Pig Boy Michael a Harvey Ⓒ 2019 Michael A

Thank-you so much for agreeing to read this pre-publication version of Pig Boy. I hope you enjoy it and, if you have the time, it would be great to have any comments to help me move on with the next phase of editing. Please don’t hold back. I’d rather ﬁnd out now that something doesn’t work rather than after publication! I have put a list of questions at the end of the book if you want any prompts but I am more than happy for you just to tell me how you reacted to the book and how it can be improved. I do appreciate your time and I will send you a pre-publication paper copy and/or digital copy, according to your preference, when they are ready. Thanks once again, Best wishes, Michael www.michael-a-harvey.com [email protected]

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Chapter 1

Pig Boy was out the back. He swayed with the weight of the slop bucket as he walked towards the pigsty. With a grunt, he levered it up onto the top of the drystone wall of the sty. The pigs knew he was coming and had already trotted out to get their food before he arrived. Sometimes he felt as if they knew food was coming even before he filled the bucket. There they were. Three expectant faces, their mouths chomping in anticipation. It was as if they were trying to talk to him as they opened their slobbery jaws and bared their tusks. He tipped the bucket forward over the wall and felt it lighten. Then came the fat, wet noise of the slop hitting the trough below and he watched the pigs’ heads dive down and start guzzling. They gobbled and jostled, their bristled backs shaking to the rhythm of their chomping and, finally, two of them turned away and headed towards the sty, replete. Bristleback, the biggest, oldest and fattest of them, was more optimistic. He ran his snout along the length of the trough in search of the odd morsel, gently grunting to himself. Finally, he looked up at Pig Boy who had clambered onto the top of the wall, his feet dangling over the edge. Pig Boy sat there, with a hefty stick in his hand that had been leaning against the wall. When Bristleback came towards him the lad leaned forward and scratched the creature’s back with the stick. He scratched hard, the tough bristles flicking mud, dust and dried pig dung into the air. Pig Boy smiled. Here he was, sitting on a wall, scratching a contented and well-fed pig with a stick. What more could he want? Then he felt someone nearby and turned to see his youngest step-sister standing there, just looking up at him. She was the youngest and quietest and a girl to boot so he didn’t have much to do with her. He could see that she was trying to work out what to say and eventually she looked at him with a young child’s seriousness, and said, ‘Pig Boy, you need to come inside.’ Pig Boy followed her through the back door and into the main room, where the embers of the fire sent smoke curling up towards the thatch. The fireplace was in the middle of the floor and a shaft of smokey light

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 3 streamed in from the open door. His foster-family were all there and a tall, serious-looking stranger wearing a long woollen cloak stood, backlit, between him and the door. Much later when he looked back on what was about to happen it was all a blur. He remembered being hugged, words of blessing and his neck being squeezed by the arms of the youngest girl and then it was suddenly time to go. His mother was dead, that’s what they said. The journey ahead was long, his mother was dead. It was time for him to go home, his mother was dead. Someone squeezed his hand in theirs, his mother was dead. He was being led out through the door when, from deep inside him, he felt something wake up and he span round, held out his hand, and said, ‘Give me my ring!’ His foster-mother looked at her husband and he nodded. She went to a wooden box lying on the ﬂoor and, after rummaging for a moment, came back with a small linen parcel. He took it and slowly untied it, unwrapping the layers, feeling the hard metal of the ring inside reveal its shape and then, there it was, gleaming in the palm of his hand. He pushed it onto the ring ﬁnger of his right hand, looked at it shine and walked out of the house without looking back. The stranger who had come to fetch Pig Boy was already outside and was leading a young grey horse towards him. It was a long time since he had been on the back of a horse but as soon as he had the reins in his left hand and felt the leather of the saddle under his right, his body knew what to do. The stranger was bending forward, expecting Pig Boy to bend one leg so he could heave him up onto the saddle from his knee. But Pig Boy lifted himself up and swung his leg over the horse with no more effort than sitting on a chair. The man who had tried to help him made his way to his own horse and mounted, with a half-concealed smile on the his face. As they turned to go Pig Boy saw his foster-mother pour a perfunctory libation of water on the ground and his youngest foster-sister mouthing

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 4 the words of a farewell song. The others had already turned to go indoors. The two horsemen climbed a ridge a mile or two from Pig Boy’s foster- family’s house and then, on the higher land, they rode straight into a stinging, cold wind. Pig Boy kept his face up and let the wind scour his skin, peeling tears from his eyes and sending them spinning behind him. They kept silent company as they rode on and as the evening came, the weather softened. Pig Boy’s companion, who had been handpicked by his father for the job of fetching him home, watched him unobtrusively as they made their way to the home that the lad could barely remember. The man noticed, approvingly, how Pig Boy managed his horse. He had a natural balance and sway in the saddle and he could see how he was communicating with the horse with his whole body, not just yanking the reins and digging his heels in. The horse under him was calm and attentive and young man and creature had instinctively found a rapport, respect and pleasure in each other’s company. The man had been apprehensive when he first saw Pig Boy, fresh from the sty. He was uncouth and unskilled. More of a country bumpkin than the heir of a nobleman but watching him ride put the man’s mind at rest. His own mother had died when he was roughly Pig Boy’s age and he could feel the well of grief that was slowly filling inside his young charge. ‘My name is Owain,’ he said. Pig Boy did not respond. Later that evening, once camp had been made, Owain looked at the evening sky and gave Pig Boy a nudge. They left the newly lit fire gently smouldering and followed a slope down towards a river that tumbled over some rocks and then opened out into a pool. They both slowed down as they approached the water and then Owain silently picked up a fist-sized stone and put it in Pig Boy’s hand. ‘You’ll be needing this,’ he said. Then the man slowly and carefully approached the bank, took off his cloak and lay down along its length. His head was on the earth, his face turned towards the river. He slowly let the arm nearest the river glide into the water.

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There was a big female salmon facing upstream, gently beating her tail to remain stationery in the moving water. His fingers were under her belly and, as the fish drifted into a trance, he slipped his other hand into the water, still lying on his belly and with his head hanging over the bank. Gently, he let the fish relax and then, with a sudden fling and a shout, he threw the fish on the ground in front of Pig Boy. Pig Boy knelt down in front of the gasping fish and held the stone high in his hand. He fixed his gaze on the thin, pulsing gash of gill and readied himself to release the blow that would kill the fish. Owain watched the boy’s face and the pent-up energy in his body, waiting for the impact. But instead, he saw the force inside the lad drain away and his body start to crumple. All the intention and aim seeped out of him, his grip slackened and the stone fell from his grasp and landed in front of him with a thump. Owain grabbed the stone and bashed the life out of the fish and then turned towards Pig Boy, who was slowly slumping forward to the ground. He knelt down with him and put his arms around him, supporting him with his own body. A thin wail came from somewhere inside Pig Boy, slowly seeping out of him and Owain readied himself for what was to come. The well of grief slowly opened and flowed from him and out of him and through him. His hands clutched Owain’s sleeves and Owain held on to him, keeping him upright. After a while, the wail changed to a rhythmic keening and the two men slowly rocked. Owain’s grip slackened as Pig Boy took more of his own weight and then the two voices merged, Owain leading Pig Boy in a song for the dead. It was an old verse that Pig Boy had forgotten he knew that they sung again, by that riverbank. His dead mother’s name ‘Bright Day’ shone in the their singing.

The dimming of the day leaves me empty The stilling of the harp calls my tears I am swallowed whole by this grieving For you have gone, Bright Day, you have gone Too soon, too soon for your son

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They went back to their camp near the river and Owain let the exhausted Pig Boy rest as he thanked the fish and the river, and the Worlds that had made them. Then he made a fire and baked it in the ashes, wrapped in leaves. They ate silently together. Pig Boy savoured the delicate taste of the fish, the heat of it steamed in his mouth and his belly became full and warm. Suddenly he stopped chewing and, with his mouth half-full of fish, he asked ‘What’s my real name?’ ‘Well, its “Pig Boy,” of course.’ ‘No, that’s just what they called me at my foster-family’s house because they made me look after the pigs.’ ‘Not quite,’ said Owain. ‘From the moment you arrived all those years ago you wanted to look after the pigs. In fact when you got there you didn’t speak to anyone for about a month and, when they saw you muttering to the pigs, they made you look after them. You were quite good at it, apparently.’ ‘How do you know all this?’ asked Pig Boy, now a little irritated that this stranger knew more about him than he did himself. ‘Your foster-father knows your father well and brought news of you every time he visited.’ Pig Boy lapsed into silence. All these things had been arranged around him and he never had any idea. ‘But still, “Pig Boy”. What kind of a name is that?’ ‘A very good name indeed,’ said Owain, ‘when you know the story behind it.’ Pig Boy looked at the ring on his finger and gently turned it around, looking at the patterns cast into it and seeing how the different edges caught the firelight. This was his mother’s ring, the one she had given him when he left home all those years ago and, since then, he had never even looked at it. This gleaming and perfectly wrought piece of gold had once enclosed his mother’s finger and, here it was, gleaming on his own

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 7 hand and looking like it was always meant to be there. It made his hand look different. More grown-up. ‘So, tell me the story of why I’m called “Pig Boy”, then.’ ‘I can remember when she gave you that ring,’ said Owain. ‘It was the day you left for your foster-home. She pressed it into your hand, kissed you on the cheek, hugged you to her tightly for a moment and then turned to go inside, erect and graceful like the queen she was.’ Pig Boy lifted his hand to his cheek and remembered the warmth of his mother’s face when they embraced the day he left. In his memory, there was the faint brush of a tear but he couldn’t remember if it was hers or his own. ‘Your mother was quite a woman. “Bright Day” is a difﬁcult name to live up to but she certainly did. One of her sisters married King Arthur, you know! When she walked into a room she really did light the place up. When she married your father everyone had high hopes for the future but...’. Owain’s voice faltered and it was clear he had, without realising it, started a story that would be hard for Pig Boy to hear. ‘Keep going,’ said Pig Boy. ‘Well alright, but...’ ‘Keep going!’ ‘Well, when she became pregnant with you something really strange happened...’ One glance at Pig Boy was enough for Owain to realise he had to go on. ‘Well, like I was saying, once she was pregnant she went... she went completely mad. And I don’t mean just a bit strange but completely off her head. She stopped speaking and just made these weird animal noises and then she started to attack people. My wife went a bit peculiar for a while when she was expecting our eldest but nothing like this. I mean, your mother went properly crazy. She raved and screamed and tore at the eyes of those who wanted to help her. She ripped her clothes and yanked chunks of her hair out and one day she ran, barefoot and ragged, from the castle off into the woods and nobody, not even your own father, had the courage or the strength to stop her.’

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Owain was getting into his stride now and shouted, pulled terrifying faces and waved his arms as if he was the crazy one. Getting news like this about his recently deceased mother in such graphic and loud detail was a bit overwhelming but Pig Boy understood that this was a situation where it was either “all or nothing” and he had chosen “all”. Owain eye- balled Pig Boy and took a long, deep, breath ready to launch into the next episode. ‘In the woods, she squatted in her rags on the roots of a gnarled, old tree by a stagnant pool. She stared at the moon’s reflection and muttered and moaned as the baby grew inside her. Her hair became matted, her skin covered in scabs and insect bites, the nails on her hands and feet grew and curved into tough, yellow claws and she just sat there, stinking and crazy, chewing on roots and frogs. ‘Eventually her time came and as the intensity of the labour pains increased she suddenly came to her senses. As her mind cleared, she finally uttered the first coherent sentence since coming into the darkness of the woods. “What am I doing here? I’m about to have a baby. I need to get home!” ‘She struggled to her feet and walked until she found a path. Soon, she got her bearings, started to recognise landmarks and, before long, she knew that she was on the way home. After a while she was on a proper path that led her past fields and villages. “Soon be back home,” she said to the baby in her belly, as she walked heavily along the path. ‘Now, coming the other way was a man herding his pigs. He urged them on and swished his stick to get them down the road and they started to gather speed. There was a bend ahead and the man herded them round the corner. Right into the path of your mother! But, poor woman, she was exhausted by this time and didn’t have the strength to get out of the way. The pigs surged past her in a sea of grunting, yellow tusks and pig stink and your mother fell to the ground with a scream. It is a miracle that she wasn’t trampled to death and that you are around to hear this story at all! ‘Anyway, a few moments later, the swineherd turned the corner and he saw something that he would remember for the rest of his life. A naked, newborn baby lying in the road waving his arms and looking up at him.

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Yes, you!‘The swineherd picked the baby up, wrapped him in his coat and took him to the castle because there was no doubt that this was a noble child. They knew your mother couldn’t be far away and, before long, she was found and taken back to the castle. After washing herself and putting on her royal clothes once more, she ﬁnally had her baby in her arms. Your father gently embraced both her and you and she said, “What shall we call him?” Your father softly passed his hand over your head and said, “We’ll call him ‘Pig Boy.’”

It was a few day’s journey back to Pig Boy’s father’s court and they were in no particular hurry. Apart form one day of really foul weather, they slipped into a companionable routine of travel, talk, eating and early starts until the landscape around Pig Boy became familiar and started to call to him with stories of his people, his family and his own childhood. One day, as they rode, Pig Boy noticed that his friend was quieter than normal and seemed to be bothered by something. He tried to get a conversation going but Owain wouldn’t talk and in the end he had to ask outright. ‘What’s the matter? It feels like there’s something you’re not telling me.’ ‘I should have told you this before. When you were sent away to your foster family there were great hopes for you but there was a dispute between the family you were staying with and another family for the favour of the local lord and your foster-family lost out. Once a fostering arrangement has been made it cannot be changed so that’s why you ended up feeding the pigs for so long instead of training in all the skills a nobleman needs to have.’ ‘What skills are they?’ asked Pig Boy. ‘Well, horse riding for a start.’ ‘I can do that already.’ ‘So I see. But how are you at lifting weights, running, leaping, swimming and wrestling?’ ‘Pretty good,’ replied Pig Boy ‘but I might have to work on my swimming. How good do I have to be?’

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‘There’s a lake near your family home. It takes two hours to walk around it and you need to be able to swim across from one side to the other.’ ‘Lengthways or widthways?’ Owain smiled and went on. ‘You also need to be able to ﬁght.’ ‘I fought all the time with my foster-brothers.’ ‘I mean wrestling, fencing with a sword and buckler, fencing with a two- handed sword and using a quarter staff.’ ‘Will there be people to teach me at my father’s house?’ ‘Of course, your father himself and many others.’ They rode on in silence for a while as Pig Boy digested all this. Then Owain went on, ‘And there’s hunting, of course. Hunting with greyhounds, ﬁshing and falconry.’ ‘Will I have my own falcon?’ ‘Yes, of course.’ ‘I can’t wait to get started! Is there anything else?’ ‘Yes. Poetry.’ ‘Poetry? Are you serious?’ ‘Very serious indeed. If you can’t compose poetry in strict metre nobody will take you seriously.’ ‘What is strict metre?’ ‘It’s the length of the line, how you make the rhyme and the way the consonants balance from one line to the next.’ ‘That sounds complicated but I suppose once I’ve got this strict metre thing it won’t be so hard.’ ‘I’m afraid there’s more than one strict metre.’ ‘I’m frightened to ask how many.’ ‘Twenty four.’ ‘Twenty four!’ ‘I’m afraid so, and then you have to be able to play the harp, sing and draw a coat of arms.’ Pig Boy stared at Owain ‘Anything else?’

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‘Yes, you have to be able to play two different types of chess and tune a harp. You’ll get your own ivory-handled harp tuner.’ ‘Great,’ muttered Pig Boy. That night Owain could tell that Pig Boy was utterly overwhelmed by the tasks in front of him. All these things he had to master, including things he didn’t even know existed, like strict metre poetry. It was just too much. The two of them sat by the fire after a wordless supper. Pig Boy was glum and withdrawn. Owain finally broke the silence. ‘Pig Boy, I know it sounds too much but we’ve all had to do it and it’s not impossible. Yes, it will be more difficult for you because you’re starting out later but you’ll get there. It’s meant to be hard, that’s the point. And because it’s hard you will learn about the Worlds and yourself and be ready and skilled for what life will throw at you. And you’re not alone. You’ll have the best people to teach you and, remember, we are all here to help. All of us who have learnt are obliged to help those who are learning. You were not meant to spend the rest of your life looking after pigs.’ Owain leant in closer and pointed at Pig Boy’s hand and smiled. ‘What’s that on your finger? You have a destiny to fulfil.’ Pig Boy looked at the back of his hand and saw the sparkle of the ring. He turned it slowly in the firelight with the fingers of his other hand and watched it gleam. He missed his mother and he missed his pigs. The next morning, as they saddled the horses, Pig Boy asked, ‘Why was I fostered? After talking to you over the last few days I understand that it’s not something that happens to everyone. I want to know why I was taken from a royal court and sent to feed pigs so that now that I’m going back “home” I’m not even sure how to behave when I get there.’ Owain tightened the girth strap on his horse and came over to Pig Boy. He saw the hurt and confusion in his face, sighed, and tried to explain. ‘Sorry, Pig Boy. I wasn’t sure how much you knew. I can see that your foster-family has kept you in the dark. Well, maybe that was for the best. Anyway, your question deserves an answer.

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‘It is the custom for the sons of noblemen to be fostered with other noble families from the age of seven or so. We do this so that the different powerful families have a connection through fostering that makes war between them less likely. That is the theory but it doesn’t always work out. Sometimes boys make such a bond with their foster brothers that they side with them against their own families when the time comes to ﬁght. ‘Anyway, that certainly didn’t happen to you. It was just unlucky that they fell out of favour and you ended up having the childhood of a farm-hand not a young warrior chieftain.’ Pig Boy was surprised to feel himself bridling at this dismissal of his foster-family, which was confusing because he had been miserable and bored there. Why was he feeling so defensive? It certainly wasn’t because of his foster parents. The lads were good for a bit of rough and tumble but their play ﬁghts had begun to be much more real in the last couple of years and they would gang up on him if ever he looked like winning. The youngest step-sister? He had hardly even noticed her. He put one foot in the stirrup and was about to mount the horse when he knew the answer. Pig Boy was annoyed by Owain’s words about his foster family because he was feeling protective of the pigs he used to look after. Those pigs, how he missed them.Soon Owain and Pig Boy were on the home straight. Over the last few days they had a developed a rhythm of riding that suited them both. The easy stride of Owain’s horse counterpointed by the quicker pace of Pig Boy’s and its shorter, younger legs. Sometimes they would ride in silence and sometimes they would talk. Pig Boy started to quiz Owain about details of the home and parents that he could no longer remember. To begin with Owain hedged and edited his answers but before long, the rapport that grows between two people who have shat in the same woods for a week or so meant that there could no more half-truths or avoidance. It would only be a matter of a day or so before they got to the place that Pig Boy was now referring to as “home” and he was both eager to get there and, at the same time, not in any hurry at all. This was a journey which he knew he would never take again and he wanted to feel its

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 13 progress. Suddenly he stopped and turned to face Owain. Owain looked down at his friend’s face and knew there was a big question on the way. ‘Owain, how did my mother die?’ Owain sighed and smiled thinly. ‘She got sick, Pig Boy. She got sick and nobody could help her. The doctors and magicians came and they soon realised that there was nothing they could do. She faced death with clarity and certainty and thinking of you. She called your father and asked him to make her a promise. Of course, the promise that is made to someone on their deathbed is one that simply must be kept. Your father leaned in, holding on to her hand to catch every word she said. And what she said was strange. “When I am dead and buried,” she said, “you will want to remarry.” She smiled at your father’s demurring. “Do not worry, it is right and good that you marry again for the sake of your dynasty but listen now to the promise I want you to make. Before you remarry you must wait until you see a double-headed thorn growing out of my grave”. Suddenly she was coughing and having trouble breathing and your father called for a doctor. “No.” said your mother, her eyes shut and her face tight with pain, “Not the doctor. Call the priest.” The priest arrived and was shown into your mother’s bedroom. As you know, it is very bad luck for healthy people to hear the ﬁnal prayer of the dying and so it was just the priest and your mother in the room. He prepared himself, shut his eyes brieﬂy while resting his hand on hers and then turned to her to recite the death prayer and anoint her. Suddenly, with the last of her strength, she grabbed hold of the priest’s wrist and stared into his face with her dim, yellow eyes. “This is my dying wish,” she hissed, “which you must obey. Weed my grave! Weed my grave so that nothing ever grows there.” ‘This strange and urgent request scared the priest and the power of her wish was such that he couldn’t possibly resist. Her face, her eyes and the feeling of her bony hands on his wrist never left him. And when he

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 14 felt that ghostly grip in the months and years that followed he just had to go to the graveyard and weed her grave, no matter what time of day or night it was, or whatever else he was supposed to be doing. ‘He got a bit unhinged towards the end and began to drink and after a few years he died and we only know that any of this happened because when he got particularly drunk one day, he told someone about the promise. And that was that, the word was out.’ Owain paused and looked at Pig Boy to check he was still taking all this in. The lad was alert and expecting more so Owain carried on. ‘Now listen to me. Be careful with your words, Pig Boy. When I was your age I thought that words were just for getting what you wanted or explaining things or having a laugh. But words are much more important than that. Words make the Worlds, Pig Boy, Once they’re out there they will work their way for good or evil and there is nothing you can do about it.’ Pig Boy was suddenly very aware of all the careless, stupid and cruel things he had ever said. He wondered how much harm they were doing in the world and how long it would be before he found the harm he had done coming back to get him. And then every phrase that popped into his head seemed tainted with some ulterior motive. He could feel insincerity lurking under his impulse to thank Owain. Hypocrisy and vanity hid in the declaration to use words wisely and kindly. Nothing seemed like the right thing to say. And then Pig Boy remembered what Owain had said about the weeding of the grave and he said, ‘What happened next?’ ‘Every year on the anniversary of your mother’s death your father would go and sit in vigil in front of her grave. Each year he would return. And each year your mother’s grave was as bare and barren as the day she had been buried. After a couple of years he realised that something strange was going on. His wife’s grave had remained stoney and bare while all the others were a tangle of wild ﬂowers and thorns. ‘One day your father and his friends went hunting. It was one of those days when nothing goes right. The hare and boar were nowhere to be

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 15 seen and your father became separated from his companions and his dogs. He called out but there was no response from any direction in the woods. He blew his hunting horn but the only reply was the empty echo of his own call. ‘Your father has known the woods round here since he was younger than you are now so he couldn’t explain how exactly it was that he got lost, but get lost he did. He wandered for hours and hours and eventually was planning to spend a night up a tree to avoid the attention of wolves and bears when he suddenly got his bearings. He was not far from your mother’s grave. He walked into the graveyard and stood in front of it. And there, growing out of it, with clusters of tiny white flowers sprouting from it, was a double-headed hawthorn.’ There was a pause while this part of the story sank in and then Pig Boy blurted out, ‘What? So my father has remarried?’ ‘Yes, Pig Boy, he has. But remember, when you are a leader of men, love and marriage are not the same as it is for other people, like myself. And it is particularly important that you realise this now so there is no confusion about your place in the world. ‘Our leaders marry as leaders and not as men. For them that means that love is not the beginning of something but a quality to be worked at over the years and, if the Worlds will it, then love might grow and flourish.’ ‘I think I understand.’ said Pig Boy, understanding nothing. ‘Now, please tell me who he as married.’ ‘A grand council was called and your father’s advisers said that he should marry the wife of King Doged. The fact that she was married to King Doged was a problem soon solved by killing him in battle, invading and occupying his territory and seizing his wife.’ Owain saw the look of shock and confusion in Pig Boy’s face and continued. ‘Listen, I know it’s difficult for you to understand, especially since this is all so new, but that is how things are. There are winners and losers and you need to know which one you want to be. And don’t feel too sorry for your father’s new wife. She’s a canny and wily operator herself and

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 16 remember that, although none of this was her idea, the result is that she is now the queen of twice the amount of territory than she was a few months ago.’ Pig Boy didn’t know how to respond. The adult world that he was about to enter suddenly seemed like a place where people were more capricious and irresponsible than children. Except they had much more power and the potential to do real damage. As well as being armed with the brains to justify all this pain and violence as something normal, inevitable and good. He made a silent promise to himself never to get sucked into the world where killing and cruelty are justiﬁed in terms of the beneﬁts people think they bring, or the inability to imagine a better future. And he would certainly never walk into a marriage ceremony, with its depth and hope and promise, because it was expected or expedient. Owain saw how quiet and serious his young friend had become and put a big, heavy hand on his shoulder and, smiling, said, ‘You’ll learn.’

It was another day’s journey to the fort where he had been born and he wondered how it would be when he arrived. When would the ceremony of his mother’s death and the celebration of her life take place? What would be his role? How should he greet his father? Everyone would be watching him now. He was no longer a child and his every action was public. However no amount of forethought and conjecture could have prepared him for what was about to happen. They rode on together and round the next corner they saw the ramparts of his father’s court and the smoke rising from the hall. “Home” thought Pig Boy. The word felt lumpy and hard in his mind. Of course, everyone was waiting for him and knew when he would arrive, so Pig Boy was expecting a certain amount of formality but walking through the palisade and into the courtyard where he had played as a child was very strange. A welcome song was started and he stood in the middle of the group, taking in the rise and fall of the melody and the strangeness of the old words. As the song ﬁnished the circle opened and he was clearly meant to walk into the main hall. The refrain was kept up until he disappeared

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 17 into the smokey darkness of the hall and the big wooden doors were shut behind him. It took him a moment to get used to the smoke and the gloom. He could hear his own breath and feel the warmth of the smokey hall seep into his face and body. The smoke stung his eyes but indistinct shapes slowly began to appear in front of him as he got used to being inside. He was expecting to see his father on the great chair in front of him but instead there was a woman he had never seen before. She was tall and slender and wore clothes that were not in his people’s style. She sat upright with her arms resting on the arms of the chair and her rings glinted in the firelight. He could just make out a figure waiting in the shadow of the wall to one side of the chair. ‘Welcome, Pig Boy!’ said the woman in the chair, ‘A warm welcome indeed and I am happy to be able to give you excellent news.’ She sat there in the silence after her words, clearly expecting Pig Boy to respond in some way. Gradually, some of the pieces of this puzzle began to fall into place. This woman in front of him could be none other than his father’s new wife. Protocol decreed that he should go to her and they exchange a kiss of kinship and then she would probably give him a significant gift. Maybe one of the rings she was wearing. He stood rooted to the spot utterly unable to move, his mind paralysed. Pig Boy watched a tightness creep across her face. He saw her eyes flicker and knew that she was going to change tack. She hissed something to the figure to her left and a young woman stepped forward. Not a servant at all, as he had thought, but a young noblewoman. Slender and shy, wearing a new-looking dress of soft wool and jewellery that looked just a bit too heavy and big for her. ‘Pig Boy,’ said his step-mother, gesturing towards the girl, ‘This is my daughter.’ Pig Boy looked at the girl and she looked away, the two of them suddenly angular and awkward in this strange game that neither of them understood. ‘And she shall be your wife!’

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Pig Boy couldn’t have been more shocked if the woman in front of him had sprouted wings, flown into the air, dived into the fire and disappeared. He managed to control the spinning he felt in his head and the weakness in his legs. Then he heard his own voice echo off the walls. ‘Forgive me. I cannot do that. I am too young to marry’. His step-mother stared as his refusal sank in. This was impossible. She had been dragged away from her own country to marry this simpleton’s father after the death of his crazy wife and the only way for her to get some control back was to get her daughter married off to this Pig Boy and get some royal babies in the palace as soon as possible and then her grandchildren would be ruling this place and then, finally, she would have some real power. Pig Boy could feel that there was a scream coming. A deep and full silence filled the hall and he felt as if he was suspended in mid-air. When his step-mother breathed in she seemed to suck in all the air in the room. There was a moment’s stillness and a curse poured out of her like a poisonous snake. It slithered round the room and searched him out. The words poured over him and through him and it felt like they were flowing through his veins until his own blood took up their song. ‘You,’ she said, ‘will hold no woman in your arms and will call no woman your wife unless you marry Olwen, the daughter of the Hawthorn Giant.’ The words were simple yet he didn’t really understand them and. As he heard them, the strangest things were happening inside his body. Whole parts of him that he had never been aware of came to life. He could feel every detail of the marrow of his bones, the gathering of nerves in his belly and the brooding strength of his liver just as he was normally aware of his arms and legs. And all these familiar and strange parts of himself began to groan and sing with love for this Olwen, whoever she was. A longing that he knew would only be satisfied when he married her. He could hear a strange discordant song and was astonished to realise that it was coming from inside his own body.

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We are poisoned with love Your heart will clang out of tune Your liver will brew sickness from your longing The marrow of your bones will fester like a sore Your blood will boil, spin and shriek Your joints squeal like a rusty gate This curse is yours This curse is ours This curse is love We will not let you forget

At some point the woman and her daughter must have swept out because the next thing he remembered he was all alone with the heat of this longing inside him and no idea what to do about it. The intensity of the pain began to fade and he tried to get to his feet. Then there was a hand on his shoulder and a man’s voice said, ‘What’s the matter?’ Pig Boy let himself be helped up. He was disorientated after that strange attack and still couldn’t string words together. He smiled gratefully at the kindness of this stranger and watched the eyes of the man crease as he smiled back. The face was in early middle age with a full mouth under a thick dark beard, streaked with grey. There was a moment when he just saw a man’s face and kindness and then he realised who he was looking at. It was his father. He immediately tried to kneel, as he knew he was meant to do after not seeing his father for so long, but he lost his balance and the big man grabbed him round the shoulders and helped him over to a bench at the side of the room. His father held on to him, keeping him upright until he was able to support his own weight. They both sat there and waited for Pig Boy to feel strong enough to raise his head. Finally he started to falteringly explain what had just happened. His father looked pensive and said, ‘That is not how it was meant to be. However what’s done is done and you have to face up to this curse and all it brings. Face it and the

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Worlds will help you. Face it and people will help you and you will have friends for life. Face it with all the forces of the Worlds that you have recruited unknowingly in your short life and we will have a story to tell.’ Pig Boy was beginning to get annoyed with this talk of “the Worlds”. What were people on about? It didn’t make any sense to him. Nobody had ever talked about “the Worlds” when he was looking after pigs. His father turned to him and spoke. ‘I have no idea who this Olwen is and I have never heard of the Hawthorn Giant so I can’t help you. You need the help of the wisest, the bravest and the strongest so you will have to go to the fortress of your cousin, King Arthur.’ Pig Boy looked at his father who smiled at him and said ‘But you can’t go in that state. Come with me.’ Pig Boy staggered outside after his father with a hundred questions inside his head. He still wasn’t sure what had just happened to him. First of all he was engaged and then he unengaged himself and then the woman who was no longer his mother-in-law had cursed him and his whole body started to torture him and then his father, who he hadn’t seen since he was seven, pops up and tells him that he is a cousin of King Arthur and, what’s more, he’s about to go and see the king to recruit him to help him marry the daughter of some giant. It was all a bit sudden. Pig Boy walked beside his father to the stable. He looked inside and saw a beautiful pale-faced stallion who snorted him a greeting. His father called the servants in and they carried in weapons and clothes and, as they laid everything out, Pig Boy ran his hand along the horse’s back and then put his arm over its neck and said ‘Looks like you and I are going on an adventure.’ The horse nodded. Nobody really knows what happened between father and son in that stable. The half a dozen stablehands who were in there with them never breathed a word of what went on during the day and a half they were locked in there.

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Pig Boy himself could not have told you what went on, although he had vague memories of his father’s voice intoning words he couldn’t quite follow. He could remember his head beginning to spin and he saw the faces of a lot of people pass in front of him. He had a dream of animals who talked to him and, although he could not understand the words, he could follow the meaning. There was a lot of chaotic fighting with horrible images of mutilated bodies and screams of victory. A hawk flew over a lake on whose banks hundreds of purple foxgloves grew and swayed in the sun and then there was a deep, empty and endless darkness. When he woke up from whatever state he had been in he was in the stable with his father nearby. He felt quite calm and alert. The servants were quietly brushing down the horse and he could see daylight filtering between the planks of the stable wall. As he got to his feet he saw a set of stunning clothes and exquisite weapons laid out, just for him. When the stable door finally opened the crowd that had gathered outside didn’t recognise the young man who came out. The word went round and all the men and women of the court came out and were startled by what they saw. The lanky lad, who looked like he’d been made form a pile of random, cast-off bits and pieces, rode out of there gleaming like a young god on horseback. He only stopped to look at them briefly with an impassive gaze and then he imperiously twitched the reins and he was off to the court of King Arthur. The nobles the servants, the warriors and the wise men, medicine women and children all started to sing, lifting their voices in cascading harmonies, carrying Pig Boy on his way long after he was out of sight.

Ride Pig Boy, ride Ride that pale faced stallion May the gold of your reins and saddle Shine like the sun May your battle-axe Draw blood from the wind

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May your gold hilted sword Sing in the air.

Let the clods of earth Lifted by the hooves of your horse Fly around your head Like swallows in the summer. May your purple cloak billow Like the sails of a ship. May you take the arrow’s path To the door of Arthur’s court.

