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Chapter Three
TALES ON THE CITY ROAD
As the Punchkins ate – Swin was surprised to see how much they consumed, but he made no comment – the conversation came round to their reasons, his and theirs, for making the journey. Mr. Proudfoot spoke again about the Demesne’s troubles and their embassy.
‘Oh, I think the King’s certain to be at Ruminas,’ Swin agreed.
‘You know of this wedding, then?’ asked Mr. Proudfoot.
‘Know of it? My dear sir, I’m invited to it. I’m a guest of honour. Imagine the Princess of Thandor having to put up with such a barbarian at her marriage-feast! She’s a proud self-opinionated young miss, from what we hear… Now, to understand how this comes about, you must recollect that our land, Garholt, lies at the extreme eastern end of our country. The countryside beyond is bleak and barren, or covered in dark forests, and, as I said, none live there now. And so the Marchwarden’s duty is in practice less to defend the gates than to offer succour to poor travellers: for many are worn down by the long journey. There are the posts and the royal messengers, of course, and there are merchants with wagon-trains or pack-mules, besides other experienced travellers who know the road and are well provided for. These stay with us, pay the road-toll and the tariff for their lodging, or just change horses and are off again at once. But quite often we have to welcome the other kind of folk, such as have their own reasons for travelling through Doroech or on to Turmal, and many of these arrive in distress, for the road is longer and much more arduous than they expect.
‘Fifteen years ago a young lad of noble birth, Melohtar son of Ostendil lord of Emynos, fell sick of the Worm’s Evil – that terrible plague that men say comes from the dragon, that wastes the lungs and the entrails. Many were then dying of that sickness, and the learned men and leeches of the city declared that there was no hope for the boy unless he could be carried far away, into some place where the sickness came not and the air was untainted. So the baron’s son was laid on a soft feather-bed in a golden carriage, and with his mother and his attendants and a band of men-at-arms he travelled down the road.’
‘I remember,’ said Mr. Yarnal. ‘We saw ’em when they passed through. A nine days’ wonder it was. Poor lad.’
‘They intended to stay with the King of Doroech in Selagend, and I have heard that his household was all ready to receive the guests; but by the time they reached Garholt Melohtar seemed about to die, so they moved him no further. He stayed with us. And he recovered. When his strength returned, he desired to go walking, and then riding and exploring the lands around, and to hunt the fox and the boar and the stag. On all these ventures I was his chosen companion, and we became fast friends. I was trusted to look after him and to make sure he returned home safe and sound, but strange to say it was he who once saved my life, not I his. We were fishing in the ice of Tingrod lake, and I slipped into the dark water, and it would certainly have pulled me away if he had not caught my arm and dragged me back. So when the time came for his departure I taught him the Oath of Metod, and thus by it we joined ourselves together forever, though our bodies have been separated.’
Swin paused, briefly losing himself in memory. Mr. Bavour took the opportunity to ask: ‘Excuse me, Swin, but what is Metod?’
‘Metod is Dryhten,’ answered Swin as if this were a full satisfactory explanation. The Punchkins looked blankly at one another, until Waltrot said with a grin:
‘Begging your pardon, sir, and guessing as you’ll think us all a bit ignorant-like, but we don’t know what Dryhten is either, you see.’
‘It’s who, not what. Dryhten is the chief of the Gods. But he has two faces, not one, so he’s either Dryhten-Sweald or Dryhten-Metod, depending on… Dryhten-Metod is the dark frightening side of him. Our Druids worship him: they say he’s the God of Scarring and Memory. We don’t know much about him – we don’t want to, he’s none of our business, we let them take care of him. But they insist that memory is very important, because it’s our memories that make us what we are, and in our memory that the dead have their life. It’s difficult, but let me try to get this right… The good men, the kings and the chieftains, are laid to rest in barrows, and the white flower of Memory grows over them. But the bad men, the truly abominable criminals, are drowned in the bogs; and sometimes they rot, but sometimes they keep undecayed in the bogs for ever – as an opposite, you see. And the Druids tell that this is all done by the power of Metod, and it goes on happening only so long as memory is kept clear. And there are bright memories – songs and laws and traditions – which our Bards keep for us: and there are dark memories, things that can’t be said in words, which the Druids have to record. They write them on their own bodies. They cut themselves and make patterns of scars. And it hurts them, it hurts them dreadfully, but they believe in suffering all the pain, because it cuts the memories in deeper, as the Dwarves carve their letters on stone tombs. So the Druids are able to remember things for us: and we ourselves use the Oath of Metod when there’s something specially sacred, something we wish to bind ourselves to remember.’
