Tag: yuletide

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Yuletide Narrathon – The Solstice Ghosts (part 1)

Willoughby the Narrator with the third of his tales in the Castle Marsh Yuletide Narrathon.  This one is in two parts, and as you will see, owes a huge debt to Mr Dickens.

The Solstice Ghosts (1)

What used to be the castle’s Small Hall was overflowing with revellers, since the snow was blasting round the courtyard and against the eastern walls. Everyone had taken refuge there, which was the best place, since the food was served at one end, and the rest of the area served as the castle’s communal dining room, or refectory. It was big enough to cope, usually, but this afternoon everyone wanted to be there at once, so they sat on tables, benches, and curled up in each other’s laps. The gallery was full too, and they all wanted another story.

“Well, if you don’t mind me going out of turn,” said Willoughby, standing on the emptiest of the serving tables, “I’ll do another one. I don’t want you to go to bed straight afterwards, though, because it’s a ghost story!” His voice went all funny as he said ghost story, and many of the audience went ‘oo-ooh’ in spooky voices. Willoughby waited while the kitchen staff cleared the table he was on, assisted by some youngsters who filled some baskets and scurried back up to the gallery with them.

“If you’re all sitting or standing as comfortably as you’re going to get,” he paused while some latecomers slipped in at the back and wormed their way through, “then I’ll begin. Oh, wait one more minute for George to get settled.” Everyone laughed as Prince Engineer George entered from the side steps in the corner, a short cut from his laboratory.

“Well, then,” started Willoughby. “It was a day just such as this, in a castle not like this one at all. It must have been a Seat of Learning for Business and Organisation, because there were many people there who worked in the business of accounts and paperwork. You’ve never heard of those, have you? No, I thought not. Castle Marsh never seems too worried about paperwork!”

There were lots of giggles, especially among the people who had settled in Castle Marsh from other parts of the realms in recent years. One of the best things about Marsh was its warm welcome with no papers required. The interview with the security team could be quite an ordeal, though.

“In this place was an office ruled by a person called Drood. He had several apprentices under him, and one journeyman called Bob. You haven’t any journeymen called Bob, of course…” loud laughter. Bob was a common name, and several journeymen, engineers and natural philosophers, as well as other castlefolk, were named Bob. “Well, this one had been a journeyman for so long, he had grown a long red beard,” more laughter; people nudged themselves and looked over to where a fine bearded Bob sat with his wife and youngsters. “And he had to work very hard to be allowed enough time to work the fields and make things for his wife and family. He felt he owed it to the castle, since he had a large family, and one of them was a poor wee boy with a crooked leg and a sickly constitution, who received much care from those who knew about his illnesses. Drood didn’t see it like that at all. As far as he was concerned all his apprentices, and his journeyman, should work from dawn to dusk, and later, to make sure that Drood remained as important as possible. He didn’t take time off to make things for his family, so he didn’t see why anyone else should. Of course, he didn’t make time for family because he didn’t have a family, except one nephew, and who would blame any acquaintances for not getting involved with such a mean-spirited person?

“Well, it was Solstice eve, and everyone was getting ready for the festivities to start, except for Drood, who kept his workers working, right up until the finishing bell. He muttered and groaned when they skipped out of the door at the first ‘ting’ of the bell, and called to Bob to finish what he was doing, since he wouldn’t be working on it the next day. ‘Has to be done tonight,’ he grumped.

“Bob sighed, and got back to work, but thought about the wooden toys he needed to finish. He’d manage somehow, he thought. Suddenly the door swung open. ‘Good evening, Uncle, still working?’ said a cheery voice.

“’What else would I be doing?’ grumped Drood.

“’Why, getting ready for Solstice, of course,’ said his nephew. ‘But we knew you wouldn’t so I’m here to invite you to our dinner tomorrow. Will you come?’

“Bah, humbug,’ said Drood. ‘Waste of food and time, having a festival. People should be working!’

“Well, I think one day, or just a few, in the middle of winter, won’t make much difference. And it cheers everyone up!’

“’And why should people be cheered up?’ asked Drood, and turned away so he didn’t have to listen to all the good reasons his nephew put forward. The nephew gave up and left, and Bob stood up soon after, putting his books away. ‘Finished, Mr Drood, so I’ll be off now, and I wish you a happy Solstice and health and peace of the season.’

“’Bah!’ was all Drood said, but he closed the door on the workshop after Bob left and stepped out into the cold night.

“It wasn’t far to go, but Drood lived in a quiet, dark part of the castle, and he kept feeling that something was following him home. Three times he stopped and looked, even calling out ‘who’s there?’ but he could see no-one. He pushed his way into his large, dark room, ladled out some cold water from under the ice in his bucket, scraped some dirt off a carrot, and sat by his bed to eat his evening meal, such as it was.