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Chapter 2

And so, Pig Boy rode all the way to the door of King Arthur. To the legendary king of the Island of Britain himself. The door in question was firmly locked and bolted and there were no signs of life. A shrill wind spat sharp rain in his face, the water soaked through to his skin and Pig Boy shivered. Since nobody was coming to let him in he got off his horse and hammered on the great oak door. He hammered until his fists hurt and the echoes billowed through the interior of the great building. There was no response so he thumped with his fists again and yelled for the gatekeeper to come and open up. Still nothing. An angry warmth started to grow from deep inside him. He felt his lungs suck in the chill air and he bellowed, ‘Is there a gatekeeper?’ He heard his own words echo along the corridors and halls inside and was taking another breath to shout again, when he heard a shuffling noise approach the other side of the door. ‘Yes there is!’ a man’s voice snapped, ‘I am the gatekeeper in Arthur’s court tonight and my name is Bravegrey Mightygrasp. What do you want?’ ‘I have come to see King Arthur, King of the Island of Britain and keeper of the Thirteen Treasures. Open the door!’ ‘No.’ ‘What do you mean, “no”?’ ‘Well,’ the voice explained ‘knife has gone into meat, wine has been poured into cup, there is coming and going in Arthur’s court and none may enter except the first born son of a mighty king, a master craftsman or a master musician and I can tell just by the tone of your voice that you are none of those. Now, go away!’

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All the bravura and swagger wilted inside Pig Boy. He felt utterly defeated, standing in the wind and stinging rain, ridiculous and miserable. He looked at the horse who stood right beside him, his ears pricked and nostrils flared for adventure. The horse shook his head and jangled the rich ornaments on his bridle and snorted his disapproval. Pig Boy looked down at himself and saw his rich purple cloak, trimmed with gold, his gold-hilted sword and felt the weight of the twisted gold torque round his neck. Then he summoned whatever words and magic had been uttered in that stable over the previous day and a half, lifted his head and shouted with a voice that rattled the iron studs in the door. ‘Open the door! If you do not I will go from here and wherever I go I will bring shame and disgrace on your head and the head of your king for your churlishness and lack of generosity!’ There was no response. ‘And before I go, I will shout three times!’ Pig Boy could feel the man listening through the door and he was almost certain he had his ear to the crack between the two mighty doors so he stepped forward and spoke, firmly and gently, about two inches away from where he was sure the man’s ear was cocked. ‘At my first shout, all the men in Arthur’s court will lose their strength!’ He waited for a moment for the implications of this to sink in and then drew another breath. ‘At my second shout, all the pregnant women in Arthur’s court will miscarry!’ Pig Boy thought he heard a gulp from the other side of the door at the horror of this threat. ‘And at my third shout,’ his voice crescendoed to a terrible bellow ‘all the women who are not pregnant in Arthur’s court will be barren for ever!’ Which would mean the end of the kingdom and Arthur as king. There was a pause and then a more hesitant version of Mightygrasp’s voice came through from the other side of the crack. ‘Don’t go away. I’ll see what I can do.’

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Apart from turning away unwanted guests one of Mightygrasp’s favourite things was the moment he walked into the feasting hall with news from the gate. The voices would still and all eyes would turn to him. The king himself would give him his attention and say the words that Mightygrasp loved to hear. ‘Gatekeeper, is there news from the gate?’ Mightygrasp milked the pause that followed for all it was worth and, with a bow to his king, launched into his news, beginning with a long preamble. ‘My lord, great king, son of Uthr Bendragon, I have been with you on your campaigns and journeying all over the world and have seen many great and unforgettable things in my time in your service.’ All this was supposedly directed at the king but, of course, he was playing to all those seated around the feasting hall. This was for the everyone’s beneﬁt and he cast his gaze round the intently listening faces, enjoying the way that they hung on his every word and how his sing-song cadences and perfectly timed pauses kept them on the edge of their seats. ‘We have travelled together through the whole wide world.’ He was getting into his rhythm now and strode around the hall, pausing and gesticulating at just the right moment, ﬁlling the great hall with expectation and wonder. ‘We have been in Scandinavia, France, Greater India and Lesser India.’ Everyone there had heard it all many times before and, although Mightygrasp was seriously overplaying his role, nobody begrudged his demands on their attention and his hammy delivery, in fact they loved him for it. ‘We have visited Lotor and Ffotor together and also Sal and Salach.’ As you can hear, he was not afraid of simply inventing places he was supposed to have visited with Arthur. This was all for effect. A way of delaying the moment of giving the actual news he was supposed to deliver, which was a moment he could no longer put off.

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‘In all those lands we have seen many great, mighty and fantastic kings but, never, in all our travels together have I seen a man as startling and extraordinary as the man who now stands at your door.’ This last word was delivered at such a pitch that it made the rafters ring, and then Arthur replied. ‘Well if you came in walking, go out running! It does not do to keep such a man waiting in the wind and rain.’ Mightygrasp scuttled out, pleased with his performance and gently glowing with post-show satisfaction. As the hum of conversation filled the hall once more, a tall, slim figure turned to Arthur and spoke. It was Cai, his greatest warrior. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘if you took my advice you would not change the rules of this court for the sake of one young stranger.’ ‘Cai, my friend. Do not worry. It is through our generosity that our fame spreads. And, in any case, if he is half as good as Mightygrasp says, he will be well worth seeing.’ Mightygrasp pulled back the wooden bar that held the double doors firmly shut. Servants rushed to join him and, together they heaved the gates open open so that Pig Boy could enter. Pig Boy had remounted and they were expecting him to get off his horse so they could stable him but that is not what happened. Pig Boy trotted past them, straight towards the doors of the hall. Mightygrasp and the servants stared after him. The doors of the feasting hall were opened and, even then, Pig Boy did not dismount but slowed his horse to a walk. Then, in front of the astonished gaze of all those present, he rode right up to the king and looked down at him from his finely wrought and gold-inlaid saddle, one hand on the reins, the other on his hip. Some of those surrounding the king exchanged glances. Just the right mixture of impudence and respect combined with a lively sense of occasion. If nothing else this would be a great story to tell later and, as events turned out, they certainly weren’t wrong. ‘High King Arthur, I come to you to ask a favour. If you grant me the favour I will prove myself worthy of it but if it is denied then I will go

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 27 through this great wide world bringing shame and disgrace on your head for your lack of generosity.’ All eyes were on the king now. ‘Ask for what you want, young stranger, and you shall have it, whatever it may be. Just name it and I will get it for you.’ The king paused. ‘As long as it is not my sword, or my throne, or my knife, or my horse, or my cloak, or my dog, or my boat, or my spear.’ The queen discreetly touched her husband’s arm. ‘Or my wife.’ he added. ‘The thing that I want is no small thing,’ Pig Boy said, his young voice resounding round the hall, ‘and I ask for it not merely in my own name but in the names of all those assembled here.’ He cast his gaze wide amongst all the great and famous people gathered there and every single one had their eyes trained on him, waiting for what would happen next. One by one he started to name every single person gathered in the hall. He would catch someone’s eye and sing out their name and tell one of the stories about them. He looked at the tall, slim man sitting in the seat of honour beside the king and, gesturing towards him, his voice rang out. ‘I name Cai! The greatest warrior in Arthur’s court. He defeats all those who stand against him. We have all heard of the heat his body gives off in battle. It is enough to melt the snow on a mountain peak, enough to warm a company of men on a winter’s night. ‘Let me tell you of how he can hold his breath for nine days and nine nights, even underwater if need be. If he takes a piece of iron in his hand with him, when he emerges from the river that piece of iron will be as dry as a bone for a hand’s breadth above and below where he holds it. All because of the heat of his body.’ There were nods of approval and admiration from some around the hall. So far so good. ‘I name Bedwyr! Another of Arthur’s greatest warriors. He can kill and wound more quickly with one hand tied behind his back, than three men

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 28 can with both hands free. He is also one of Arthur’s most handsome warriors.’ Pig Boy was only too aware that his praise of Bedwyr was not nearly as fulsome as the treatment he had given Cai. In an inspired moment, he had chosen to appeal to the most vulnerable and dangerous part of a warrior’s character to make up for it. His vanity. And it seemed to have worked, Bedwyr was smiling. He named Gwrhir Gwarthegfras, the tall man with the fat cattle. He named Taliesin the chief of all poets with the shining forehead of prophecy and inspiration. He named Gwyn ap Nudd the King of the Otherworld. He named the wise, the brave and the famous. He named, the eagle-eyed, the sharp-eared and the great eaters. He named the beautiful, the ugly, the ferocious and the sly. Each and every one was named and each and every one had his story told by Pig Boy. All he had to do was catch someone’s gaze, see their face for an instant and immediately the story jumped complete from his mouth. The crowd loved it. He took his focus to different parts of the hall, keeping everyone on their toes, wondering whose name would be called next. He had no idea where any of this was coming from. His guess was that it had something to do with that strange couple of days in the stable but he didn’t really care. Right now his voice was ringing out and the stories were flowing and everyone was having a great time. When he had finally finished Arthur said, ‘Very impressive, young man. Now come and sit by me and tell me who you are’. Pig Boy got off his horse and bowed in front of the king and then sat on a chair beside him. Food and drink were served to all and they fell to eating and drinking and started to talk about what had just happened, shaping it into a story with their wonder and laughter. The king listened intently as Pig Boy recited his family tree. Once he had finished following each sprawling line of his family for nine steps in each direction, as he had been taught, Arthur smiled and nodded.

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‘Your mother and my mother were sisters. You and I are cousins. And as a cousin you shall be honoured.’ Suddenly, a chair was placed in front of Arthur and Pig Boy was led towards it by some servants and invited to sit down. The king was on his feet and another servant appeared holding an ornately carved wooden box. Arthur turned towards the servant, opened the box and took out a gleaming golden comb and a pair of golden shears. Pig Boy felt his hair and scalp being scraped through by the metal teeth of the comb and then the wrench and tug as his cousin, the King, pulled the knots free. All around him he could hear murmured conversation as those who could see told those who were not close enough, what was going on. Then Pig Boy heard the dry, slicing noise of the shears cutting through his hair and he watched the curls of his hair fall, glinting, into his lap. Suddenly Arthur came round to face him, looking right down into his eyes, and said, ‘So now, Cousin, tell me what it is you want that is so important.’ The room had fallen silent and everyone leant forward to hear the boy’s request. ‘I need to ﬁnd Olwen, the daughter of the Hawthorn Giant, so I can marry her.’ The king stroked his beard and said, ‘Pig Boy, I’m afraid I have never heard of the Hawthorn Giant or his daughter Olwen. But don’t worry, look around you.’ Pig Boy turned and saw all faces turned towards him, their eyes shining with glee at the coming adventure. ‘She shall be found!’ roared the king and everyone cheered and pounded the tables. Pig Boy had managed to be magniﬁcent, arrogant, stylish, assured and loud without a break ever since he paraded out of his father’s stable on the back of his stunning horse, dressed to kill. Now he was beginning to feel that the magic in the words his father had uttered and the strange, quiet lilting cadence he had used, was beginning to wear off. The clothes didn’t feel like his anymore. He felt his voice was about to falter and that

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 30 tears were about to prick his eyes. Here he was sitting right beside the legendary king of the Island of Britain. But now he just felt exhausted and a complete phoney. Arthur looked at him and Pig Boy felt his gaze look right into him. No amount of bluster or magic could fend off that look and he let himself be seen. He felt Arthur size him up quietly and completely, without comment or judgement. ‘You can’t do this alone,’ said the king. Arthur took his gaze into the hall and the chatting and laughter stilled. He raised his cup and called out, ‘A quest!’ ‘A quest!’ they all responded and after a ragged start the voices began to blend in song, reinvigorating Pig Boy with confidence and verve. Confidence and verve for precisely what or how he was going to achieve it, was not yet clear, but suddenly he felt supremely confident. Whatever was going to happen next was both all about him and completely out of his hands, which was just as well.

Step bold on the path and your way will be clear Look bright-eyed on the worlds and they will help The moon’s gaze and the star’s guidance be yours The sun’s glory and gleam to lead you The secrets of the night’s dark to counsel you A lithe and supple body To bear the marks of journeying A broad mind and neat tongue For the telling when you return We shall make a story of you For your hollow bones to resound to Get ready for your ﬁrst step Make it free and clear and bright Now tell us who goes with you Name them and let their names gleam.

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Arthur had been casting his gaze over the crowd and once more Pig Boy felt the energy of all these people coursing through him and the heat of the King beside. Suddenly the thudding baritone of the king’s voice filled the hall. ‘I call on Cai, shining hero and great warrior. Subtle minded and unwavering!’ Cai rose and walked over towards Pig Boy. He only took a few steps before Arthur spoke again. ‘I call on Bedwyr, strong, singleminded and supple! I call on Tracker, who can find a path to any destination in the world, even places he has never been himself! I call on Gwrhir, who can speak every language in the world including the languages of the animals! I call on Gwalchmai, who has never gone on a quest without coming back with the thing he’s gone to get! And I call on the magician and sorcerer, Menw, to protect you with spells and enchantments!’ One by one the men who were called came over to Pig Boy and space was made for them to sit together. Soon they were drinking, eating and laughing. As the men were teasing Pig Boy good-naturedly the Queen came over to them and they made a place beside Pig Boy for her. She sat upright, gently smiled, and spoke, ‘May the worlds smile on you on your journey Pig Boy. I see you wear your mother’s ring. I have one similar’ And she held up her hand for him to see and it was soon clear which one she meant. Keeping company with the other rings was one which seemed exactly the same as the one he wore on his finger. She leant forward and gently touched Pig Boy’s hand with the tip of her finger, touching both the metal of the ring and the flesh of his finger. ‘Remember this ring that encloses your flesh, blood and bone. It was my dear sister who gave it to you and I remember when it was first given to her.’ She smiled and said, ‘Your hands remind me of hers.’ Then she looked into his eyes and said, ‘Remember the ring and it will help you.’

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She rose and went back to sit with Arthur. The noise of the feasting hall began to swirl around Pig Boy once more. The next day calm and routine were restored in Arthur’s court. Pig Boy could hear shouts from the gate and a bronze horn blaring and then the noise of horses galloping into the courtyard. He was curious and went to see who had arrived. A group of horsemen were dismounting and he was delighted to see Owain amongst them. Owain grinned broadly when he saw him and the two strode towards each other, each bringing his hand to touch his own heart. Then they embraced like lifelong friends even though they had only spent a few days in each others’ company. ‘I have some business with the king,’ said Owain, ‘but I wanted to ﬁnd you ﬁrst.’ ‘Thank the Worlds!’ said Pig Boy, ‘Things have gone really well so far but I still don’t really know what I am doing or how I am going to do it.’ ‘Don’t worry. We used a bit of magic on you in the stable before you left and we were able to teach you all those names and the stories that go with them. Don’t worry, you’ll have them for ever. I just needed to tell you that from now on it won’t be so easy. There’s only so much learning you can do with magic, the rest you have to learn properly. So don’t lose any opportunity to learn, no matter how hard it is. You will get the hang of all those things we talked about on the way to your father’s house. It will take a bit of time but you will get there. You have the best teachers you could ever meet around you, right here. All you have to do is ask.’ A servant was walking towards Owain from the hall ‘The king wants me. I’d better go.’ And he was gone.

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Chapter 3

Pig Boy woke early the following morning. The air was chill above the covers and he wanted to dive back into sleep but his mind wouldn’t let him. The other young men around him were still heavy with sleep but not Pig Boy. He heaved himself out of bed and hurriedly got dressed, his teeth chattering. The morning light was cool and pristine and the noises made by those who were up and about sounded muted and far off. He was so pleased that Owain had taken the time to talk to him yesterday. It helped explain how his entry and acceptance into Arthur’s court had been possible. He wanted to ﬁnd out more about the magic that had been used on him but that would have to wait for another time. He went into the hall and ate breakfast on his own. He looked around for Owain but he wasn’t there. Then he saw the men that he would ride out to the giant’s castle with and he went over to where they were sitting and joined them. Cai, tall and lean, the greatest of warriors, was there but didn’t take part in any of the banter. Bedwyr, darker and more thick-set, was more interested in other people and laughed easily. Tracker was shorter and clean-shaven and had darting eyes. For a man who could speak every language in the world and communicate with the animals, Gwrhir didn’t say much. But when he did he always seemed to be listening to the meaning behind the words rather then what was on the surface, which Pig Boy found disconcerting. Gwalchmai was easy and likeable. Gruff and extrovert he enjoyed talking and kept the banter going, provoking and teasing the others. Menw the magician was the quietest and smallest of the lot. Wiry and pale and with various small leather bags of magic ingredients hanging from his belt. He had a secret smile that would suddenly ﬂicker over his face and then vanish.

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There was a shout from the stable outside. They walked outside to where seven horses had been prepared for them. Pig Boy was happy to see that they had prepared the grey horse from his father’s stable for him. The young stallion shook his head and stamped in greeting. Many of those who had been in the feast were there to see them off, although there were also many who could not rouse themselves from sleep after the excesses of the night before. The dawn made everything look fragile and new. Pig Boy found it strange to see these people who had been so glorious and extravagant the night before just being normal people, doing daily chores that needed to be done and huddling into their cloaks to keep warm. They seemed very pale and ordinary compared to the grandeur, boasting and laughter of the night before. Nobody talked much and the sound of the horses’ hooves and the jangle of the bridles and bits were softened by the morning air as the misty breath of men and horses mixed in the dawn light. When it was time to go a gentle lilting song of farewell started from somewhere in the crowd. It was the women’s voices that started it and then the men joined in. Pig Boy had heard better singing but it was touching in its fragility, as people gave the gift of their ﬁrst-thing-in- morning voices. As they turned their horses’ heads to set off someone poured a libation of water to fend off bad luck. A few people waved, a couple of women blew gentle, morning kisses and others yawned as the crowd melted back into the warmth inside. They rode and rode and rode. Each time the path divided Tracker indicated the way and on they went. Each morning the seven of them would rise at dawn and ride steadily and patiently until, eventually, they got to a part of the world that none of them had either visited or heard of before. A broad, featureless plain spread out forever in front of them. They rode for weeks through this nameless place without seeing a single village or the smoke from a single house. Finally, the endless monotony of the plain gave way to a few hills. These hills grew in size as they travelled. They were covered in a mixture of forest and grazing land.

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‘Thank the Worlds,’ said Bedwyr ‘finally we can find something decent to eat.’ They had been surviving on the rations they had taken with them and the meagre pickings they scavanged in this empty and desolate place. But now the hills around them were covered in bright, fresh grass and soon they saw sheep grazing and, before long, they were in a fertile hilly landscape. That night, they camped in a sheltered woodland with a bright, lively river nearby and someone else’s sheep staked out in front of a fire, gently barbecuing. They set off full of hope the next morning and, round the next corner, they saw a castle. Even from a long way off they could see that it was stone built and impregnable. They guessed that they would arrive before nightfall but, when they made camp, it still seemed as far off as when they had first seen it. The next day they rose early and rode hard but, even by the end of that day, they did not seem to have got any closer. Even the most hardened and experienced of the group exchanged glances. There was something distinctly strange about this place. Finally, on the third day, they started to make some progress and the castle got closer and, later that afternoon, Cai pointed ahead of them. On the side of a valley they could see a shepherd sitting on a rock with his dog beside him. They spurred their horses on. This was the first person they had seen since leaving Arthur’s court. As they approached, it became clear that this man was a lot further away than they had thought and, as they rode closer, they realised that this shepherd was enormous. He was easily the biggest man they had ever seen. The big shepherd just watched them get closer and gave no greeting or sign of welcome. He had a rough coat of fleeces sewn together, fastened with a wide leather belt. He had a leather cap on his head and, in one huge hand, he held a crook the size of a tree. His dog was a monstrous size too, full of clenched aggression and anger. It eyed the approaching group and growled deep in its throat. Speckled drool

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 36 dripped from between its yellow teeth and landed, hissing and spitting, on the ground, scorching the grass where it fell. They dismounted and started to walk towards the shepherd and they all felt the dog tensing. There wasn’t one of them that didn’t quickly calculate how long it would take to remount and gallop off if things got nasty. Then Menw, the magician, whispered to them to stop walking. He took two steps forwards on his own. The dog leant forward, his muzzle wrinkled to show more teeth. But a wave of the magician’s hands and a few incomprehensible words was all it took. The dog slowly lay down and started to snore. The big man turned to look at them with a resigned expression on his face and waited for them to approach. His dog might be temporarily out of action but it didn’t make this enormous man look any less dangerous. The seven of them stood in front of the big man but he didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention. ‘Shepherd!’ said Cai, ‘Can you tell us who owns that castle?’ There was a long pause and then the big man replied, ‘The castle?’ Cai was a bit put out by this response and tried again, ‘Yes, the castle. That big one over there.’ The shepherd cast a glance over at the huge building as if to conﬁrm that this was, indeed, the castle under discussion, even though it was the only one in view. ‘Yes, I can tell you,’ he said, ‘and I can give you some advice as well.’ He looked straight at them and said, ‘That castle belongs to the Hawthorn Giant and many have passed this way to go inside and I have to tell you that not one has come out alive. They walk in and, a couple of days later, their bones are tipped off the battlements into the moat.’ Now he leant forward and stared right at them, ‘If you ever want to see your homes and loved-ones again you should just turn round and go back to wherever you have come from. Now!’

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‘Shepherd,’ said Cai, ‘we are heroes from the court of Arthur and we cannot turn back until our quest is complete.’ ‘Please yourselves,’ said the big man, standing up. ‘At least no one can say that I didn’t warn you. I hope they sing you a nice elegy, although it will have to contain the word “stupid”.’ As he got to his feet all seven of the men took one step back. The big shepherd shook his head and said, ‘Don’t worry, little men, I will not harm you. And as for me, the only one who can harm me is safe at home. Gwen. My wife.’ Just before the big man turned to go Pig Boy stepped out of the group, looked up at him said, ‘Shepherd, what is your name?’ The two looked at each in silence and then the shepherd said, ‘My name, little man, is Constantine.’ ‘Well, Constantine, I want to give you this.’ Pig Boy pulled the ring from his ﬁnger and offered it to him. The shepherd’s ﬁngers were far too thick for the ring, so he took one of the gloves that were folded over his belt and dropped it in there before refastening it and turning for home without another word. ‘What now?’ said Cai. ‘Let’s just watch where he goes,’ said Pig Boy, ‘and follow at a safe distance for now. I’ve got a feeling that man is more than he seems.’

An hour or so later, Constantine pushed his door open and stepped into the warmth of his home. He swung the door shut behind him and threw his gloves on the table. His wife looked up from the hearth where she was cooking and saw that his mood was as sour as it had been before he left. She was about to turn back to her work, when she saw something glisten on the table as it rolled out of her husband’s glove. She heaved herself up and went to have a closer look. The ring sparkled in the light of the setting sun coming through the window and she picked it up and placed it on the palm of her huge hand. She ran the tip of her index ﬁnger over the ring, feeling its patterns and letting the memories ﬂood

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 38 over her. A film of tears formed over her eyes and, still looking at the ring, she said, ‘Where did you get this?’ ‘Get what? Oh, that ring?’ ‘Yes, the ring. Tell me where you got it!’ ‘Well...’ said her husband slowly ‘Let me see...’ The woman sighed and let the hand that was holding the ring sink back down to the table. He was going to start on one of his interminable stories. ‘I was wandering down on the beach because I remembered how much you used to like eating mussels fresh from the sea when we were much younger than we are now. I was searching around the rock pools and all those places that can’t make up their mind whether they belong to the land or the sea, when I found the body of a sailor washed up on the shore. When I got closer I gave him a good kick just to check he was dead. That’s when I saw that he had a gold ring on his finger and I thought you would like it.’ She held the ring up in front of her husband’s face and said, ‘Don’t you tell me that you took this ring off the finger of any dead man! This is my sister’s ring and whoever was wearing it must be nearby, now tell me the truth!’ The man glanced out of the window and, gesturing towards it, he said to his wife, ‘You don’t believe me, woman? Well, look out there because here comes that little dead man and all his little dead friends walking down the road.’ The woman went to the window and leant out and there was Pig Boy with his companions coming down the path, just a hundred yards away. She wrenched the door open and charged outside. She had recognised the ring when she first saw it and when she looked more closely she knew that she had seen it last on the finger of her sister, Pig Boy’s mother, Bright Day. Constantine’s wife was Pig Boy’s aunt and she hadn’t seen him since he was a baby. If the ring was here then Pig Boy could not be far away.

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She hadn’t seen him since before he had been fostered and there he was just down the path with a group of companions. It had to be him. Her sister’s features and expression sat there, gleaming on his face. As she ran Gwen’s emotions churned around in her huge heart. Overwhelming joy that she was going to see Pig Boy after all these years, mixed with terror that he had come here, of all places. The most dangerous place in the world! These feelings came out in the whirling of her arms, the thumping of her feet on the ground and the cloud of dust that rose around her as she ran. The seven men stopped in their tracks, unsure what to do. The approaching storm cloud that they thought was going to drench them actually seemed to contain an enormous woman and she was bearing down on them much faster than they thought possible. Good sense dictated that they should turn tail and flee for their lives but they were warriors from the court of the great King Arthur and it just didn’t seem right. Cai saw a pile of wood to one side waiting to be chopped up and in the middle of the pile was an entire tree. He heaved it up and held it upright between the charging woman, her out-stretched arms, and themselves. At the moment she was about to enfold them all in an embrace that would surely have been their last he thrust the tree at her and she hugged that instead of them. She hugged and squeezed until all that pent-up emotion was redirected into the tree. The seven men looked on as the bark cracked and peeled off, the wood split and broke and the tree lay shattered and scorched on the ground. Pig Boy’s auntie got her breath back, wiped away a tear, gave her nephew an enormous kiss and led them all into the house. ‘Hungry?’ she asked. A short while later soup, bread and cheese were being set on the table and they all sat, crammed together, waiting for it to be ladled out. Constantine walked over and they budged up so he could squeeze in. Just before he sat down he flicked open the latch on a wooden chest nearby and the lid flew open and out came a young lad, a few years

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 40 younger than Pig Boy. He stretched and the bones of his spine cracked. Then he took his place with the others and started to ravenously slurp his soup. ‘What terrible sin is this?’ said Cai banging his spoon on the table, ‘Keeping a fine lad like this locked up in a chest when the whole world and the rest of his life is waiting for him out here!’ Constantine turned slowly and said, ‘That shows how much you know, my friend. This is our only son but he is not our first. There were twenty-three before him and each and every one has been killed by my brother, the Hawthorn Giant, because he has heard from somewhere that a son of mine will kill him. So you see, the chest is the only safe place for him.’ ‘There is a better place for him,’ said Cai. ‘Once he has finished eating do not put him back in the chest but let him come with me and I will teach him the way of the warrior.’ Father and son looked at each other and Constantine slowly nodded. ‘Good. That’s settled then,’ said Cai, ‘but, tell me, what is his name?’ ‘We call him “Leftover” because he is the only one left.’ ‘Well, let me tell you,’ said Cai, ‘we’ll find a proper name for him as well.’ Then they talked of many things until Gwen, Pig Boy’s aunt, asked him, ‘Why are you here? You see how we have to live and now you know the cruelty and power of the Hawthorn Giant. Please, whatever your reason for being here, for my sake and the sake of your dead mother, turn back and go home while you still can.’ ‘I have come to find Olwen, the daughter of the Hawthorn Giant, and marry her.’ said Pig Boy. ‘But that is impossible! You have come far and faced many dangers. The story of your quest will be told for many years and there will be no shame in turning back now. As soon as you are within sight of the castle the giant will hurl his poisoned spear at you. You won’t even see it coming and the crows will have those lovely eyes of yours before nightfall.

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Even if you do manage to get in somehow the giant will simply pick you up and crush your skull against the rafters and either throw your limp body into the fire, or slurp you down like an oyster.’ ‘You do not understand,’ said Pig Boy after a pause, ‘it is not my choice to marry Olwen, but my destiny.’ ‘I see.’ said his aunt quietly, ‘I see.’ She wiped away a tear. ‘Then, you must embrace it.’ And then she and her last remaining son collected the empty wooden bowls and washed them up. They were laying their blankets on the floor of the cottage to sleep when Pig Boy went to Gwen, who was sitting by the fire, and said, ‘Is there no way to see Olwen without actually going into the castle and facing the giant?’ ‘So you have started to plan, have you? Well, you are in luck because I was Olwen’s nursemaid. In fact, I practically brought her up and she still likes me to wash her hair. She will be coming here tomorrow morning for me to do just that so, yes, you can see her. But listen, I have sworn a solemn oath that when she is in my care, no harm will ever come to her. So don’t even think about running away with her!’ Pig Boy remembered the crushed tree that lay outside and nodded. They were woken up early by Pig Boy’s Auntie Gwen and ate scalding hot porridge from the same wooden bowls that had held their soup the night before. Pig Boy knew Olwen would be arriving soon and he didn’t know what to do with himself. He couldn’t settle, got in everyone’s way and was continuously on edge. Then, in the middle of his agitation, he could feel something else happening. A tightening and twisting in his belly. An acid and astringent pain deep in his bones. A feeling of sand behind his eyeballs. It was his step-mother’s curse waking up. ‘Oh no,’ he groaned to himself, ‘not now.’ He clutched his belly and tried to move but his legs were too feeble. There was a stinging pain creeping slowly along his nerves. He opened his mouth to ask for help but no sound came out. The door opened and

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 42 the light of the morning sun came in and he shut his eyes agains the searing pain. Someone shut the door and he looked up, trying to make sense of the room with his newly-dazzled eyes. Thank the Worlds, his pain was receding and he had some time to compose himself before Olwen arrived. Too late. She was already in the room. She had just seen him, crippled by pain and unable to stand or talk. Her eyes scanned the room as if the young men weren’t even there. She took them in as easily and as simply as if they were pieces of furniture before smiling at Gwen who sat by the fire. Pig Boy saw the yellow of her hair backlit by the sun as intensely yellow as the gorse flowers on the hill outside. The glide of the swan was in her movement and the foxglove’s glow was on her cheeks. Through the window he could have sworn that there was a path of glowing, pale clover flowers where she had walked. But the thing about her that captured him the most was her bright, shining eyes. They were as piercing and fearless as a new-flown hawk. He knew he had to do something. He staggered to his feet and managed to say, ‘Olwen, come away with me.’ She turned to face him and said. ‘There is only one way for you to marry me, if that is what you really want. Go to my father’s castle and face him and ask for his permission.’ She took a step towards him. ‘He will give you a whole list of impossible tasks and you will unflinchingly agree to them all.’ She came another step closer and said, ‘And if your love is what you think it is I make you this promise. No matter how difficult the tasks may sound, they will be easy for you. Remember, for you, they will be easy. Remember.’ Pig Boy was unable to reply, forgot his manners and just stared into that face. He saw a tiny smile wrinkle the corners of her eyes. Then she turned and followed Gwen through a door at the far end of the house which shut behind them.

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The humble cottage with its meagre ﬁre and simple stick furniture suddenly seemed utterly altered. It was as if her presence still radiated in the room. The walls and utensils held the echo of her having been there. In that strange afterglow Pig Boy thought he heard the words, “Remember, for you it will be easy”, coming from somewhere in the room. And ease is what he felt. The pain had disappeared and his body and mind felt positive and ready. For the ﬁrst time since he had been told that his mother was dead he had the feeling that everything was going to be all right.

On the other side of the closed door Olwen took off her jewellery and put them into a small bowl, on a little table nearby. Gwen poured hot water into a large basin and the steam curled around the room. Olwen took off her clothes and put on a simple linen gown. She knelt down in front of the basin and waited for the water to spill over the back of her head. It was warm and scented and she felt it flow through her hair. She loved the heat on the her scalp and the back of her neck and the firm massaging of the woman’s fingers that moved the skin of her scalp against the bone of her skull. Gwen’s touch was always a just a little rougher than she would have liked but today Olwen felt like she needed it. Gwen sang as she worked away, massaging in every nook and cranny and not bothering to apologise when she pulled Olwen’s hair. Finally, clean warm water was poured over the back of her head and her head was roughly towelled, and then wrapped in a linen cloth. She stood up, took off the linen shift and stood naked in the middle of the room, eyes half shut, enjoying the steam. Gwen grunted as she pulled a wooden tub made with staves like a barrel from the corner. She put it in front of the fire and started to pour hot water in from a steaming cauldron. She muttered to herself as she looked for a cloth clean and abrasive enough for what she was going to do next. She found one and soaked it in the water, soaped it and Olwen stepped in and knelt down. Gwen went to work on Olwen’s skin. Even after all those years there was always a moment of tense anticipation

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 44 because when the scrubbing started it would really hurt. But after about a minute Olwen’s ﬂesh would recalibrate the feeling and it felt like the best thing in the world. The routine was always the same. Gwen would sing as she washed Olwen’s hair and then, when she was scrubbing her skin, she would talk. And how she talked. ‘Well, you certainly are a clever young woman for knowing what to say to that poor lad out there. Let’s just hope that it works.’ ‘I don’t really understand where the words came from’ said Olwen, ‘I just seemed to know what to say.’ The woman smiled to herself as she scrubbed. Might it have something to do with the fact that she had been preparing Olwen for this moment since before she had been born? In fact she had been about Olwen’s age when she and her four sisters discovered their fates and now Olwen was discovering hers. ‘Fate is a funny thing, Olwen.’ she said, as she scrubbed, ‘You don’t really know what it is until it ﬁnds you and when it does there is no mistaking it. From then on all your decisions become really easy. The hard bit is having the courage to follow it through. ‘There were four of us girls in the family and we were about your age when we found out our fate. Although we found out the wrong way.’ ‘Is there a wrong way?’ asked Olwen. ‘There’s one right way and a thousand wrong ways of doing everything, my girl.’ Right now Olwen thought that scrubbing her back a little less hard would be the right way to do it but she knew better than to say anything. Besides, soon Gwen would kneel behind her and start to massage her shoulders, which she loved, so she kept quiet. ‘I was the eldest, as you know and the middle two looked a bit like you do now, with bodies of women and everything else lagging a bit behind.’ Just a few months ago that comment would have made Olwen wince but, this time, she measured it against how she felt inside and had to agree that, this time, her old friend was absolutely right.

