by Mike Ashley
Going as fast as the hobbles would allow, the colt turned into one of the wildest parts of the forest, while its rider sat trembling at the strange sights he saw. Sometimes the earth seemed to open in front of them and he was looking into a bottomless pit; sometimes the trees burst into flames and he found himself in the midst of a fire; often in the act of crossing a stream the water rose and threatened to sweep him away; and again, at the foot of a mountain, great rocks would roll towards him, as if they would crush him and his colt beneath their weight. To his dying day Peronnik never knew whether these things were real or if he only imagined them, but he pulled down his knitted cap so as to cover his eyes, and trusted the colt to carry him down the right road.
At last the forest was left behind, and they came out on a wide plain where the air blew fresh and strong. The idiot ventured to peep out, and found to his relief that the enchantments seemed to have ended, though a thrill of horror shot through him as he noticed the skeletons of men scattered over the plain, beside the skeletons of their horses. And what were those grey forms trotting away in the distance? Were they – could they be – wolves?
But vast though the plain seemed, it did not take long to cross, and very soon the colt entered a sort of shady park in which was standing a single apple-tree, its branches bowed down to the ground with the weight of its fruit. In front was the korigan – the little fairy man – holding in his hand the fiery sword, which reduced to ashes everything it touched. At the sight of Peronnik he uttered a piercing scream, and raised his sword, but without appearing surprised the youth only lifted his cap, though he took care to remain at a little distance.
“Do not be alarmed, my prince,” said Peronnik, “I am just on my way to Kerglas, as the noble Rogéar has begged me to come to him on business.”
“Begged you to come!” repeated the dwarf, “and who, then, are you?”
“I am the new servant he has engaged, as you know very well,” answered Peronnik.
“I do not know at all,” rejoined the korigan sulkily, “and you may be a robber for all I can tell.”
“I am so sorry,” replied Peronnik, “but I may be wrong in calling myself a servant, for I am only a bird-catcher. But do not delay me, I pray, for his highness the magician expects me, and, as you see, has lent me his colt so that I may reach the castle all the quicker.”
At these words the korigan cast his eyes for the first time on the colt, which he knew to be the one belonging to the magician, and began to think that the young man was speaking the truth. After examining the horse, he studied the rider, who had such an innocent, and indeed vacant, air that he appeared incapable of inventing a story. Still, the dwarf did not feel quite sure that all was right, and asked what the magician wanted with a bird-catcher.
“From what he says, he wants one very badly,” replied Peronnik, “as he declares that all his grain and all the fruit in his garden at Kerglas are eaten up by the birds.”
“And how are you going to stop that, my fine fellow?” inquired the korigan; and Peronnik showed him the snare he had prepared, and remarked that no bird could possibly escape from it.
“That is just what I should like to be sure of,” answered the korigan. “My apples are completely eaten up by blackbirds and thrushes. Lay your snare, and if you can manage to catch them, I will let you pass.”
“That is a fair bargain,” and as he spoke Peronnik jumped down and fastened his colt to a tree; then, stooping, he fixed one end of the net to the trunk of the apple tree, and called to the korigan to hold the other while he took out the pegs. The dwarf did as he was bid, when suddenly Peronnik threw the noose over his neck and drew it close, and the korigan was held as fast as any of the birds he wished to snare.
Shrieking with rage, he tried to undo the cord, but he only pulled the knot tighter. He had put down the sword on the grass, and Peronnik had been careful to fix the net on the other side of the tree, so that it was now easy for him to pluck an apple and to mount his horse, without being hindered by the dwarf, whom he left to his fate.
When they had left the plain behind them, Peronnik and his steed found themselves in a narrow valley in which was a grove of trees, full of all sorts of sweet-smelling things – roses of every colour, yellow broom, pink honeysuckle – while above them all towered a wonderful scarlet pansy whose face bore a strange expression. This was the flower that laughs, and no one who looked at it could help laughing too. Peronnik’s heart beat high at the thought that he had reached safely the second trial, and he gazed quite calmly at the lion with the mane of vipers twisting and twirling, who walked up and down in front of the grove.
The young man pulled up and removed his cap, for, idiot though he was, he knew that when you have to do with people greater than yourself, a cap is more useful in the hand than on the head. Then, after wishing all kinds of good fortune to the lion and his family, he inquired if he was on the right road to Kerglas.
“And what is your business at Kerglas?” asked the lion with a growl, and showing his teeth.
“With all respect,” answered Peronnik, pretending to be very frightened, “I am the servant of a lady who is a friend of the noble Rogéar and sends him some larks for a pasty.”
“Larks?” cried the lion, licking his long whiskers. “Why, it must be a century since I have had any! Have you a large quantity with you?”
“As many as this bag will hold,” replied Peronnik, opening, as he spoke, the bag which he had filled with feathers and glue; and to prove what he said, he turned his back on the lion and began to imitate the song of a lark.
“Come,” exclaimed the lion, whose mouth watered, “show me the birds! I should like to see if they are fat enough for my master.”
“I would do it with pleasure,” answered the idiot, “but if I once open the bag they will all fly away.”