“What was that noise? He was sure he heard something. A clanking noise, or maybe moaning. ‘Just the wind’, he told himself, and checked the fastening on the window and pulled a blanket round his shoulders.

“The noise came again, definitely a rustling noise, and the sound of heavy chains dragging on the ground. Drood pulled the blanket over his head in the hope he couldn’t be seen.

“Drood’s door opened, and a blast of even colder air filled the room. Then it shut again. Drood felt an eery presence… and then his blanket was slowly pulled from his head.

“’Well, Drood, are you cowering away hiding from everyone, just like the old days?’

“’Darley, is that you?’” (Willoughby stammered in a croaky, quavery voice, a few octaves higher than usual.)

“’Yes, it’s me you old codger. Ten years since I died and you carried on the business without me, ten years I’ve been wandering the wilds, watching you get more and more crabby. Ten years carrying this great chain around with me, the penalty for all the mean things I did in my miserable life. Well, now I have a miserable death. But it’s nothing to what yours will be, if you don’t change.’

“’Why should I change? It’s nothing to me what you are doing.’

“’Didn’t you hear me? Your chain is three times, nay, five times as long as mine, and heavier too. You’ll lead a miserable death if you don’t mend your ways. Believe me, death is no peace, no satisfaction and no reward, and the only escape is to save someone else from their fate.’

“’Bah!’ said Drood, but it was more to keep his spirits up than anything else. He looked at Darley’s chain, thick heavy metal links, dragging along behind him, going out of the door and down the steps. If his was five times longer, then surely it would reach all the way to the courtyard!

“’You have till tomorrow to mend your ways,’ said Darley, ‘and to help you change your mind, because I can see you’re taking as much notice of me in death as you ever did in life, three Solstice Spirits will appear to you, starting at midnight. Take heed! Take he-e-ed..’ and so saying, he walked straight through the wall, which went transparent so that Drood could see him floating off into the sky and joining in with hundreds of other ghosts, ghastly and grey, wafting past, all dragging heavy chains with signs of their misdeeds attached to the links, and a ghastly wailing filled the air.

“’Bah,’ said Drood pulling his blanket back over his head. ‘The carrot must have been off,’ and he closed his eyes, ready to sleep.”

Willoughby looked at his audience, who looked back at him, in rapt attention. “Will he change his ways, do you think? Well, you‘ll have to wait. I’ll finish the story after a short break!”

“Awww,” the sounds of disappointed listeners rolled around the room. The kitchen staff started ladling out more hot drinks. Willoughby stretched and went outside for a quick run. It was his longest story, and he needed to be fresh to tell what happened at midnight.

… to be continued next week….

(c) J M Pett (and Charles Dickens)

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Yuletide Narrathon – The King and the Beggar

Continuing our Yuletide Narrathon at Castle Marsh with Willoughby the Narrator….

The wintry sun was still low on the southern horizon, but had risen high enough to peek above the bank of cloud. Those on the far side of the courtyard were bathed in sunlight, and some even shed their blankets. The marsh was not a warm place in the winter, but the hospitality and good heating inside its earth-packed stone buildings made people happy to be safe inside the castle at Yuletide.

The Narrathon, however, was outside in the courtyard, and Willoughby had spent the last few minutes hiding behind a glowing brazier of pre-burnt wood they called charcoal, listening to the speaker in front of him. Polite applause and a few cheers from his friends greeted the young person’s ending “and they all lived happily ever after!”

Willoughby grinned to himself as the young red-headed person slunk off to join his friends, received by welcoming arms, being patted on the back. They were generous to him; it had been a hesitant, mumbling delivery, but he had done it, in front of all those people, and he deserved full praise.

“Well done, indeed,” Willoughby cried, jumping up on his fiddlesticks and applauding in the youngster’s direction. “It takes courage to come up here and tell stories. Mind you, I’m a natural!” He winked at his audience, and once more he had them in the palm of his hand, his cheekiness and good humour winning over the most discerning of audiences.

“I wouldn’t ask every audience this, but… I bet you think your king’s a good king, don’t you?”

“Aye,” came rippling back from the crowd, who left what they’d been doing and gathered closer now that their guest speaker had returned to his platform.

“I can’t hear you!” Willoughby joked with them and put his hand behind his ear, trying to catch more sound.

“AYE!” came a more robust response, and the rest of the stragglers hurried over to find out what had happened.

“Kind to the workers, considerate to the weak and feeble?”

“Aye,” “He is that,” and more mutters of agreement filtered through to where Willoughby stood.

“Well, he must be, because he invited me to stay for Yule when he met me in the wilds!” Willoughby laughed, and his audience joined in, knowing how hard their king had worked to persuade a real narrator to come to their castle rather than go to one of the richer, warmer ones.