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‘Our father was a giant of a man with sleek dark hair, hooded eyes and a jet black beard trimmed to a point. He’d always wanted boys and the Worlds had given him four girls. The ideal, of course, is to have a couple of boys because then you have a choice of who to succeed you without the mayhem and civil war that come with having any more. Lots of girls are good because then you have more opportunity for advantageous dynastic marriages and the money and goods from the dowries always come in handy. But ﬁve girls and no boys at all? That’s a disaster. That is when he decided to send us to the witch.’ Suddenly Olwen started to pay proper attention. In all the years of being scrubbed and washed there had been non-stop running commentary about life and its trials, joys and tribulations. She’d never mentioned a witch before. ‘The what?’ ‘You heard, now stop wriggling. My father couldn’t bear the idea of dying without some idea how things would work out for his family in the future, not that he was planning on dying any time soon, but he knew that suitors would be knocking on his door any day, by which time it would be too late for him to have any control over the future of the dynasty. ‘He had known the witch since he was a child. As a young man he had been sent to her and, although he had fought in many battles, standing in front of her was easily the most difﬁcult and frightening thing he had ever done. ‘So my father, went to the witch. She eyed him up and down and then took a pair of bronze spoons from a little shelf. One had a little hole near the rim and the other had a cross carved on its surface. She asked him to hold the spoon with the cross and she held the other about a foot above it. As she passed the spoon to him she got so close, in all her stinking, bristly, scabby glory that he thought he was going to pee his pants. He told me so himself. It was a matter of pride right up until his dying day that he didn’t.

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‘Anyway, there was a small amount of liquid in it taken from the cooking pot which bubbled between them and gave off a stink that seeped into his clothes and hair. The witch gently tipped her spoon so that the liquid flowed over towards the hole at the side. A couple of drops dripped through the hole, glinting in the firelight as they fell, and landed on the spoon he was holding. Immediately, she grabbed his hand which was still holding the spoon and she pulled it over to the firelight and stared at it intently for a few moments, examining the mark that the splash had made. Then she grunted, let go of his hand, took the spoon from him and wiped her finger on the tiny smear of liquid that remained. Finally, she licked the tip of her finger, rolled the taste around her mouth and nodded. She turned to the woodpile behind her and drew out a section of hazel about six inches long. She took a knife from her belt and started to score a number of lines in the wood, some parallel and some at an angle, and as she worked, she half-mumbled and half-sang something that my father couldn’t understand. Eventually she put the knife back in her belt, blew the stray bits of wood dust off the stick and gave it a wipe with her greasy hand. She winked at my father and said, ‘Off you go. Give that to your old man.’ And so he did. His father, my grandfather, looked long and hard at the lines and grunted to himself occasionally, before looking back at his son. ‘But what did it say?’ Said Olwen. ‘That’s what my father said.’ ‘And what did your grandfather say to your father?’ ‘I’m not going to tell you’ ‘But that’s not fair’, complained Olwen. ‘No, I’m telling you that that is what my grandfather said to my father. He never told him, so I can’t tell you and I’m not sure I would, even if I knew.’ Olwen was quiet and Gwen continued.

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‘You’re still young enough to think that you can know everything and that everything is knowable. But if you think you’ve discovered your fate then all that other stuff is just a distraction from the real work of making your fate real. If you have understood properly what it is, of course’ ‘My grandfather told my father, “It would only complicate things if I told you. Your fate is out there, that’s all you need to know. If you try and second guess it, things always go wrong. The Worlds don’t like it if you know too much.” And saying that my grandfather threw the piece of hazel into the fire. Once he was a man my old dad realised that his father was right because in the end he did end up having boys after all and if he had tried to second guess Fate and what the Worlds had decided he would just have been wasting his time rather then getting on with things that mattered.’ The old woman plunged her hand into the water and grabbed hold of one of Olwen’s feet and started soaping and scrubbing. Ever since she had been tiny this part of the process had been a strange combination of agony and bliss. The very serious business of getting scrubbed was interrupted by teasing and splashing until the giggling died down and there was a moment of quiet in the steamy little room. ‘Wait a minute’ said Olwen. ‘What?’ replied Gwen. ‘You’ve seen her, haven’t you?’ ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ ‘The witch. You’ve seen her. When you were my age.’ The old woman was silent. Olwen spun round in the tub so she was kneeling down and stared into the woman’s face with her hawk-like eyes and said, ‘You have to tell me.’ The older woman put down soap and cloth and sighed ‘Alright then. As you can guess my father was at a loss as to what to do with five daughters. No matter what happened the family wealth and influence would merge into the families that me and my sisters were married into after he had died. Having more children didn’t seem likely

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 48 so he needed to find a way to see beyond the confusion of his current situation. ‘He made some enquiries and found out that the old witch was still alive and still living in the same place. He summoned the four of us and told us what was expected of us. “There are two important things that you must do,” he told us, “Come back with the hazel stick she gives you and make sure you give her this.” ‘He took a beautifully carved wooden box from the table nearby, wrapped it in a fine linen cloth and gave it to me because I was the eldest. “Come and see me as soon as you’re back.” ‘We left the court that afternoon with one of the young, girl servants to keep us on the right path. We went through the village that clustered around the main court buildings and along the road for about a mile and then veered off to the left, through some tall birch trees, over a rise and down the other side, where the path was steep, windy and slippery. The day was chilly and unfriendly with squalls of damp wind that searched out the gaps in our clothes and made our noses run and our ears hurt. Once or twice we nearly fell on the way down the steep path and had to cling onto each other to stay upright. ‘We jumped over a little stream on the valley floor and followed it a little way and then the servant stopped and pointed to a stand of yew trees with huge, bulky, uneven trunks and tough little leaves dripping with rain. “In there”, said the servant, pointing to the most impenetrable part of the thicket. The five of us looked at each other. “Go on, get in there!” ordered the servant, “The sooner you go in, the sooner you come out and we can all go home and get back in the warm. Now, hurry up, get in there!” ‘My youngest and smallest sister was the first one to squeeze in, shuddering and squealing as the water from the branches landed on her and dripped down the back of her neck and her legs were scratched by

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 49 the brambles. Not to be outdone, the rest of us followed, but with even more difficulty than our little sister. ‘Once we were all on the other side we seemed to be standing in an abandoned vegetable garden with the outline of beds for the plants, long since taken over by weeds and brambles. In front of them was the mud wall of the cottage topped with thatch. The wall itself was slowly disintegrating. It seemed to have sunk into the ground and big patches of the dried mud had fallen off the walls and we could see patches of wattle slowly yielding to the moss that was growing over it. “Open the door. It’s right in front of you.” ‘It was the voice of the servant coming from the other side of the yew trees. ‘Door? What door? The four of us stared at the wall and, again, it was my youngest sister who pointed at an ivy covered door that, even she, would have to bend down to get through. I knocked waited and knocked again and then pushed the door open and bent right over to get in. “Blessings of the Worlds on this place.” I said, as I squeezed through, the rest of them following behind. ‘It was dark in there with a fetid, smokey stink. The fire had burnt down to the embers and it gave off a mean, little light. We could hear breathing and beside the fire there was a shape. We couldn’t quite make it out but we could hear it breathing. Rasping, slow and rattley. ‘The gaze of the old women moved from the fire to the box in my hands. She lifted it slowly from my grasp and I saw her gnarled old hands, bound in rags and her swollen, bent knuckles. She held the box in one hand and traced the patterns and shapes with the other, slowly mumbling as she did so. The mumble turned into a creaky old tune and her body started to rock backwards and forwards. She slowly stopped rocking and put the box to one side and turned to face us.

‘The others looked away but I couldn’t take my eyes off that face. It was both terrifying and beautiful. It had seen and understood more than

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 50 we ever would. She had things in her head she needed to share but knew she couldn’t because we would never understand. “You!” she said to me, “Go to the corner over there and find some hazel twigs as thick as your finger. Not the dry ones. Ones that still have a little sap in them. I’ll need four of them.” ‘I crept past, trying not to touch her or breath in her acrid, smokey smell. “Will these do?” I said when I got back. ‘She took them from me and stared at them in the feeble light of the fire and bent them to see how springy they were. Then she sat upright and tapped me on my arm and waved her hand over into one of the dark and dusty corners. “A knife,” she said. “Sharpen it and bring it here.” ‘I felt around in a pile of old broken pans and shards of pottery and found a knife. I gingerly felt the blade and it was dull and blunt. I fumbled around in the dust and the dark until I found what I thought was a whetstone. “Gently does it,” came the witches voice. I slowly and carefully sharpened the blade, dragging the blade over the stone and feeling my young hand fit into the shape of the horn handle of the knife, moulded by many years of use. When I felt the blade smooth and keen against the pad of my thumb I brought it over to her. She grabbed it from me, felt it herself and gave a small grunt of approval. ‘Then she bundled all the hazel sticks together and held them in both hands. She brought them up towards her forehead, mumbling and rocking. Her voice became stronger and her rocking faster until she suddenly stopped and started to peel the bark off the sticks and then score them with lines. ‘She gave me the sticks, which felt naked and smooth in my hands without their bark. The lengths of bark dangled from the old woman’s hands and she dropped them into the fire. They flamed for just a moment and, in that instant, she turned to look at me. I knew that face from somewhere but I don’t know where. It is a face I will never forget. I whispered “Time to go,” to my sisters and we crept out We walked

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 51 home in silence and I gave the sticks to my father. And that is how I met the witch and that, my girl, is all you’re going to get out of me.’ Olwen suddenly felt cold and briskly dried herself down, dressed herself, put her rings and jewellery on, kissed Gwen and walked out the back door. The old woman watched her go, with a sad smile on her face. Olwen had the blush of the foxglove in her cheek, the gold of gorse in her hair, the gleam of the hawk in her eye and her mind full of scratchy images of the witch.

By the time they had got themselves ready the next day and strapped on their swords, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. Sheets of rain came pelting down on the little house and they could hear the wind swirling around outside as the rain lashed against the front of the little building. They tightened their cloaks around them and went outside, leaning into the wind. They were drenched to the skin in moments. Their woollen cloaks soaked up the rain and fell heavily from their shoulders. It was horrible, wet and cold but all seven of them were grateful for the foul weather. It gave them cover to approach the castle. Even so, they didn’t speak and were careful not to let their silhouettes be outlined against the brow of the hill as they approached the outer wall of the castle. Bedwyr had seen a disguised side entrance and they approached silently, running in bursts through the open ground, timing their movements to coincide with the gusts and squalls of the weather. Finally, all seven of them crouched, panting, beside the low door. Menw, the magician, leaned in closer and pressed his hands onto the rough wooden surface. He put his head against it and sniffed a couple of times. He turned to the others and, using hand signals, told them what they needed to know. ‘One guard standing to the left of the door just inside. Bored and not paying much attention but with a large guard dog. It is on a lead that the man is holding, not running free.’ In a matter of a few seconds and without a word being spoken, they each knew what they had to do.

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The door was forced open by Gwalchmai and Bedwyr and the others burst through, knives drawn, and fell on the guard and the dog, killing both without a shout or a whimper. They looked around and saw that there was another high wall about twenty yards in front of them. It went all the way round the main castle building. Pig Boy pointed and, low down in that second wall, they could see another small door. They used the same routine of ambush and assault and found themselves in front of another wall with yet another door. And so it went on for eleven walls and eleven doors. Each time they used up reserves of strength and concentration. Each time they came closer to the mistake that would cost them their lives. Eventually they stood, panting, in front of a huge pair of oak doors that could only be the doors to the great hall where the Hawthorn Giant would be. They strode towards the doors, heaved them open and stepped inside. The hall was vast and the sound of their footsteps was drowned out by the crackling of an enormous fire in which whole trees were burning in a huge pile. Opposite them sat the giant. They craned their necks back to take him in as if he was a mountain that they had to scale. Everything about this place was overwhelming and made their heads spin but, one by one, their gaze came to rest on the most extraordinary and bizarre thing in the whole place. The Hawthorn Giant’s eyes. They were shut. The weight of the folded flesh of his eyelids was so great that not even he had the strength to open them unaided. Suddenly the giant realised that something was wrong. He sniffed the air and then yelled with a voice that made the men’s ears ring, ‘You useless, miserable imbeciles! Where are you?’ Immediately four servants rushed in, two from the left and two from the right. Each one carried a hefty piece of wood, the length of a galley’s oar but forked at the end. They stopped under the head of their enraged master and shoved the forked ends of their sticks under his eyelids. Then the seven intruders gaped as the servants braced themselves against the floor and, sweating and groaning, began to heave the enormous eyelids open. As the men strained and the poles bent under the load, the two eyelids slowly peeled back revealing the whites of the

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Hawthorn Giant’s eyes. Two fat, yellow circles with thick, cobweb patterns of broken veins. Finally, the eyes were fully open and the four servants wedged the bottom end of their wooden sticks against the stone floor. Pig Boy and the others could not take their eyes off the giant’s gaze. The irises were like huge round windows onto a stormy night sky and, in the middle of each, was the blackness of his pupils. Bottomless pits that seemed to be pulling them towards him. There was a deep noise coming from somewhere and they could feel the floor shuddering under their feet. It took them a while to realise that this was the giant laughing. As his head rocked the servants rushed back to secure the poles and now it was the giant’s mouth that entranced the men. Huge irregular teeth poked out of his fleshy gums like seaweed strewn rocks at low tide. A warm stench settled over them as the huge man laughed. ‘Oh, how brave you are! Oh, how marvellous! Seven drowned rats crawling in here for safety from the weather right onto the jagged spikes of the Hawthorn Giant’s castle.’ He stopped laughing and the creases melted from around his eyes, the great face became still and a deep frown creased his forehead. ‘What do you want? Speak!’ Bedwyr managed to collect himself and, with as brave a voice as he could muster, he announced, ‘Our friend, Pig Boy is going to marry your daughter, Olwen.’ There was a long pause. ‘Really?’ said the giant, ‘Well as you can imagine, that is quite a big decision. One that I shall have to reflect on, so why don’t you all come back tomorrow?’ None of them had been expecting this and they exchanged glances and turned to go. As soon as their backs were turned, the Hawthorn Giant turned and took hold of a huge, stone-tipped, poisoned spear that leaned against the wall behind him and hurled it straight at them. He moved with great speed for one so huge and the spear would have surely skewered them all to the wall had not Bedwyr felt it coming. He

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 54 span round, caught the spear in mid-flight and hurled it straight back at the giant. Somewhere between Bedwryr throwing, and the spear striking the giant, a very strange thing happened. The stone tip of the spear turned into iron. Suddenly, with its new iron blade, it doubled its speed and went straight through the Hawthorn Giant’s kneecap. He stared down at his leg. It was pinned to his chair with a huge bloody stain spreading around the wound which was spattered with gristle and shards of bone. His face seemed to boil, his rage filled him and he yelled ‘Curse you for this iron, curse you for this blow and curse you, Pig Boy, for your trickery!’ He reached down towards the shaft of the spear with one hand and braced his shattered, bleeding knee with the other and slowly pulled the blade from his leg. The iron slid out from the sinew and gristle and the giant looked at them and said, ‘And worst of all, now, when I go out for a walk after dinner, I will have a limp! Get out!’ His yell hurled them towards the door and they tumbled over each other as they made their way outside. The next day they were back. The ‘drowned rats’ comment had stung their vanity and this time they had their hair washed and kept in place with combs of ivory. Their beards were trimmed, their clothes clean and neat and their leather belts and weapons gleamed after hours of polishing. The little group stood still and calm as the giant shouted and the servants ran in and the enormous eyes were levered open. ‘Oh, you again. Well, I have had a little think about what you said and it is a very big decision that effects a lot of people so, in fairness, I should consult Olwen’s grandparents as well. Come back tomorrow for my answer.’ They were wrong-footed again and, since they could think of no other option, they turned to go. Menw the magician heard the whir of the stone spear first, turned, grabbed and hurled and, suddenly, there was the shaft of the spear sticking out of the giant’s chest, a deep crimson stain spreading over his body. The servants holding the forked sticks scuttled

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 55 around, keeping the giant’s eyes open and the giant himself stared curiously at the spear that now kept him ﬁrmly impaled in his chair. He slowly raised his head and looked straight at the seven young men. The ﬁngers of one hand slowly drummed on the arm of his chair and then he took hold of the wooden shaft and gently pulled it out of his chest as if it were no more than a splinter. ‘Curse you for this iron, curse you for this blow and curse you, Pig Boy, for having such unruly friends. Now when I go for a walk after dinner I will be out of breath. Get out!’ They were there again the next morning and, this time, once the Hawthorn Giant’s eyes were open, he wasted no time at all. He grabbed his spear and sent it hurtling straight towards Pig Boy’s head. Pig Boy watched it come and knew that it would surely split his skull in two but, at the last moment, and with a speed and accuracy he didn’t know he had, he dodged, grabbed and threw. Suddenly there was the spear sticking out of the giant’s eye, his head nailed to the back of his chair. After the silence the giant’s voice rumbled to a crescendo,

May the one who threw that spear Be consumed by his love curse May his liver poison his blood May his heart falter and be a home to fear May his bone marrow turn to brackish water Victory in battle will never be his Sweetness in love will evade him His life, a long slow winter of hunger and pain

Very slowly and deliberately he reached up, took the shaft of the spear in one hand and, keeping his injured eye in place with the other, he began to pull. Once the spear was out he blinked a couple of times and said, ‘So, who is it that wants to marry my daughter?’ Pig Boy stepped forward and said, ‘Me.’

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‘Well, come here where I can see you.’ They dragged over a table and put a chair on top of it. Pig Boy climbed up and sat there, staring up into those bottomless pits that were the eyes of his future father-in-law. ‘Well,’ said the giant, ‘if there’s going to be a wedding it had better be a wedding to remember.’ And the Hawthorn Giant started to name everything that he wanted Pig Boy to get for the wedding feast. Now, normal weddings are complicated and stressful enough to arrange but no wedding organiser ever had to deal with the type and sheer number of things that the giant demanded of Pig Boy. First of all, there was all the food and drink and the dishes and cups to cook and serve them from; then there was Olwen’s linen veil which had to be grown from ﬂaxseed, and, of course, the small matter of shaving the Hawthorn Giant and trimming his beard so that he would be presentable for the wedding. The food and drink list was truly impressive and it went like this... ‘There is a hillside over there covered in gorse, bracken and stunted thorn trees,’ shouted the giant, ‘Everything growing there has to be uprooted, burnt and then the ashes sown into the blackened and barren earth and then you have to plough it. Then, you have to go out and reap the crop to make the food for the feast. But hold on! It must not be you, or any other person from the court of Arthur, who does this. The crops must be gathered by Amaethon, God of the Farmers, son of the Great Goddess, and the ploughing must be done by his brother Gofannon the God of the Blacksmiths. Neither of them can be obliged to do it for you and they will not help you out of goodwill. And what’s more you have to uproot, burn, sow and reap - all in one day! The plough must be pulled by the two great oxen from either side of the Great Mountain. You must bring them together and yoke them to the plough, even thought they are deadly enemies. And remember, they are much stronger than you, or any magic.’ From far off Pig Boy could hear a clear and bell-like voice ringing through the rattle and phlegm of the Giant’s shouting. He couldn’t quite

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 57 hear what it was saying but his lips started to move in sympathy with the voice’s cadence. ‘And another thing!’ roared the giant, ‘The meat has to be boiled in the cauldron of Diwrnach the Irishman which will only boil food for the brave and would turn tepid if there was a coward in the room. The food needs to be kept in the magic basket of Gwyddno Longlegs which, once full, will never be empty. They are great and mighty leaders and warriors who will never help you of their own freewill and you can never force them.’ Again Pig Boy heard the voice. He recognised it but was not sure from where. The words it spoke seemed to come in and out of focus. He followed its rhythm and tone and opened himself to its simple, repetitive melody as a strange feeling of ease began to settle on him, in spite of the giant’s shouting and threats. ‘And we’ll be needing a lot of drink too! Mead made from the honey of the Bees of Paradise that is nine times sweeter than the sweetest honey of this world. And the drinking horn of Gwlgawd from the Old North to drink it from and the cup of Llwyr Brimfull that, once full, is never empty, to serve the wine. Let me tell you they won’t help you and you can’t make them!’ Pig Boy could make out the voice now. It was Olwen’s. Strangely this came as no surprise and he smiled as her voice sang...

All this noise and confusion will melt one day And when it does you will know what to do And when it does you will know what to do Your striving and effort are noble and good But the real work seems easy and does it itself But the real work seems easy and does it itself Keep listening to the Worlds and be true

‘When the time comes for music,’ growled the giant, ‘you must get the magical harp, Teirtu, whose beautiful melodies can lull the living to sleep and wake the dead and, when it is ﬁnally time for sleep, we shall be sung a lullaby by the three magical birds of Rhiannon, the Horse

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Goddess. She owes you nothing and cannot be forced by you and those birds are a thing she will never give you. ‘My daughter must have a veil fit for a queen and you, my lad, have to make it for her. Opposite the field, where you will fail to grow anything, is another dingy and barren bit of land. When I first met Olwen’s mother I took eight huge earthenware pots full of flax seed and sowed them in that place. Unsurprisingly, nothing grew. The empty pots are still there and what you have to do, is get on your hands and knees and grub around and find every single one of those seeds. And I don’t mean just most of them, I mean every single one! And then you have to grow the flax, soak it, scratch it into fibres, twist it into thread and then weave it into the most beautiful wedding veil anyone has ever seen.’ Olwen’s voice came again in the brief pause as the giant breathed in ready to announce the next task and kept Pig Boy calm and listening. ‘Although this sounds difficult, for you it shall be easy’. The insistent, gentle refrain came again and again. ‘I need to look my best, too!’ roared the giant. ‘My beard could do with a bit of a trim round the edges but, as you can imagine, my bristles will not be shorn by any ordinary blade. Out in the wilds, further than you have ever gone or imagined, there is a wild boar called White Tusk and, jutting out of his jaws, is a tooth that gleams like a crescent moon on a winter’s night. It is the keenest, sharpest and deadliest blade in all the world and you are going to have to get Odgar the King of Ireland to hunt him and pull that tooth from his jaw. The only person with hands tough enough to carry the tusk is Cadw the Pict from the far north and neither of them will be willing to help you and you will never force them.’ Olwen’s voice seemed to weave in and out of the Giant’s words, even as his voice grew in force and anger and made the flagstone floor tremble and the flames of the fire shudder. Her voice, gentle and insistent, wove its way through the noise, towards Pig Boy. The giant paused and his brow slowly furrowed into huge, fleshy pleats and then he spoke again. ‘And to trim my hair you will need the exquisitely beautiful comb and shears that lie between the ears of the Great Wild Boar. The other boar I

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 59 mentioned earlier on was just a little piglet compared to this one. It is the biggest, most heartless, most vicious and violent being on earth and not only do you have to seize those gleaming golden comb and shears you are going to have to get help. ‘You must find Mabon the son of Modron to hunt the Great Wild Boar. He is both the eternal youth and the oldest man alive who has been imprisoned since he was a baby but nobody knows where. Once you’ve got him you have to get Gwyn ap Nudd, the king of the Otherworld, to ride with him. He will not be willing to help you and he cannot be forced. Mabon must ride on a pure white horse and Gwyn on a pure black horse. You will need the two pups of the she-wolf Rumey who are so fierce the they can only be held by leads made from the beard of Dillus who is the only warrior ever to outface Arthur in battle...’ Olwen’s voice floated into Pig Boy’s inner ear once more and this time he joined in with it. Catching her cadence and adding his own, letting his voice sing out, loud and clear to challenge the giant’s yelling. ‘Although you think that might be difficult, for me it will be easy.’ Again and again the impossible tasks came. Great long lists of horses, huntsmen, heroes, warriors. Enchanted deadly and magically wrought weapons. Exquisitely made, beautiful objects with mysterious powers. Strange, messy and stinking things from the World Under Ours and other strange places. Every time the Hawthorn Giant stopped for breath Pig Boy’s voice would float, clear and bright, filling the room with Olwen’s words, ‘Although you think that might be difficult, for me it will be easy.’ Finally, the giant leaned in closer to Pig Boy. He could hear the sticks that propped open the giant’s eyes begin to creak under the folded weight of the huge eyelids and noticed the servants, who held the sticks, widening their stance to take the strain. The giant’s breath came in warm, fetid gusts, swirling the smoke from the fire that had gathered between them. He drew his hand over his beard, and Pig Boy saw the hairs of it spring back up like bramble tines, then the giant said, ‘Before this beard of mine can be shaved it must be softened and there is only one thing that is strong enough to do that. You are going to

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 60 have to go down to Hell itself to the cave of the Deepest Darkest Witch, Daughter of the Brightest Whitest Witch and bring back her blood.’ His laughter and Pig Boy’s chant mingled in the hall briefly when, suddenly, the Giant interrupted himself and brought his face even closer to Pig Boy’s and, pointing at his own head, he said, ‘And once you’ve done that you have to cut off my head and the only weapon that can do that is the sword of the giant Wrnach. He will show you none of the courtesy or good manners that I have shown you and will simply grab you by the ankles and beat your brains out on the floor.’ The giant paused and then, lowering his voice to a gravelly whisper and staring right into Pig Boy’s soul, he said, ‘And you must get these treasures, these wonders, these weapons, these heroes and these beasts without any sleep.’ The fire crackled, the forked sticks bent and strained and the smoke swirled lazily. ‘I will get these things,’ said Pig Boy, ‘I will get those horsemen, hunters and heroes. I will get weapons and dogs and magic. I will get them all, every single one and it is my cousin and kinsman, Arthur, who will get them for me. Yes, I will marry your daughter, Olwen, and you, Hawthorn Giant, you shall lose your life.’ The pause that followed seemed to go on forever. The fire crackled, the servants shifted their stance on the flagstones as they propped open the giant’s eyes and the giant’s breathing blew like a leaky blacksmith’s bellows, as Pig Boy returned that bottomless and merciless gaze with his own. Suddenly, there was a cheer from the his six companions and they hoisted him down from his seat on the table and surrounded him as they walked out of there, their song bouncing off the old stone walls.

Your answer will live for ever You spoke boldly and well Your answer gives us strength Your voice gives us courage A good beginning for our adventure

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And glory for us all And glory for us all Our children and grandchildren Will sing how we travelled How we fought and schemed They will sing your name loud And it will resound in the land

They strode out of the hall, glad to be out of the stiﬂing heat and stink of the castle, and back in the real world. Their horses were grazing in a paddock back at the cottage where they had stayed with Gwen and Constantine and the horses knew, from the way the men were talking, that they would soon be on their way again. The farewells were long and tearful. For Gwen, Pig Boy’s aunt, it had an emotionally intense few days. She was sure that Pig Boy would be killed in the Hawthorn Giant’s castle and the strain had taken its toll. She was glad that he would be on the road soon and out of harm’s way, for a while at least. However she now had the difﬁcult job of telling him that he wouldn’t be seeng Olwen until all the impossible tasks had been accomplished which was, of course, impossible. She was impressed that Pig Boy understood this and could sense a clarity and determination in him that she hadn’t seen in him when he arrived. There was the question of how he was going to accomplish all the impossible tasks but she did not have the energy to worry about that right now. She hugged the men as they packed everything onto the backs of the horses, enveloping them in her huge embrace. She plied them with honey and cheeses for the journey. In their gratitude they sang her a song of thanks,

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Thanks to you, great hugger of trees Thanks for your courage and shelter Huge handed and huge hearted You fed us well and heartily When we eat we will think of you Blessings of the Worlds On your hearth and home.

It was time to go but there was one person missing. Where was Leftover? They spotted him sitting with his father by the wood pile. The big shepherd had his arm round his son’s shoulder and they could see that the man was talking but they could not hear the words. The lad nodded his head, taking in the words until his father gently slapped his back and the two of them stood up like one huge and one small version of the same person. Leftover went into the paddock and saddled up a pony and joined the others. Pig Boy looked at the lad and was reminded of himself only a short time ago. Leftover’s mother had already given him a proper farewell and simply hugged him while he sat in the saddle. They all turned their horses’ heads in the direction of home and, from behind, they heard the gentle splash of a libation to the Two Worlds and a quiet chant for safe travel. Pig Boy was worried that he had already forgotten most of the tasks but the other six had no such problem. Pig Boy suddenly felt very inadequate. These men had trained memories and ways of effortlessly storing and retrieving information in ways that he did not understand. Pig Boy began to feel resentful of Leftover’s presence and avoided talking to him. It was easy for him. He was still a lad and nobody had any expectations of him. He had spent his childhood in a box which is even more unremarkable and uneventful than looking after pigs from the age of seven. He seemed to have endless energy, helping in mundane tasks like fetching water and ﬁrewood and alternating his chores with bouts of solitary play, collecting stones or plaiting grass and the occasional bout of rough and tumble with the men.

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It was simple for the men and the child. All they had to do was be themselves, or so it seemed. But for Pig Boy it was one long, strenuous guessing game with rules he didn’t understand. So far he had always managed to pull it out of the bag when it mattered most but the feeling that he would soon be found out as a fraud haunted him. As the excitement of their encounter with the Hawthorn Giant subsided into the stark reality of what it was that they had to achieve the conversation quietened. Pig Boy found himself riding beside Gwrhir. Although he was a linguist and spoke the languages of all people on earth, as well as all the animals, he was a man of few words and less boisterous than the others. Pig Boy was considering talking to him about his lack of memory and how he could ever match the others. They seemed to know so much, and not just lists of things but a whole complex and interwoven net of ideas, events and associations. He wanted to ask but didn’t know how to ﬁnd the words. ‘Something bothering you, Pig Boy?’ asked Gwrhir with a smile. Pig Boy tried to explain and Gwrhir nodded as he listened to his faltering words and then said, ‘Our memories are not in our heads but out here in the world. When you speak about something or name it, you summon it and it is as present as if you were right in front of it.’ Pig Boy was silent, uncomprehending. ‘Look,’ said Gwrhir, ‘up there on the ridge. Do you see those rowan trees? What do they say to you?’ ‘I don’t really know what you mean,’ said Pig Boy. ‘Just look and tell me what you see.’ ‘Well, they are quite small trees with smooth bark and...’ ‘Go on!’ ‘I don’t know. Um, they’ve got bright red berries and that’s about it.’ ‘Those berries aren’t there by accident,’ said Gwrhir, ‘and look, do you see how slender their feather-shaped leaves are? Well, once there was a raid on the Otherworld to get a magic bowl which would give everlasting youth to those who drank from it. A great magician turned himself into a buzzard and found a way into the Otherworld, saw the bowl, grabbed it and ﬂew back. He was spotted by the Otherworlders

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 64 and they came after him, transforming themselves into other birds. They mobbed the buzzard and he eventually dropped the bowl. The fight was so fierce that feathers and blood rained down from the sky. And that is why the Mountain Ash has feather-shaped leaves and blood red berries and that is why other birds will attack buzzards. And that is also why we don’t live for ever.’ ‘I see,’ said Pig Boy, slowing his horse as the path curved through a stand of rowan trees. He reached out to pluck a cluster of the berries. ‘You can brew beer from them,’ said Gwrhir ‘and, because they are made from the blood of Otherworlders, they are a good protection against their magic. Look at Menw rushing along the path ahead of us. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near these trees because they suck the magic out of him. He’ll be in a foul mood for the rest of the day, so best to leave him alone.’ Pig Boy smiled briefly and then his face became serious. ‘I know what you’re thinking,’ said the Gwrhir, ‘how are you ever going to be able to hear enough stories to know the world properly? You don’t need to worry, Pig Boy, because you are not alone. The world is not some kind of test that you have to do on your own. We’re all here with you. And I don’t mean just the six of us who have come with you this far but everyone in Arthur’s court and everyone we’ll meet along the way. Look at this now...’ Menw stopped and pointed to one of the rowan trees a little further along the path. Sitting on one of the slender branches a young blackbird was gorging itself on the bright red berries. It had a row of the berries in its beak and looked very pleased with itself. ‘This bird reminds me of one I used to know when I was still a little boy. Do you see his plumage is still brown? He was an egg in Spring time and now look at him, as proud as punch with his beak full of berries. The one that taught me the language of the birds looked like him. It was when I was just beginning to realise that I had a gift for languages. ‘One morning I saw a young blackbird foraging among some old dead leaves behind the house. I knew he wouldn’t find anything there but I didn’t want to scare him off. I nipped off to where there were some rowan

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 65 trees in a hedgerow nearby and stuffed a leather bag with the berries and then came back. I snuck round behind him and threw a few of the berries in his direction. He didn’t hear them fall because he was making such a racket in the dry leaves but, finally, he worked out that something was going on and he turned to see one of the berries landing nearby. After he found the first one he found the next one and I laid a trail for him, all the way to where the trees were. ‘He flew up on to one of the branches and sang a little hymn of praise to the tree. I had a go at talking to him and tried to say that he shouldn’t just praise the tree, but give some thanks to the other two-legged one who had led him there. I’ve never seen such a surprised bird in my life. In return for showing him the food he taught me how to speak the language of the birds properly.’ ‘Go on then,’ said Pig Boy, ‘show me.’ ‘It’s not as simple as that. In the animal world you can only say what you need to say and there is a whole protocol about who speaks first. But, seeing as we are off on an adventure that will be told for countless generations, I think it will be all right.’ Menw became very still and stared up into the branches and he gently pursed his lips. Pig Boy thought his friend was going to whistle but the noise that came out of Menw was very different to anything he had heard from a human being before. To begin with, it did not seem to be coming out of his mouth but form somewhere else entirely. It seemed to be all around them and began as a wobbly kind of drone that sounded nothing like a bird at all. Then, slowly, a higher frequency began to sound. A single note to begin with and then slight modulations that increased in intensity and got faster and more complex until it was so fast it seemed to meld into a single note once more. He slowly reduced the volume level to silence until it was just the two men and the bird standing quietly in the breeze amongst the trees. With a flurry, the bird flew off. ‘What did you say?’ ‘I told him a bit about you. Where you’re from, how you got to Arthur’s court and the quest we are now on.’