“Well, open it wide enough for me to look in,” said the lion, drawing a little nearer.
Now this was just what Peronnik had been hoping for, so he held the bag while the lion opened it carefully and put his head right inside, so that he might get a good mouthful of larks. But the mass of feathers and glue stuck to him, and before he could pull his head out again Peronnik had drawn tight the cord, and tied it in a knot that no man could untie. Then, quickly gathering the flower that laughs, he rode off as fast as the colt could take him.
The path soon led to the lake of the dragons, which he had to swim across. The colt, who was accustomed to it, plunged into the water without hesitation; but as soon as the dragons caught sight of Peronnik they approached from all parts of the lake in order to devour him.
This time Peronnik did not trouble to take off his cap, but he threw the beads he carried with him into the water, as you throw black corn to a duck, and with each bead that he swallowed a dragon turned on his back and died, so that the idiot reached the other side without further trouble.
The valley guarded by the black man now lay before him, and from afar Peronnik beheld him, chained by one foot to a rock at the entrance, and holding the iron ball which never missed its mark and always returned to its master’s hand. In his head the black man had six eyes that were never all shut at once, but kept watch one after the other. At this moment they were all open, and Peronnik knew well that if the black man caught a glimpse of him he would cast his ball. So, hiding the colt behind a thicket of bushes, he crawled along a ditch and crouched close to the very rock to which the black man was chained.
The day was hot, and after a while the man began to grow sleepy. Two of his eyes closed, and Peronnik sang gently. In a moment a third eye shut, and Peronnik sang on. The lid of a fourth eye dropped heavily, and then those of the fifth and the sixth. The black man was asleep altogether.
Then, on tiptoe, the idiot crept back to the colt, which he led over soft moss past the black man into the vale of pleasure, a delicious garden full of fruits that dangled before your mouth, fountains running with wine, and flowers chanting in soft little voices. Further on, tables were spread
with food, and girls dancing on the grass called to him to join them.
Peronnik heard, and, scarcely knowing what he did drew the colt into a slower pace. He sniffed greedily the smell of the dishes, and raised his head the better to see the dancers. Another instant and he would have stopped altogether and been lost, like others before him, when suddenly there came to him like a vision the golden bowl and the diamond lance. Drawing his whistle from his pocket, he blew it loudly, so as to drown the sweet sounds about him, and ate what was left of his bread and bacon to still the craving of the magic fruits. His eyes he fixed steadily on the ears of the colt, that he might not see the dancers.
In this way he was able to reach the end of the garden, and at length perceived the castle of Kerglas, with the river between them which had only one ford. Would the lady be there, as the old man had told him? Yes, surely that was she, sitting on a rock, in a black satin dress, and her face the colour of a Moorish woman’s. The idiot rode up, and took off his cap more politely than ever, and asked if she did not wish to cross the river.
“I was waiting for you to help me do so,” answered she. “Come near, that I may get up behind you.”
Peronnik did as she bade him, and by the help of his arm she jumped nimbly on to the back of the colt.
“Do you know how to kill the magician?” asked the lady, as they were crossing the ford.
“I thought that, being a magician, he was immortal, and that no one could kill him” replied Peronnik.
“Persuade him to taste that apple, and he will die, and if that is not enough I will touch him with my finger, for I am the plague,” answered she.
“But if I kill him, how am I to get the golden bowl and the diamond lance that are hidden in the cellar without a key?” rejoined Peronnik.
“The flower that laughs opens all doors and lightens all darkness,” said the lady; and as she spoke, they reached the further bank, and advanced towards the castle.
In front of the entrance was a sort of tent supported on poles, and under it the giant was sitting, basking in the sun. As soon as he noticed the colt bearing Peronnik and the lady, he lifted his head, and cried in a voice of thunder:
“Why, it is surely the idiot, riding my colt thirteen months old!”
“Greatest of magicians, you are right,” answered Peronnik.
“And how did you manage to catch him?” asked the giant.
“By repeating what I learnt from your brother Bryak on the edge of the forest,” replied the idiot. “I just said—
Colt, free to run and free to eat,
Colt, gallop fast until we meet,
and it came directly.”
“You know my brother, then?” inquired the giant. “Tell me why he sent you here.”
“To bring you two gifts which he has just received from the country of the Moors,” answered Peronnik: “the apple of delight and the woman of submission. If you eat the apple you will not desire anything else, and if you take the woman as your servant you will never wish for another.”
“Well, give me the apple, and bid the woman get down,” answered Rogéar.
The idiot obeyed, but at the first taste of the apple the giant staggered, and as the long yellow finger of the woman touched him he fell dead.
Leaving the magician where he lay, Peronnik entered the palace, bearing with him the flower that laughs. Fifty doors flew open before him, and at length he reached a long flight of steps which seemed to lead into the bowels of the earth. Down these he went till he came to a silver door without a bar or key. Then he held up high the flower that laughs, and the door slowly swung back, displaying a deep cavern, which was as bright as day from the shining of the golden bowl and the diamond lance. The idiot hastily ran forward and hung the bowl round his neck from the chain which was attached to it, and took the lance in his hand. As he did so, the ground shook beneath him, and with an awful rumbling the palace disappeared, and Peronnik found himself standing close to the forest where he led the cattle to graze.