‘And what is it?’ asked Waltrot.
‘It’s the blood-oath. Going back to Melohtar and me: we dug a trench in the ground, and lit a fire at the deeper end, and gashed our arms, and joined hands, and let the wounds kiss together, so that the mingled blood flowed down the trench into the fire. Then we scattered salt in the trench, and rubbed some of the mixed salt and earth and ash into our arms: and we swore by all the Gods of our peoples, and by earth, salt, blood and fire, that we would be faithful unto one another until death. Next day he left us, and I have not seen him since then, but a month ago I felt the scar of that gash hurting and burning; and behold, next day a post-rider came down the road, with a paper letter which he read aloud to us. Melohtar spoke through his voice, announcing this wedding, and telling us that he desired me kindly to come. My uncle was not loth to say farewell to me, and so here I am.’
Mr. Proudfoot knocked out his pipe. ‘Thank you, Swin.’ He said, and stood up. ‘A very interesting story, and many another you’ll have to tell us, no doubt. Quite an education for us you’ll be. But it’s time we were all moving on again.’
‘Why do you speak so coldly?’ asked Swin, with some warmth. ‘Do you doubt my tale? It is the truth!’
None of the Punchkins answered at first, but Clemo Bavour pulled his pony’s head round and stood as the others trotted past. Then he invited Swin to walk with him, at the rear of the little column.
‘You’re cross,’ he said, ‘and I did hear Egwise sounding rude and curt just now, as if he hadn’t believed you. Please don’t be offended. He did believe you, we all did, Swin, but it was disturbing: it was difficult for us to hear.’
‘Why was that, Mr. Bavour?’
‘Well, in our land, the Demesne, we…have always kept ourselves to ourselves. We honour the King and obey his officers, but we like to tend our own little plot and let the outside world look after itself. And now it’s coming over us that there truly is a big world out there, and it’s full of things we don’t know anything about, and some of them are strange, and some of them we maybe need to learn about damn quick. And some of them are downright heathen. Those things you mentioned, and all that talk about blood, they gave us all a shudder. That’s why Egwise was brisk with you. But he knows he shouldn’t be. I’m wondering now if there isn’t some kind of purpose in our meeting, and that’s what I think he meant too, when he said education – that you might have been sent to us for that.’
‘Do you mean, by some command of Dryhten?’
Clemo winced. ‘There you go again, lad, there you go again! Guard your tongue! Be careful how you talk of those things! Who is – him you mentioned, anyway? Who is he when he’s at home?’
‘Dryhten-Sweald is the one that the folk of Thandor call Dru, I believe.’
‘Go on about him. Gently.’
‘…As I said, he’s the other half of Metod. He is the lord of the upper air, the dispenser of justice and purpose. The eagles are his sacred birds. They watch the world for him and act as his messengers. He rewards and punishes good and bad deeds. Sometimes, this is what I meant, he gives us a sort of push: he shapes events so that things work out well. Our Bards tell us when Dryhten-Sweald has commanded something specially. But to be honest we don’t normally pay him much attention either. He’s much more important in the North. They’ve a big temple to him in Ruminas, and I guess that’s where the marriage will take place.’
‘What’s a temple?’
‘Goodness me, Mr. Bavour, you’ve only got a poor ignorant fellow for your instructor! I’m just a barbarian, aren’t I? All I know is that a temple is a kind of big house. They say Dru lives there. He has servants to look after him, they’re called priests. They offer sacrifices to him just as our Druids do.’
‘Priests, priests – now where did I hear that word? Oh yes, your song last night. Would you kindly excuse me for a few minutes?’
Clemo kicked his pony’s sides and cantered forward to join the others. The Punchkins conferred. Swin strode along behind, with a serious cleft in his brow. The road climbed higher, the wind grew keener. Clumps of brown sedge-grass poked up through the wider patches of unmelted snow; the horizon was fainter and farther away. Presently the companions turned smiling and anxious faces back to him. Only Walt Hardedge rode forward by himself, sardonic and indifferent.