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‘You’re kidding me!’ ‘Oh no, I’m not. He’ll tell the story to others and word will soon get round. He liked your story, which is a good thing, because he will put a positive spin on what I have told him, especially since he is the first non- human to tell the tale. Word will get out and that can only help us because we are going to need all the help we can get.’ Pig Boy suddenly felt a great responsibility. All this activity, effort and danger was because of him and he hadn’t planned or wished for any of it. It felt too big, too important. It felt like a huge mistake and soon he would be found out. And then what? As they walked out of the stand of rowan trees, the bird they had seen chirruped a staccato phrase three times from somewhere behind them. ‘What did he say?’ said Pig Boy. ‘He wished you luck and the blessing of the Two Worlds. And he reminded me to give you something.’ ‘What?’ asked Pig Boy. Gwrhir reached up and pulled down a branch from the nearest tree and snapped off a fistful of berries and gave them to Pig Boy and said, ‘What do you see?’ ‘I see berries and red blood, I see leaves like feathers and a magical bowl lost for ever. I see the fragile line between the Two Worlds and my friend Gwrhir, as a boy, learning the words of birds.’ ‘Very good,’ said Gwrhir, ‘now what do you see?’ He held a single berry between thumb and forefinger and held it close to Pig Boy’s face. It was so close that the tiny berry practically filled the whole of Pig Boy’s field of vision. Holding it steady in his gaze were Gwrhir’s thumb and forefinger and he could see the whorls of his finger prints, stained with mud and berry juice. And then he managed to focus on something right in the middle of the berry. ‘I see a star.’ said Pig Boy. Right in front of him there was what once had been five stiff little leaves that had been the cup for the pale flower of the rowan tree. As the Spring turned to summer and the fruit formed it

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 67 became a base for the blood red berry and it stood out, a clear, pale ﬁve- pointed star against the blood red sky of the berry’s ﬂesh. ‘Yes, It’s a star. A star of protection. Keep some Mountain Ash with you and those forces of the Otherworld that wish you ill won’t be able to touch you.’ Pig Boy, stuffed the berries in the little bag that hung from his belt. There was a sudden chill in the air and Gwrhir said, ‘Come on, let’s get going and catch up with the others. It will soon be time to eat and I want to tease Menw about rowan berries sucking the magic out of him.’ The two friends rode on, Gwrhir laughing at Pig Boy’s attempts to speak the language of the birds. Above them the Evening Star began to shine in the darkening sky.

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Chapter 4

They were in high spirits the next morning and all of them, except Pig Boy, were imagining how they would tell their part of the story in Arthur’s court of how they had faced the Hawthorn Giant and his poisoned spears and then reel off the list of impossible tasks to the astonished company. Detail and exaggeration were essential and, even without realising they were doing it, their imaginations were reliving and intensifying the glare of the giant’s blood-shot eyes under the straining forked sticks that kept them open; the hiss of the stone-bladed spear as it cut a gash through the air towards them; the deep, wet crunch as the iron spear that was thrown back dug deep into the giant’s ﬂesh; the incomparable beauty of Olwen and her falcon eyes and the sight of a boy emerging from a box. Suddenly they all stopped in mid-stride because in front of them was a castle. Not quite as huge as the castle of the Hawthorn Giant but, still, very big. It hadn’t been there on the outward journey so something very strange was going on. They grouped together and looked at it in the distance. ‘Is it real?’ asked Cai, ‘Or are we in the grip of Otherworlders?’ ‘No.’ replied Menw the magician ‘There’s no magic here. It’s real enough.’ Suddenly they could hear a heavy and rapid tread approaching and they span round with their ﬁghting hands swinging round to their sword hilts. The man approaching them was taller than any of them but no threat. He had skin the same colour as the young blackbird that Pig Boy had seen the previous day and was dressed in simple travellers clothes. He was unarmed and had the air of a wandering scholar. ‘Friend!’ shouted Cai ‘May the Two Worlds bless you.’ ‘And you too,’ replied the big stranger, ‘and it would be a better day for all of us if we carried on our way and got away from that castle.’ ‘Do you know who lives there, Friend?’ asked Bedwyr.

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‘Indeed I do. That castle belongs to Wrnach the Giant and the moat of his castle is full of the stinking corpses of those who have not travelled past quickly enough and the battlements are decorated with the skulls of those who tarried too long. If you have any sense and value your lives, you will do what I am doing, and pass by.’ And, with that, the tall man strode on. The warning was clear and well-timed and the group got ready to take the road back to Arthur’s court. ‘And just where do you think you’re going?’ It was Cai’s voice. It was one of those annoying questions that isn’t really a question. They waited for Cai to explain,‘Wrnach the Giant. Does that name not ring any bells?’ The others looked at each other and Cai rolled his eyes. ‘Wrnach the Giant. He is the ferocious giant whose sword we need to get in order to kill the Hawthorn Giant.’ ‘Oh, Wrnach the Giant, yes of course!’ they all chimed in, desperately trying to remember where he came in the order of impossible tasks. But Cai was paying no attention and he and Bedwyr were already striding towards the great double doors of the castle. Cai pounded on the door and a voice from inside shouted through the solid oak. ‘Knife has gone into meat, wine has been poured into cup, there is coming and going in this court and none may enter except the first born son of a mighty king, a master craftsman or a...’ ‘Listen to what I have to say’, interrupted Cai ‘I am a master of every craft and I am sure that there is some job I can do in this castle for your lord.’ There was a brief pause and then the sound of shuffling as the gatekeeper went to talk to his master, then a longer pause and finally, the shuffling returned. One of the double doors opened slowly and Cai was in. He walked straight past the gatekeeper, who was standing with hand outstretched, expecting a tip. He stared at Cai’s retreating back, lowered his hand and followed him into the great hall of the castle, sneering.

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Compared to the castle of the Hawthorn Giant this was a humble affair. Smaller and without the huge fire and fine objects that had been on display in the other castle. This place was smaller and dingier and the giant in front of him was stained with streaks of fat and grease. Cai took it all in with a single glance and knew that this giant was dangerous but stupid. Cai would do nothing provocative, just bide his time, keep the giant happy and wait for the opportunity to strike. Behind the giant’s head Cai, could see the sword hanging on the wall. It had once been a beautiful and terrifying weapon. It would still have the exquisite balance that the sword-smith had beaten into it at the forge but its edge had gone and the leather on the hilt had begun to peel. Cai cooled the anger he felt at this neglect and desecration and stored its energy for later. ‘Giant,’ said Cai, ‘your sword needs some attention. You are in luck. I am a master sword-smith and, with your permission, I can return your weapon to its former glory so that it will sing through the air once more.’ The giant was interested and slowly stretched behind him, took hold of the sword and lowered it from where it was hanging. Cai took out a whetstone from his bag and noticed how the giant was using a fighting grip to hold his weapon. This could take longer than he thought and one false move would cost him his head. He bent forward and started to sharpen the blade. In order to keep control of the sword, the giant was holding it straight out in front of him so he was taking all its weight and as Cai worked he leant into the blade making it even heavier for the giant. The giant was strong but Cai knew that bearing the increased weight would sap some of the giant’s strength by the time it came to fighting, which it would certainly would. Cai knew the giant could not ask him to lean less hard without losing face. Cai used long, lugubrious strokes with the whetstone to eke the work out. He worked in a gentle rhythm and, so quietly you could hardly hear him, he sang an old warrior’s lament that had something of a lullaby’s cadence to it. The giant’s grip did not falter but Cai could sense that the big man’s focus was dimming and he was letting itself fade into a light trance. Cai decided it was time to wake him up.

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‘Giant!’ he said, and the giant flinched awake, ‘Look at your sword now!’ The giant looked along the length of his blade. One side looked as if it had just left the forge. Lean, keen, beautiful and deadly. The other side looked like something you wouldn’t even want to cut logs with, it was so rusted, pitted and blunt. The giant grinned and turned the blade for Cai to do the other side. As he was working Cai could see that the giant’s grip was finally beginning to relax. He noticed the frayed and damaged scabbard which was leaning against the giant’s chair. Without taking his gaze of his work, Cai said, ‘Giant I see that your scabbard is also in need of repair. With this blade restored to its former glory it would be a dishonour to keep it in such a shabby scabbard. In fact, it is the poor condition of the scabbard that has caused the blade to lose its edge and shine.’ The giant looked hopefully at Cai. ‘I am sorry,’ said Cai, ‘I would gladly repay your hospitality by repairing your scabbard, however I do not have the skill and, even if I did, the rules of our trade would prevent me.’ Cai carried on with his work and let the disappointment sink in and then, as an afterthought, said, ‘I do have a companion by your gate, however. I know his work well and he is a master of his craft. He is a scabbard maker.’ Cai lifted his eyes to the Giant who grunted an order and the gatekeeper shuffled off, grumbling to himself. Soon afterwards Bedwyr walked in. He bowed and respectfully greeted the giant who grunted in return and indicated the scabbard with a jerk of his head. Soon the scabbard lay in pieces on the floor and Bedwyr began to reuse the engraved metal clasps and patterned decorations. He asked for seasoned poplar wood and tanned oxhide and soon the servants brought them to him. He knew straight away that the wood was neither seasoned nor poplar but his work would not have to last for long. Cai and Bedwyr worked in silence for a while and, as Cai was nearing the end of sharpening the second half of the blade, he noticed that, finally, the giant’s grip was beginning to slacken on the hilt. Through the gaps

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 72 between the enormous fingers Cai could see that the leather of the hilt was cracked and frayed and he said, ‘Giant, with your sword gleaming as new and a new leather-covered scabbard nearly ready, surely you would like to have a hilt to match. See how cracked and worn it is.’ ‘Very true, sword-maker,’ growled the giant. ‘Do you have another friend waiting by the door?’ ‘No, Giant’, smiled Cai, ‘I have the skills and there is no rule forbidding me from making a new hilt for you. All you have to tell me is which colour of leather you would prefer. Dark or light?’ The Giant shrugged. ‘Treat the sword as if it was your own,’ he said. ‘Thank-you,’ said Cai ‘I shall.’ The work continued in silence for a while. Bedwyr tugged the tough cord through the thick leather that covered the wood that would hold the blade. Cai peeled off the old sweat-stained leather on the hilt and replaced it with tightly wound, blue leather, so dark it was almost black and finished it off with stitches of gold thread. The giant watched the work of the two craftsmen in admiration. These little people were just the help he had been looking for and he wondered what other little jobs he could get them to do. Then Bedwyr spoke, ‘Giant, everything is ready. Your sword, your hilt and your scabbard. However care must be taken for the blade to keep its edge. When you replace it in your scabbard you must slide it in as gracefully as the swallow flies or the sword will become blunted. We will show you.’ Cai and Bedwyr gestured to the giant to stand up and they started to fuss around him like a pair of tailors, adjusting the strap around his ample middle and attaching the scabbard. By now Cai was standing on the giant’s chair and said, ‘And now see how neatly the blade must find its home.’ The giant obediently looked down at the slit in the scabbard that hung by his side with Bedwyr helpfully indicating where the sword should slide in. Cai waited until he had a good view of the back of the giant’s neck and then there was the sharp-edged whistle that only a sword can make as it slices through the air and a mighty shout as Cai put all his strength

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 73 and intention into the blow. There was a moment’s silence and then a heavy thud as the giant’s head hit the flagstoned floor, a look of blank incomprehension on its face. The giant’s body began to topple and Cai and Bedwyr scrambled out of the way in the nick of time and started to shout so that the others would know it was time to scale the walls and fight off the soldiers who would soon rush in and outnumber the two warriors. Those left outside had been arguing about how best to scale the wall for some time, trying to keep their frayed tempers under control so that the gatekeeper wouldn’t hear what they were planning. They argued and squabbled, each plan being pushed aside by the others as too dangerous, impractical or just stupid. Suddenly the shout was heard from inside and they knew that they needed to scale the wall, come what may. Each man tried to find footholds in the crumbling walls and each one tumbled to the ground with a crunch and a groan. But there was one who kept going. Leftover, the smallest and youngest, levered himself up the wall, wedging his feet and hands nimbly in the cracks and crevices until he was close to the top. By the time he reached the top, those watching knew that the smallest mistake would mean the lad would fall to his death. It was as if he had spent his young life climbing steep cliffs instead of living in a box but there he was, pushing himself easily over the wall and into the castle. Seconds later the bolts were being scraped back and the huge wooden doors started to open. Suddenly, all of those outside had their hands on the doors, levered them open and rushed inside. Soon, they were in the main hall and had the soldiers and servants of the castle surrounded and disarmed, blinking in panic. Bedwyr sheathed his sword, and said, ‘Serving the giant is punishment enough. All we want is the sword. We have won it and we will take it. As for you, now your master is dead, you can keep the castle or go back to your villages, whichever you prefer. Take anything from here that you wish, we will not stop you.’ Pig Boy saw Cai’s lips tighten at Bedwyr’s generosity. Then Cai’s attention was pulled back to the sword he had sharpened and used to

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 74 cut off the giant’s head. As for Pig Boy, seeing one pool of coagulating blood and one severed head was bad enough. He was pleased there would be no more ﬁghting.

The rest of the journey back to Arthur’s court was easy and uneventful. The feeling of elation abated after about two days’ travel and they settled into a quieter rhythm, knowing that their success with the giant had set them up for even more danger. Pig Boy stayed calm and alert as they rode, enjoying the rhythm of their horses and the changing landscape around them but, overlaying it all, was the huge list of impossible tasks. It was almost as if he could see the heroes, creatures, treasures and tasks laid before him in the mountains, forests and rivers they rode past. One thing was bothering him, though, and that was the giant’s frequent references to the ‘Otherworld’ in the tasks. In fact, almost everyday someone would mention ‘Otherworlders’ or talk about ‘the Two Worlds’. What on earth was that? He decided to ask the next time they camped for the night. ‘So, what’s the “Otherworld”, then?’ The others exchanged looks in the ﬁrelight. This was a surprise. This young lad had exceeded all their expectations and, here he was, asking a question like this. ‘You really don’t know?’ asked Menw, the magician. Pig Boy shook his head. ‘When you look up at the stars and you feel more looked at than looking, that’s the Otherworld. When you stop, stock still, in a forest and you know the trees know you’re there, that’s the Otherworld. When two friends say the same thing at the same time or you dream of someone and then you see them the next day or you ﬁnd something that you thought you had lost forever, that is all the Otherworld.

There are places and times and states of mind where you can go from this world to the Otherworld. The Otherworld has its own ways and

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 75 stories and music that are different from ours that we will never understand, but they need us and we need them. It’s marvellous, dangerous and real.’ ‘But how do we get there? Half the tasks mean we have to go to the Otherworld,’ said Pig Boy. Menw looked at him and paused before speaking, ‘How do you know you’re not there already?’ They all laughed at Pig Boy’s consternation and Cai gave him a hearty slap on the back that knocked the wind out of him and then they all gathered their cloaks around them and lay down and, before long, a chorus of snoring rose into the air around the dying ﬁre. Only Pig Boy lay awake, staring at the sky. Would he ever understand? They journeyed back to Arthur’s court and slowed down over the last two days to allow the word to spread so that preparations could be made to welcome them and the feast made ready. They had been eating whatever they could on their journey and they had often gone hungry. When they were about an hour away from the Great Hall of Arthur’s court they could already smell the smoke from the ﬁres. It may have been their imagination but they were sure that the smell of roasting and stewing meat was in the air, as well as cheese and honey and warm bread. Their parched mouths moistened and they could taste wine and mead and beer and they smiled at each other in anticipation. Soon, they heard the noise of the long, bronze trumpets growling and screaming a welcome into the evening air. They arrived in front of the hall, dismounted and, in front of them, were a crowd of people who began their welcome song.

Your empty bellies will soon be full Your words will be loosened by drink And we will see what you saw We will hear what you heard We will travel with you Feel your triumph and struggle In the stories that you will tell And the songs that you will sing

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You are most welcome home May the Worlds bless you Our hearts warm at your return

There were tears in the eyes of the toughest hero as they stood there and let these sung words echo through them. Yes, they would tell their stories and be honoured for their deeds but, right now, in front of those who knew them best, they felt filthy, ragged, bony and exhausted. Water was heated in huge vats and they laughed and teased each other in a steam filled room with a raging fire in the middle. It was so good to soak in the herb-scented water and scrub off the grime of the journey and with it the effort, fear and exhilaration of their adventures. There was a lot of coming and going in the rest of the court as servants hurried by with food, dishes, cups and plates. The maid servants cast sneaky glances as they carried their burdens past the wooden partition wall. They were hoping for a glimpse, through the gaps between the planks, of what was going on in the steamy room on the other side. The cook appeared and hurried them along by before they could see anything worth gossiping about. The feast was long, hearty and full of laughter and song and, eventually the group began to feel as if this was home once more. They told the story of the Hawthorn Giant and Olwen’s beauty and Pig Boy remembered to convey Gwen’s greeting to the Queen. And, of course, they told the story of how they won the sword of Wrnach the Giant and, when it was over and the cheering died down, the sword was put in pride of place, gleaming on the wall behind Arthur’s head. Pig Boy suddenly realised that Arthur was looking straight at him and it dawned on him that the king wanted him to reel off that enormous list of impossible tasks. How was he even going to start? He glanced over at the group of men who had been on that great journey with him and saw that Menw the magician was smiling at him. He patted the leather bag attached to his belt and Culhwch understood. He touched the bag that hung from his own belt and remembered the Rowan berries inside. He remembered the pale star on its red skin, the story of the leaf and the

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 77 berries and the battle with the Otherworlders in the form of birds. Then he remembered that the Hawthorn Giant had cursed the iron and the forge and then he heard the giant’s voice and he could see his huge eyes propped open with enormous forked sticks. He could hear the giant getting ready to speak and then, he remembered everything. He turned to Arthur and started naming the tasks in vivid detail. He remembered the smaller tasks that needed to be accomplished in order to achieve the bigger tasks and about a minute into his list he remembered his audience. As he turned to include them it was if he was in a huge, breathing net of their collective gaze and attention. As he spoke he knew that all these things that he was talking about were becoming real. And he knew that, when he stopped, not one detail would be forgotten by anyone who heard him. They were all leaning in intently. The king, the queen, servants, women and men all listened, agog. Gradually, some started to nod or smile as they recognised a magical object, place or character in the list. By the time they were half way through they had begun cheering and by the thirty-ninth they were thumping the tables and shaking the rafters with their voices. When it was over, all eyes turned to Arthur. The king cast his gaze around the room. A hush fell on the hall and the only sound was the crackling of the ﬁre and the wind outside. ‘This sword is the only weapon in either of the Two Worlds that can kill the Hawthorn Giant,’ said the king, ‘before the sword is wielded we must seize the golden comb and shears that lie between the ears of the Great Boar that must be used to trim and cut the Hawthorn Giant’s hair in preparation for the wedding of his daughter, Olwen, to Pig Boy.’ Now Arthur turned his gaze on those who had returned from this great adventure. ‘Your stories will live for ever.’ A stillness fell on the whole company. To be remembered is to live for ever. To be remembered in a story is to live in the lives of others long after you are dead. To hear Arthur, the Great Bear, the king of the island of Britain say these words is a moment that you would never forget. ‘But...’

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The king’s voice was clear and cold. Had they done something wrong? Forgotten something? To be remembered in such a way would bring shame and disgrace on your name and your whole family. The pause that followed seemed to go on for ever. ‘...there is something in your story that does not ring true.’ Everyone in the hall craned forward to hear what was coming next. Pig Boy and the others felt utterly exposed in front of their king and their families and friends. What was coming next? ‘You have brought the sword of Wrnach the Giant and it gleams on the wall behind me. You have told me how you tricked him and cut off his head but you have not explained how it was possible for you to enter the barred entrance of a giant’s castle.’ Immediately the seven of them started to talk together, of how only the lad who had been kept in a box by his parents for fear that the other, and even bigger giant, would kill him had been light and nimble enough to get over the wall. ‘And where is this lad?’ With a shock the seven realised that they had completely forgotten about him. When was the last time they had seen him? He had left the castle with them, they were sure, but he seemed so invisible most of the time that they couldn’t keep track of him. And then he stepped out of the shadows at the back of the hall towards Arthur. ‘It was me, Great King, I am the one who climbed over the wall. The others all tried but nobody else could do it.’ He had been there all along and they hadn’t even noticed. ‘Indeed, young hero. And tell me what is your name?’ ‘My name, Lord, is “Leftover” because out of twenty-four sons I am the only one left. All the others were killed by the Hawthorn Giant’ ‘Well, we shall ﬁnd a new name for you. From now on you are to be known as “Gorau”, which means “the Best”. Without you this quest would not have been achieved and without this sword no other quest would be possible.’ And the people sang for Gorau,

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Remember what is small and forgotten It contains the seed of greatness Remember that which is cast aside It contains your fortune and future Look after that which is overlooked It contains your hope and salvation Pay attention to the small and the broken As the Two Worlds pay attention to you

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Chapter 5

The next morning when they all went back into the great hall, everything was different. All the tables and chairs had been moved out and the hangings had gone from the walls. The only objects in the room were the king’s throne and the sword of Wrnach, the Giant, hanging on the wall behind it. Alone on the wall the huge, cross-shaped weapon demanded the people’s gaze. The neatly stitched leather of the scabbard was the perfect background for its polished gold ornaments. Cai’s golden-threaded stitching glinted like stars against the blue-black background of the hilt. And everyone knew that, inside the scabbard, there was a perfectly honed blade that only had one function. To kill. The people milled around, chatting in low voices, wondering what was going to happen next. There was a stir and they all knew that Arthur was coming in. Pig Boy and everyone else bowed as Arthur swept up to his throne and plonked himself down. ‘This sword,’ said Arthur gesturing to the weapon behind him, ‘will be used to cut off the head of the Hawthorn Giant.’ The bravura and table-thumping of the previous night had gone and they were faced with the grim reality of actually achieving all these impossible tasks. Right now, even the thought of heaving the sword out of the scabbard seemed too much for most of them. ‘Before that, we have to get the magical golden comb and scissors that gleam between the ears of the Great Wild Boar in order that the Hawthorn Giant’s hair can be trimmed and combed before we chop his head off with this very sword. I know of the Great Wild Boar who has these beautiful objects between his ears. Hunting him is by far the most difficult and dangerous task we have to achieve so that is the one we need to start preparing for first.’ The crowd had gathered around more closely by now. Some at the back were craning their necks and the ones at the front knelt or sat on the floor to let the others see. All looked up at the king. This was a delicious moment. The moment when we start to plan and we shape

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 81 how things are to be just by talking about them and imagining them together. ‘Now then, in order to catch him we need to get Mabon to lead the hunt. He is the eternal youth, the son of Modron the Great Mother of us all. Mabon was stolen from his mother’s side when he was only two nights old. However, it all happened so long ago that there is no man or woman alive today who remembers the event, so nobody knows when he was taken or where he is imprisoned.’ Arthur paused for dramatic effect and smiled, ‘So we won’t ask any woman or man but we shall ask the animals who are much older and wiser than us and the oldest animal I know is the Blackbird of Cilgwri. Cai and Bedwyr, you will lead this adventure. And you’re coming too, Gwrhir, since we will need someone who can talk to the animals. Tracker, you join them because we don’t want anyone getting lost and, I suppose you’ll want to come too, Pig Boy!’ It had started. How it would finish nobody knew. Partial success did not look possible. This was going to be all or nothing. The king sat upright and relaxed in his chair, his gaze straight ahead but looking at nothing. Pig Boy saw that his lips were gently moving but he could not hear the words. It had suddenly gone quiet. He could hear the wind blowing the leaves outside and some far off sheep but inside the hall it was silent. Just the breathing of the people and the occasional shifting of weight from one foot to the other. And voices. Just a few to begin with but more and more joined in and gradually the whispers grew to a gentle whirl, filling the room and echoing the leaves in the wind outside. Pig Boy could hear some of the words as they floated around the room.

May the road open up in front of us May our eyes stay clear and far-seeing Strength of the boar to us. Speed of the falcon Shimmering mind of the winter starlings Let us begin

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Pig Boy’s thoughts began to be jumbled and unclear. He no longer had that clear map in his mind of what he had to achieve and he couldn’t bring to mind anything that was on the great long list he was supposed to remember and, deep in his guts, his love curse was beginning to grumble. A thought and a feeling and an image slowly began to form inside him and he realised that it was his mother. She was there, out of focus, but there, somewhere. It felt strange but good and there was a feeling of warmth on his face and then the tears came. She was gone as suddenly as she had come and Pig Boy wiped his face and looked up. He was in the middle of a circle of people, including Arthur himself, who had come down off his throne to stand with the others. Pig Boy slowly turned all the way round and felt their gazes on him until he was back where he started, looking at the king. ‘Pig Boy,’ said the king ‘this is all for you. You came here and asked for what you wanted. The aching in the marrow of your bones drove you to do things you would never have done otherwise and you banged on my door. The stinging in your blood made you ask for the impossible and we will give it to you. Or die trying. Either way, the stories will be told.’ The pain of the love curse started to burn again. In fact it had always been there but he had been distracted by everything that had happened. Now it was back, scouring his bones and boiling his guts. As Pig Boy’s face paled and creased in pain Arthur lifted his hand towards him. The king’s hand was followed by all the others and they reached out towards him. Those who were close enough put their hands on him, gently, ﬁrmly and clearly. Those who couldn’t kept the palms of their hands facing him. Pig Boy was hunched in pain but just has he thought that he would fold completely into himself the pain eased and he could feel himself opening out and standing upright once more. As he stood erect the others stepped back and lowered their arms. And then the king spoke. ‘We will do these things for you, Pig Boy. And may we be remembered for how we did it as much as what we did. Now off you go!’ There was a ﬂurry of preparation and as they saddled up Bedwyr said,

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‘Well, Pig Boy, it looks like you’re going to visit the Otherworld sooner than you expected!’ And without giving him time to ask any questions he mounted his horse and led the group out into the courtyard. As Pig Boy hauled himself into the saddle and followed on, the familiar song of farewell gently faded behind them. ‘So,’ Pig Boy thought to himself ‘the blackbird of Cilgwri. This great quest is going to start with a spot of birdwatching. Who would have thought?’

The five of them camped and met fellow travellers in a gentle, daily rhythm. As they made their way north the weather improved and they felt the Spring easing its way out into the world as they rode. After about a week they found themselves in the wide floodplain of a river that was taking the same direction as them. They ate fish every night, baked in leaves in the ashes of their fires. There was a long range of hills on the other side of the river and about half way along they stopped and turned towards the river itself. There was a small fort on a hill near its banks and they stayed the night there and were given a feast, as Arthur’s warriors and honoured guests. It was good to get washed and put some clean clothes on but Pig Boy found the feast too noisy and brash after being in the company of his friends where nothing much needed to be said and the road, the stars and birds kept them company. The next day they left their horses in the stable and walked on foot towards a small birch grove. ‘This is Cilgwri.’ whispered Bedwyr to Pig Boy as Tracker led them deeper into the little wood. He followed one path, veered off it and found another, led them to a little lake and skirted round it and then up an incline where the birches got bigger and closer together and it was no easy job to get through them. Pig Boy loved these trees with their shining, pale bark that peeled off in your hand like paper and the bright new leaves that shimmered in every breeze. From the road this wood had looked small and pleasant,

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 84 like a perfect picnic spot, but once inside it seemed to expand and Pig Boy knew that if he got separated from the group he would never find his way out. By now, his companions had slowed their pace and stopped talking. They lifted their heads towards the sky that hung above the treetops and listened. Suddenly a bright clear burst of birdsong cut through the trees and Gwrhir took the lead, listening intently and gesturing to them to follow silently. The stream of birdsong stopped and Gwrhir cupped his hands and from somewhere another bird sang. ‘Wait a minute,’ thought Pig Boy, ‘that’s not a bird. That’s Gwrhir making that noise’. The others sat on the ground to wait for the conversation with the bird to finish and Pig Boy did likewise. For a while, time stood still as the dappled sun lit up the forest floor and danced on their faces. Pig Boy idly picked up a stone that he found on the ground beside him. It was strangely heavy with neat, parallel grooves etched into it. He soon lost interest in it and put it back on the ground and enjoyed the feeling of being in the woods. Pig Boy couldn’t tell how long man and bird sang to each other but eventually Gwrhir turned back to them and said, ‘Get up, he wants us to follow him.’ They got to their feet and followed the bird as it flew from branch to branch, waiting for them to catch up. As they struggled after him Gwrhir explained, ‘The Blackbird is old but not old enough to have heard of Mabon or his mother Modron.’ ‘So, how old is he?’ asked Pig Boy. ‘He told me that when he first came to the forest as a young bird there was an anvil placed at the foot of one of the trees. Everyday he cleaned his beak on it with two sharp strokes before he roosted for the night. He said that he has been here so long that the nightly wiping of his beak against the iron of the anvil has worn it away to something the size of a nut.’ ‘And does he expect us to believe him?’ ‘You should believe him more than anyone.’ said Gwrhir. ‘Why’s that?’

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‘Well, you were holding it in your hand for quite a while.’ ‘That stone!’ ‘Exactly,’ explained his friend ‘it’s just as well that you put it back or he wouldn’t have helped us’ ‘So, where are we going now?’ panted Pig Boy. ‘He said that there is an animal older than him and if we can keep up with him he will take us there.’ ‘Who’s that?’ ‘To the Great Stag who lives higher up in the hills in an oak forest.’ puffed Gwrhir, ‘Now keep up, Pig Boy, and stop asking questions, we don’t want to lose him.’ They came out of a forest and crossed a heath with young, green ferns opening up around them. They made their way towards a clump of rocks that looked like they had been dropped there by a careless giant, scrambled over them and saw the beginnings of the oak forest. Before they had even got their breath back the blackbird took off again leaving a silver trail of farewell song behind him. Then Tracker took the lead and led them deeper into the forest and, as they went along the paths, the trees got bigger and bigger. After a while the path petered out and they had to zigzag their way forward, ducking under branches and wading through the undergrowth. Tracker turned and gave the signal for silence. ‘Up ahead,’ he signalled ‘just over on the right. Stay quiet.’ Because of the rough going Pig Boy had been concentrating on the ground under his feet and when he lifted his head, through the glare of the sunlight coming through the branches, he could make out two of the biggest trees he had ever seen. The group moved slowly and carefully towards the two massive oaks. It was only when they were almost there that Pig Boy saw that they were not trees at all but two enormous antlers on the head of a huge stag. The group stopped and let Gwrhir go on ahead to talk to the creature. His tread was gentle, silent and sure. He did not look directly at the deer or come at him head-on but used a wide gaze and came in cautiously, at an angle.