“Let me tell you about another king, called Winkleman. He lived many years ago, when life was even harder. If you belonged to a castle then you really did belong – you were little more than a slave. If you lived in an outlying community nobody cared about you. No support from anyone. If it was cold, you froze, if it was a bad harvest, you starved.”

“Just like Vexstein!” called a wag from near the back of the crowd.

“Don’t say that too loud if there are strangers about, my friend… but I reckon we are all friends here, aren’t we?”

“Aye!” the crowd called again.

Up in a window of the second level, Fred pulled back and looked at George. “The rumours are growing, you know.”

“I know, I’ve heard them too. And we aren’t getting refugees any more. Something’s really wrong, there.”

“I wonder what Willoughby knows. We have to have somebody there to find out the truth.” Fred and George turned back to the window, to listen to the Narrator in their courtyard.

“It was the day after mid-winter, when most were still sleeping off their Solstice Feast. It hadn’t dawned yet, but the snow had that blue, reflective sheen to it that you get when dawn isn’t far off. You’ve never seen that, have you – never up in time!” Willoughby said in an aside to a group of young men, to the general laughter of the rest of the crowd.

“King Winkleman was up and about. Maybe he had eaten one too many carrots, or maybe he was just an early riser. He padded about in his great warm robe and furry slippers, crown slipped casually over one eye, and paused to look out on the setting moon, starry sky and shimmering snow.

“He was just taking in the sights, you know, the lovely round full moon hanging low on the snowy landscape when the sun is not far away? Yeah? Romantic, isn’t it? Well, not for the poor beggar who was out searching for twigs, broken branches, anything he could find to make a fire to keep his family warm.

“King Winkleman had good eyesight, and he could see that the fellow was struggling in the deep snow. He called one of his attendants, and told him to find his steward, but the page came back and told him the steward was in a really deep sleep and he couldn’t wake him. King Winkleman rolled his eyes and muttered you can’t get a good steward these days under his breath” – laughter rippled through the crowd, since their king had been looking for a steward for months now – “then he said to the page ‘well, you’ll have to do.’

“The page drew himself up to his full height, which, since he was barely as old as you,” he pointed at a youngster in the front row “brought him nearly up to his liege’s armpit. ‘Go and fetch some bread and some carrots, and some fuel as well, if we can spare some. Load it onto a sled and then meet me down by the gate. Hurry now!’

“The page did as he was bid, and the king went and changed into his winter travelling clothes, kissed his sleepy wife and told her he’d be back for a late breakfast, and hurried down to the main gate.

“They’d gone maybe half an hour, trekking over the snow towards where the king had seen the beggar, when the moon clouded over, and it started to snow again. The page was really struggling with the sled, King Winkleman took the rope from him and told him to follow in his own footsteps, since whenever he put his big boots he made the snow really firm, until the snow could fill them up again.

“They struggled on for a few more minutes and found the beggar, huddled up against a lonely tree, trying not to end up as a one-person snowdrift.

“’Here you are, fellow, what are you doing out in this wretched storm?’ the king said, as if it was just a minor inconvenience to him.

“Oh, your majesty, sire, I was just lookin’ for somethin’ to keep my wife and kids warm, sire, beggin’ your pardon, sire.”

Willoughby used his voice in an imitation of the security chief’s accent, which caused a good few laughs.

“Well, my good fellow, you’d better take the contents of this sled and get it back to them as soon as you can. Which way do you live? ‘

“’Over yonder sire, a few leagues hence, by the spring that comes out from under the huge rock we calls the Mountain.’

“’Right, then, says the king, ‘will you be all right to get back there on your own, or shall I send my page with you?’

“’Oh, I’ll be all right, sire. The sun’ll be up right soon, and I’ll find my way all right, you be sure of it.’

“’Good, I’ll leave you to it, but if any of your family or friends need anything, you send to the castle and ask for it, you hear me?’

“And the beggar went off, since the snow had now stopped again, and the king watched as his sled left tracks in the fresh snow, showing the beggar was surely going in the right direction.

“’Well, now, my page, shall we get back to the castle and have some breakfast by a nice warm fire?’

“The page was shivering in the cold, and when they started off, he could hardly keep his feet in the fresh snow, which covered up all manner of lumps and bumps. It looked like the king and his page might be stranded out there, save for the sun coming up and lighting the way back to the castle for them, that and the king lifting up the page and putting him on his shoulders.

“So the king brought the page safely home, and ensured he got a nice hot breakfast, and when his courtiers had all staggered down to their breakfasts he called them together and told them off for sleeping while others were stuck out in the snow, and he got everyone to go out and deliver emergency rations to all the people living in the wilds within a league of his castle, just so they could see themselves through the worst of the winter.

“And the people all rejoiced and called him good king Winkleman.

“And that, my friends, is the end of this story – and it’s time for our feast, judging by the smell coming from those rooms over there! Don’t all rush at once!”