‘Mr. – that is to say, Swin son of Guma,’ said Mr. Proudfoot, reverting to his formal manner, ‘we wish to reassure you that we are indeed grateful to you for joining our company and increasing our strength. And I deeply regret the discourtesy that I was inadvertantly guilty of. And we ask that you would be so good, in token of your forgiveness of us, as to sing that song which we weren’t able fully to enjoy last night. Mr. Bavour has suggested that this would be a good way for us to begin to grapple with the manners and customs of the North.’
Swin looked down. Then he looked up and smiled brightly, like the sun breaking through clouds.
In…
Dunbury Down, that wonderful town,
The King wears rings and a diamonded crown.
Twenty-five soldiers and twenty-six knights
In silvery sashes and beautiful tights
Attend him, singing Syllicker tree,
Syllicker tree,
Selesta wood, a syllicker tree.
Marketing days see wagons and drays
At Dunbury Crossroads, the meeting of ways.
Merry and blithe do the farmers come
With loads of potato and parsley and plum
And commend them, singing Syllicker tree…
Temple Square has a house built fair,
And a holy Priest is a-praying there,
Reading a sermon while carols are sung
By children with voices all clear and young,
Who blend them, singing Syllicker tree…
Each sings well, and each has a bell
That rings more sweetly than tongue can tell:
Twelve little Boys with a bell and a crook,
For each must carry a golden hook
And extend it, singing Syllicker tree…
Why do they run, with laughter and fun,
Upstairs, and out on to the roof, where the sun
Shines so brightly on tower and steeple?
Why do the King, the Priest and the people
Defend them, singing Syllicker tree…
Up from the spire, like a jet of green fire,
A marvellous apple-tree shoots yet higher.
Shaken by breezes, with glances of light,
Its branches bear apples, red, golden and bright,
And suspend them, rustling Syllicker tree…
Climbing the spire, the Boys of the choir
Hook down those apples that all do desire.
Pockets they cram, while the Priest sings a prayer
To enchant the high winds, and make safe the blue air,
Then descend to him, singing Syllicker tree…
Soon to the market he carries a basket,
Allowing one apple to all folk who ask it,
Favouring poor folk, but charging the rich
Fair price for an apple, a silver coin which
They can spend on it, singing Syllicker tree…
Now…
Once on a time, as I tell in my rhyme,
A younger child looked up, and saw the Boys climb.
Suddenly filled with a yearning, Jack stood,
Being sure that no grown-up or relative would
Comprehend it, singing Syllicker tree…
Sadly he played with a toy he had made.
Two sticks and a mop and the haft of a spade,
Fastened together, provided a horse,
A hobby he rode, till he broke it of course,
And must mend it, sighing Syllicker tree…
Noontime had come, the crust and the crumb
Of his Grandfather’s baking had fetched a good sum.
Market was ending, to lunch they would go,
But the Priest had one apple still left to bestow
Or to vend it, singing Syllicker tree…
Sweet was the grace, and lovely the face
Of her who now entered the market-place,
Riding a horse with a mane of pure white,
Though its nostrils were fiery. A gaze starry-bright
She did bend on him, singing Syllicker tree…
‘Give me that apple of golden-green dapple
Which innocent childhood hath pulled with a grapple!’
Haughtily scowling, the Priest said, ‘No, no!
Elvish thou art, and I never should so
Befriend thee, singing Syllicker tree…’
‘Sell me one then, O Priest of good men,
And pennies of silver I’ll pay thee again.’
‘Nay, wicked Lady, thou’rt up to no good.
If I sold thee a heavenly apple, men should
Reprehend me, saying Syllicker tree…’
‘One little bite, I know ’tis not right,
But the Tree will forgive me in mortals’ despite.’
‘Nay, naughty Lady, of Hell be aware!
One taste of a heavenly apple should there
Soon send thee, wailing Syllicker tree…’
Deeply dismayed was she, and afraid,
But her stallion reared up and screamingly neighed.
Fury now poured from his nostrils and flamed
All around, so that terrified people exclaimed,
‘It’s the end of us!’ crying Syllicker tree…
Over the ground, the countryside round,
Till crops were all ash, and all pasturage browned,
Touching no creature, though, man, child or dog,
Blight and destruction and heavy black smog
It did send on them, roaring Syllicker tree…
Soon to the palace, through smouldering alleys,
The people all go. With complaint of the malice
Wreaked by the elf-horse, and the obstinate way
That the Priest had said ‘no’ to the Lady, they
Reprehend him, shouting Syllicker tree...
