looked both ancient and timeless. The fire in the grate burned strong and fierce.

The Knight walked all around the large grate examining the design which depicted a sequence of events as if from a long story. Many scenes in this story were familiar to him but other scenes came from parts of a story he did not know. He wondered if this story was in some way his own or showed where his own actions belonged in a far greater story.

As he stood there watching the fire he began to notice more story within the flames. The images were fleeting.

How much time had passed he did not know, when he became aware of a quiet movement behind him and turning he saw a woman dressed in a long white robe. She held a book in one hand and a sword in the other.

‘’Welcome,’’ she said, with a gentle smile. ‘’Welcome to the Hall of Fire. I see that your eye is drawn to the Fire of Imagination.’’

‘’It seems in part to depict my own story,’’ said the Knight.

‘’Yes, it does,’’ said the Lady, ‘’but it also shows how your actions have affected the world and, more than that, it shows your choices. The flames at the heart of this fire reveal your dreams and the things you have imagined and will imagine. I see you are drawn to them. You were seeking their stories, were you not?’’

The Knight didn’t really understand but he nodded.

The Lady bent down and placing the sword she held on the floor beside the fire she said,

‘’Follow me to the Hall of the Hearts Desire.’’

The Knight followed her and, turning a corner, they entered a great library. The Lady placed the book she held onto a table and opened it.

‘’This is the Book of Numbers,’’ she said, turning the pages until she arrived at one.

‘’This page is yours,’’ she said, pointing. ‘’Come and look.  Listed here are the numbers of all the people you have killed, in battles of good causes, and in this column here is the number of all the children never born, due to these people slain. This next number is the number of tales never to be told now. The final column shows the number of minds changed for the good by your honourable knightly actions. You see? It is zero.’’

The Knight felt disheartened and ashamed and he bowed his head in silent acknowledgement.

‘’Now follow me’ said the Lady and she took him to an alcove at the side where a small boy sat reading a book of poetry.

‘’You know this boy?’’

‘’Yes it’s me’’ said the Knight, feeling sad. ‘’I loved to read above all things when I was a boy.’’

‘’What did you read?’’

When I was allowed to I read books of poems and stories. Ah, I remember those magical stories as if it were only yesterday.’’

‘’What was your favourite story?’’

‘’There was a book about a man who travelled the land planting trees and helping people he met. He was poor but was a very good man. I would have liked to do that and be like him but more than anything, when I was a child, I wished I had written that story or one like it. All I wanted to do as a child was make stories but my family had other ideas for my future.’’

The Lady smiled. ‘’Did you wonder where the jade and the iron chain might have lead you?’’

‘’Yes I did wonder,’’ said the Knight.

‘Those are stories you can create. It doesn’t matter at this moment where the chains went. Use your imagination and decide that for yourself, make the story, a story people will remember just as you remember the man who planted trees. You have the power to plant ideas in story. When all warriors are dead and gone the word lives on. Words have a power that outlives the sword. Some words outlive us all. Use them with care. Words and stories are magic. Go now and fulfil your true hearts desire. You are free to do so. It is your destiny. Use this gift well.’’

The Knight thanked the Lady and lay down his weapons and took off his armour and left the Hall of the Hearts Desire. Joy and hope filled his heart as he travelled on; beginning to imagine all the stories he could tell.’

Moon looked a Dylan.

There was silence.

Dylan looked thoughtful.

‘’I feel as if this story is almost my own,’’ Dylan said.

Moon smiled, ‘’It touched your heart perhaps. It is almost mine too.’’

Wilf cocked his head and gave Dylan a penetrating look. At that moment Skillywidden caught a fresh dream and gently placed it into his net with a chuckle.

‘’Does a unicorn mean anything to you? Or a silver hand on a door?’’ Moon asked.

‘’I remember a unicorn, yes,’’ Dylan replied, looking puzzled at the sudden change of subject. ‘’A unicorn statue stood at the door of my home. I used to play beside it on the doorstep. My mother told me that my family was blessed by a Unicorn centuries ago. I think there may have been a silver hand on the door but I am uncertain of this. The memory of the silver hand is as if only from a dream. I believe it is the hand of fate.’’

Wilf let out a loud squawk and flew in a circle, swooping and dipping. He came to rest on Moons shoulder.

‘’I will lead him home,’’ he said. ‘’Imagine his mothers joy when she sees him!’’

Moon nodded and smiled broadly. ‘’Yes, that is certainly easy to imagine Wilf. You can take much pleasure in such a journey.’’

Dylan stood up. ‘’Take me home?’’ he said.

‘’Sit down Dylan, be patient a moment.’’ Moon said. ‘’I have a further story to tell you.’’

And so it was that Moon sat beside Dynawd’s descendant and told him the Tale of the Winter of the Unicorn, the tale of Dylan’s own gift and destiny. He explained to Dylan that, by chance or fate, he had told this same tale in the City at the Winter Solstice and how a woman had come to him afterwards with tears in her eyes and had given him gold and of how sad and gentle she was. He told of Wilf’s part in the tale when he returned to the City and watched the woman and learned the source of her sorrow, that her son was lost to her. Dylan’s eyes filled with tears for the Unicorn but they were mixed with tears of joy at the thought of seeing his mother again and the realisation she was not dead.

After a moment of thought Dylan said, ‘’But I must wait. I can’t go without saying farewell to Emerald. She has been like a mother to me for many years.’’

Emerald sat under a tree at the edge of the woods looking out across the land, her bow at her side, as she so often did. The young hare played in the field nearby.

Emerald was always on guard, always watching for signs of potential threat to the woods or to the nearby stone circles. Over the years she had noticed subtle changes, changes that troubled her, making her wonder what more might come with time. She had been a warrior almost all of her very long life and much had already changed in the world.

‘’Wait for Mayday, lad,’’ said Skillywidden, with a grin. ‘’Emerald will return to the clearing soon enough. She would never miss the Gathering. There is more to be revealed here yet. Wait for the end of this story.’’

Skillywidden set his fishing net aside and brought out his loom and began to weave. The pattern was at first like water and then the water lead into paths that crossed and circled one over another and it was as if a flower bloomed at each point where a path crossed. The pattern became more and more complex until it dazzled the eye and no mind could grasp it all at once. All the while Skillywidden hummed to himself and it seemed to Moon that this wordless song held all things together.