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When still quite far away he started to murmur, still without looking directly at the stag. Pig Boy couldn’t understand how the great beast could possibly hear but he was listening intently, his wide ears tracking Gwrhir’s position. When it was the stag’s turn to speak Pig Boy was expecting to hear the great bellow he had sometimes heard from the forest during the rutting season but instead a much gentler noise came from the creature. It seemed to be coming from deep inside him and from a long way off. It was a kind of gurgling, swirling song and, although he couldn’t understand it, he knew that the stag couldn’t help them either. ‘He is much older than the blackbird.’ said Gwrhir, ‘When he ﬁrst came to the forest as a young fawn he watched as an acorn fell from the tree. The following Spring the acorn had sprouted and started to grow. It grew until it became the biggest tree in the whole forest. But that was a long time ago. Now all that remains of that huge and noble tree is that rotten stump you nearly tripped over as we left, Pig Boy’ They were all following the stag now, amazed by the way this huge creature moved through the trees without making a sound and without pausing once to get his bearings amongst the overhanging branches and fallen trees. Around dusk they had got to another forest. It was much darker than the others with a litter of dead bark and leaves on the ground. The trunks and the branches of the trees around them had an almost reddy tinge. The tiny, spiny leaves were so dense that, under the canopy, it was almost like night. Here and there, tiny waxy, red berries glowed on the branches. It was quiet and cool under the dark canopy and amongst the old gnarled and knotted trunks. Gwrhir had stopped and they waited and listened and soon realised that they were now on their own. The stag had wordlessly slipped away. ‘What now?’ thought Pig Boy. Gwrhir tilted his head and listened. Gesturing them to stay where they were, he took a few steps forward and looked up into the darkest part of the old yew tree in front of them. He started to sing in a low voice. He

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 87 repeated the same phrase a few times and another voice joined in, bouncing another rhythm off the one that Gwrhir was singing. Pig Boy saw that there were two big round eyes looking down and taking them all in. ‘An owl.’ he said to himself. But no sooner was he beginning to enjoy this duet of man and owl than the owl silently sailed from its branch and glided into the gloom. So, their journey was not yet over. They had come so far and this was the third pathless forest that they had struggled through and now he could really feel the fatigue in his body. He would have given anything just to lie down on the ground and sleep but when he saw the determination on the men’s faces he knew that the only option was to pretend that he had the strength as well and follow on. Actually no, following would not work. He put himself in the middle of them and let himself be carried along by their experience and power. He found himself beside Gwrhir again. ‘Curious?’ said the speaker of every language. ‘Tell me’, said Pig Boy. ‘Well, the owl is much, much older than the stag.’ ‘How much?’ ‘When the owl ﬁrst came to the forest as a young ﬂedgling the valley looked as it does today. Full of yew trees. But then people came and they chopped down every tree that stood there. In time the forest grew back and you can imagine how long that took. However, another generation of people came and chopped down the trees again. The forest we are walking through now is the third growth of forest that the owl has seen since coming here...’ ‘But even she does not know where Mabon or his mother Modron might be and we’re off to see an even older animal.’ ‘You’ve got it!’ said Gwrhir. The thick darkness of the forest gave way to the liquid dark of the night and the path they were taking became steeper and steeper. They leaned into the incline as they walked on and Pig Boy could hear the group’s breath deepening and the men looking for strength and

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 88 determination deep down inside themselves. Pig Boy did the same, not sure if he would find anything there or not. They walked through the night, stopping occasionally for Gwrhir to sing into the dark and make sure that they were still following the right owl. These moments were charged with expectation and hope. They had put so much into this search and it would be a disaster to lose contact with their guide but, after an agonising wait, her hoot could be heard, patient and distant, from further on in the darkness. And then came the awful moment of motivating legs to move again that only wanted to lie down and rest. Their striding became a trudging and suddenly from above there was a near silent whoosh as the owl passed inches over their heads and sailed effortlessly home. They turned their faces back to the path and ahead the outline of a mountain loomed against the thin light of early dawn. ‘We stop and rest here.’ said Cai. They were asleep in seconds and a few hours later Cai was shaking them awake. They were rested now and they stamped their feet and beat their legs with the palms of their hands to get their circulation going. They scrambled to the top of the mountain and they could see the whole journey that they had taken, valley after valley, receding into the morning mist as the wind ruffled their hair and drew tears from their eyes. Suddenly, the wind became chaotic and seemed to be blowing down on them from above in huge eddies and waves. They widened their stance and looked up, shielding their eyes against the glare of the morning light and saw a huge dark shape flapping above them. It was an enormous eagle. The creature nonchalantly landed a few yards away on the highest point on the whole mountain, demurely folded its huge wings and turned his gaze towards them. Pig Boy could hear the creature’s talons scratching the rock as he moved. Gwrhir, took a step towards the creature and bowed, which the eagle seemed to like. ‘I know who has sent you.’ the eagle said in a surprisingly refined voice. ‘Your king Arthur and I have had many interesting conversations

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 89 and the news of your travels has passed among the animals. So let’s not waste each other’s time. Tell me why you are here.’ Once the explanation was over the eagle eyed them for a long moment. ‘Yes, indeed, I am old. Much older than you could imagine. When I first came here a huge rock had been placed on top of the mountain by the one who made it and I used to perch on the very top of it. Every night I would rest on the rock and I was so high that I could peck at the stars in the sky. However over the years, simply be perching on that rock, I slowly wore it away. There it is, just over there. A fist-sized stone no different to any other. But don’t worry, little men, because although I am not the oldest I know who is and I will lead you there.’ Without another word he opened his wings and leapt into the wind and started to glide down the mountain and over the moor. Pig Boy and the men ran down the paths, letting the slope speed them up until they were almost out of control, yelling and whooping and finally collapsing in a heap where the ground levelled out. They pulled each other to their feet and peered up to see the eagle wheeling slowly in circles above them and then peel off towards the valley beyond. They followed the eagle until it took them to the banks of the River Hafren. He was flying lower and lower, looking for somewhere to perch so they knew they were nearly at their journey’s end. The path rounded a corner and there was the eagle perched on a rock by a huge pool, right beside the river, at a place where it was widening into an estuary. ‘I’ve heard of this place,’ said Bedwyr, ‘The water level in the pool drops as the tide goes out. When the river level falls its banks turn to mud the pool turns into a kind of whirlpool sucking everything down into it. Then, as the tide changes and the level of the river rises, all the water and all the things that were sucked in get thrown out again.’ ‘What, all the water comes out?’ said Pig Boy ‘No, not all of it. The pool is never empty and, in fact, people say that it is bottomless.’ Pig Boy wanted to go and explore the pool but he saw that the eagle was about to address them.

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‘Men of Arthur,’ said the eagle ‘you are about to meet the oldest animal in the world. Once, many years ago I thought that I would be able to catch and eat the creature that you are going to see. I saw her silver flank under the water of this pool glinting in the sunlight from high in the sky. I swooped down with my talons outstretched. Normally just the impact will kill any creature outright but with this one it was very different. I felt my talons dig deep into her flesh and I started to fly upwards but, in spite of my strength, I found her weight a great challenge. “No matter,” I thought to myself “a bit more effort and I’ll soon have it out of there.” But I was not prepared for what happened next. The fish started to swim deeper into the pool and soon I realised that she was much stronger than me. I was helpless because I could not get my claws out of her flesh and she was beginning to pull me under the water to my certain death. It was then I noticed that all along her mouth and jaws were hundreds of fish hooks. It had been easy for her to snap the lines but she was unable to get the hooks out of her flesh and I knew that this must be causing her great pain. “My sister,” I said, “if you pull me under the water I will die and you will have a dead eagle stuck to your body until I finally rot away. Undignified for both of us, I think you will agree. But if you free me, I will pull out all those fish hooks which must be causing you terrible pain.” The creature gave her body a mighty flick and suddenly I was free. She swam to the shore and I perched on a rock and, one by one, with beak and claws, I pulled every last fish hook out of her. And now she and I are firm friends and in the name of that friendship I am sure that the Salmon will help you.’ The group of men stared into the water and watched it swirl. The swirling seemed to pull them closer, until they were all leaning over the edge staring down, partly at their own reflections and the reflection of the sky above and partly down into a whole other world they had never seen and would never understand. The churning of the water became more intense and they stepped back. Something was coming. They could feel the earth under them shift

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 91 and it was as if the water had started a cold, rolling boil. Out of the pool, so wide there was barely any space between it and the shore around it, came a head. Slowly surging upwards in the light, it had two unblinking eyes, silver mottled skin, and water dripped from its gill slits. The lipless mouth started to move and a voice that rumbled and gurgled out of the pool itself began to speak. ‘I am Eog the Salmon and when the Spring tide rises and the huge wave bores down the narrowing estuary, then I ride its current and swim all the way to a great bend in the river by the Shining Fort. There, I can hear a strange and haunting song coming through the stone walls of the fortress. It is the saddest song man or beast has ever heard. The song of a man imprisoned since he was a baby, longing only for freedom. If that is the song you want to hear then get on my back because the tide is rising now!’ The pool had started to bubble and foam with the brown, muddy estuary water and it overflowed into the river itself. The huge fish slithered from the pool and into the river. Without a word being uttered in the group and, without Pig Boy realising, a decision had been made. Cai and Bedwyr moved towards the bank. They leapt at the same moment, each throwing a leg over the fish’s back as if they were mounting a horse. The rest of the group stepped back as they saw the huge surge of the tide carry the fish with the two heroes on her back inland and upstream towards the Shining Fort.

The group stood staring upstream for a long time after the salmon with Cai and Bedwyr on her back had rounded the bend and gone out of sight. The river had settled back to its own sluggish, muddy self and it was hard to believe that it had been a huge, boiling mass only moments before and threatening to overﬂow its banks. The journey back to Arthur’s Court was quiet and slow, all of them grateful not to have to run, or battle or struggle any more but still jealous of the two who had gone, in spite of their weariness. When the news of their approach reached Arthur’s Court the place went wild with

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 92 anticipation and they were quickly surrounded by people, nobles and servants alike. Before long, question after question was being hurled at them. The travellers stared back and the others were unable to read their gaze. Had there been some disaster? Had they found Mabon? Where were Cai and Bedwyr? ‘Enough questions!’ said Arthur. ‘Can’t you see that they are exhausted. Let them eat and rest and then we shall hear their story.’ For Pig Boy and the others, stepping into the court was a strange experience. They had spent so long outdoors in the company of animals that this indoor space felt cramped, artiﬁcial and far too full of people. They were still not quite their own selves when the time came for them to tell their story and they began with difﬁculty as if talking was something that they had unlearned during their quest. In fact, as Pig Boy thought about their adventures, he realised that, as the days had gone on, they had talked less and less until, by the end, they barely talked at all. Instead there was a kind of communal understanding of what to do next. And now they stood surrounded by the great and the good of the court with King Arthur and his Queen leaning forward in their thrones, all desperate to hear about their adventure, and none of them felt able to string a coherent sentence together. Pig Boy searched around his head for the old habits and ways of talking that lay dormant and heard his mother’s voice from a time before he could remember. He could barely make out the words but the cadence and rhythm of her speaking was all he needed and he launched into the story, ‘At the command of the great King Arthur we mounted our horses and galloped out of the courtyard in search of the oldest animal in the world...’ The audience cheered and they were off. Pig Boy, Gwrhir and Tracker took it in turns to tell, act out, sing and dance the whole story with the audience joining in the old refrains, laughing at the in-jokes and then silent at the wonder and magic of it all. After kicking the whole thing off Pig Boy took more of a backseat and, as they were telling how they followed the eagle down to the River

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Hafren, he suddenly realised that this story had no ending. They would finish their story and still nobody would know if Mabon had been found or not. The audience were leaning forward goggle-eyed as the three of them half-told, half-acted out the sight of Cai and Bedwyr disappearing up the river on the back of a huge salmon. All Pig Boy could feel was the impending let-down of having no ending. Tracker was in full flow and stretched out his hand and gazed into the distance. He was no longer in the hall, he was on the river bank watching the salmon and the two heroes disappear into the distance and so was everyone who was listening to him. He slowly lowered his arm and his gaze came back into the room and there was silence. The fire crackled and slowly everybody realised that there was no more story. That was all there was. No ending, no resolution, just a big hole of not knowing what happened next because nothing had. Right on cue, they heard horses galloping into the courtyard and the stable boys scrambled outside to greet whoever was coming. Those left in the hall looked at each other and wondered if this could really be who they thought it was. Suddenly, the doors were thrown open and in came Cai and Bedwyr. These two most stylish and elegant of Arthur’s men looked savage and wild from their weeks spent in the open and, as if by some strange instinct, Cai took up the story right from where Tracker had broken off. ‘We rode on the back of that monstrous fish, the oldest and wisest of all the animals, Eog the Salmon. We clung on as the water swirled around us, the fish easily gliding against the current. As we rounded a corner in the river, we heard the song that the fish had told us about. It was stranger and sadder than anything we had expected.’ Cai and Bedwyr batted the strange story between the two of them, sometimes together, sometimes separately, drawing out the detail and embodying their newly-lived experience in story. ‘A human voice singing of sadness and desolation like no human has felt before. Stolen from his mother’s side when he was two night’s old and brought to that lonely prison cell. Mabon, the son of Modron, had

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 94 been singing and singing all that time. Much, much longer than anyone on earth has been alive, longer than a hundred lifetimes, his voice never failing him until, eventually the salmon heard the voice. ‘It was a voice he could never forget and he was glad to forge up the river with us on her back, many centuries after she had first heard it. She urged us on as we broke through the stone walls and sang charms of strength as we fought our way in. She sang praises as I took Mabon on my back and, side by side, we fought our way back out into the world. Praise to the great Salmon!’ Pig Boy looked at the faces around him, wide-eyed and open- mouthed, and could not suppress a smile at how brilliantly Cai and Bedwyr had played their audience and how he knew what was going to happen next. Cai was going to bring story and reality together so that no-one would know which was which. Bedwyr and Cai went to the double doors and slowly opened them. The light of the fire did not throw a bright enough glow to see what was on the threshold but there was definitely a figure there. A young man stepped into the hall. Quite an unassuming young man. Not particularly tall or broad. He wasn’t wearing extravagant garments or a heavy gold torque and he stepped quietly and simply inside the hall with the air of someone who had only just arrived on the planet. So ordinary, but somehow, so utterly different. Straightaway everyone knew who this was. Mabon the son of Modron. His gaze was clear and simple and he seemed to see beyond, into and through the people in the court. Judging nothing, seeing everything the Eternal Youth, son of the great Mother Goddess stood there, like you or me and looked back at all those staring at him. Slowly it dawned on everyone that gawping at a deity was not very good form and, one by one, servants and heroes alike knelt down in front of him. Arthur stood up from his throne, walked towards Mabon, opened his arms and god and king embraced. And then Arthur, the king himself, sang,

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Taste freedom young friend Your song kept our world turning The earth listened to your voice And in return it fed us And now we will feed you And now we will sing to you Mabon son of Modron The oldest and youngest of all

The atmosphere changed utterly and Mabon was being introduced to the company of Arthur’s court like an old family friend. A seat of honour was brought for him and set on Arthur’s right hand and the feasting started. An hour or two into the feast Arthur leaned over to Mabon and, over the din, explained why he was there. ‘We need you to hunt the Great Wild Boar. We need to get the comb and scissors from between his ears to trim and comb the Hawthorn Giant’s hair so that, Pig Boy over there, can marry Olwen.’ Mabon grinned broadly and the two men toasted each other and drank down a good gulp of wine. Pig Boy had been watching all this with satisfaction and Cai, who was sitting beside him, turned and said, ‘Freeing Mabon is nothing compared to what we have to do next. Mabon needs to be joined by another huntsman and he won’t be so amenable. I’m talking about Gwyn ap Nudd the king of the Otherworld. There’s a slippery one for you. Getting him on our side is going to be a real challenge’. Cai turned back to his food and took a massive bite from the meat in front of him, as well he might after weeks of foraging for food. ‘The Otherworld again,’ said Pig Boy to himself, ‘am I stalking it or is it stalking me?’

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Chapter 6

A few days later Pig Boy was staring up at the sword of Wrnach the Giant, amazed that anyone could be strong enough to wield it. Then he remembered that Cai had done just that. He had taken that huge weapon and made it sing through the air and taken the head off a huge giant. He furrowed his brow, wondering how it was possible. ‘Balance.’ Pig Boy jumped. The voice had come from right beside him when he thought he had been all alone. ‘Balance is the key.’ It was Cai. ‘If you ﬁnd the balance point of anything you can make it move as if it weighed nothing. You can make it move as if it had a life of its own. Which, by the way, Pig Boy, it does.’ Cai walked towards the door and Pig Boy understood that he was meant to follow him. Cai loped towards some trees and came back with two sticks. One was long and thin and the other shorter and thicker. Both looked like they could do real damage. ‘Which one do you want?’ Pig Boy held his hand out for the longer one. ‘Wrong choice,’ said Cai, ‘and you’ll ﬁnd out why in a minute.’ Pig Boy stood holding the stick, unsure what to do. ‘Try and hit me with the stick. Go on.’ Pig Boy just stared, ‘Go on, I mean it.’ Pig Boy hefted the stick and took a step towards Cai, raised it and aimed for his shoulder. He put all his focus and strength into the blow. He heard the swish of his stick but there was no impact and he almost fell over as his stick whirled through the empty air. He struggled to regain his balance and looked around. Where was Cai? ‘Again!’ came Cai’s voice from behind him, ‘Try and hit me again.’

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He tried and tried until he was out of breath. Cai kept on pushing him harder and harder. He hissed and barked his words, provoking Pig Boy and putting him mentally, as well as physically, off balance. Pig Boy thrashed and whacked with his stick but Cai was always somewhere else. He panted and struggled and made himself dizzy and sick and all the time there was Cai’s voice, ‘Again, again!’ Eventually he lay in a gasping heap on the ground unable to move or speak. ‘Very good,’ said Cai, walking away ‘same time tomorrow.’ The next day was a re-run of the first and the one after that, and the one after that. After a couple of weeks Cai was waiting for Pig Boy, as usual, but this time, he wasn’t holding sticks. In each hand he had a full-sized wooden sword. He thrust one into Pig Boy’s hands and said, ‘Copy.’ So Pig Boy copied. He started with just holding the wooden sword and then stepping with it. It was difficult and exacting work and Cai was never satisfied. Pig Boy was astonished at the complexity and difficulty of simply holding the sword and, to begin with, stepping while holding the weapon was completely beyond him. By the end of the day Pig Boy’s arms and shoulders were aching and his brain was spinning after so many different combinations of movement. Cai took the wooden practice blade from Pig Boy. He thought he might get some acknowledgement for all his hard work, but no, all Cai said was, ‘No practicing without me.’ A few days later they had progressed onto moves that looked a bit more like actual fighting. Thrusting, parrying and blocking. To begin with it was painfully slow and Cai seemed more interested in what Pig Boy was doing with his feet than with his sword. He was a complete perfectionist and nothing was good enough for him. Eventually, they started on a few set pieces of attack and defence and Pig Boy began to see the point of all the footwork. If your feet are in the wrong place you are in big trouble because you leave yourself wide open to counter attack. Cai had a knack of knowing just how far Pig Boy could go and then taking him a bit further. This could mean cajoling, mocking or insulting him. He would deliberately go so far that Pig Boy was on the point of flouncing back to

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 98 the hall or launching a frenzied and murderous attack on Cai. Then, in a ﬂash, Cai would outmanoeuvre him and they would lock swords and Cai would say one simple word. ‘Feet.’ Pig Boy was right back where he started. And so the practice went on. And on. During that early stage of practice everything hurt. His arms hurt where he had been holding the weight of the sword. It hurt deep inside his bones where he had been taking the impact of Cai’s blows as he practiced parrying and blocking. His legs trembled as he walked back inside after practice but his brain hurt even more from all the instructions that were hurled at him. The practice sessions seemed to be deliberately organised to confuse him and put him off balance. His teacher seemed to be looking for reasons to criticise him and deliberately expose his failings to make the whole experience even more painful and humiliating. He felt useless, exhausted and he wanted to cry. One day he went out to practice as usual. He combatted the dread he felt with a steely readiness and a trust that, because Cai was still teaching him, it was still possible that he might learn something. Either that, or Cai was just a sadist who enjoyed destroying the self-belief of young people. Which at this moment did seem like a distinct possibility. Cai was waiting for him. He was looking over towards the forest with his back facing Pig Boy. Pig Boy approached and was about to give his pupil’s greeting ‘Good day, master, and may the Two Worlds keep you,’ when Cai turned and held out a sword to Pig Boy. The sword was in its scabbard with belt attached and the sight of it stopped Pig Boy in his tracks. ‘Just look.’ Ordered Cai. Pig Boy gazed at the stitching on the scabbard; the decorations glinting; the peace knot that tied the blade into the scabbard; the curve of the guard and the shape of the hilt, ready for his grasp. Cai took a blanket that he had brought with him and laid it on the ground and then lay the sword on top of it. It had so much purpose and intention burnished into it

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 99 by continuous practice and deadly use that it seemed to hover above the woollen blanket. They both sat on the ground in front of the sword and Cai told the story of this weapon. From the moment the ore was pulled from the earth and smelted into iron. How the metal was forged and folded and cooled and heated again. How it was hammered and heated once more and allowed to cool slowly. How the edges and point were ground into shape. How it was hardened and tempered by being heated and then quenched in water. How each of these stages gave it shape, strength, flexibility and character. How incantations were sung over it and the moment of its first sharpening when it was declared to be alive and was given a name. ‘What is this one called?’ asked Pig Boy. ‘It is called Sharptusk and was the sword of Nerth. He was a great and brave warrior. You might have heard his name mentioned in some of the elegies and praise songs in the court. This sword has whirled and sung in many battles and its blade has been cleaned after combat on many occasions. It was held expertly and swung with fierce joy in the last battle that Nerth fought.’ ‘Oh,’ said Pig Boy ‘who killed him?’ ‘I did.’ said Cai. Cai got to his feet and picked up the sword and slid it into its scabbard. Then he grabbed the blanket and said, ‘Tomorrow you’ll hold the sword.’

Pig Boy would never forget the time he unsheathed the sword for the ﬁrst time. This weapon had been used in battle, sung over, made alive and the slightest mistake could make a fatal wound. All this time and attention packed into one piece of metal that seemed lighter than the wooden practice sword he had been using. Its balance was such that the tiniest movement of his body would send it dancing in the air as if it had a life of its own. And now the practice went right back to basics. The same old exercises with the feet, using gaze and attention and breath, but this time with a thing in his hands that could cripple and kill.

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‘Stop just thinking about your grip,’ said Cai, ‘you need to extend your attention from the pommel of the hilt right up to the point. You need to feel the edges of the blade as clearly as your own fingers or arms.’ The training continued but with a different focus. Working with the wooden practice sword was pure unending slog but now everything was about precision, which was even more exhausting. Cai became more exacting and demanding and his rebukes and criticism even more barbed and hurtful but Pig Boy was slowly working out that this was all part of the training. If he was lined up in battle formation and the mocking satires sung by the other side’s poets made him ashamed or angry, he would be useless in the fight that would follow. Cai was right. It was all about balance. And if it took frequent humiliation and an aching body to get to the end of this training that was exactly what Pig Boy would do. The daily agony continued until, one day, something amazing happened. He got ready for Cai’s command to begin practice and the sword did all the work itself. Just the day before, every movement was an effort and the uncomfortable and clumsy team of his body and brain struggled together to make something happen that at least vaguely resembled what Cai had shown him. But this time there was simply no effort at all. The sword stood in the air, bright and certain, and as Cai snapped the order the sword itself swung through the air, balanced, assured and deadly. Not in order to learn or be correct but for the sheer joy and beauty of being whirling steel. From that day on Pig Boy felt confident and free. His mistakes were no longer frustrating and painful but an opportunity to find a deeper learning. Now he was initiated into the intricacies of looking for and provoking an opening without offering one to his opponent and, as his skills increased, so did the realisation that, when he did this for real, every movement, breath and intention would be a matter of life or death. Eventually, the day came when Cai did not take the sword from him at the end of a practice session. Pig Boy looked at his master, and Cai said, ‘From now on you can spend time practicing on your own.’

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Pig Boy wanted to make a fulsome and poetic thanks to Cai but before he could summon the words, Cai had gone. One morning he was practicing on his own outside when he heard Cai’s voice nearby giving the order to put arms down. He sheathed the sword and turned to his master who immediately took a ready stance in front of him. So, he was going to spar with Cai the great warrior and sword master. A bit of him wanted to lie cringing on the ground or run away but his instinct was now so strong and ingrained that he couldn’t have stopped himself, even if he had wanted to. His footing was sure and his grip fluid and clear but there was still something wrong. Cai barely moved but there was no way through his defence. All he had to do was slightly change his footing or adjust the angle of his blade and Pig Boy had simply no way in. After less than a minute of this Cai made a sudden and slight movement and slid through Pig Boy’s guard and pressed the flat of his blade against the lad’s throat. The look in his eye was clear, simple and heartless. They both sheathed their swords. Pig Boy felt his hand shaking as he slid the blade back in to the scabbard. ‘You’re too obvious, Pig Boy. I can see everything that you are going to do before you even know yourself. You wouldn’t last five minutes in a battle, just like all those other lads whose corpses have been picked clean on the battlefields of our land. We sing their names to remember them but we forget to sing what is obvious.’ ‘What’s that?’ said Pig Boy. ‘That they were like you. Falling in love with their own strength and skill without seeing what this fighting is all about’. ‘And what is it all about?’ ‘You have to know why you're fighting. Nobody else can tell you what that is. The easy answers are the wrong ones. Honour, home, family, tribe. Those are the things that take you into the fight but, at the moment you are face to face with someone who wants to kill you, you have to know why you are there. Not knowing it in words but in your gaze and your stance and your presence and not just when you have your sword in your hand but all the time, everyday.’

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‘And how do I do that?’ Cai turned and walked away and Pig Boy heard him say, ‘Never stop practicing.’

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Chapter 7

As Pig Boy practised swordsmanship and the other arts of the nobleman, the other tasks and adventures were undertaken to assemble all the objects, beasts, treasures and people that the Hawthorn Giant had demanded. In order to hunt the Great Wild Boar, Arthur had to persuade Gwyn ap Nudd, the lord of the Otherworld to join Mabon, the Eternal Youth. This would be no mean feat as Gwyn was not beholden to anybody and was a slippery and wily character. However, Gwyn wasn’t the only wily one. Arthur was too. He knew that in order to entice Gwyn ap Nudd into an alliance he would have to raise his own status in the King of the Otherworld’s eyes, so he set about achieving some of the other, less demanding tasks first. That way, word would get around and he would have a bit more time to think before hatching a plan to get Gwyn on his side. There was certainly no question of forcing him. Small groups of warriors went off to win and capture hunting dogs and horses for the hunt of the Great Wild Boar, as well as magical cups and cauldrons for the victory and wedding ceremony and all the feasting that would follow. With each new gleaming treasure that arrived at Arthur’s stronghold new songs were be composed and sung about the heroes who had won them and how valiant they had been in their struggles. Then Arthur sent his bards on circuits round the other chieftain’s fortresses and castles so that the songs would be taken up by other bards and singers and, before long, the whole country would know about the quests and exploits of Arthur’s men and it was only a matter of time before the songs were taken up in the Otherworld. Word was getting round. Most of the tasks involved fighting, killing, bravery and strength but there was at least one that was very different. Making Olwen’s wedding veil. The Hawthorn Giant had been clear that the veil should be made of the finest linen, which was fair enough, but he had gone on to explain

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 104 that the flax plants from which it was to be made could only be grown from certain seeds. When Olwen was only a baby her father, the Hawthorn Giant, had sown flax seeds in a field but they had never germinated. The giant took eight huge earthenware pots, brimming with seeds, out into the field and started to sow them in the ground and. Once the work was over he waited for the sun and rain to do their work. But nothing happened. The seeds remained stubbornly in the ground like tiny bits of grit as the weeds, brambles and gorse grew all around them. When Pig Boy sat in front of the Hawthorn Giant, staring up into his huge, pitiless eyes, one of the first jobs he was given was to go into the field and collect all the seeds. All of them. There couldn’t even be a single one left in the ground. Nobody wanted this job. No danger, no fighting, no heroism just grubbing around in the mud and the rain for months on your hands and knees snuffling around for seeds like a hedgehog. On top of that they all knew that the chances of success were practically zero. But somebody had to do it and the question was, ‘Who?’ There was one of Arthur’s warriors who was a sworn enemy of Gwyn ap Nudd and his name was Gwythyr. Gwythyr had been due to marry a beautiful young woman called Creiddylad. The marriage ceremony was already being prepared when the young woman’s beauty caught the eye of the Lord of the Otherworld. Gwyn ap Nudd fell passionately in love with her, and being a god, did not have to bother with the usual human protocols. He just burst into the court where Creiddylad lived with her family and rode off with her, down to the Otherworld. Gwythyr led an army of his followers and family, as well as warriors from Creiddylad’s family, down to the Otherworld and there was a battle between the two forces. There have been successful raids on the Otherworld but it requires great cunning and a lot of magic and Gwythyr had neither. When the battle was over he led his defeated army home, leaving many dead and a number of high ranking hostages behind.

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Having a warrior in your court who is nursing a deep and bitter resentment for someone you are trying to win as an ally is not an easy situation. So, what better job for Gwythyr, the defeated warrior, than to be in a field, far away, grubbing around for flax seeds. When he was ritually given the task by Arthur, Gwythyr knew exactly why he had been chosen but he decided to treat this commission as if it was the greatest honour a warrior could wish for and, as events turned out, he wasn’t far wrong. There was a feast for him and they praised his bravery and made the job sound a lot more dangerous than it actually was. Arthur embraced him and then he left, singing his quest song so his voice bounced off the rafters as the others chorused along with him, until the sound of his horse’s hooves faded into the distance. It was a long and lonely ride and eventually he got to the right field. He knew he was in the right place because, piled in one corner, were the eight earthenware pots. The pots were much wider and deeper than he expected. He knelt down and saw that they were deeper than his arm was long. To clean them out he had lie them down on the ground and crawl inside to scoop out the earth and animal dung that had gathered there over the years. Then he levered them upright and stood them in a line, ready for the seeds. After his first successful hunt, he put skin covers on the pots so that they would not fill with water when it rained. And rain it did. For days and days without stop. The water ran down the back of his neck as he crawled around in the overgrown field. It kept him awake in his little shelter at night by drumming on the skins of the pots. When the clouds finally lifted he saw how close he was to the Hawthorn Giant’s castle and he made sure that he was never too far away from his exquisitely sharp sword, just in case. However, he never saw any signs of life apart from the occasional wisp of smoke trailing over the castle wall and soon he began to sink into the grim routine of filthy, exhausting and utterly pointless work. Months went by and he hadn’t found a single seed and Gwythyr felt as empty as the pots that had already been waiting in the field for so many years. Spring came and the new growth made his search even

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 106 more difficult. He had developed a system so that he searched the field methodically without going over the same area twice but ,when he stood up at the end of the day, his shoulders sagged when he saw how much remained. He rubbed the earth and grime from his hands and was overcome by the gnawing feeling that, by the time he had searched the whole field, he still might not have found a single seed. At the beginning, he found time each day to take his sword and practice the strokes and parries that he had spent years mastering as a young man. But after a couple of months the glory of the sword made the awful pointlessness of the task even more unbearable and he left it sheathed in the corner of his leaky, little shelter. In the summer he was unaware of the burgeoning flowers around him. His face was turned down towards the soil and his fingers automatically sifted the earth, the grit, the roots and all the seeds that weren’t flax seeds, until his thoughts turned to Creiddylad. And then the contrast of how his life should have been became too much for him. In his imagination, his wife felt as real as she had been when they were in each others arms. He could see her, smell her presence, hear her voice but when he reached out she wasn’t there. Instead she was in another world, a world under this one, in the arms of another man. And so he wept. His tears did not stop him, neither did his pain. He carried on with the work of examining the soil, stopping only to clear his eyes of tears, waiting to find his first seed. One day he was in the middle of the field, on his hands and knees as usual. It was the middle of the afternoon and he still had a few hours of useful light left and, in his weariness, his longing for his wife rose to the surface. Tears pricked his eyes and he sang a simple, bleak refrain as he watched his filthy hands sift the soil. Suddenly he stopped searching. There was a noise nearby and he lifted his head but all he saw was the endless wiry grass, gorse, thistles and mud that had become his home. He put his head down again and as he was about to start grubbing in the earth he heard it again. Crying. But this crying was coming from the earth not him. He could hear thousands of voices all crying out in fear and wailing in terror. He put his hands, palms down, on the soil and felt a

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 107 tiny, shivery tremor coming up from the earth. What was going on? Suddenly he could smell something. It was smoke. Something was on fire! He rose to his full height for the first time that day and saw thick smoke rising from some gorse bushes. He could hear the crackling of the spiny leaves and saw the flames spreading to the dry grass nearby. As he ran the few yards towards the fire the sound of those tiny voices got louder and more desperate and then he saw where they were coming from. There was an anthill, almost as tall as himself, just ahead. A tall tower of red earth swathed in smoke. He turned and ran back to his shelter, grabbed his sword and came charging back to the anthill. Gwrhir took a two-handed grip and a wide stance on the uneven earth and cut the anthill off at its base with a single stroke. Once his shout had faded he sang the line that thanked the sword, its maker and his father, who had gifted it to him and sheathed it. The blow was so clean and powerful that the ant hill was still standing. Gwythyr gently leant it towards him and, taking its weight on his shoulder, heaved it up and moved it to a safe distance and then set it carefully upright once more. He stepped back and looked at this strange, creature-made structure with its skin of mottled, knobbly earth that made it look like part of an impossibly huge animal. He ran the tips of his fingers over the surface and noticed a tiny movement and leant in closer to see what was happening. He could not hear the voices anymore and he hoped that the ants inside had not all been killed by the smoke and the heat. There was a tiny crack in the skin of the structure and something was coming out. Something like a tiny, impossibly thin, black finger. It felt its way in the air for a moment and then was joined by another one and then a shiny black, bald head and extraordinarily shiny, black eyes. The Queen of the Ants climbed out of the earth mound, lifted her head and rubbed her front pair of legs together in greeting. Gwythyr pulled off the strip of cloth he had tied around his head, bowed and leant in to listen to what she had to say. The Queen of the Ants spoke with an elegant and breathy voice that seemed to be coming from the inside of Gwythyr’s head.