Then with a frown ’neath his diamonded crown,
The King said, ‘We can’t contradict a black gown.
Priests have their law, and it bindeth us ever.
Elves are outside it, and so we should never
Befriend them, singing Syllicker Tree…’
Jacky was there in Grandfather’s care.
The King caught a glimpse of his curious stare.
Wisely perceiving the gaze that he saw,
The King made a plan to get round the hard law
Or to bend it, whispering Syllicker tree…
So through the gloom a silver-sashed groom
Led Jack to the King in a cabinet room.
Five minutes’ talk, before farewells they said;
Royal rings, pledges to offer, Jack had,
Nor to vend them, singing Syllicker tree…
Joyful at heart, the boy made a start.
At once to the temple he sped like a dart.
Still did he carry the sticks of his horse.
Up in the tree, at the wood’s living source
He would mend them, singing Syllicker tree…
Who could this be, the people could see
Illegally climbing the spire and the tree?
Fuming and raging, the Priest sang a curse
The storm-wind would hear, and the hail-storm, far worse,
Comprehend it, rattling Syllicker tree…
Lightning exploded, ice was unloaded,
Scaring Jack less that the song of his foe did!
Cruel and fierce was the elements’ strife,
But Jack wasn’t minding to save his young life,
Nor to spend it, gasping Syllicker tree…
Upwards he climbed, though frozen and rimed,
Shaken and buffeted, bruised and begrimed.
There was the Lady’s desire on the bough.
He reached it, and plucked it, and asked himself how
To descend to her, singing Syllicker tree…
Much to his wonder, ’mid lightning and thunder,
The parts of his horse were no longer asunder.
Mended by magic, the plain wooden things
Had the head and the tail of a cock, with red wings
To suspend it, singing Syllicker tree…
‘I will now bear you, ride if you dare,’
Sang the cock-horse, and Jacky leapt forth into air.
Wonderful wings of bright flame did uphold
Him, and ’gainst all commotion and cursing and cold
Defend him, singing Syllicker tree…
Down to the ground, with a bump and a bound,
Where the flickering wings could no longer be found.
Off galloped Jack, to the Prelate’s dismay,
And off ran the Boys with their bells, which they
Would extend to her, singing Syllicker tree…
Jumping the hedges, crossing the bridges,
They ran after Jack with their musical pledges.
Chasing the Boys, every soldier and knight
Was bespattered with cindery mud, in a plight
That did blend them, shouting Syllicker tree…
So…
Ride a cock-horse to Dunbury Cross
And find the fine Lady upon her white horse.
Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes
With beautiful music, wherever she goes,
Will commend her, ringing Syllicker tree…
Apple was given to Lady unshriven
And two fiery horses were mounted and ridden
Out of the town and beyond the green hill
By the beautiful Lady, and Jacky, who still
Does attend her, singing Syllicker tree, Syllicker tree, Selesta wood, a syllicker tree.
This time the Punchkins all clapped heartily.
‘A fine song, and well sung,’ said Mr. Proudfoot. ‘But do tell me – in a plight that did blend them - what does that mean?’
‘I expect it was just put in for the rhyme,’ answered Swin.
‘The soldiers’ and knights’ apparel got so muddy and black that it blended with the drabness of the scorched landscape, is that not so?’ offered Mr. Bavour. ‘But, tell me this also: why was the Priest so hostile to the Lady? Elves are good people, we know that. Why should the servants of Dru disapprove of them?’
A long conversation ensued. There were no more awkward intermissions, and the afternoon passed away very pleasantly.
As the sun sank westward and the ponies began to stumble, the travellers noticed what looked like a ruined castle or set of earthworks on a hilltop. They drew nearer, and saw that it was a large outcrop of straight-sided blocks of stone, many of them tumbled and smashed, but many standing straight up, apparently laid and squared like giants’ masonry. The travellers thought of ruined strongholds, of barrows and dragons’ dens, but as they approached the rock it was revealed as a natural formation, one evidently used by wayfarers as a camping-ground. Darkness was falling. The company followed a thin pale track through the dark heather; they explored the place carefully and found it deserted except for a few partridges that suddenly whirred away from their ground-nests. Having bows at the ready, the Punchkins were able to bring down three of these.
