by Rhys Hughes
Glyn considered this proposal objectively. “Not really. Farmers are major advocates of suffering and selfishness. I won’t mention cruelty to quadrupeds, merely that their influence looms behind the most repressive legislation passed in the last two centuries. They impede all the values of civilisation like a rusty tractor on an escalator. As for the miners, they are the deadly enemies of the future, and it’s the future where all my suppers dwell. I won’t have a man threatening my cakes and ale with a spade. My stomach is our richest seam.”
Rhiannon reached out and fitted her fist into Glyn’s mouth, a taste identical to a night out in Pontypridd.
“She won’t let you continue,” the barman observed, sagely. “She’s a gallon of wisdom in a half-pint glass.”
“Not so. I just don’t want to listen to eccentric banter all night. Glyn suggested we were characters rather than living people; if true, we ought to catch up with our tale.”
“I’m game for a bit of plot,” said the barman.
“We don’t know how much wordage we’ve got left. We must hurry! Glyn is probably the hero of the story; I suggest we goad him into action. Do you keep any weapons behind the bar?”
“Only this.” Dipping down, the barman lifted and brandished an iron spear. “I think of myself as a northerner, though strictly speaking this town is on the navel of Cymru. Giraldus wouldn’t have approved, but when were the Welsh truly consistent?”
“Our inconsistency is fairly regular!”
Glyn was growing uncomfortable. “No, I’d rather stay here than wade in a narrator’s ink. Besides, not all works of fiction have action. Some simply involve conversation in bars.”
“Not this one,” hissed Rhiannon. She winked at the barman. “Try him with a forceful goad. On the thigh.”
With a dexterity which belied his unhealthy eyes, the barman jabbed at Glyn with the spear. The cuneate blade notched an ogham letter in his flesh. Pale blood fermented on his knees.
“Try again,” urged Rhiannon. “He’s stubborn!”
Glyn lurched backwards, beyond the range of the weapon. “There’s no need for that. I’ll do whatever you say.”
The barman rattled the spear menacingly, eyes glowing like lamps on the streets of Neath—only two for a huge area. Rhiannon held Glyn in a rough embrace and a phrase from Giraldus swept into his mind faster than the dirty tide at Penarth: “It is not to be wondered at if a woman bears malice, for this comes to her naturally.”
The barman continued to write on his thighs a painful and forgotten text dictated by Rhiannon. At the conclusion of the first sentence, Glyn threw up his arms in genuine despair.
“Cease! If it’s a story you want, I’ll give you one!”
Releasing him, Rhiannon watched quietly while he reluctantly pulled on his jacket. He moved towards the door.
“Where are you going?” the barman cried.
“I have a plot for you. I’m going to repeat the voyage of Giraldus. If he united the country then so will I!”
“Don’t be a dunce,” said Rhiannon. “You’re too unfit to limp around our border. The distance, in Welsh terms, is enormous. From here, you’ll have to travel north to Llanfair and cross the Llyn peninsula to Nefyn. Then you must swivel for Caernarfon, visiting Conway before dipping down to St Asaph. After that, it’s east to England and a long descent through Chester and Whitchurch to Oswestry.”
The barman continued with the itinerary. “Then comes Shrewsbury and Bromfield. Lower still, Hereford and a sharp turn to Cruker, Hay-on-Wye, Llanddew and Brecon. Not forgetting Abergavenny and Caerleon, which lead you to Newport, Cardiff and Ewenny.”
“Then Margam and Swansea—you should borrow a frying-pan from this kitchen to keep in with the populace of that town. Barter it in Kidwelly for a new pair of boots to aid you over the roads of Dyfed. Think fondly of me in Carmarthen, Haverfordwest, Camrose and St David’s. It’s a rough stretch from there: you must turn north again to greet the bleeding yews of Nevern and the bleeding gums of Cardigan. There’s a detour inwards to visit Lampeter and Llanddewi Brefi.”
“At that point,” added the barman, “you can saunter most of the way to Strata Florida. Then it’s my turn to be fondly thought of. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee you a safe passage through Llanbadarn Fawr to a hero’s welcome back here in Aberystwyth. . . .”