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‘Gwythyr, you have saved my people. Your bravery and fortitude will be sung about for as long as there are anthills in which our voices can echo. Just as you heard our cry for help so we have felt your sorrow and grief as you crawled your way along the earth like one of us. We know what you need and, just as you saved us, so we will save you.’ She gave a little flurry of her antennae and stamped regally with one tiny foot on the baked earth of the anthill. Gwythyr took a step back as a wave of ants began to seep out of the anthill and then pour into the field where the ants disappeared in the undergrowth. Gwythyr waited. He heard the breeze in the trees beyond the field and watched the movement of their branches. His gaze was drawn to the mountains on the horizon and then a rush of starlings overhead made him look up to the broad dome of the sky above. From a long way off he heard the ants’ voices again. They were all talking together excitedly and then their voices melded into a work song. Gwythyr rushed back to the pots and untied the leather lids so that the ants could drop in their seeds. The column of ants snaked all the way from deep in the field and Gwythyr watched as the columns arrived at the pots. The ants climbed to the lip of each pot and dropped their seeds in. He listened to their patient and steady song, the different parts of it arriving at different times because the lines of ants were so long. The singing blended into a marvellous wave-like pattern of sound. Gwythyr watched the pots filling up and it was as if the previous months of wretchedness counted for nothing. He put his hand on the warm belly of one of the pots and peered in as a gentle rain of seeds filled it to the brim. ‘If this is possible,’ he thought to himself, ‘anything is possible.’ The last ant arrived and clambered up to the mouth of the last pot. Gwythyr lowered his head to see the ant better and held his breath as the tiny creature pushed the seed over the lip of the pot. There was a gentle hushing noise from the ground as hundreds of thousands of ants cheered, rubbing their antennae together. Gwythyr turned back to the pot and frowned. He glanced from one pot to the other and there was no doubt that this pot was different to all the others. A small but vital

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Gwythyr stood upright and looked again at the field. He knew just how full of weeds, roots, stones, dung, plants and earth it was. In that field there was the one, single seed he needed to complete his task. His shoulders sagged and he had never felt more exhausted. But then, there was another hushing sound from the ants and Gwythyr looked up. The ants were moving apart to create a gently winding path from deep in the field. They turned to see what was coming and started to rub their antennae together in anticipation. It was a while before Gwythyr could see what was going on but, after a while he saw a lone ant. Its movements were slow and irregular and, as it got closer, Gwythyr could see that it was limping. It had been wounded when Gwythyr moved the anthill and, with ant-determination, it made its way to the last pot. On its back, twice the weight of the ant’s own body, Gwythyr could make out the seed. It was so tiny that he could have sent it spinning into the air with his breath. This ant, on the other hand, could feel the seed’s weight and feel the still dormant life curled up inside it, ready to open out into the world. Gwythyr and the ants watched as the little creature gripped the outer wall of the pot with its tiny feet and clambered upwards. The man looked closely and was amazed by this minute creature’s ability to scale a more than vertical surface while carrying something heavier than itself. Suddenly the seed was in! The pot was full, there was a tiny song of farewell that sounded like a sigh and the ants were gone. When one thing goes right, it is as if everything goes right. As soon as he had said goodbye to the ants, thanked them and wished for whatever makes ants happy, a farmer appeared with an ox cart. Gwythyr rushed to the rutted road by the side of the field and stopped him. The farmer’s eyes widened as he heard the story and soon they were both loading the pots onto the cart and then started their journey.

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‘Well, well,’ said the farmer to his new companion, ‘when I got up this morning I thought it would be a day like any other, and here I am on the way to the court of King Arthur!’ Gwythyr knew that he couldn’t appear at Arthur’s court looking like some mad hermit so he stopped off at the court of a relative on the way and got himself decked out in the best clothes and accessories his family could provide. The following day, he made his way to the court of the king, wearing a long woollen cloak of blue and purple that came down to his ankles, a pale linen shirt buckled with a wide, gleaming leather belt and the fattest, twisted gold torque you have ever seen with chunky decorated terminals that scattered golden patches of reflected light up onto his face and beard. When the door of Arthur’s court was thrown open there was already a grand feast in full swing but there was a sudden silence as Gwythyr strode in because none of them had expected him to return, let alone victorious. As he told his story, suitably exaggerated and embellished, the farmer and the court servants brought in the eight earthenware pots and, as he reached the finale of his story, he tore the lid off one of the pots, took a fistful of the seeds and let them trickle through his fingers. Everyone, including the king, craned their necks and a quiet hushing noise, like a far away sea, filled their ears as the seeds fell back in the pot. ‘And that, my friends,’ said Gwythyr, ‘is what the voices of the ants sound like.’ He brought his gaze to meet that of the king’s. Slowly the joy and pride in Gwythyr’s face clouded, his forehead creased and his eyes smouldered with hatred. Something was horribly wrong. ‘No!’ shouted Gwythyr and threw the remaining seeds on the floor as if they were burning. He stared towards where the king was sitting, the veins in his neck bulging and his fists clenched. Those sitting in the feast were appalled. They had never seen such insulting behaviour in front of the king. Had Gwythyr gone mad? Not mad but furious. And no wonder, because there, beside King Arthur, was Gwyn ap Nudd, the lord of the Otherworld. He was sitting on

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 111 the king’s right hand as an honoured guest. Gwyn ap Nudd, who had stolen Creiddylad, Gwythyr’s bride, just a few days before their wedding and who was the cause of all his misery. Gwythyr ran towards the table, reached across it and grabbed Gwyn by the fur collar of his dark cloak. He dragged him over the table and into the centre of the hall where the two men fell and began to roll on the ﬂoor kicking, punching and trying to strangle the life out of each other. Everyone was on their feet by now, both appalled and thrilled because there hadn’t been a decent punch-up at a royal feast for years. The result was inevitable, however. Gwyn would use his magic and Gwythyr would be defeated again. Nevertheless, full marks to Gwythyr for his courage and lack of manners. Not even the wily Gwyn ap Nudd had expected this and Gwythyr’s status had just shot up in the eyes of all who watched. Suddenly they all realised that the king was standing. He stood, impassive, behind the table with the royal chair pushed back behind him. When the king stands, all in the room must bow. Those who had been in battle with Arthur recognised the look on his face and nudged those around them until everyone was bowing apart from the men who had managed to separate Gwyn and Gwythyr, who were now struggling in their arms. Arthur slowly walked between them and the men were released. Gwythyr bowed but Gwyn, being a king himself, did not have to. Arthur looked from one man to the other and the only sounds you could hear were the crackling of the ﬁre and the panting of the two men. ‘So,’ said Arthur, ‘a tricky situation. Two men and one woman.’ The king cast his glance around the onlookers. ‘Tricky, but not insoluble’. As the excitement died down everybody in the room realised what was really at stake. Arthur’s whole reputation now depended on the completion of all the tasks that the Hawthorn Giant had set Pig Boy and central to all of them was seizing the golden comb and scissors that lay between the ears of the Great Wild Boar. Two of the huntsman that were needed to take part in this hunt were Gwyn and Gwythyr. In fact they had to ride side by side but, at the moment, they didn’t look like they

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 112 wanted to do anything except kill one another. How was Arthur going to get them to work together? ‘Tricky, but not insoluble.’ repeated the king. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I understand that you need to fight.’ Sounds of general agreement came from the crowd. ‘But why fight everyday because neither of you will get what you want and, frankly, neither of you will ever get anything done.’ There was silence in the room this time. Everyone agreed but where was Arthur going with this? ‘Why don’t you fight just twice a year? And why don’t we make it May Day Eve and Halloween?’ All eyes were on Gwyn and Gwythyr by now. The men holding them had already released their grip and the two men were staring sullenly at each other. After a pause they both nodded and a huge cheer went up and before long the feasting had started all over again, with Gwyn and Gwythyr seated a safe distance from each other. And so it was agreed. And from then on the two of them fought over who will be with Creiddylad for the following six months. And still, even in our modern age, they fight twice a year. Every Halloween Gwyn ap Nudd, the king of the Otherworld, wins the fight and he takes Creiddylad down to the land under ours. As she goes the earth mourns and in its sadness the leaves wither and drop, the wind becomes sharp and bitter, the flowers, birds and insects leave us, the earth is cold and unyielding and we keep ourselves inside and by our fires as much as possible. But on May Day Eve it is Gwythyr who wins the battle and brings his bride back to our world. When the earth hears her coming it softens and warms and the buds on the trees open, flowers appear, the birds sing, the woods are full of life once more and people are happy.

Pig Boy liked Gwythyr but this was not surprising as everyone liked Gwythyr. He was young, energetic, positive but very, very unlucky. Pig Boy saw himself in Gwythyr and wanted to be like him but didn’t want the same thing to happen to him. When the forces of the Otherworld get involved, life becomes very complicated and all sorts of deals have to be

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 113 struck that go against natural justice and the way things are meant to be. Pig Boy wanted to know what Gwythyr’s mistake was so that he wouldn’t make the same error himself. Listening to the story he couldn’t see what Gwythyr could have done differently, and this troubled him. As with all the heroes that Pig Boy liked and wasn’t too intimidated by, he would ﬁnd ways to sidle up to Gwythyr and be part of his company, eavesdropping on conversations and hoping for a friendly word or some well-intentioned teasing. One late afternoon a group of men had just got back from a hunting expedition and were standing outside the hall showing what they had killed to some friends, Gwythyr amongst them. Pig Boy was drawn by the banter and laughter and laughed along with them. Then the cook came out and told them that if they wanted to taste any of the meat that day they had better get it into the kitchen. The men shouldered the carcasses and carried them inside leaving Pig Boy and Gwythyr on their own. Pig Boy was still full of the good humour and leg-pulling of the group and turned to Gwythyr with a big grin on his face expecting one in return. But when he looked at him there was no hint of a smile. His eyes looked vacantly in front of him and his jaw was set ﬁrmly. Pig Boy backed away and the movement brought Gwythyr back from his grim reverie. ‘I’m sorry, Pig Boy,’ he said, ‘with them I can pretend but with you, I’m afraid I can’t be bothered.’ ‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,’ said Pig Boy, ‘but I don’t know what I’ve done.’ ‘Don’t worry, Pig Boy,’ said Gwythyr with a thin smile, ‘I’m not offended. Its just that you are seeing me as I really am. A few short months ago I was a normal young nobleman with everything to live for and a bright future in front of me. But then Creiddylad was stolen and everything changed. When I was helped by the ants I was humbled and strengthened at the same time. Imagine, the forces of the Earth itself decided to help me complete an otherwise utterly impossible task. You know the rest, of course, and now I am married to my wife in the warm half of the year and, for the rest of the year, she becomes queen down in the Otherworld.’

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There was a long pause as Gwythyr stared beyond the trees on the other side of the valley. Eventually he turned back to Pig Boy and spoke again. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking that this is a story of men, women, love and jealousy. Yes, I am a man and Creiddylad is a woman, but Gwyn is a god and that changes everything. I don’t really understand who the gods are or where they come from and we don’t worship them as other people in different parts of the world do. Here things are different. Here the veil between us and them is very thin and they can cross it, as and when they like. For us mortals it is a bit more complicated but it can be done. Usually by accident, but it can be done. So now I look at the world and understand that what I see and everything I know to be real is only ever half the story and perhaps a lot less than that. But I am a man and I only know the ways of this world, so it is frustrating to know that all the years of training and hard work that I went through only work in a small part of the Two Worlds that I am now a part of.’ Gwythyr bent down and picked up a piece of decayed wood that lay at his feet. Pig Boy saw that there were about a dozen ants busily scurrying around on it and Gwythyr let one of them walk onto the back of his hand and lowered it to the level of Pig Boy’s eyes. It was beginning to get dark but in the last rays of the setting sun Pig Boy could see the little creature’s legs moving in perfect harmony and the shine of the sun reﬂected off its big, black eyes. The ant stopped moving for a moment and tasted the air with its antennae and then, with a puff of his breath, Gwythyr sent it spinning into the dusk. ‘Stay away from the Otherworld.’ he said, walking away, ‘Stay away from the Otherworld.’

Pig Boy was none the wiser after talking to Gwythyr, just more confused. There was only one other person who might be able to help him understand but Pig Boy was terriﬁed of him. Gwyn ap Nudd, the Lord of Annwfn, King of the Otherworld. Unprincipled, powerful, magical, impulsive and completely fascinating. There was no way that Pig Boy

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 115 would go anywhere near him. In some ways he seemed just like a normal man. He ate, he laughed, he got upset just like everyone else but when you got within a certain distance you knew that he was something other than human. The differences were small but profound. To begin with he didn't have a smell. All the other people were either musky, or smokey or had a slightly blood-like smell or any one of the hundreds of other smells that people can have, but not Gwyn. When you were near him there was something astringent and non-organic in the air that Pig Boy could almost taste. Sometimes, when Gwyn moved, the image of where he'd just been would float in the air for a moment and then fade. When he was still, the colours of his clothes, or face or beard would bleed out into the air like a slow, wet version of the way that gold and steel gleam. Pig Boy was terrified of Gwyn ap Nudd and his only comfort was that they were, for the time being at least, on the same side and he tried to avoid him wherever possible. Except of course, it wasn't always possible. Pig Boy had burned with righteous indignation when he heard the story of how Gwyn had stolen Creiddylad, just because he could. When he had met Gwythyr and talked to him and discovered what a basically good, sound and decent person he was he felt terrible frustration at his impotence to change things. The fact that even Arthur didn't have the power to impose decent behaviour in this situation didn't lessen his anger and frustration one bit. However, as Pig Boy was about to discover, the thing that you want to avoid most of all has a way of finding you out. Maybe it was all those years looking after pigs but, in spite of his noble blood, Pig Boy would often find himself wandering out of the back of the court building, amongst the chickens and pigs and compost. That’s where the broken tools and bits of off-cuts lay around waiting for someone to adapt them back into usefulness. It was also where the stables were and, on this particular chill and crisp morning, Pig Boy was stopped in his tracks by the most beautiful stallion. It was a black deeper than any black he had ever seen and was, at the same time, gleaming and sucking light into its dense darkness. The creature was standing

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 116 precisely and squarely on the ground, not with one hind leg bent and an angled hip like so many other horses. The only sign of life was a gentle curl of steam rising from his nostrils. The horse was so still that Pig Boy jumped when it lowered his head to a bucket of water in front of him. With its gentle shift of weight Pig Boy saw the smooth ripple of the horse's muscles under the dark hide. He couldn't stop himself from walking towards him and letting his hand glide over the animal's ﬂank and feel its power and presence pulsing through the palm of his hand. ‘Why don't you get on?’ Pig Boy span round and saw Gwyn right in front of him. ‘I got him from Moro and, let me tell you, it was not easy. Even for me.’ Pig Boy could only stand there as Gwyn talked. ‘In fact, none of this is easy. And what I see in you is a lack of understanding that this is all about you. Believe me, people will die because of this adventure that you started when you rode into Arthur's court demanding the impossible.’ Gwyn paused and let his eyes rest on Pig Boy which felt to him as if Gwyn was effortlessly looking right inside him and gave Pig Boy the sickening and dizzy feeling that ,right inside him, there was absolutely nothing at all. ‘When you came riding in on your father's horse you had absolutely no idea what you were starting or getting into. At least now you are clear that something huge is happening and that you have no idea what to do. Which I suppose is a kind of progress.’ Pig Boy tried to ﬁnd a response but the words wouldn't come and then Gwyn nodded to the horse and said, ‘Just get on.’ Pig Boy turned and reached up to the horse's bare back. It was a stretch but he could just reach but getting up would be impossible. Suddenly Gwyn had his hands on one of Pig Boy's legs, bent it at the knee and effortlessly propelled him onto the horses back. Pig Boy's legs and the body of the horse felt their way to some kind of agreement and Gwyn said, ‘Now ride!’

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It wasn't clear whether he was talking to the boy or the horse or both but off they went nevertheless. They headed out beyond the ﬁelds and along the windy wooded track that led towards the mountains. There was no saddle or reins and all the communication had to come through the contact between human and horse. But soon they found their rhythm. The danger of falling, injury or death was much higher than normal riding and he was riding an animal that he didn't know and was far too big for him. Nevertheless, he managed to redirect his fear into the clear need to remain balanced and in tune with the horse. Soon he made himself hang on less and listen more to the movement of the horse under him. Then he was aware of the creature tuning into him and they moved as one, at least most of the time, as they trotted and cantered in the ﬁelds and tracks until they were back at the stable, both sweating, out of breath and happy. Once he dismounted in the small courtyard in front of the stable a servant came out and wordlessly led the horse inside and started to brush him down. There was a faint but sharp tang in the air and Pig Boy turned round expecting to see Gwyn but he was on his own in the gathering dusk.

Pig Boy’s training was going well. Word had spread that he was a promising swordsman and becoming more proficient each day. Now, when he practiced with Cai, there would quite often be a curious bystander or two keeping an eye on him. After watching for a while they would turn and go into the hall and spread the news of Pig Boy’s progress. At last, he was feeling more at home in Arthur’s court. He was finally used to the rules and etiquette of the hall. He cringed when he remembered some of the unintentional gaffes he had committed in the early days. He felt more at home with the adult company in the court and could hold his own in the banter and teasing that went on. He had grown and filled out thanks to all the good food he was eating and was now at eye level with some of the men. But, every now and again, something would happen that would make him feel as if he had only just arrived in court. Like the time that Cai had

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 118 walked out of Arthur’s hall, never to return. It was just after Cai and Bedwyr had returned from completing one of the impossible tasks and were telling the story of their quest. It was all going as normal with the usual amount of boasting and exaggeration, when suddenly it all went deathly quiet. Cai’s face went chill and impassive and you could see something change deep down in his expression and, without fuss or even a word, he walked out of the court and never came back. There was a strange emptiness in the Arthur’s court after Cai had walked out. He had been larger than life and one of the greatest and bravest warriors ever to wield a sword. He was also an arrogant and difficult character and the air fairly crackled around him with the threat of violence. Not that he was hot-headed. Although his body gave off a searing heat when he was in battle, his mind seemed to remain cool, with the chilly need to settle whatever score had to be settled or pay back any insult, real or imagined, with the edge of his sword. He was ruthless violent, quick to anger and wouldn’t stop fighting until he had done what was needed. He was just the person you need on your side when you are going to face something as strong and unyielding as the Great Wild Boar. And there he was walking out of the court without once looking round. Everyone who saw him go knew that he would never come back and the gap he left behind was palpable. Pig Boy could feel a grim reality settling on the court and in the sullen gaze of the men around him. Something of Cai’s invulnerability, skill and strength had rubbed off on them and without him, the enormity and danger of the task ahead became gradually more and more real. Not that anyone could possibly admit this, of course. The preparations for the other impossible tasks went on as planned but you could feel the uncertainty and dread in the air. Pig Boy had become more and more addicted to sword practice and missed Cai’s chilling and demanding style of training so he went to talk to Bedwyr who agreed to spar with him. Bedwyr had the same easy style as Cai and, in fact, his skill was more obvious to the trained observer. In a real fight he would easily have defeated Pig Boy, but the lad could feel

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 119 a difference between the two men’s styles. Bedwyr’s moves were just that. Skilful, clear, powerful and deadly. But Cai had something else. A chilling need to vanquish and an utter fearlessness that you sensed in his eyes. He did not fight for any cause or country but for himself. Anyone or anything he allied himself to had to be worth it and, right now, he was exactly who they needed. Bedwyr finished the training session with some pointers on how Pig Boy could improve. He ran through how best to do these moves and showed him just how and when to place his feet as he changed the angle of his blade. That was something that Cai, with his sink or swim approach, had never done. Almost as though he begrudged how much Pig Boy was learning. ‘That’s enough for now.’ said Bedwyr, sheathing his sword, and Pig Boy did likewise. The two of them walked side by side back towards the court as a chill wind whipped round the eaves and made the dust and leaves dance in cold spirals in the corners of the yard. Pig Boy could feel that Bedwyr was thinking about something and waited for his companion, and new teacher, to speak. ‘Pig Boy,’ said Bedwyr ‘do you understand why Cai walked out of the court and turned his back on all those he was closest to including his own king?’ Pig Boy said nothing. ‘And do you understand that he will never come back?’ Although he had understood in principle that Cai had gone for good he had not really taken it in until Bedwyr said those words. How was it possible that the man who had taught him everything and given him all that attention and training had gone? Pig Boy had begun to fight and think like him, picking up mannerisms like the snappy rhythm he used to sheathe and unsheathe his sword. How could he just not be there anymore? Bedwyr saw the lad’s head droop and he put his hand on Pig Boy’s shoulder. Very quietly and slowly Pig Boy’s voice emerged, ‘Why all that fuss over a couple of dog’s leads? I don’ t understand.’

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‘Then let me explain.’ said Bedwyr, ‘There was a man called Dillus, but everyone called him Big Beard because of his huge, bristling beard. This beard was as tough and impenetrable as a thorn bush and, even if he had wanted to shave, he couldn’t have because his bristles were tougher than the sharpest iron blade. In order to hunt the Great Boar we had to secure the two pups...’ ‘...of the she-wolf Rhymi,’ said Pig Boy, lifting his head, ‘who are two of the fiercest hunting dogs in the world because of their wolf blood. They are needed to run in the hunt of the Great Wild Boar beside Dee, the pure black horse of Moro, on whose back Gwyn ap Nudd the lord of Annwfn, the unseen world, must ride.’ ‘Very good, Pig Boy, I see you have been paying attention. And the two leads that you saw fall from Cai’s hand were no ordinary leads but made from the strongest material you can imagine...’ Bedwyr stopped to give Pig Boy the chance to remember what they were and, when no answer came, he continued, ‘You should know because it is one of the impossible tasks that the Hawthorn Giant gave you.’ Pig Boy couldn’t remember anything about this task and Bedwyr frowned and went on. ‘They were two strands from the beard of Big Beard who we’ve just been talking about. He is the only warrior in the world ever to face Arthur in battle and walk away alive.’ Pig Boy gaped. He had never thought that there might be someone who was Arthur’s match in battle. ‘Myself and Cai were sent to find Big Beard and pluck two hairs from his chin. When the Hawthorn Giant gave this impossible task to you he also cleverly mentioned that no metal could be used to accomplish this task.’ ‘So how did you get them?’ asked Pig Boy. ‘Well’ said Bedwyr ‘Me and Cai were on top of the Five Mountains admiring the view and wondering which task to do next, when a great wind got up and started to howl around us. I don’t mind telling you, Pig Boy, that we felt as if we were going to be hurled into the air by the wind and carried across the sea, the gale was so fierce. But in the middle of

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 121 all this whirling wind and in the teeth of this gale we both saw an amazing sight. Down in the valley below, there was smoke coming from a single fire. But this smoke was not blown to the left or the right by the wind. It just kept on moving straight up until it wafted past us, higher and higher into the sky moving in a dead straight line in spite of the wind that threatened to hurl us down the slope. ‘We struggled down the hill, slipping and falling as we went until we got into the valley, where the wind calmed down and we started to walk towards the small woodland where the smoke was coming from. Through the trees we could see a large figure squatting by a fire and we could smell wild boar being roasted over an open fire. I wanted to go and introduce ourselves because I was quite hungry by this time but Cai put his hand on my arm and whispered, “Don’t you know who that is? Look closely. It’s Big Beard. We need a couple of hairs from his shaggy, old beard.” ‘I had my hand on the hilt of my sword but Cai stopped me again, saying, “Remember, only wood can be used in this task. No metal. Now then, let’s just let him gorge himself on those wild boar piglets he’s killed and then we’ll wait our turn.” ‘So we waited and eventually, after roasting and eating three whole wild boar piglets and sucking the marrow from their thigh bones with a huge, slurping noise, Big Beard rolled up his cloak for a pillow, lay down and immediately began to snore. And so we set to work. We tried to keep quiet to begin with because we were worried about waking him up but we soon realised that even an earthquake wouldn’t wake him, so we carried on with all our strength. The plan was a simple one. Dig a nice, deep hole that Big Beard wouldn’t be able to get out of easily; make a pair of wooden pliers; push the sleeping warrior into the hole and then pull out a couple of strands of beard and get away before he could climb out.’ ‘But that’s not what happened, is it?’ said Pig Boy. ‘No it isn’t.’ replied Bedwyr slowly, ‘Cai dug the hole, carving away at the soil with his bare hands and heaving huge rocks out of the ground. I cut

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 122 some good strong pieces of wood from the trees nearby and managed to fashion a pair of wooden pliers with a good grip that I hoped would be strong enough. To be truthful, I was enjoying myself because it was like a game. I was sure that it would make a great story for the feasting hall later on. Anyway, as planned, once the hole was deep enough we both put our shoulders against Big Beard and, for the first time, we realised just how big and strong he really was. We each took a breath and with all our strength we pushed him into the hole. ‘If he had been asleep when we pushed he was certainly awake when he landed. He was staring up at us, red-faced and furious, from the bottom of the hole and just before he gathered his strength to scramble out, I leaned in with the wooden pliers and, quick as a flash, I pulled two thick, bristly hairs from his chin. It made a noise like roots being ripped from the earth and, when they came out, I fell over backwards, clinging on to the pliers for dear life. Big Beard was screaming with rage and pain and the next part of the plan was to get away and get back to Arthur’s court as soon as possible. But Cai had unsheathed his sword. I heard it whistle briefly through the air and down into the hole. And then there was no more yelling from Big Beard. ‘We walked in silence all the way back to the court and when we came in, everyone knew that we had done something big. I wasn’t sure where to start but Cai was. He drew everyone in with his description of the gale on the mountain top. His voice sometimes soared into a sing-song melody as his audience sank deeper into the story. He is a great storyteller, especially when talking about himself. He had the two strands of beard in his hand and he held them high and whirled them round as he got to his finale - the moment he took off Big Beard’s head, saying, “And that, my friends, is how the only man ever to have faced King Arthur in battle and walk away alive lost his life.” ‘I remember how quiet the hall was after that.’ said Pig Boy, ‘The only thing you could hear was the crackling of the fire and then all eyes slowly turned towards the king. He kept his gaze on Cai and took in all the implications of the boast. Cai had killed the warrior Arthur had failed

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 123 to kill. How was he going to respond? And then Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, opened them suddenly and sang,

Cai has made a ﬁne lead From the beard of brave Big Beard If the man himself was here right now Face to face and not in a hole It would cost Cai his life.

‘Then there was another pause,’ Pig Boy went on, ‘and I remember there was a rumble of laughter from the back of the hall that swelled and poured over the whole group and then stilled back into silence. Then all eyes were back on Cai. It was the laughter, not the song that Arthur sang, that made him open his hand and let the strands of hair fall, tangled to the ground. He turned his back on all of us and walked out and, as he went, I knew that he would never come back. He was brilliant, unique, proud and infuriating and I miss him.’ ‘Me too,’ said Bedwyr, ‘But what's done is done and now it's up to the rest of us to complete the other tasks. I'm starving, let's go and eat.’ And they walked together into the warmth, chat and cooking smells of the hall.

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Chapter 8

Bedwyr and Pig Boy sat together for the meal that night. It was an especially companionable evening because Owain, who had first brought Pig Boy from the pigsty to his father’s house, was also there. Over the last few months the treasures and weapons had gradually been assembled from the Hawthorn Giant’s huge list and new kennels and stables had been built for the ferocious and unruly horses and hunting dogs that would eventually hunt the Great Boar. They still had a few huntsmen, animals and weapons to gather for that hunt but, even so, things were looking promising. Arthur felt it time to make an announcement and get some action going. It had been a while since the hall had resounded to the cheers and songs of victory as another team of warriors came back and another impossible task was ticked off the impossibly long list. Arthur stood up, the chatter stilled and everyone listened. ‘Before Pig Boy marries Olwen her father, the Hawthorn Giant, must have his beard shaved. There is only one object in the world that is sharp enough to do the job and that is the tusk in the jaw of Whitetusk Chief of Boars.’ Everytime Pig Boy heard his name called out in court like this he felt a knot tighten in his stomach. During the routine preparations for going out to accomplish a task, or training, or any one of the daily chores that needed to be done in the castle, Pig Boy was able to forget why all this was happening and just sink into the rhythm of the job in hand. But when he heard his name called, especially by the king, he was brought abruptly back to the reality of what was going on and why everyone was here. This was all because of him and he had no idea how it would end or what would happen next. It was easier to forget the disorientation and confusion he felt in the routine of activity and preparation, rather than thinking about what it was all for. When all he did was feed the pigs, everything was simple and nothing mattered. Now, nothing was simple and everything mattered but he didn’t know why. Why had he been given this curse? Why didn’t his step-mother just curse him to look after pigs

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 125 for the rest of his life? This was all just too hard, too intense and too much about him. ‘And that is why,’ continued King Arthur, ‘I have called Odgar from Ireland, Cadw the Pict and Mad Cyledyr to hunt Whitetusk, kill him and wrench his curved tusk from his skull.’ Here Arthur inserted one of his suspense-building pauses. ‘I have had a message that they have been successful and they are on their way here, now.’ Pig Boy wondered why these three had not been honoured with the usual feast before they set off. He was about to find out. There was a rumble outside. It got louder and louder. The doors burst open and men and women were scattered to the left and right as three huge figures stamped into the hall and glared around. There was no ritualised greeting to the King and Queen, no poetic wish for health and happiness on the building and those who lived in it. The biggest of the three stepped forward. He wore a battered golden torque around his throat so he was obviously some kind of royalty. He glared around, took a deep breath and started to tell his story in a barely comprehensible bellow. ‘I am Odgar. I am a king from Ireland. I came all the way over the sea to help my friend Arthur who needed my strength and courage to save his honour.’ Arthur retained his kingly dignity throughout although the Queen had greater difficulty and seemed to be fighting back the reflex to gag as the mixed stinks of sweat, filth and who knows what else swirled around Odgar. ‘I rode to the Far North and hunted Whitetusk. Stalking him day and night through thick forest and glen. Smelling his anger and fear as I closed in on him.’ As Odgar got into his story he got more and more excited, reliving his heroic triumph in precise and exaggerated detail. His voice swelled and stilled, following the course of the hunt. He was a monstrous and brutal- looking man but nobody could deny his storytelling skills. He was particularly adept at drawing everybody, even the Queen, into his story. Slowly stilling his voice to a barely audible rumble and then re-launching with a terrifying yell as Whitetusk ran at him from the undergrowth, his

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 126 tusks slashing and glinting. When he got to one of his crescendos you could see his leathery, furred tongue flap over his rotten teeth. As the words burst out of him they were accompanied by a hail of gristle and bone that had been hiding in the crevices. He left the audience with the image of the terrifying boar charging straight towards him and said, ‘And then I handed over to this crazy, idiot with the axe to do what had to be done next.’ Odgar stamped to the outside of the ring of onlookers and reached over their heads to snatch a gold-inlaid drinking horn from a servant and down the gallon or so of mead that was inside. Then he swallowed, belched and dropped the priceless object on to the floor. Cyledyr stepped forward. He was the opposite of Odgar. Slight and quiet, he seemed to glide rather than walk. His body seemed to give off a chill rather than warmth and there was a faint smile lingering at the corner of his mouth. The first impression was one of creepiness. Until he got close enough for you to see is eyes. When you saw them you knew that he was completely insane. Not wild and extreme like Odgar but utterly mad and capable of anything. ‘I am honoured to be of service to Arthur and pleased that my gift will help him.’ These were just words. Honour meant nothing to Cyledyr. ‘I see some young people here’ he looked straight at Pig Boy who felt something like a cold hand take hold of his heart. ‘And for their benefit, I will explain why I was able to do what no one else could.’ Those who knew the story looked away. Pig Boy, however, was transfixed. Both by the man and his strange and unsettling gaze and by the huge double-headed axe that swung from his belt. ‘I have a good friend who had a spot of bother with the Otherworlders. He was betrothed to a quite ravishing young woman and everything looked marvellous but one day along came that Gwyn ap Nudd and stole her away.’ Pig Boy realised that this was the story of his friend Gwythyr and that this crazy, lunatic in front of him was someone who had joined him in his attempt to get Creuddylad back. Cyledyr’s gaze ranged over those who