They made their camp on the leeward side of the big rocks. An hour later a fire was burning, water had been fetched from a nearby stream, the ponies tended and fed, the fowls set to roast, and a small cask of wine moved from the cart and carefully placed on a flat-topped rock. Supper was partaken of slowly and with great enjoyment. A peaceful silence fell. Each member of the company felt the great solitude and the vastness of Midyard, and to each the fellowship of their little band was very precious. A distant night-bird cried faintly, and the wind sighed over the expanses of the heath. Swin took out his harp. The firelight played on his calm face and red hair, and on the glittering thing as he turned it in his hands. His fingers began to pluck a simple seven-note line, then repeated it many times, with slight variations, gentle but insistent, that seemed gradually to steal into the listeners’ breasts, and to find their hearts and to unclothe them, and then to soothe and caress them like a wavering jet of soft bright water. The music slid away into the night like faint regular ripples on a dark pool. Ever more lightly Swin touched the strings; the notes seemed to continue after his fingers hung motionless. The Punchkins gazed into the glowing heart of the fire.
Tim said: ‘Excuse me, sir: there ain’t really no Elves in Vinyards, is there?’
‘No,’ said Swin. ‘That was just a song.’
‘But, excuse me, sir, you did say as your own uncle married an Elvish lady.’
‘That’s the tale.’
‘Could you tell it to us, sir? Please?’
‘Well.’ Swin laughed, strummed and then struck three sharp chords. ‘It’s family history, you understand – a bit of our own Garholt lore. It happened more than thirty years ago, they say, just before I was born, and you know that tales get changed and polished in the retellings. Someone really should have made a poem of it, but only a Bard can do a thing like that properly; and ours wouldn’t touch it. So you’ll have to imagine a tune and me accompanying myself on this...
‘My uncle Athelstan was the second son of Guthreo the King’s Marchwarden. One day as he stood with his father at the gate of the Grey Lands, he saw a shining rider who was coming along the road towards them. The rider was a lady, very beautiful and dressed in strange attire. A slender silver diadem encircled her head with an array of white feathers; and she wore a white robe and a grey cloak of silk, spangled with stars of white gold, which was fastened in front by a silver brooch, and fell from her shoulders till it swept the ground. Her yellow hair flowed far down over her robe in bright golden ringlets. Her grey eyes were as clear as the drops of water in the grass; and while her small, white hand held the bridle and curbed her steed with a golden bit, she sat as gracefully as a gull upon the mighty wind that drives up the dark clouds towards the seashore. Her white horse was also covered with a smooth flowing mantle. It was shod with shoes of some metal that gleamed brighter than silver, and in all the Knife a better or more beautiful steed could not be found.
‘As she came into the presence of Athelstan, he addressed her courteously in these words:
‘ “Who art thou, O lovely young Princess? Tell us thy name and the name of thy country, and relate to us the cause of thy coming.”
‘She answered in a sweet and gentle voice, “Noble warrior of the Nibyth, I am Maewiel of the Elves of Tolmoth, the island that lies far east of here in the mouth of the River Belechel. My father King Elenhir and my mother Queen Malinde have taken their leave of Midyard, and now I have come into the lands of Men, that I may find one willing to return with me and to become the new King of the Immortals.”
‘Guthreo and his company marvelled very much; for though they heard this conversation, no-one saw the Lady except Athelstan alone. “Who is this that thou art talking to, my son?” said Guthreo.
‘Anon she answered for the youth, “Athelstan is speaking with a lovely, noble-born young woman, who will never die, and who will never grow old. I love dark-haired Athelstan, and I have come to bring him to Elvendom, where he will reign as king for as long as he pleases, even to forever. Come with me, Athelstan of the ruddy cheek, the fair strong neck, and the raven hair! Myself I offer to you, my bed will I share with you, strong sons will I bear to you, abundance of gold and silver and jewels, of honey and wine, of swords and robes, of swift steeds and keen-scented hounds will I bestow on you: for Tolmoth is the last home of the Elves of Midyard, and to this land cleaveth still that richness which from elsewhere hath all departed. Come with me, beloved Athelstan, and thou shalt retain the comeliness and dignity of thy form, free from the wrinkles of old age, until the awful day of thine own judgement!”