But his warning was in vain, for as he finished his tale the first big splobs of snow started to fall again, and people ran for cover, preferably in the nice warm kitchen where everyone was welcome to share in the Yuletide feasting.

(c) J M Pett 2014

Watch out for next week’s episode and don’t forget to enter the Christmas Giveaway.

 

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December on the Princelings website

It’s been quiet on here since August, when Bravo Victor went live in all ebook stores.  The books have been entered for various awards, without being selected, and I’ve been busy with other projects, including the Book Elves Anthology and the goodies I’ve got in store for you next month.

From Monday 1st December, for four weeks, you have a completely new set of stories written for you for the holiday season.  It’s called the Yuletide Narrathon, and, as you probably know, a Narrathon is a story-telling marathon in the realms.  Most castles have one during their Yuletide Festival.  After last year’s encounter with King Fred, Willoughby has managed to get himself a nice little engagement at Castle Marsh, and he’ll be narrating four of his winter stories for you, here, from next Monday.

Also during this Narrathon I’ll be having some extra special goodies as prizes in a Giveaway for you.  The sort of prizes that are completely unique to this website!  And probably signed by me, to you.

Happy Thanksgiving to all our American readers, and happy holidays to everyone else.

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Fred’s Yuletide Escape 3 – The Redshank

This is the third part of Fred’s Yuletide Escape.  If you missed the start, you can find it here.

King Fred of Marsh has decided to take off for a little adventure before his Yuletide duties start. He has just left his neighbours at Castle Wash and has to cross the causeway to reach the stage coaches, which refuse to come to the castle due to flooding.

Chapter 3: The Redshank

People accuse Castle Marsh of being desolate, but it is nothing compared with the causeway from Castle Wash.  The castle itself is safely nestled against the hillside at the edge of the vastness of sea called the Wash.

Fred pulled the blanket tighter around him as the wind plucked at it.  The chaise had high wheels, and at times they splashed through a few feet of water as it surged around them.  The causeway itself was a rocky road, smoothed by hard work and traffic, marked by a line of tall red and white painted posts, that ran dead straight from the bridge outside the castle to a low island, then across to another low island, then another, then a final long stretch to the low hills on the other side.  Whether you looked north or south from the chaise as it ran along the causeway, all you could see was sea and seabirds.  The grey sky merged with the grey water in the distance, and only a thin black line in the south showed you that there was an end to it that way.  At least at Castle in the Marsh there were reeds to keep you company.

Barley, the driver, turned round a couple of times to keep Fred posted on their progress.

“Nearly there, sir!”

“Only a few more minutes, sir.”

“Here we are, sir,” he chirruped as they drew up outside a low barn on a small hill about ten feet above the high water mark.  A painted sign on the wall announced it as “The Redshank, proprietors Archi and Py, also at The Cheeky Parrot, Wash.”

Fred eased himself out of his blanket and down onto the land.  It was dry, at least. Barley opened the door to the Redshank, and followed him in.  He had a quick word with the barman.

“Next stage will be for Seventh Happiness, sir.  Will that be all right for you?”

“Yes, Barley, that’ll be fine.  When will it arrive, do you think?”

Barley looked at the barman.

“Any time now, sir,” he responded.  “Would you like me to make up a snack for your journey?”

Fred suddenly remembered how long stages could take.  He also realised how long it had been since he’d journeyed anywhere overland. Instead of being daunted by the travelling, he suddenly relaxed,  smiling.  He thanked the barman, realised that Barley was waiting to make sure the stage arrived, so got him a drink, and then looked around The Redshank.

There were paintings of geese and other birds on the walls, and a few decorations such as corn dollies on the walls, but otherwise the place was a plain rest house, with wooden chairs and benches, where travellers could sit and wait. He looked out of the window at the sea and the causeway, and wondered about the tide.  Why would it be so much higher than usual, and for so long? Why hadn’t they noticed at Marsh?  Maybe George had.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the stagecoach.  Three passengers got out, and Fred realised that Barley had also waited to see if they needed transport to Wash.  They did.  Fred got his parcel of food from the barman, settled himself into the corner of the coach, and waited to set off again.

“Just be a few minutes, sir,” said the coachman, sticking his head through the window.

Fred acknowledged him, and shut his eyes, thinking about a snooze.  He was still thinking about it when the carriage gave a shudder and started moving.  Something was getting in the way of his snooze.  It was the coachman’s face.  He was sure he’d seen it before, and not driving a coach.

Dark comes early in December, and the light was already fading as they left the Redshank.  Now as the black of night surrounded them, Fred dozed to the clip-clop of the horses and let his memory gradually fit the face of the driver into the surroundings that it belonged to – the pirate ship called the Mare Swine.

(c) J M Pett

continues on Monday….