Glyn was a broken man, but a spark of something ineffable glimmered behind his blank vision. “I intend to do it anyway. If I succeed, as did Giraldus, I too shall create a single nation. I’ll get the Wales I want, even if only for a brief shimmer.”
Rhiannon wagged a finger. “It wasn’t his jaunt which unified Cymru. It was the crusade he carried on his back.”
The barman returned the spear to its habitual place. “That’s right. Without a cause to walk for, your journey will be wasted. It’s essential you collect disciples on the way. Only when you convert enough Welsh folk to a larger quest can you truly be a New Giraldus. Until then, you might as well be a Western Mail journalist.”
“Your insults won’t deter me!” roared Glyn. “I’ll find something to crusade for on the way! I’ll leap over history like a bishop on springs. My quest will grow a mystic significance.”
“Don’t go,” pleaded Rhiannon. “You’re bleeding fiercely. Let’s call it a joke and improvise some bandages.”
“That’s typical defeatism! Just because I’m indolent and foolish there is no reason to doubt my energy and intelligence. I’ll earn a new Wales for us all with a successful mission. . . .”
Rhiannon shrugged. “Fair enough. Cheerio!”
They watched him leave the pub. A tongue of frozen air rushed for a tot of whisky. The door slammed behind him and the barman selected a mop to wash away the trail of blood.
Outside, Glyn shielded his eyes, expecting the weather to hate him. It took him a full minute to realise he felt loved instead. Dropping his hands, he regarded the Promenade.
The rain had ceased. The clouds parted like a dressing-gown without a belt. Now the sea was as placid as a mirror in the handbag of a comet; there was no other way to describe its tinkly frostiness. Ships balanced on the reflected moon; the light on their hulls was salty butter turning to cheese. The stars burned Glyn’s forehead. The wrinkles above his eyes were fissures turning to gorges. He felt old and bald, but this was just a symptom of his girth, which was reluctant to follow him on the voyage. It seemed his stomach wanted to lag behind, like a hunch. Perhaps it was familiar with the hills which awaited and knew their names? Giraldus was calling him across the valley of time, as the shepherds of his Merioneth had communicated between rude peaks.
He turned silent words in his mouth like monks. Suppose this really was all a fiction? Who was the writer? He was sure of one thing: however conceited or dour he might be, however pretentious or glib, he certainly had a pyrotechnic style. This had to be admitted, even if the relentless self-indulgence quickly irritated the reader. Giraldus himself was quite a stylist, chatty and arrogant, cunning and fresh, ironic and excessive, still worth studying after eight centuries. Passing the rotting pier, he headed towards Constitution Hill and the cliff railway, where he allowed himself to be trundled up the slope in one of the antique carriages. The railway was operated by a girl with chestnut hair and tourmaline eyes, a student moonlighting from university.
From the summit of the hill, Aberystwyth appeared sublime and wise. Perhaps he was wrong to sing the praises of Portmeirion to the exclusion of more authentic locations? He suddenly understood that the balance had already been struck: here it was. And maybe the same was right for other Welsh towns—even Llanelli. He felt calm and stuffed with insights. But the ecstasy soon passed and he returned to an earlier disappointed self. With a light heart but a heavy stomach, he pounded the coastal path into the shadows cast by towering ferns and bracken. Already he was exhausted and anaemic. By the time he reached Borth, strung out like a hippy beard to the north, he would be drained.
There was a light on the rocks below. A fisherman was
busy avoiding his wife for the evening. A very low Jupiter, warming the horizon like a pompous star, glittered on the barbs of blunted hooks. The fellow seemed to be casting at the planet, the gas giant, without knowing what it was. Did hydrogen fish swim in its clouds?
Glyn called down to him. Despite the distance, his voice was clear, more eloquent than it had any right to be outside a pub. His tongue felt rough, as if fashioned from oak; his words were mistletoe shoots, sacred and tenacious, sucking away his thoughts. What should he say to the man? Even while he debated the issue, his mouth was articulating, outside his control, sentences of starched awe:
“Come with me, little Welshman, and help in the quest. Let’s gather our kin and etch our border with heels. Together we are stones to batter down the English and rebuild the walls of our old character. We can have both the past and the future if we free ourselves from the Saxons! Break all they have given us: cities, pollution, councillors, caravans, fences and sour beer. Objectivity is a foreign concept; let’s spit it out, burn it to ashes, dance in hoods and robes! Help me convert my bicycle into a chariot and weld scythes to the wheels.”