‘And Athelstan, not understanding her last words, began to ask her what they might mean; but Guthreo, being much troubled, then called upon Scopa his Bard to put forth his power against the witchery of the Elf-maid. So Scopa came forward: he smote his harp, and began to chant against the voice of the Lady. He sang of all the ills and disasters wrought by Elf-kind on the hapless sons of Men: of children exchanged and taken from their cradles, of elf-shot beasts and lands made barren, of mortals infatuated and led cruelly to their deaths, or else left alone, abandoned at the end of all glamour, to mope and pine beside closed cavern-doors on the cold hill’s side. And then he sang of love between mortal and elf, and how in every case it had given rise to pain and woes beyond telling. He ended his song, and Athelstan shuddered at his words; and the power of the Bard was greater than the power of the Lady at that time, so that she was forced to retire. And the Marchwarden and his household saw a white bird flying away into the sunset.
‘Guthreo and Athelstan returned with their company to the house, but from that day forward Athelstan began to be very moody and sorrowful, thinking of the lovely elf-maiden.
‘At the end of the month, as Athelstan was hunting with his father and brother in Tingrod Vale, he saw the same Lady approaching from the West. Though the company was galloping at full speed after their quarry, the Lady’s horse overtook them easily, and for the rest of the day she stayed at Athelstan’s side, addressing him in this manner:
‘ “A fine steed has Athelstan among wretched, short-lived mortals, awaiting the dreadful stroke of death! But now the ever-youthful people of Tolmoth, who never feel old age, love thee with a strange love; and they will make thee king over them if thou wilt come with me; and thou shalt bestride the stallion who is the mate of this my mare.”
‘When the company returned home, Guthreo noticed his son’s distraction and heard again the voice of the Lady. So he commanded his people, saying: “Bring our Druid hither: for the elvish Lady hath regained the power of her voice. Maybe his craft will avail to drive her away for ever.”
‘The Druid came, and he said no word, but he saw the Lady and glared at her, and she trembled a little at the glance of his eye. Then he took Athelstan by the arm and led him to a place where a stream flowed into a small clear pool. The Druid squeezed a bunch of black berries in his hand, and the drops of their juice fell into the pool, so that it became an enchanted black mirror for Athelstan to look into. And there Athelstan had a vision of the future, with a full understanding of the Lady’s words, the day of thine own judgement. Horror came upon him and he fell down in a swoon. And Guthreo and his companions again saw a white bird flying away.
‘When Athelstan awoke, his hair was no longer black, but grey. And for the next month he was more moody and sorrowful than before. The moon went round, and this time he arose, and girt on his sword, and himself went to meet the Lady before the gate, and his father and mother and brother and sister (then being great with child, which was myself) followed after him. The Lady rode up and spoke to him a third time. Now Guthreo had observed that whenever the Lady was present his son never spoke a word to anyone, nay, even though they addressed him often. And when the Lady had ceased to speak, Guthreo said:
‘ “Athelstan, my son, has thy mind been moved by the words of the Lady?”
‘Athelstan spoke then, and replied, “Father, I am very unhappy, for though I love thy people above all, and though I am filled with fear and sadness on account of this Lady, yet I know that she is more than life itself to me. If I refuse her this third and last time, I shall certainly sicken and die.” Then he turned to her and said, “Princess Maewiel, thou art beautiful beyond aught that is fair in this world. Behold, my heart is given to thee, and I will come.”
‘At these words the Lady became clearly visible, and all who saw her stood amazed. But Athelstan stood upright with his hand on the hilt of his sword, and suddenly cast off all his care: and he laughed: and to his people he seemed taller and more handsome, as if already robed in the splendour of a young elf-prince. He leapt up and sat beside her on the saddle. They rode away and vanished, and now the people of Garholt saw a black raven flying after the white seagull. And never again was Athelstan seen in his native land.’
Continue to Chapter Four
Note on sources: these range, as mentioned on the home-page, over traditional North-European mythology, with touches from the Classical and Hindu traditions also. In one or two places, however, I have followed my sources very closely, and these should be acknowledged. Swin's story of Athelstan and Maewiel is an amalgamation of two Irish tales, Connla of the Golden Hair and Oisin in Tirnanoge. Interested readers are referred to Ancient Celtic Romances, translated by P. W. Joyce (1894), republished 1997 by Parkgate Books Ltd, to see the use I've made of the material; the aim was to get an authentic tribal fairytale feeling for this story.
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