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 127 could not stop themselves from listening and his eyes seemed to crackle and spark with energy. ‘Yes, I did go to the Otherworld with my friend, full of righteous indignation and fury,’ said Cyledyr as if he had been reading Pig Boy’s mind, ’and there I was imprisoned. Left as a hostage in the Otherworld with others of my family, including my own father. As you know, there are rules about the proper treatment of hostages and as you know the Otherworld plays by its own rules. One day I was invited to a feast...’ The others in the hall had gone pale and quiet because they knew what was coming. Pig Boy, on the other hand had no idea and he remained stuck in the story, wanting to know what would happen next. Cyledyr turned his gleaming eyes on him and carried on. ‘You should have smelt it. It was the most delicious stew you have ever smelt. Richly seasoned and gently bubbling in a wine based sauce with a hint of honey and rosemary. I sat to eat it and, after the first mouthful, I was lost. I couldn’t stop myself from eating. It was as if I had never tasted food before and it is a taste I will never forget. The truth is that I still taste it every time I swallow.’ Cyledyr paused and swallowed, just as we all do hundreds of times a day without noticing. Except that Cyledyr did notice, just as he was aware of every inconsequential swallow during all his waking hours and the taste that came with it. And in that moment his smile twisted slightly and the gleam in his eyes deepened. ‘I laughed with them as they laughed at me and the way I was eating. Stuffing the stew into my mouth, abandoning my bone spoon and shoving in the meat with my hands. Grabbing the bread and mopping up the sauce and finally licking the bottom of the bowl clean. And still the Otherworlders laughed until, still ravenous, I asked.’ “What was that I just ate? It was the most delicious and satisfying food I have ever eaten.” “I am not surprised that you liked it,” said Gwyn ap Nudd the king of the Otherworlders. “Because you have just eaten your own flesh.” ‘There was more laughter from the Otherworlders. But quiet and conspiratorial as if they were expecting something that I wasn’t. And then Gwyn clapped his hands and a chair with a covering over it was brought in and placed in front of me. There was a stained covering over

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 128 it and one of the servants pulled it away and, there sat my father. I was about to greet him when I saw the pallor of his face and his unblinking eyes. I saw the blood. And finally I saw the gaping hole in his chest where his heart should have been. And then the laughter of the Otherworlders began to swirl around me and from deep inside me the madness grew. As soon as I felt it, I welcomed it. I breathed it in. I let it possess me. ‘And that is why it is only I, Cyledyr the Madman, who was able to stand firm in front of the charging Whitetusk and lift up my double- headed axe without caring whether I lived or died, only happy that the danger I was in was, for a brief moment, stronger than my madness so that I could bring that blade whistling through the silent air and crack the skull of that monster like a nut.’ Pig Boy was shaking. Owain had been trying to make his way over towards him since he had first spotted Cyledyr come in through the front door but the place was so full of people that he had only just come within reach and squeezed himself onto the bench beside him. He put his arm around Pig Boy’s shoulder and shook him gently but the lad was still staring straight ahead. He took hold of his face with his free hand and turned Pig Boy’s so that they could see each other but Pig Boy’s gaze was still somewhere else. ‘Pig Boy, listen to me. It’s me, Owain. Come back here. Come back to me.’ He gently shook the lad’s shoulders and saw a frown cross his face and he cast his gaze downwards. Owain knew that Cyledyr’s words had woken Pig Boy’s love curse and that Cyledyr’s mad words and the curse had started a crazed dance inside Pig Boy that Owain had to stop. He lifted Pig Boy’s chin, leant forward and sang in his ear,

May my words bring warmth back to the marrow of your bones May my song still the frantic spinning of your blood May my presence bring you back to your senses Let the strangeness of the Worlds settle And bring you back here and now with us, your friends

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Pig Boy’s blank gaze came back into the room and he was able to focus on Owain. There was a brief pause and suddenly Owain saw the horror of the story he had just heard well up in Pig Boy’s eyes. He took a firm hold of him again and said. ‘Keep listening Pig Boy. The story is not yet over. Look’ Owain gestured over towards the third of the terrifying trio who had burst in from the night. This one was smaller and quieter than the others. More solid than Cyledyr with drooping moustaches and totally unremarkable, apart from his hands. The man himself looked like he hadn’t slept indoors for months. His clothes were filthy and the wrinkles of his face ingrained with grime. But his hands were perfect, small, neat and manicured, like the hands of one of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting. And in these smooth and elegant hands he held something that looked to Pig Boy like the crescent moon herself. A smooth, lean curve emitting a clear light that lit up the man’s thin face. The man said nothing but walked to the centre of the court, holding the gleaming slice of moon in front of him. He turned slowly, so that all could look at it in turn. Pig Boy watched as its gleam lit up the onlookers faces, wide eyed and transfixed. Owain’s face was still right beside Pig Boy’s and he whispered. ‘That’s it. That’s the tusk of Whitetusk the boar. It is the sharpest object in the world and can only be held by the hands of Cadw the Pict. Anyone else would have their skin, flesh and bones cut to ribbons as soon as they touched it.’ Pig Boy stared as this strange and unassuming man who held the gleaming blade in his girl’s hands. Cadw turned and looked at Pig Boy. ‘It is this blade that will shave the beard of the Hawthorn Giant on the day that you marry Olwen.’ Cadw walked towards Arthur, still with the tusk held out in front of him and everyone backed away, scared to go anywhere near it. Cadw transferred the tooth to one hand and reached into the bag hanging from his belt with the other. Everyone held their breath as he pulled out a finely woven cloth and laid it on the table in front of Arthur. Then he gently and carefully placed the tusk on top of it. He folded the cloth over it so that the tusk was covered and the light was masked. As the people around them relaxed Owain explained to Pig Boy,

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‘That piece of cloth has been woven from Cadw’s own hair. Any other material would disintegrate as soon as it came in contact with the tusk.’ That was the moment that these three strange and savage men decided that they had earned their supper. Without a word of warning, let alone an invitation from the king, they moved to where the food had been laid out on the tables and started to guzzle and chomp their way through the waiting delicacies. Anyone between them and the food were unceremoniously shoved out the way and the crowd slowly backed off and left them to their slurping, shoving, arguing and scoffing. As this was going on Pig Boy slipped outside. When Owain realised that he had left the hall he had a hunch where Pig Boy would have gone. Out the back with the pigs. Owain picked his way through the dark, past all the discarded tools and broken pots until he could see Pig Boy’s silhouette outlined by the wall of the sty. Thanks to his huntsman’s skills Owain was right beside Pig Boy before the lad realised he was there. He tried to make off as soon as he realised that he had company but Owain grabbed him by the elbow. Pig Boy snatched his arm back and the two men stared at each other in the gloom. ‘What kind of a world is it where the brutality and mayhem wreaked by a thug a madman and a freak can be used to get what we want? How is it all right for this blood, violence and pain to happen?’ Owain could hear the frustration and anger in Pig Boy’s voice. He listened to his words and could not disagree. ‘Pig Boy, I understand what you are saying. It all seems so extreme. You can see that killing only leads to more killing. In your imagination you can see all this happening from a long way away and can see the pain it causes. The thing is that you are not a long way away but you are in the thick of it. You are in it and it is in you.’ Owain felt Pig Boy bristle at this comment and could hear his thoughts. “I have never killed anybody and I have no intention of killing anybody or causing anyone or anything deliberate harm.” He heard them clearly because they were his own and he truly believed them. He truly believed them but knew them to be impossible because there is no way to separate ourselves from the world and we are all implicated. ‘Tell me why I am a part of all this? I didn’t ask to be cursed with love for someone I’ve never seen.’

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‘You know that is not the point’ Pig Boy tightened his lips and turned away and put his hands on top of the wall of the sty ‘If I can’t help you understand then you might as well ask the pig’ said Owain. Pig boy looked down at a fat old sow he could just see lying inside the sty. Her head was near the entrance and her eyes were shut. She adjusted her weight to be more comfortable and gave one of her ears a twitch. Pig Boy watched her idly chomp her jaws a couple of times and then she fell back into a fitful sleep. The pig seemed content. She had been fed since she was a piglet to make her fat and had her own piglets in turn. One day people would decide it was her turn to be eaten and, in a few short moments of pain and terror, she would be trussed up, have her throat slit by those who fed her and looked after her. Then she would have her bristles scalded off with boiling water and then dismembered, salted, boiled or roasted. How little she knew. Her very existence was an accident. Pigs would never have existed if wild boar from the forest had not come to the middens that humans leave been behind and then tempted to stay and slowly have the wildness bred out of them. The sow slowly scratched her cheek against the stone threshold of the sty and settled herself again. Pig Boy made a deep, guttural noise somewhere between his throat and his chest and a grunt came back from the dozing sow. In spite of himself Pig Boy smiled. Then he remembered Owain telling him about why he was called ‘Pig Boy’. The story of his mother and her madness. His mother’s crazed life, wild in the woods. The pigs who scared her so much that Pig Boy slithered into the world in a pig run. And now he had just seen the tusk of a wild pig whose head had been split so that it can be paraded in front of a giant. A giant who has ordered him to grab treasure from between the ears of the biggest, most ferocious wild pig anyone has ever seen. Pigs. They seemed to be everywhere. Owain came closer to Pig Boy and they stood side by side for a while looking at the sleeping pig. Owain put his arm round the boy’s shoulder and Pig Boy was so exhausted he couldn’t find the energy to shrug him off.

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‘It all started with one of those, you know,’ he said, talking as much to the sleeping animal as to Pig Boy, ‘she was an old white sow called Henwen. She came from the sea, they say, and she made her way through our land. As she went she created hills and valleys with her rootling. She was pregnant too, so the story goes, and wherever she stopped she gave birth. Not to piglets but to all sorts of other things. She gave birth to bees so that we might have honey. She gave birth to grain so that we might have bread. She gave birth to apples and damsons and sloes. She gave birth to monsters of the air and monsters of the water and some even say that she gave birth to us.’ The pig fidgeted and grunted and the two men walked their separate ways into the night.

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Chapter 9

There was always song in Arthur’s hall. The feast was preceded by song and when someone was praised it was done as a song. Sometimes the song was a new one and sometimes it was old. Some were so strange that many had forgotten the literal meaning, although everyone knew what the song was for. Everyone was a poet. There were words for blessing a meal, killing a chicken, seeing the new moon or setting out on a journey. Some of these verses were simple and direct and others intricate and complex. Some had been sung for generations and others had been new-minted for a special occasion. Pig Boy loved the words and how they sounded and how they made him feel, but there was a problem. As a young nobleman he was meant to be able to compose poetry. He remembered his conversations with Owain who had brought him back to his father’s house all that time ago. He had been excited and intimidated by the idea of training with weapons but, training with words? He didn’t even know where to start and nobody was giving him any guidance. He would try on his own sometimes but every time he tried out a bit of his own poetry it sounded shallow, stupid and trite. He had no idea what to do and was too embarrassed to talk to anyone about it. Then one day, after a long absence, Owain came to court again. He arrived when Pig Boy was training with a sword and shield with Bedwyr and he watched as they practiced. It took a while for Owain to realise who this young man was. He was so different to the shy and awkward youth that he had brought back from the pig sty. He was looking much more like a man now. He still had a slightly awkward and unﬁnished look but he was skilled and conﬁdent and looked happy. Once Owain saw them sheath their weapons he called and waved. Pig Boy thanked Bedwyr, and ran over to Owain grinning. When they were a few paces apart they both stopped, knelt to touch the ground with their right hands and then touched their own hearts in a welcome of equals, stepped forward and embraced.

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Owain congratulated Pig Boy on his progress and skill with weapons and listened to the young man’s updates on the impossible tasks that had been completed since Owain had last been at court. ‘And what about the poetry?’ asked Owain. This stopped Pig Boy in his tracks. ‘I find it so hard,’ he said, ‘at least with weapons there are clear rules and people to help. You can’t pick up words and feel their weight and balance. They’re not real’ Owain smiled, ‘Oh, I can assure you they are very real indeed. Listen, there will be someone at the feast today who will be able to help you. I’ll make sure you get to talk to him’ Pig Boy cringed inside but said, ‘Thank-you.’ That night at the feast Pig Boy and Owain sat side by side on one of the benches and Owain nudged his friend and nodded towards a young man sitting in the seat of honour beside Arthur. ‘That’s him, he said, ‘He’ll teach you about words.’ The man in question was young and clean shaven. He seemed about the same age as Pig Boy but he had an assurance and poise that made Pig Boy think there was something of the Otherworld about him. There was something else peculiar about him as well. As the stranger scanned the room and his face turned in the direction of Pig Boy and Owain, Pig Boy saw that the stranger’s forehead was emitting a clear, golden light. Pig Boy blinked and thought that he had seen the reflection of the fire bounced back at him by the young man’s golden torque. But no, when the stranger turned back in his direction the golden gleam on his forehead flashed clear and bright once more. ‘His name is Taliesin,’ said Owain, ‘he will come and find you tomorrow.’ The next day Pig Boy was going from the stable to the hall and, when he walked into the building, he practically bumped into Taliesin coming the other way. ‘There you are.’ said Taliesin. Pig Boy was flustered and off-balance and the poet waited for him to gather himself and then, with a smile, said, ‘Shall we walk?’

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As they wandered outside Pig Boy cast the occasional glance at Taliesin. Superficially he seemed like any other young nobleman but there was something about him that Pig Boy couldn’t put his finger on. Obviously a forehead that emits light is not exactly normal but he had a way of looking and carrying himself as if he was seeing things all around him that we don’t see. For a man of words he wasn’t saying very much and Pig Boy was not sure what to do or say and gave Taliesin a thin, embarrassed smile. ‘Pig Boy, if you want to find things out you’re going to have to ask me a question. Anything at all’ Pig Boy’s head was utterly blank. There was no coherent thought or word in there at all. Nothing. Until eventually he blurted out ‘Where are you from?’ And Taliesin said,

Before I was boiled in a cauldron I lived in the stars Before I was chased by beasts I knew the angels Before I was caught and eaten People called me Merlin Borne by the sea and wrapped in a bag Born again on land and named I came back into the world And I sing so it shines I am a friend of this world And a bridge to the other

Pig Boy gawped. ‘Go on,’ said Taliesin, ‘ask me another.’ Pig Boy’s head was empty again and all he could come up with was ‘Where am I from?’ And Taliesin, looking right at him, said,

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You were gleaming fire before you came into the world You were dust of the earth, blown by the wind Good and evil mixed together Your blood, your nature stem from mountain flowers From the soil and living earth, you came From water of the Ninth Wave, nettle flowers and mist. You weave yourself into sword and song and dance You shine in the ringing voices of people This world is not of one form You are not of one form Our blessing was becoming part of this world.

Pig Boy’s head was spinning. He couldn’t keep up with Taliesin’s ﬂow of words and he grappled and struggled to make sense of it all. ‘Stop trying to understand and just listen,’ said Taliesin, ‘and stop being intimidated by the whole idea of poetry. Yes, when you do the strict metre stuff it is complicated and next to impossible to truly master but that is not what it is all about.’ ‘Isn’t it?’ ‘No. We use complex and difﬁcult forms in order to trick ourselves out of our everyday cleverness so we can speak our real truth and sing about the beauty behind the beauty that is beyond normal speaking.’ ‘I think you just lost me again.’ ‘It’s more like hunting. If you just blundered into the forest, what would happen?’ ‘Every creature within earshot would either hide or scarper.’ ‘Exactly, so when you enter the world with your imagination you widen your gaze like the hunter does. You listen with your feet and feel with your ears. Your listening draws the attention of the forest and it surrounds you and feels you out because you are no longer a foreign object but becoming part of the world.’ Pig Boy nodded his head, although he had no idea what any of that meant. He thought he would try a different tack. ‘Are you an Otherworlder like Gwyn?’

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‘Gwyn is lord of the Underworld and the darkness. I am from the air and night’s sky. From the same place as the angels.’ ‘But Gwyn doesn’t care about us. He is helping Arthur for his own reasons and because it suits him, not out of a sense of service, or loyalty or honour. Why are you helping?’ Pig Boy asked. ‘Because I myself have been helped by people and I myself have been human?’ ‘What?’ said Pig Boy. He turned to look at Taliesin. Although he seemed superficially human he could tell that he was not. He looked like a young man but, although he ate, drank and slept like everyone else, Pig Boy could tell that he was never driven by hunger or thirst. Never plagued by illness or pain. His skills were divine. He had not worked for them, they had been given to him complete. There was also the fact that his forehead was emitting a searing golden light. How could he ever have been a mortal like Pig Boy? ‘Let me tell you, then. Once, I was a young boy playing with my friends in the village where I lived. I was about seven or eight but looked much younger. I was skinny and scabby with knobbly knees and I can’t even remember who my family was, if I had one at all. One day I was playing with my friends in the road that ran through the village when there seemed to be a cloud of dust coming towards us. We all stared, watching it get closer and closer, until we could see a figure in the middle of it charging towards us. The other kids ran for their lives and I ran too but they barged past me and left me spread-eagled in the dirt. The thundering noise stopped and the dust was all around me and I started to choke and splutter. Suddenly the thing that had chased us bent down and picked me up by my ankles and flipped me over its back like an old sack and trudged back to wherever it had come from. I could hear it wheezing and grunting as it walked and every time I banged my head on its bony back and let out a yelp it just said, “Shut up.” ‘Was it a monster?’ asked Pig Boy. ‘No, not a monster. Something much worse. She was one of the most powerful witches there has ever been. She was called Ceridwen’

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‘But that name means “pure love” and the witch that kidnapped you was horrible.’ ‘Indeed she was but if she hadn’t done what she did I would have finished my days in that village with an early and miserable death and would not be here in front of you now.’ ‘So what happened next?’ ‘Well, she took me back to where she lived and I was set to work. She was making a potion for her son. He was a grown man but was still at home with no skill, talent or future. He was also one of the most profoundly stupid and hideously ugly people in the world.’ ‘Poor thing.’ ‘Indeed. Anyway, Ceridwen had also kidnapped an old, blind man whose job it was to keep stirring a magic cauldron for a year and a day. The plan was to give the potion to her idiot son so that he would have all the knowledge in the world and she wouldn’t have to look after him any more.’ ‘I see, but why did she pick a blind man to do something so important’ ‘Because he couldn’t see what ingredients went into the potion and that way she could keep the whole thing secret’ ‘But why did she go so far to get you? There must have been plenty of other children closer to hand.’ ‘She picked me because I wouldn’t be missed and I was too short to see into the cauldron. My job was to keep the firewood coming so that the mixture would never stop boiling.’ Pig Boy nodded. The more Taliesin talked about his life as a young boy the more it reminded him of himself. Living in a house that was not his, subsisting from day to day, seeking such small comforts as he could with no idea how his life was about to change. ‘So what happened next?’ ‘I spent a miserable year scuttling between the woods and the lakeside where the cauldron sat, getting kicked and shouted at for my pains. I snatched the odd moment of sleep on the ground where I could and huddled close to the fire in the winter before I was sent off into the dark, dripping woods to find more wood for the pile.

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Eventually the time came when the spell was nearly ready. The plan was this. Three drops of pure knowledge would slowly distill themselves into being in the cauldron. Everything that was not pure knowledge would become pure poison. Now, you can’t have pure knowledge and pure poison in the same cauldron, so the three drops would jump out of the mixture, be caught on the spoon of the old man doing the stirring and then fed to Ceridwen’s son who would immediately have all the knowledge in existence and be able to make his own way in the world and finally leave his mother in peace.’ ‘Wait a minute,’ interrupted Pig Boy, ‘what do you mean “all the knowledge in the world?’” Taliesin turned to look at Pig Boy full in the face and the golden gleam from his forehead swirled around him. The centre of the light was too bright to look at directly but around it there was every shade of gold you can imagine. The different colours and layers shimmered and gleamed, resonating with Taliesin’s words and thoughts. In fact, they were Taliesin’s words and thoughts. ‘I mean that whoever swallowed these three drops would know everything that has ever been, everything that is and everything that will ever be.’ Pig Boy just stared. Taliesin watched him for a moment and then carried on. ‘So, the three drops shot into the air.’ Taliesin traced an arc in the space between them and Pig Boy watched the drops fly through the air. ‘But they did not land on the old man’s spoon. Instead they fell onto my finger.’ Taliesin held his index finger in front of Pig Boy’s face so he could see three small and perfectly round scars where the drops had landed, all those years ago. ‘They had been boiling for a year and a day. They were unimaginably hot and I did exactly what anyone else would have done.’ Taliesin slowly put his finger in his mouth and swallowed the imaginary drops of pure knowledge and inspiration, opened his eyes and

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 140 looked back at Pig Boy, whose mouth hung open. Quite suddenly, with a searing gleam from his forehead, Taliesin turned and was gone, leaving Pig Boy on his own. His mind felt jumbled and he couldn’t make sense of what had just happened. What kind of story was this? He was about to walk to the room where he slept with the other young men of the court but he knew that it would be full of people and he wanted to be alone. So he walked out of the court and along the road a little way towards some woods. He stepped off the road and walked into the trees. He was far enough away from the court and the road not to hear the sounds of people and he settled himself down in a little fold in the ground where nobody would see him. The ground cradled his back in a position half-way between sitting and lying with his head resting against the ground behind him. He closed his eyes and sighed, he let the ground under him take his weight and felt the breeze on his face. The agitation and confusion that had come after the story Taliesin had told slowly leaked out of him. He looked upwards into the tree canopy above him. There was a sudden movement in the branches above, followed by a long, liquid phrase of birdsong. A blackbird had just flown overhead and he thought of the blackbird they had met on their quest to find Mabon. Then he thought of the anvil that the bird cleaned his beak on. Then he thought of the deer and its antlers and the owl and the forest that grew three times and the battle of the fish and the eagle and suddenly there were just too many words, crowding round in his head, all clamouring for his attention and he shut his eyes to keep them all out. After a while, he opened his eyes and looked up again. He let his focus go soft and saw how the whole of the forest canopy above moved like the sea. He saw the little birds busily flying between the branches and, above, the huge expanse of sky and a red kite nonchalantly soaring in huge circles way up, unimaginably high, from where the world must look very different indeed. He let his weight be held by the ground under him. He sank into the small branches and felt hem yield and support him and he sighed a long, contented sigh.

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He was not sure how long he lay there but, after a while, the feeling came that it was time to go. He got to his feet and slowly walked towards the path. Just as he was about to step out of the woods he turned and let his gaze travel back into the trees and all the life that lived there. He had never been one for poetry until now but suddenly a line came to him. Not a line, in fact, but just a part of it. Something to do with “the beauty behind the beauty”. He wasn’t sure what it meant but he knew that he had just seen it and been part of it in the woods. Later that day, when Pig Boy was coming out of the forge after chatting to the blacksmith, Taliesin saw him and raised his hand in greeting. ‘Any the wiser about poetry?’ ‘Not really,’ said Pig Boy ‘but I do know one thing.’ ‘What’s that?’ asked Taliesin. ‘It’s not about the words.’ ‘Ah-ha, progress!’ ‘Yes, and I know something else too. I really need to know what happened next in your story’ Taliesin smiled and said, ‘Even I have no words to describe the sensation as those three drops worked their magic on my mind. It was startling and amazing. I could see absolutely everything. In fact I was absolutely everything. Then all that awareness crystallised into one clear and certain fact. The witch Ceridwen was going to kill me. So I ran as fast as I could on my skinny, knobbly, scabby legs. She had never bothered feeding me properly so I knew that she would soon catch me. It was just the fear that kept me running. Before long, I could feel the earth shaking under my feet as she caught up with me. Then I could feel the heat of her breath on the back of my neck as she got closer and closer and then a terrible silence and I knew that she had launched herself at me and would hurl me to the ﬂoor and bash the life out of me. But in that moment of terror came the clear and simple knowledge of what I must do. Without knowing why, I lowered my hands down to the ground, even though I was still running. But something very strange had happened. My hands weren’t hands anymore. They were some kind of

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 142 animal’s paws with soft brown fur and small, curving claws and, as soon as they hit the ground, I started to move faster than I ever thought possible. My stride ate up the ground and I had these amazing back legs that powered me forward faster than you can think. I had turned myself into a hare! I streaked away and was running by the bank of a small river when I heard her feet getting closer again but with a different rhythm. Without turning round, I knew that she had turned herself into a hunting dog. She was getting closer and closer until I could hear her panting breath and feel the dog’s urge to tear the life out of my throat. I jumped. And as my momentum carried me forward, suddenly I was no longer a hare. My ears had gone, my fur had disappeared, my fine strong legs too. I couldn’t hear because I had no ears but I could feel the vibrations of the river along the length of my body. I had turned myself into a fish and hung there in the air, glistening for a moment, before plunging into the water and leaving the dog way behind. I darted and jinked between the rocks, heading upstream but soon realised that Ceridwen was still after me. There was another splash and she was in the water in the form of an otter and coming after me. Closer and closer she came, I could feel her hunger radiating out of her hot mammal body and at the moment when she was ready to lunge forward and clamp her teeth into my tail, I jumped again. I felt my fish body suffocating in the air but as I gasped my scales turned into feathers and two broad wings grew out of my back and I flew to safety. I looked down to see the river as a thin, sparkling ribbon below. I pushed down against the air and flew higher and higher. But what I didn’t realise was that there was another bird, even higher than me. It was Ceridwen in the form of a hawk. When she spotted me she folded her wings and dropped towards me with her talons outstretched, ready to rip the life out of me. I could feel the rushing of the air as she shot towards me and felt myself changing again. I couldn’t work out what I was. I couldn’t hear or see and barely felt anything at all. I could feel myself drifting down towards the earth on the breeze but that was it. I had some kind of body but couldn’t do anything with it.

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It was only later on that I worked out that I had turned myself into a grain of wheat. The hawk went streaking past in a sudden gust of wind and then the breeze carried me gently down towards a farm beside some recently harvested fields. I was blown towards the barn that stood beside the farmhouse. In through the open doors of the barn I went and the breeze placed me gently on an enormous pile of other grains of wheat. Shortly afterwards, there was a clucking and scratching by the barn doors and a black hen came in. She cast her beady, red eye around all those thousands and thousands of grains of wheat until she saw me. I was just a bit fatter and tastier than the others and she clambered up the pile and cocked her head at me, opened her beak and swallowed me whole.’ Once more Pig Boy stood there with his mouth open but before he could speak Taliesin had wandered off leaving a shimmering trail of light hovering in the air. Pig Boy was on his own again and burning to know what happened next. There was too much in his head again but this time he didn’t go out the front entrance of the court. Instead, he went round past the stable and the blacksmith’s forge, past the pigs and the midden to where all the broken bits and pieces lay waiting to find new use, or crumble into the soil. He just stood there, not wanting to go anywhere else and not needing to talk to anyone. He must have been there for a while because the next thing he knew the sky was tinged with darkness and the first stars started to appear. One by one, they came out, although he never caught the moment when they became visible. One moment there was just sky and then, the next time he glanced in that direction a star or two had appeared. Then the stars joined together to make the constellations he knew so well. There was the Arth Fawr, the Great Bear, named after his own king, King Arthur. The great constellation slowly wheeled round a nondescript little star that showed him due north. It couldn’t be a coincidence that all these much grander star clusters were pointing our attention to this one little gleam, the only one that knew where North was.

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More and more stars appeared and all their stories crowded in. The zig-zag constellation of the Mother Goddess whose children had brought so much beauty and pain to the Two Worlds. Battles, magic discoveries, deceit and much darker stuff besides. There was the thick ribbon of light stretching across the sky that was the home of the Great Magician and Storyteller who had brought so much magic and trouble into the world. Everywhere he looked there were stories and poetry hemming him in. He turned to go inside. It was all too overwhelming. Too many stories! What was he meant to do with them all? As he walked back towards the hall he had the feeling that he was going to meet Taliesin again and when he turned the corner there he was. It was quite dark now but there was no mistaking him. The gleam from his forehead was stronger in the dark and the light from it ﬂowed and streamed like a golden version of the Northern Lights. They sat together on a bench that stood along the outside wall of the hall. Taliesin nodded up to the stars. ‘If you think they look spectacular from here you should see them from up there.’ ‘There is so much I don’t know and can’t imagine.’ said Pig Boy. ‘You look like you’re going to ask me a question,’ ‘Yes,’ said Pig Boy ‘Taliesin, tell me what happened next.’ Taliesin nodded, ‘Ceridwen gulped me down and went home, imagining that she had seen the last of me but the Two Worlds had other plans. Her belly began to swell and, although she was long past childbearing age, she realised that she had become pregnant. She was incubating me in her belly and, for that, I am forever grateful. ‘She still wanted rid of me, though, and she had a simple but brutal plan. Give birth to me and then bash my brains out against the nearest rock. But, as you can see, that is not what happened. When she brought me into this world she watched me slip from her body, gasp for air, mark my presence with a cry, open my eyes and look at her with the wide gaze of the newborn that sees nothing and takes everything in. And she fell in love, of course.

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‘She couldn’t harm me. But she couldn’t keep me either. She called her son, you remember the ugly, stupid one, and told him to fetch leather and needle and strong thread. She put me gently down on the leather and slowly and carefully sewed up the bag. Sewing me in from my tiny feet up to my head. With the last few stitches she watched my face disappear into the darkness of the bag and then she walked off, telling her son to “Get rid of it”. ‘He walked westwards to the sea with the bundle in his hands and waded in up to his knees. Then, with the rising tide, the darkening sky and a crescent moon in front of him, he hurled the bag into the sea as far as he could. He turned round to go before I had even splashed into the water. The waves carried me out to sea and there I stayed for forty long years. I listened to the waves, felt the pull of the moon on the water and all the trembling life that ﬁlls the ocean and, bit by bit, the seeds of knowledge and inspiration that had been planted in me began to grow, sprout and bear fruit. ‘Forty years later, the unluckiest man in the world pulled me out of the water. He had set his nets to catch ﬁsh and came down as the tide went out and all he found was seaweed and a strange looking stone. He cursed his luck and shouted his frustration at the pointless cruelty of the Two Worlds and then was suddenly distracted by the stone. He wanted to give it a good kick but stopped himself and bent down. He got down on his hands and knees and saw that there seemed to be a line of stitches up the length of the bag. He took his knife from his belt and gently unpicked the stitching and then pulled the two sides apart to reveal my face and my shining forehead. I can still see his astonished face and hear the words he said “tal iesin” which means “shining forehead” and I have been known as “Taliesin” ever since. And because he had talked to me, I talked back and, to both our surprise, what came out was poetry and it still just keeps coming.’ The two of them sat in silence for a while, gazing up at the stars.

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Chapter 10

Finally, Arthur and his followers were preparing for the greatest task of all. Hunting the Great Wild Boar and seizing the golden comb and scissors that lay between his ears. They knew that the Wild Boar was in Ireland so they needed to prepare Arthur’s ship, Prydwen. It had just moored in a nearby cove and soon a crowd of people milled around the dock, packing and loading supplies for the hunt. There was food, wine, spare weapons and extravagant gifts for their Irish hosts. Early the next morning, Pig Boy and Owain went to the blacksmith. Owain knew that the blacksmith would soon be very busy with preparations for the voyage to Ireland. He led Pig Boy to the forge so that both could have their swords sharpened before the rush. Of course, they were both perfectly capable of putting a keen and cruel edge on their blades themselves but, for many people who face uncertainty and danger, the pull of superstition is stronger than common sense. You can do an excellent job sharpening your own blade but only the blacksmith can etch protection and luck into the metal, or so they say. The two friends walked into the gloom of the forge and gradually got used to the dark. They sang a greeting into the room and the response was a noise like the breathing of a monster. The blacksmith was pumping his bellows. The coals brightened and dimmed with each stroke and they saw the sweat shine on the man’s arms and face and his eyes gleam like the coals. He spoke to them without looking up. ‘No need to tell me why you’re here. You’re not the ﬁrst and you won’t be the last. Give me a few minutes to get this going and I’ll be with you.’ The two of them sat obediently on a bench and waited. Before long they were sweating too. The air was so hot inside the forge they felt it warming their throats as they breathed in. The skin of their faces began to prickle and they would have loved to have gone outside to be in the cool, fresh air but that was impossible. To get the favour and luck of the blacksmith they would have to get used to being in his world. Finally, the blacksmith stopped pumping the bellows and the quiet was a relief.

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‘Right,’ he said, ‘let’s see how you’ve been looking after those swords. You first,’ he said, gesturing at Owain. From the way that the blacksmith held the sword it was clear that he was treating it in a completely different way to the two warriors. He ignored their etiquette of safety and respect for the blade and seemed to be looking into the metal, searching for weaknesses or flaws deep inside. After a minute or two he grunted his approval and took a whetstone from one of the pockets in his leather apron and gently laid it against the edge of the blade. He began, slowly and rhythmically, to stroke the stone along the sword’s edge. He growled a song with words they couldn’t understand. The song finished but he kept on moving the stone against the blade faster and faster and with the last stroke he conjured a cool, clear and sustained note from the metal that rang round the forge and inside Pig Boy’s head. ‘Your turn, now, lad.’ he said, holding his hand out to receive the sword. He felt the weight of it and glanced at Pig Boy for a moment. Soon he was running the whetstone along the blade with the same song and building up to the same speed. Finally, with the last stroke, he made the blade ring and Pig Boy saw his sword in a new way. The reflected light of the fire seemed to be coming from inside the sword as if it had stored all the energy of its forging deep in the metal. The note rang, shrill and long, in Pig Boy’s head and in its echo the blacksmith said, ‘You haven’t forgotten anything, now, have you?’ Owain nudged Pig Boy who jerked his awareness back into the room and said, ‘No, all is prepared and ready and soon we shall sail for Ireland to hunt the Great Wild Boar.’ ‘May the worlds go with you,’ said the blacksmith and went back to his work. Owain and Pig Boy made their way out of the forge, blinking in the sudden daylight and felt their swords lie, sharpened and ready, in their scabbards. They wandered amongst the crowds of men, horses and dogs with the urgency and noise of preparation all around them. Owain went to help a group of men transfer sacks of food and barrels of drink from a cart to the ship. Pig Boy was about to go and help him when he had a thought that stopped him in his tracks.