Though darkness was coming on, Peronnik never thought of entering the farm, but followed the road which led to the court of the duke of Brittany. As he passed through the town of Vannes he stopped at a tailor’s shop, and bought a beautiful costume of brown velvet and a white horse, which he paid for with a handful of gold that he had picked up in the corridor of the castle of Kerglas. Thus he made his way to the city of Nantes, which at that moment was besieged by the French.
A little way off, Peronnik stopped and looked about him. For miles round the country was bare, for the enemy had cut down every tree and burnt every blade of corn; and, idiot though he might be, Peronnik was able to grasp that inside the gates men were dying of famine. He was still gazing with horror, when a trumpeter appeared on the walls, and, after blowing a loud blast, announced that the duke would adopt as his heir the man who could drive the French out of the country.
On the four sides of the city the trumpeter blew his blast, and the last time Peronnik, who had ridden up as close as he might, answered him.
“You need blow no more,” said he, “for I myself will free the town from her enemies.” And turning to a soldier who came running up, waving his sword, he touched him with the magic lance, and he fell dead on the spot. The men who were following stood still, amazed. Their comrade’s armour had not been pierced, of that they were sure, yet he was dead, as if he had been struck to the heart. But before they had time to recover from their astonishment, Peronnik cried out:
“You see how my foes will fare; now behold what I can do for my friends,” and, stooping down, he laid the golden bowl against the mouth of the soldier, who sat up as well as ever. Then, jumping his horse across the trench, he entered the gate of the city, which had opened wide enough to receive him.
The news of these mar vels quickly spread through the town, and put fresh spirit into the garrison, so that they declared themselves able to fight under the command of the young stranger. And as the bowl restored all the dead Bretons to life, Peronnik soon had an army large enough to drive away the French, and fulfilled his promise of delivering his country.
As to the bowl and the lance, no one knows what became of them, but some say that Bryak the sorcerer managed to steal them again, and that any one who wishes to possess them must seek them as Peronnik did.
OGIER THE DANE
WILLIAM MORRIS
It was not only the influence of Merlin that lived on through the centuries but also that of Morgan le Fay. In later legend and romance Morgan became an increasingly sinister and evil fairy or enchantress, related to Arthur (as half-sister) and bent upon destroying him and the companionship of the Round Table. But in earlier tradition she had a more benevolent side, and was seen as one of the fairy queens of Avalon, a tradition that remained even in later writing when she becomes the queen who bears the body of Arthur away after his death.
The tradition of Morgan as a fairy queen was evident in other tales, not least the medieval story of Ogier the Dane, at the time of King Charlemagne. Ogier (who as Holger is the national hero of Denmark), like Arthur, was spirited away by Morgan to Avalon from where he returned after two hundred years to defend France against invasion.
William Morris (1834–96) had long been enchanted with medieval romances. He included four Arthurian poems in his first collection of verse, The Defence of Guinevere (1858), and returned to it in his long narrative poem The Earthly Paradise, a kind of Nordic Canterbury Tales, which he wrote between 1868 and 1870. These stories were later adapted into prose form by Madalen Edgar, in Stories from the Earthly Paradise (1919), and it is that version I have reprinted here.
What nobler vassal had good Charlemaine than Ogier, mightiest of the Danes, and most chivalrous of all knights? For many a generation after he had passed away, minstrels sang of his exploits: how, given as a hostage to the Frankish Emperor, in time he came to bear the Oriflamme against the paynims, fought hand-to-hand with Caraheu, and had slain base Charlot, had not Heaven bade him stay his hand. Denmark was
his; he wore the crown of Britain; he stormed the great town of Babylon, waged war in Palestine for the Holy Cross, and ruled in Tyre.
The record of these deeds is a gallant tale, but more wondrous is the story Nicholas the Breton once related of Ogier. He spoke of how Morgan le Fay bore the hero to Avallon, when all his wars seemed ended, and of what came to pass thereafter.
Hearken, and judge of the marvel for yourselves.
The chill air that breathes just before daybreak crept in at the half-opened casements of a room where Death held sway. The fair young Queen of Denmark lay dead; around her head flickered the hallowed tapers that the watchers kept ever burning. The King, grieving sore for his dear wife, had knelt all night long by her bedside in an agony of voiceless despair; while at the far end of the chamber, the nurses bent over the cradle of the new-born prince, from time to time whispering to one another memories of the grace and kindliness of their late mistress.
One of the women had crossed the floor on tiptoe to replace a taper that had burned low in its socket. Her hand was resting on the candle when a sudden tremor passed through her limbs, her eyelids drooped, and she lost all consciousness in a trance that was deep as the Queen’s sleep of death. What befell the one nurse befell the others at the same moment. The King also came under the spell; his wan, drawn face relaxed, his eyes closed, and the desolate mourner forgot his woes for a little while in this strange, heavy sleep.