by Alan Garner
“So Frigga weeps,” said Hela. “And if I listened to every mother’s prayer?”
“It is not just Frigga who wants her son,” said Hermod. “We all want Baldur to come back. The whole world grieves for him. All mothers weep.”
“My music is their tears,” said Hela.
“Then let me bring you music – and set Baldur free.”
“What do you mean? Yes? Yes! That would be joy! The whole world in tears. All creation sing for me. Yes! You shall have Baldur, then, if all things weep for him. Yes! But if one, one does not, I keep him fast.”
Then back rode Hermod from Hela’s hall, and then through all the world: to the North, to the South, to the East, to the West, to ask all things to weep for Baldur. And this was given. Every living creature that walked or swam or flew or crept or slept, and every plant that grew, and the cold rocks, and the sea, and the winds of the air – all creation wept for Baldur dead.
Hermod rode for Asgard through their tears. But when he was close to Asgard’s walls he passed a cave mouth. Deep in the cave he saw something move, something black, with dull red eyes like coal. And the cave was silent.
“Who’s there?” he said.
“An old woman,” said a voice.
“Then weep. All things weep for Baldur.”
“I don’t. He’s dead.”
“He will come back to Asgard if all creation drops tears for him.”
“He’ll not come back for me.”
“But he’ll bring light and joy and meadow laughter!”
“I don’t know them. I don’t need him.”
“What are you if you will not weep?” said Hermod.
The voice answered him, slow and chanting:
“I Am Thok
“I Weep Dry Tears
“He Gave Me No Gladness
“Let Hela Keep Her Prey.”
And so, through the malice of Loki, the tears of the world were lost, and Baldur was seen in Asgard no more. From this time the glory of Asgard began to fade. Blind Hodur was killed in vengeance, and Loki was caught and chained deep under the earth. But the gods could not be saved. Baldur was gone, and blood had been shed: murder grew from murder, and grief from grief, and from these came war: a sword age: a wolf age: winter: and the world’s end.
’m scarce sure if I can tell you it all right, but I guess I mind it as it was told to me. Let’s see, now.
There was once a chap as was great for the women-folk, and couldn’t keep out of their way if he tried ever so. The very sight of a pettycoat half a mile off on the road would call him for to follow it.
Now one day, as it might be, he came ker-bang round a corner, and there was a ramping maid, sitting her lone, and washing herself; and the fond chap was all out of his wits to want. And the upshot of it was, he swore he would wed her if she would come home with him. And she said:
“I’ll come, and welcome,” says she, “but you must swear as you’ll wed me.”
“I will,” says he, “I swear it!” – and thought to himself, “Over the left shoulder, that!”
“You must wed me in church,” says she.
“I will!” says he. – “If ever I put foot in,” he thought to himself.
“And if you don’t, what shall I forspell you?” says she.
“Lawks,” says he, for he was feared of being forspelled, which is main mischancy, you see; “don’t you overlook me, don’t you! If I don’t wed you, may the worms eat me” – (They’re bound for to do it, anyway, thinks he to himself) – “and the children have wings and fly away.” (And no great matter if they do.)
But the maid didn’t know as he was thinking, and she went with him. And by and by they came to a church.
“You can wed me here-by,” says she, tweaking his arm.
“No,” said he, “the parson’s a-hunting.”
So they went on a bit further, and came to another church.
“Well, here-by?” says she.
“No,” says he. “Parson’s none sober enough, and the clerk’s drunk.”
“Well!” says she. “Maybe they will can wed us, for all they’re in liquor.”
“Houts!” says he, and gives her a kick.
So on they went again, and by and by they met with a tailor-man, and he says, says he:
“Where’s your master?”
“Oh, down by,” says the old feller.
So on they went, while they came to a bit cottage by the lane side, and they knocked and kicked at the door till it shook, but never a word came from innard. So they walked right in, and there was an old man lying sleeping and snoring on his bed.
Well, the young chap keckt about him for summat handy, and saw an axe, so he upped with it and brained the old feller, and chopped his feet and hands off him. And then he set to and cleaned the place, and thrung the corp out of the window, and laid the fire in the hearth, while all was smart and natty.
Then they lived there, and had some childer.
And by and by, kecking over his shoulder, the chap saw a wise woman stealing the corp away with her.
“Hi!” says the chap; “The corp is mine. What do you want to do with him?”
“I’ll bury him for you,” says the wise woman.
“No, you won’t,” says he. “I’ll do it myself.”
“Well then,” says she, “I’ll stand by.”
“No, you won’t,” says he; “I can do it better my lone.”
“Take your way, fool,” says she, “but give me the axe, then, instead of the corp.”
“No, I won’t,” says he. “I might want her again.”
“Hi!” says the wise woman. “None give, none have; red hand and lying lips!”
And she went away, muttering, and twisting her fingers.
So the chap buried the corp, but lest he forgot where it was, he left one arm sticking out of the ground, and the feet and hands he chucked to the pigs, and says he to the girl:
“I’ll go and snare a cony. See you keep to the house.” And off he went.