The fisherman regarded Glyn with an inscrutable expression. At last he opened his jaw like a cheap sandwich.
“Can’t do that, mun, have a fit the wife would. Come over all funny she has the past week, bit of a bother.”
Glyn squinted. “But Schopenhauer insists that women are supposed to be ignored. Simply defuse her rolling-pin.”
“Who does he play for then? No, mun, daft that is, telling folks to shrug a wife. Into my box she’ll kick me.”
Glyn stood riveted by this reply. This was the speech found in most Welsh fiction, rather than the sophisticated grumbles of Rhiannon and the barman. He had found himself again: he was obviously real. The fisherman and his kind were the figments, kept ignorant by writers who believe the Welsh must never contribute to the mainstream of human knowledge. It was a profoundly enlightening and depressing insight. At least it meant that the changes he might initiate would be dense, they would not vanish into blank space at the end of this story.
He returned to the pub with a grin hidden under a grimace. Rhiannon and the barman were toasting each other.
“Back already? I knew you wouldn’t last an hour.”
“No need to finish the journey,” he replied. “I claim a victory. My quest is over, the changes are coming.”
“What do you mean? You didn’t even reach Bangor.”
“I did what Giraldus set out to do. I embarked on a crusade and was successful beyond my steepest dreams.”
He gestured at the interior of the tavern. Somehow, it had altered, the shades were richer, the textures more local. Elaborate carvings crawled over the beams. On one wall, where horse-brasses had once tasted the smoke of an open hearth, polished skulls loomed instead. Glyn walked close and tapped one with a finger. It was solid bone, lacking space for a brain: the cranium of a councillor.
“How did they get there?” The barman was annoyed.
“By completing my quest I united the country,” Glyn explained, “and by uniting the country I delivered the Wales we need: no local authority officials, no coal and few tractors.”
“But the lights are still working! Without coal there won’t be fuel for power-stations. What do they run on?”
Glyn chuckled. “Let’s go out and look, shall we?”
While he led Rhiannon out of the tavern, the barman reached for his spear. It felt more light and comfortable in his palm, as if it belonged there, like a poem coughed into milk.
It was a warm night. Rain and wind—English inventions— no longer troubled the inhabitants. The air was sweet and crumbly; trees grew from balconies and music ruffled fringes. Stomachs had shrunk on each man and women wore hair darker and longer than a winter’s morning. It was a time to bellow melodically and eat with one’s mouth agape. Everything was now truly Welsh: all concepts were devolved.
Arranged in rows along the Promenade, giant treadmills connected to generators spun electricity for the people. Inside, eyes pale as cheese, chins missing, accents too high, English prisoners trudged endlessly, as they should, to make amends. Even when this paragraph is over, they will still be there, working for our benefit.
Rhiannon leaned on Glyn’s shoulder, proud of her pet fool. “So what exactly did you preach against?” she asked.
Raising himself to his full height, which was now modest, he called in a voice like mead: “I crusaded against crusades! And once I converted myself, there was nothing more I could do.”
Nodding, she followed him towards the final word.
Contents
Stories from a Lost Anthology
Copyright Information
CONTENTS
The Welsh Raree
Portrait Of The Artist As A Rusty Bus
The Lute And The Lamp
Toastmaster, Buttermistress
Journey Through A Wall
The Marsh Callow
Story From A Lost Anthology
Less Is More
Jellydämmerung!
The Macroscopic Teapot
Fallow
The Crab
Pyramid And Thisbe
The Lover And The Grave
The Evil Side Of Reginald Burke
Asparagus On The Tooth
A Languid Elagabalus Of The Tombs
Owlbeast
Tin in the Soul
Cockatrice At The Door
Robin Hood’s New Mother
The New Giraldus