The girl diddle-daddled about, and presently the pigs began squealing as if they were killed.
“And oh!” says the girl, “what’s amiss with them, for so to squeal?”
And the dead feet upped and cried, “We be amiss. Us’ll trample the pigs till you bury us!”
So she took the feet and put them in the earth.
And by and by the pigs lay down and died.
“Oh! oh!” says the girl. “What be the matter with them for so to die?”
And the dead hands upped and cried, “We be the matter. We’s choked them!”
So she went and buried them, too.
And by and by she heard summat a-calling, and a-calling on her, and she went for to see what it wanted.
“Who be a-calling?” says she.
“You’ve put us wrong!” says the feet and hands. “We be feeling, and we be creeping, and we can’t find the rest of us anywheres. Put us by the old man, where his arm sticks out of the ground, or we’ll tickle you with fingers and tread you with toes, till you lose your wits.”
So she dug them up, and put them by the old man.
And by and by the young chap came back, and called for his dinner.
“Where’s the childer?” says he.
“Gathering berries,” says she.
“Berries in Spring?” says he; and kept on with his eating. But when night came, and they weren’t home:
“Where’s the childer?” says he.
“Gone a-fishing,” says she.
“Ay,” says he, “and the babby, too?”
And came the morning, he shook the girl up sudden, and bawled in her ears:
“Where’s the childer?”
“Ooh!” says she in a hurry, “flown away, the childer have!”
“They have?” says he. “Then you will can go after them!”
And he upped with the axe and chopped her in pieces, and shoved the bits under the bed.
Well, by and by, the childer came flying back, an
d keckt about for their mother, but they saw nowt.
“Where’s mother?” they says to the chap.
“Gone to buy bacon,” says he, feeling uneasy.
“Bacon?” says they. “And with flitches hanging ready?”
And presently they came again, and says:
“Where’s mother now?”
“Gone to seek you,” says he, shaking under the bedclothes.
“Ay?” says they. “And we be here!”
And before he could get out of bed they came all round him, and pointed at him with their fingers.
“Where’s mother to-now?”
“Ooh!” he squealed. “Under the bed!” And he put his head under the blanket.
The children pulled out the bits, and fell to weeping and wailing as they pieced her together. And the chap, he went for to creep to the door and get away, but they caught him, and took the axe and chopped him up like the girl, and left him lying whiles they went away, gratting.
As soon as he was sure he was dead, the chap got up and shook himself – and there was the girl! She was standing waiting for him, with long claws out, and teeth gibbering, and eyes blazing like a green cat going to spring. And naturally the chap was feared, and he runned, and runned, and runned, so as to get away; but she runned after, with her long claws straight out, till he could feel her tickling the back of his neck, and straining with the longing to choke him. And he called out to the thunder:
“Strike me dead!”
But the thunder wouldn’t, for he was dead already.
And he runned to the fire and begged:
“Burn me up!”
But the fire wouldn’t, for the chill of death put it out.
And he thrung himself in the water and says:
“Drown me blue!”
But the water wouldn’t, for the death-colour was coming in his face already.
And he took the axe and tried to cut his throat, but the axe wouldn’t.
And to last, he thrung himself into the ground, and called for the worms to eat him, so as he could rest in his grave and be quit of the woman.
But by and by up crept a great worm, and a strange and great thing it was, with the girl’s head on the end of its long slimy body, and it crept up beside him and round about, and over him, while it drove away all the other worms, and then it set to, to eat him itself.
“Ooh, eat me quick, eat me quick!” he squeals.
“Steady, now,” says the worm. “Good food’s worth the meal time. You hold still, and let me enjoy myself.”
“Eat me quick, eat me quick!” says he.
“Don’t you haste me, I tell you,” says the worm. “I’s getting on fine. You’re near gone now.” And it smacked its lips with the goodness of it.
“Quick!” he whispit again.
“Whist, you’re an unpatient chap,” said the worm.
And it swallowed the last bit, and the lad was all gone, and had got away from the girl to last.
And that’s all.
Father, Wait for Me was recorded in the early twentieth century by Cibuta, a woman of the Bene-Mukini, whose territory is north of the River Kafue in Zambia.
nother man, too, had taken a wife, and now she had the joy of being heavy with child, but the famine was acute.
One day, when hunger was bad, and the man, followed by his wife, was dragging himself towards her mother’s home in case they would find a little food there, he came to a tree with wild fruit thick on the top. “Get up, and gather fruit,” he said.
The wife said, “I, like this, to climb a tree!”
He said, “Then don’t eat my fruit.”
He climbed up and shook and shook the branches, and the woman collected the fruit that fell.
He said, “Don’t pick my fruit! You! You would not go up!”
“Bana! I’m only collecting it all!”
He thought about his fruit, and hurried down from the top of the tree. “You’ve eaten some!”
“I haven’t!”
Coming, assegai in hand, he stabbed his wife. And there she died at once.
He gathered his fruit with both hands. There he is eating it, next to the woman stretched quite flat.
Quickly! He starts to run. Run! Run! Run! Without stopping until he reaches the top of the bank.
He slept there, out of sight of the place where he had left the woman.
But the child that was in the womb hurried out of it, dragging its cord. First it looked for the way its father had gone, then started this song:
“Father, wait for me.
“Father, wait for me,
“The little wombless.
“Who is it that has eaten my mother?
“The little wombless!
“How red are those eyes!
“Wait till the little wombless comes.”
That gave him a shake!
“There,” he said, “there comes a thing which is speaking.” He listens, he stares in that direction. “This is the child coming to follow me after all that, when I have already killed its mother. It had been left in the womb.”
Then rage took his wits away, so he killed the little child. There he is, making a fresh start, then going on.
Here, where the little bone has been left: “Little bone, gather yourself up. Little bone, gather yourself up.” Soon it is up again, and then comes the song:
“Father, wait for me.
“Father, wait for me,
“The little wombless.
“Who is it that has eaten my mother?
“The little wombless!
“How red are those eyes!
“Wait till the little wombless comes.”
The father has stopped. “Again the child that I have killed! It has risen and is coming. Now wait for him.”
So he hides and waits for the child, and that with an assegai in his hand. The child comes and makes itself visible at a distance as from here to there. As soon as it comes, quick with the assegai! Stab it! Then he looks for a hole, shovels the little body into it and heaps branches at the entrance.
Then quickly! Quickly!
He reaches the kraal of the mother of his dead wife, the grandmother of the child.
When he comes he sits down. His brothers and sisters-in-law come smiling. “Bana! You have put in an appearance.”
“We have,” he says, “put in an appearance.”
And a hut is prepared for him and his wife, who is expected.
Then the mother-in-law is heard asking a long way off, “And my daughter, what is keeping her?”
He says, “I have left her at home. I have come to beg for a little food. Hunger is roaring.”
“Sit down inside there, father.”
Food is brought for him. So he begins to eat. And, when he has finished, he even goes to sleep.
And all this time the child has been squeezing itself out of the hole in the ground where it had been put, and again, with its cord hanging on:
“Father, wait for me.
“Father, wait for me,
“The little wombless.
“Who is it that has eaten my mother?
“The little wombless!
“How red are those eyes!
“Wait till the little wombless comes.”
The people listen along the path. “That thing which comes mumbling, what is it? It seems human. What is it? It looks like a child killed by you on the road. And now, when we look at your way of sitting, you seem to be only half-seated.”
“We do not see him distinctly. It can’t be the child, mother; it stayed at home.”
The man has just got up to shake himself a little. His child: quickly! It is already near, with the mouth wide open:
“Father, wait for me.
“Father, wait for me,
“The little wombless.
“Who is it that has eaten my mother?
“The little wombless!
“How red are those eyes!
“Wait till the little wombless comes.”
Everyone is staring. They say, “There comes a little red thing. It has still the cord hanging on.”
There inside the hut, where the man is: is silence!
The child is coming on feet and buttocks, with its mouth wide open, but still far from its grandmother’s hut.
“Over there!” says everyone.
The grandmother looks towards the road, and sees that the little thing is sweating. Sweat! Sweat! Sweat! Speed! Speed! Then the song:
“Father, wait for me.
“Father, wait for me,
“The little wombless.
“Who is it that has eaten my mother?
“The little wombless!
“How red are those eyes!
“Wait till the little wombless comes.”
Bacu! It straight jumps into its grandmother’s hut. And on the bed:
“Father, wait for me.
“Father, have you come?
“Yes, you have eaten my mother.
“How red those eyes!
“Wait till the little wombless comes.”
Then the grandmother asked the man, “Now what sort of song is this child singing? Have you not killed our daughter?”
She says, “Surround him,” but he is already in their hands. His own brothers-in-law tie him. All the assegais are lifted in one direction, everyone saying, “Now today you are the man who killed our sister.”
They just threw the body away to the west. And the grandmother picked up her grandchild.
Now my story stops. That’s all.
I am Cibuta.
looskap and his brother Malsum the Wolf made the world. Their mother died at their birth, and from her they took the things of their choice. Glooskap shaped the sun and the moon, animals, fish and men, and Malsum gave mountains, ravines, snakes and all that he hoped would be a plague. He was so wrong that Glooskap killed him, and then went on with the work. Glooskap subdued the sorcerer Win-pe, and Pamola of the Night, and the Kewawkque giants, and the Medecolin wizards, and the tribes of the witches and the goblins and the living dead. He levelled the hills, controlled the floods, and gave life to the maize.
“Ho,” said Glooskap, “there is nothing I cannot command. The heavens turn for me.”
But a woman of the Mohican laughed, and said, “There is in my tent, O Glooskap, one you have not conquered, nor shall you, for no power can overcome him.”