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‘What have I forgotten? I don’t know what it is but I know it’s important. What have I forgotten?’ He couldn’t concentrate in the hurly-burly that surrounded him so he wandered off, still trying to work out what it was that he couldn’t remember. He walked past the court and took a path that led to a steep field with an oak woodland on the horizon above. He walked up the slope still racking his brains, when suddenly, he lost his footing and tumbled over backwards and then rolled and slipped, banging his head against something hard and then rolled a bit more until he finally came to rest. He was shaken but not too hurt. As soon as he got to a sitting position he looked around to check that nobody had witnessed his fall and then struggled to his feet. His head hurt and he touched the place gingerly with the palm of his hand and found a tender, grazed lump. Worse was the fogginess that came with it and, as he felt coherence returning, he felt his own vulnerability and fragility. He was briefly incapacitated by a simple, little fall. What would battle be like? He felt more solid after a couple of minutes and started to straighten himself out, get his cloak folded properly and his belt looking smart. Then he tried to remember why he had been climbing up the slope to the woods in the first place. But then he looked down at his legs. He had rolled in a huge pile of ox dung and there were smears and lumps of it all down one side of his legs and spattered on his cloak. He bent down to grab a handful of grass to wipe off the worst of it and suddenly stopped and said, out loud, ‘That’s what I’ve forgotten. That’s what everyone has forgotten. The oxen! The white and yellow oxen that must be yoked together to plough the field where the barley and wheat must be grown to make bread and beer for my wedding. And I have to get Amaethon and Gofannon, the god of the field and the god of the forge, two of the sons of the Mother Goddess to do the work. I’ve been so stupid. We need to get them now, before we go to Ireland or it will be too late.’ He hurried back to where Owain was helping the others load the supplies onto Arthur’s ship. They had been carrying and transferring heavy bundles and barrels for hours and every joint and muscle ached and they were all short-tempered and hungry. Pig Boy arrived and started to yell at them to stop, that there were other more important

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 149 things to do. The two oxen! They needed to be found! It was one of the tasks! The men kept working, irked by Pig Boy’s frantic yelling until Owain, of all people, lost his patience and shouted at him, ‘Look, Pig Boy, I’ve no idea where you’ve been but all this stuff needs to be transferred onto the boat before it gets dark. This is all about you, remember, and I haven’t seen you pick up a single thing,’ Owain turned back to his work and Pig Boy stood, dumbstruck, at his friend’s anger. He felt very alone in the middle of the puffing, heaving, swearing men. He turned to go and it was only after walking for a few minutes that he realised where he was going. ‘I need to find those oxen.’ It was the frustration and anger that pushed him along the path. His thoughts and feelings were an incoherent jumble of hurt, impotence and self-righteous indignation. Unfortunately, he was still too young to realise that this is a potentially lethal combination. In his mind he was completely clear about what he was going to do. Get the oxen, of course! However he had not put any thought into working out how this was to be done. He followed the familiar paths into the forest because they always made him feel calmer and clearer. After stomping along the path for a while he became very clear about one thing. He stopped and looked around. He was completely lost. He had never been in this part of the forest in his life before. It was already half way through the afternoon, that much he could tell. It would start to get dark in a few hours and he needed to be out of the forest because wolves, bears and Otherworlders would be about. He could feel a wave of panic beginning to grow inside him from somewhere deep down in his guts. He made it stay there and kept his head clear. He looked around and remembered how Tracker had behaved when he was guiding them to the Hawthorn Giant’s Castle. He stayed quite still and opened his attention to the forest. He shut his eyes for a few seconds and listened. He opened his eyes and let his intuition lead him in a clear direction and made his first few steps full of intention and confidence. It was an inspired effort but it didn’t work and after just half and hour or so Pig Boy knew that he was completely lost. He stopped in a clearing

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 150 and turned all the way round, hoping that he would see something that would reorientate him, or a hear a human noise like a hunting horn or an axe striking a tree. But there was nothing. And worse that that, he didn’t know how far he had turned round and he now had no idea which way he had come into the clearing and had no way of retracing his steps. He stood in the forest, utterly lost, with the sound of his breathing and the beating of his heart the only familiar things around him. There was a sound. He tensed involuntarily. A wolf? A bear? Still too early for them, he thought. Otherworlders? Possibly. The noise became clearer and seemed to be a human voice but he couldn’t make out the words. By slowly turning his head he was pretty sure which direction the voice was coming from. Walking as silently as he could, he made his way towards it. Occasionally the voice faded to nothing but started again after a few seconds. It seemed to be singing some kind of strange song with a lilting, off-key melody that repeated over and over. Sometimes the song was peppered with other noises that seemed more like crying or, sometimes, laughter. He hesitated for a moment wondering if he was about to step into even greater danger but realised, danger or not, this was his only hope. He stepped forward slowly, making as little sound as possible. Stretching his hearing into the trees, alert for any sound of lurking danger. Then he stopped. And sniffed. What was that smell? Something sweet and over-ripe. He had walked into a grove of apple trees. Somehow, in the middle of the forest, there was an orchard. It was the chill end of autumn and many of the apples had fallen and littered the ground around him. Some long since rotten away leaving only brown mush and a vinegary smell and others, round and plump and ready to eat. At least he wouldn’t go hungry. There was the voice again. He spun round but there was nobody there. There was whispering now, coming from another direction. He turned more cautiously but as he was homing in on the source of the voice, it disappeared. It came again and again, moving around, each time from a different direction. Sometimes close, sometimes far, high up or from under his feet. And then silence. He was pretty sure that this was an Otherworlder playing a game with him and, although he had been told a

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 151 hundred times to keep clear of them, his annoyance got the better of him and he was determined to ﬁnd out who or what was doing this. The silence carried on. Not even the birds sang. Not even the breeze blew. And then a thin croaky voice whispered, ‘Hey, Little Pig.’ Whoever it was knew his name. ‘Little Pig!’ ‘Who’s there?’ ‘Hey, Little Pig’ The voice was coming from behind him and as Pig Boy turned the same voice came again, but from a completely diﬀerent direction. ‘Hey, Little Pig, are you asleep or awake?’ The voice danced around him and then started to sing a strange, dirgey song. Pig Boy went still and quiet. The song was coming from the other side of the trunk of the biggest of the apple trees, just in front of him. The voice was busy with its daft song so Pig Boy began creeping up on whatever it was, using the tree itself as cover.

Under the red earth Lie turmoil, struggle And a new homecoming

The horns of celebration Will be blown loud and long I hear a song of peace I sing a song of plenty

Pig Boy didn’t care that the words didn’t make any sense. He followed them and was now just on the other side of the tree trunk. He hurled himself around it to grab hold of whoever or whatever was tormenting him. But he just grabbed fresh air and tumbled to the ground, hitting his head on a fallen branch right on the spot that he had injured earlier on. Flat on his back, he looked up into the branches above. The branches swam, out of focus for a while, and then he was able to see the tree above him, the sky beyond and a face. And what a face! Older than any face he had ever seen during his short life. A man with tousled, thinning

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 152 white hair, a scraggy beard and a ﬁlthy face. He was wearing the remnants of clothes patched with bits of rabbit skin and he squatted in the branches above him like a crazy, giant bird. The face smiled with half a mouthful of jagged yellow teeth. ‘Found you, Little Pig!’ It squawked. ‘My name is Pig Boy!’ ‘Yes, but you are only little, aren’t you?’ Pig Boy got to his feet, rubbing the back of his head, genuinely annoyed. He glared into the branches above and the strange old man scampered onto a diﬀerent branch, higher up in the tree like some kind of huge, misshapen squirrel. He began to sing again,

I dare not sleep I hear wild dogs Snow will be piled high Ice will grow in my beard

‘What kind of song is that?’asked Pig Boy. ‘Come on up, if you want to hear the rest,’ rasped the old man, with a grin. Pig Boy clambered up and found it harder than he thought. Some of the branches that he thought were sound and strong bent under his weight and others snapped or snagged his clothes and scratched his skin. Finally he was up in the tree, with this old lunatic, wondering why things like this always seemed to happen to him. He balanced precariously between the trunk of the tree and one of the bigger branches but couldn’t ﬁnd a place secure enough to settle. ‘Don’t ﬁdget,’ said the old man, ‘just settle into the tree and it will hold you in its arms like a mother holds a baby.’ Pig Boy gingerly started to give his weight to the tree and felt it cradle him. He liked it and gradually gave more and more of his body to the tree and slowly felt some of the fear and tension that he had been carrying inside him seep out. He felt a big, fat sigh of contentment about to ease itself out of his body. Suddenly, one of the branches snapped and he grabbed onto the trunk of the tree to stop himself from

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Hey, Little Pig, stay awake. Listen to me now I’ve been languishing here too long Those who truly see the world are forgotten Listen to the deer, listen to the birds And you shall feel the relief Of fair weather after foul

‘Look,’ said Pig Boy ‘I’ve come up into your tree in good faith and I don’t expect to be laughed at or abused, thank-you very much. Now, you seem to know who I am and that makes me think that you also know what I am looking for and why. And that you could help me, if you chose to. Now, if I am right, I am prepared to put up with a certain amount of discomfort but if you are just going to confuse and mock me then I’ll take my chances with the wild animals and the night. Enough,’ said Pig Boy ‘is enough!’ The mad, old man pulled a very serious face and managed to keep it up for about ten seconds before it creased into a huge smile and he started to bounce and cackle on his branch once more. Pig Boy just had to sit there and take it. He had no real intention of going off on his own into the wilderness. His bluff had been called and now he just had to wait for the next humiliation, whatever that would be. The old man gently manoeuvred himself through the branches towards Pig Boy and sat amongst the them like a roosting bird, completely balanced and at ease. He looked at the silent young man who had climbed up his tree from a couple of different angles and then shuffled a bit closer, giving off the smell of earth, sweat and bitter apples, and gently started to talk. ‘To the north and east of where I was brought up there is a hill called the Bare Slope and on top of it there is a stony outcrop which, when you go and look at it, you will see is split down the middle.’ Pig Boy was not in the mood for a story. He was in the mood for a big hearty meal and a warm comfortable bed. But, in spite of himself, he felt

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 154 the story making room for itself inside him and settling down. Pig Boy let it because now he wanted to know why the rock was split. ‘Well, I’ll tell you.’ said the old man, ‘It was many, many years ago. So long ago that our fellow countrymen sometimes met and traded with the Old People.’ Pig Boy sat up on his branch, wanting know more about the Old People but the old man waved his question away and carried on, ‘As I was saying, it was time to make a place for the ancestors to be buried. Something grand and beautiful to make the ancestors feel special. You see, they did not want to be confused with the Old People who grubbed around in the woods for their food and talked to the trees and thought that the stars were talking to them. These people, our ancestors, were above all that. They farmed, they felt the turning of the earth, and the warming and cooling of the soil. They wove and hoarded and had metal specialists and farmers and tool makers and hierarchy. They had enemies who needed to be attacked or pacified and gods who wanted the sacrifice of their wealth through the veil of the lake’s surface. ‘So, the big upright stones for the burial place had been gathered and had been put in place. It had taken months of work but finally they were ready. Men, women and children had strained at the ropes to get them in place and solidly set in the earth. When they needed to work harder, whips were brought out and used on the people as if they were beasts. The chiefs said it had to be done for the glory of the tribe and the auguries of the priests showed that it should be so and so it was done. Three tapered stoned were erected pointing to the sky, each one twice the hight of the tallest man in the village. They stood in a triangle shape and now they needed a capstone to fit like a lid on top of them, before the construction could be finished. ‘And so the whips were yielded and the lazy punished for the sake of the ancestors. Some smouldered with frustration at the unfairness and oppression, while others bowed their heads and backs to the work and grimly put their own good below that of the ancestors and the need to honour them for our own sakes.

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‘That’s how it is when people start something really big. You can imagine the thing you’re going to make all finished and shiny and you all crack on, because someone with a bit of clout has told you it’s a good idea. Of course, it turns out to be harder than you expect and it takes longer, much longer than you anticipated. This has consequences for the turning year and all the other obligations you have for tilling, collecting, shearing, moving to the summer pasture and the many other jobs you have to do. This makes everything harder and means that the whips have to crack more often. And then comes the awful moment when you realise that there is something you have forgotten. Something so basic that the work will never be complete and its incompleteness will bring lasting shame to your name and the name of your people. ‘So where was I? Oh yes! The three main upright stones stood proud and strong, taller than twice as tall as the biggest man in the village, as I said. They reached towards the sky and were perfectly aligned with the stars and sun. They were the tallest ever seen and would be crowned by the biggest capstone before being smoothed over with a covering of soil and turf. If they had thought more about it earlier on they could have saved themselves a lot of trouble. If the minds of those in charge had not been taken by their own ambition and the feeling that this thing had to be done, come what may, then they would never even have started. The capstone they would need would be so big that finding it would have been next to impossible. Did such a stone even exist? And, even then, who could ever move it? It would be impossible for a group of people hauling the stone to co-ordinate their pulling and the ropes would be so long that they could not have been kept straight on the winding, hilly paths of our land. ‘Scouts were sent off in directions determined by the old wise ones of the tribe. They threw incised stones, examined the flocking of crows and shared their dreams until they came up with a direction, some animal behaviour clues and some spells and incantations for luck and safety. When the scouts left, everyone knew that what guided them was little more than a group hunch and an educated guess. Off they went, nevertheless, and I would love to tell you the stories they came home

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 156 with but that will have to wait for another time. After a month of searching and travelling, living by foraging and the generosity of those who had enough to share, they finally found it. ‘It was so big that it looked like part of the mountain and they would have missed it altogether had they not been prompted by the sight of a thrush breaking open a snail shell on top of the rock and watercress in bloom in a stream nearby. These were the signs they had been told to look out for. At last. Success! They sang a song to the thrush and wished it many more succulent snails for itself and its chicks. They drank the water from the stream and munched some of the watercress, enjoying the peppery taste that smouldered in their mouths. Then they set to work measuring the stone. It would fit perfectly. ‘Once they had finished, they stepped back and saw the impossibility of the whole project. They knew how much effort, rope and people were needed to get the upright stones in place and even the biggest of those was a quarter of the size of this monster. There was simply no way that a group of people could move it. No matter how many people were recruited and no matter how long the ropes, it couldn’t be done. You need a steady pull in a single direction and the ropes need to be kept straight. With the number of people required to shift this huge piece of stone the front of the line would always bend along a path or dip into a valley or up the mountainside. It was just physically impossible for a group of people to drag this stone through a hilly landscape. ‘A council was held and the debate was long and ill-tempered. The wisest and most experienced came up with solutions but each one was demolished in turn. Finally, in the glum silence that followed a child’s voice rang out, ‘We’d need to have the strength of oxen to move such a big stone!’ ‘Everyone stared at the girl who had spoken and then at each other. Of course, how could they be so stupid? They had only been imagining a line of people pulling a rope. If oxen and people could pull together then the problem would be solved. Unfortunately, this community didn’t have any oxen. But the neighbours did.

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‘Some of the most aggressive in the meeting wanted to sharpen their swords straight away, invade the neighbours’ territory and steal their oxen and anything else they could grab. Luckily, good sense prevailed and they were told to sit down and shut-up by everyone else. ‘It was decided to trade the tribe’s greatest treasures for the two huge oxen. Only a few of the older members in the meeting could remember having seen the oxen but, even allowing for exaggeration, they were huge and mighty beasts. Still, it was best to make sure, and a small trading party was sent over the mountain to the other village with the mission of finding out more. The group came back, round-eyed with astonishment. They had never seen such huge animals, “The oxen are enormous!” they said, “Their horns curl like the crescent moon, the earth shakes when they walk, their hides move like the undulations of the sea and their lowing can demolish buildings!” ‘They needed those oxen. They gathered all the village treasures. A riveted iron cauldron, two chunky bronze arm-bands and a shield with a huge slash across it that had been made by a sword-wielding giant, the tail of a water beast or lightning, depending on which story you decided to believe. ‘An advance party went to open negotiations and eventually a deal was done. The day of the exchange was set and, with elaborate pomp and ceremony the gifts were handed over. Finally, the two oxen were led out into the field and their owners left them there to see how the newcomers would manage to lead the two huge beasts home. Only the local ox- handlers could make these creatures move so the villagers were quietly confident that they would end the day keeping both the gifts and the oxen.They watched as a group of about twenty people from the other village came to fetch the two animals. ‘As they approached, the oxen twitched their ears and then slowly raised their heads. They were docile creatures but stubborn and could never be persuaded to do anything they didn’t want to do. Very occasionally they would get violent and then anybody close by would be lucky to escape with their lives.

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‘The approaching group sensed the increased vigilance of the oxen and they stopped. A ten year old boy stepped forward. He took a few steps and stopped, averting his gaze from the oxen. He held a rope halter in each hand but let them trail loose behind him. He started to walk slowly towards them and when there was a shift of weight, a flick of an ear or a huge head raised to see what was going on, he stopped. ‘His movements were slow and supple. He walked forwards slowly, feeling the ground with the soles of his bare feet, breathing gently and evenly. Neither the oxen nor those watching could hear it but he had become to hum. The noise slowly filtered into the field, sometimes sounding like insects and sometimes with snatches of melody that were recognisable. Then he gently opened his mouth and let his young voice flow towards the two oxen. They kept on grazing but he knew they were listening. More than this, he knew that they were enjoying being sung to. He started to sing with more confidence and plant his feet more firmly. He was working out which bit of the song the two creatures liked the best. Unsurprisingly, these big-hearted beasts liked the saddest bit the best. A dying refrain in the chorus that filled itself with the longing and sadness of the previous verse, becoming more painful and beautiful each time it was sung. ‘Soon he was within arms reach, but he still kept the halters trailing loosely from his hands. The oxen were looking at him now. The song had become more important than grazing. If they turned nasty now there would be no hope for him but the group behind him could see that the oxen were under his spell. Their huge, moist eyes had softened and they raised their heads to take in the melody and didn’t even flinch when he slipped the halters over their heads. ‘It was the turn of the people behind him to move now. They stayed in a tight group in order not to spook the oxen and started to follow the melody, some singing the same line as the boy, others harmonising and others repeating refrains so that a swelling sea of song flowed over the two creatures. The group faced the oxen and made their song swirl around them and when they turned and started to walk the oxen

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 159 followed. The song filled the creatures’ ears as the young oxherd guided them with his hands on the halters. ‘The whole group went to the valley where the huge stone lay waiting to be moved. More people came from the village carrying huge lengths of rope that they had spent months plaiting and strengthening and testing. The stone was too big to be transported on wheels so the only option was to drag it. People had already dug around it so that it was no longer embedded in the ground and would be easier to move. Overcoming the inertia that lay in the rock that had sat there since the ice dropped it thousands of years ago was going to be difficult. ‘They gathered around the rock and the oxen were manoeuvred for the ropes to be attached to the huge yoke that had just been laid across their necks. When they were all ready, the oxherd started to sing. About twenty of the strongest had huge levers made from seasoned beech branches set between the stone and the ground and started to rhythmically lever them to shift the stone from the grasp of the earth. Wood split, muscles strained, veins bulged and finally the thing shifted and they were off. ‘The way to the burial chamber had been planned carefully beforehand and most of the route was fairly straightforward with no great challenges, apart from the sheer weight of the rock. However there was a boggy patch that they had to get through and it had rained the previous night. The tribal leaders decided that the route they had planned was still the most practical and nobody wanted to wait for drier weather, so off they set as soon as there was light enough to see. ‘It is amazing what people can achieve when they pull together. They made good headway and those in charge had the good sense to order that not everybody should pull all the time. That way, there was always a supply of fresh hands to keep the momentum going. There was a gentle slope down towards the valley and this was the easiest part of the journey with gravity helping those who pulled with the oxen. ‘The two oxen were tireless and dogged. All they needed was to hear that song. Singing may not be as exhausting as pulling a huge stone but it is tiring, nevertheless. It was not just the song itself that was important

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 160 but how it was sung. If the young lad’s singing became hoarse or lose some of his range or resonance, the oxen would just stop and wait until the singing was done to their liking and this lad was the only one they would listen to. ‘It was the oxherd who realised that they were heading for trouble first. He was walking backwards as he sang because the oxen won’t move unless the singer is singing directly to them. Suddenly he felt his bare feet sink into peaty, bog water. There was no, stopping, turning or going back. This little bog was much wetter than they expected. Soon everyone was up to their knees and the oxen slithered and slipped. ‘Everyone’s voices blended in a song that pushed the two oxen on, harder and harder. For the first time the oxen began to look tired. There was a juddering in their movements, a lack of focus in their gaze. They panted and puffed louder and louder. The crowd sang the song to gather the creatures’ strength and slowly they pulled again and the stone started to move once more. Everyone leaned into the task until they felt firm ground under their feet and they were through the swamp. ‘But something was wrong with one of the oxen. Its eyes were dull and unfocused and it began to sway and suddenly crumpled heavily to the ground in a heap. The oxherd leapt on the body and put his ear to the fallen ox’s chest. His tears told everyone what they already knew. The ox was dead. ‘The other ox looked fixedly ahead. Its breathing changed and it started to slowly snort, steam billowing from its nostrils. It stood quite still but, as the breathing deepened, they could see its chest heaving and suddenly it raised its head and bellowed. The noise burst through people’s heads and they crammed their hands over their ears. A flock of crows flew off in alarm from a nearby tree. The sound echoed back from the mountainside and then the echo of the echo and then another. And then the ox bellowed again and the valley rang to the din. Before the noise had stilled the ox bellowed again and again. Nine times the ox bellowed, each time louder than the time before until there was silence in the valley. With the last and loudest shout of all a huge rock, that stood at the head of the valley, split right down the middle and the shards of the

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 161 broken rock scattered down the hillside and littered the valley floor, which you can still see to this day. ‘The shock of the bellowing and the echoing was such that the people had to take a few minutes to gather themselves. They felt dizzy, weak and sick but gradually they found the strength and the will to carry on. ‘They untethered the dead ox and were astonished to see that the surviving ox was ready to pull again and was already taking up the slack. The boy sang to the ox and saw the creatures huge eyes fill with tears. He walked backwards, singing and the ox followed the song, still crying. The people pulled and pulled with all their might, people and ox pulling and weeping together, until they were just a hundred yards from the place where the uprights stood, waiting for the capstone. There was an incline towards the place which made the pulling harder, but they were sure that they could get there. The ox was straining and straining as he pulled and suddenly the strain was such that one of his eyes fell, still crying for the loss of his companion, on to the ground. The eye carried on crying until it had created a pool. Under the water the weeping continued until a great a round lake, called Ox-eye Pool, was formed for us to remember the story by. I know, I’ve been there. A round pool with a split summit above it remembers the story for us. ‘This was all sad and good. Had one of the oxen not died the other would not have cried and we would not have the lake to remember the story by. We could not stand on the lake shore and look down into the reflected sky and wonder if the eye was still crying and know that our sadness is rightly part of our story and country. The ox cries for us all and with us all. The sadness is all one thing and we all share it. ‘The sadness saved the monument from the pride of those who wanted to create it. If it hadn’t been for the oxen and the lad who sang to them the burial chamber would have been remembered as the great work of such-and-such a king and probably borne his name. But as it is, when we visit it we see the mound, the split hillside and the lake and we feel the echo of the ox’s bellow and we know our ancestors are pleased and want us to flourish.’

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Pig Boy was drifting in and out of sleep as the story drew to a close. He leant against the trunk of the tree while sitting on one of the sturdier branches and somehow he managed to rest there, suspended between earth and sky. He may have dreamt but was not sure if he had even slept. His mind was full of images from the story but he thought that he might have dreamed bits of the story too, ﬁlling in some of the gaps the mad old man had left. Strangely, he did not feel cold and he watched the stars slowly disappear and the eastern sky begin to grow light and the forest ringing for miles around with the singing of birds. The old man perched nearby, gently snoring and Pig Boy inwardly thanked him for looking after him, in his rough and ready way. And he thanked him once more for giving him the secret of uniting the two oxen who must pull the plough to till the ﬁeld to grow the food for his and Olwen’s wedding feast. The old man was talking in his sleep. Pig Boy couldn’t make out the words but he seemed to be still telling the story. The Old Man yawned a cavernous and gap-toothed yawn and looked at Pig Boy and said, ‘You still here, then? I thought you had some business to do.’ He leant forward and shoved Pig Boy so hard that he tumbled down to the ground. ‘Help yourself to apples, you’ve still got a long way to go. Oh and there’s something else.’ The mad old man sang, if you can call it singing.

‘Little Piglet Stay awake If you’d seen what I’ve seen You wouldn’t ask why

Truth cradles my madness Everything is running out While empty people chatter Let the sky fall Let the sea swallow the Earth

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A wild man once told me Wonders shall be seen Power from our rivers and wind Each moment is its own’

Pig Boy got to his feet, unfazed by his tumble back to earth. He crammed his pockets with apples, then he and the mad old man sang together until the time to go was ripe. Pig Boy turned and walked away and their songs faded until Pig Boy’s footsteps becoming the only sound. He didn’t know how he knew, but somehow his night up the tree with his crazy, old friend had given him the knowledge of where to go next and how to get there. It was three days walking and when he finally got there he recognised the place, although he knew he had never been there before. He emerged from the woods and saw a range of hills in front of him, the summits of the highest dusted with snow. On the lower slopes he could see smoke from a village and a few small fields. There were two oxen here somewhere that had to be brought under the same yoke. The problem was they hated each other. Oxen are usually placid creatures but not these two. This was so unusual that various stories had emerged to explain it. One version was that they had once been two kings who, out of pride and vanity, began a war against each other. Many people on both sides were killed, harvests were abandoned and famine killed even more people. Eventually a magician was lured out of the cave where he lived, took one look at what was going on, chanted a spell and the two kings were transformed into oxen, condemned to always remain on opposite sides of the mountain. Over the generations the one on the sunny side of the mountain had turned yellow, like the sun, and the one on the shaded side was pale, like the moon. In the middle of the mountain range there was a deep crease and a stream flowed down each side. Where they met, they formed a small lake and out of the lake the water of the two rivers emerged, mixed together and gurgled down the slope towards the valley. Pig Boy went to

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 164 the lake and sang one of the songs that the old man had taught him up the apple tree. The tune was slow and mournful and Pig Boy hugged himself against the chill wind that blew from higher up the mountain. He felt them coming before he saw them. It was the rippling water of the lake that told him. Tiny vibrations in the surface of the water that shook with the far away thuds of the oxen’s hooves. Pig Boy kept his gaze on the water and tried to keep his singing steady and heartfelt. Finally, he saw two huge heads appear in the water’s reflection. One yellow like the sun and the other pale like the moon. The three faces looked at each other reflected in the water. They looked down into the depths of the pool and all the brimming life inside and, shimmering on the surface, they saw the reflection of the sky above. Feeling the warmth of the two ox bodies either side of him, Pig Boy slowly began to kneel down. The reflection of the sky filled his field of vision and was joined by the rippled reflection of his face. Keeping his eyes open, he broke the surface of the water with his mouth and drank. The slurping that he heard from either side confirmed that the two oxen were doing the same. The three of them drank their fill. Their thirst was quenched and the enmity between the two oxen was washed away. The rest was simple. Pig Boy turned and walked home. He sang and the two oxen followed behind, all animosity between them softened by the melody and blown away by the wind. When someone disappears from a big group of busy people, the first assumption is that they are off with someone else getting on with what needs to be done. But a couple of days into the loading of Arthur’s ship people started to ask ‘Where’s Pig Boy?’. There was a whole day when nobody had any idea where he was and people were getting twitchy. Where was he? None of this made sense without him. Suddenly, in the middle of the following afternoon, they heard the lowing of the oxen, then their thudding hooves and, finally, Pig Boy’s singing. He waved at Owain and shouted, ‘I knew I’d forgotten something. Did you miss me?’ Owain laughed, in spite of himself, and the others put their loads down to come and admire the two huge beasts. That night they heard from Pig

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Boy himself how he had brought them together and they sang the songs of the mad, old apple-tree man long into the night. Early next morning, the blacksmith who had sharpened the swords of Owain and Pig Boy, stepped out of his forge and into the light, blinking and wiping the sweat from his forehead. From the field came his brother, one of the farmhands wearing a wide brimmed straw hat and carrying an enormous scythe over his shoulder. Without looking at each other they walked side by side, in step, towards the group of men who had clustered around to admire the two splendid oxen. Suddenly the oxen started to low from deep down in their chests in a long rolling cry that finished on a crescendo with both of them lifting their faces to the sky. And then they did it again, and again. It was one of those moments when you can almost hear the veil that separates our world from the other ripping apart. Pig Boy could feel that everything he had got used to was only a type of painting on the inside of an egg-shaped, fake world. This was one of those moments when that illusion loses its power and we get a glimpse of the life and lives beyond. The blacksmith and farmer approached the group of men. The had known these two brothers since they were all children but in that moment they could see that things were not as they usually seem. The two brothers seemed to be looking through the world that the rest of them were inhabiting and were able to see a reality much deeper than the one that we live in. Eventually, some of the men realised what was going on and bowed. They saw that these two were now transformed into, or inhabited by, the gods Gofannon and Amaethon, the brothers who are gods of the forge and the field, the sons of the Great Mother Goddess. The brothers who must steer the plough and grow the wheat, oats and barley for Pig Boy and Olwen’s wedding feast. ‘Leave the oxen with us. We will take them to the field near the castle of the Hawthorn Giant and begin our work. Tomorrow at dawn the weather will be good for sailing. You go to Ireland to do what you have to do and we will meet, if the Two Worlds will it, when you return.’

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The two men turned and, walking away in step, began to sing. The oxen walked after them, following the sadness of the song and the harmony of the two brothers’ voices.

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Chapter 11

Over the next few days Arthur’s court expanded as all the huntsmen, warriors, horses, dogs and weapons were assembled for the hunting of the Great Wild Boar. No one had ignored the call and before long there was a bewildering jumble of men and unintelligible accents, as well strange customs and dress codes. There was a carnival atmosphere to begin with but then, as the people, horses and dogs kept coming, it became over-crowded and tense. They all had to be housed and fed and, before long, both men and animals were competing to be top dog. Tempers began to flare and fights broke out. So Arthur arranged good food and entertainment for them, as well as the chance to practice their hunting and fighting skills. Tensions calmed but the king knew that they needed to get on with the job of hunting the Great Wild Boar. One day a group of men and women were walking together towards the pig sties and stables. They saw Pig Boy enjoying an idle moment on the bench against the wall and one of the women called ‘Off that bench, Pig Boy. We’ll be needing it!’. As he got up she added, ‘In fact we’ll be needing you as well.’ Pig boy obediently followed, mingling with the others and wondering where he was going. He saw them carrying a long rope, huge bundles of straw and someone was carrying a broad-bladed knife. Suddenly he knew where he was going and why and he really didn’t want to go. They were going to kill one of the pigs. He instantly felt sick. In all the monotony of his former life feeding his foster-family’s pigs, this was the moment he hated the most. The terror the pig felt, the awful squealing and the blood. All that blood. He used to run and hide with his hands over his face until it was all over. This time he would just slip away and nobody would notice. One of the men and a young lad, a few years younger than Pig Boy, went into the pen and walked towards a large sow lolling against the inside of the sty wall. The man was skilled, quick and strong and soon had a bridle over the pig’s snout. The boy rushed to the rear end of the sow and grabbed her tail while the man kept the tension by pulling on the rope attached to the bridle. The idea was to keep the tension along the line of the pig’s body so that you could lead her where you wanted. If you just pull the front end, the pig will be able to twist and turn and you

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 168 won’t go anywhere. She was a large sow and the lad at the tail end was having difficulty controlling her. Just as Pig Boy was thinking about sneaking off, the man holding the head of the sow shouted, ‘Pig Boy, quick, get hold of her tail!’ Without even thinking Pig Boy was behind the sow. He grabbed the tail that had been snatched from the grasp of the other lad. This was the last thing he wanted to do but here he was doing it and doing it with all his strength and commitment. Pig Boy was bigger and stronger than the other lad and together the sow was led out to the waiting crowd, the two men keeping the tension along the rope so she could be led out into the open. Now he was committed to pulling on this thin bristly rope of a tail, he knew he had to keep at it until the end. To feed his people, to be as merciful as possible to the sow and for his own honour. Pig Boy promised himself that he would pull with all his might until the squealing and screaming stopped. The crowd stepped back and a man strode forward with a big felling axe and brought it swinging through the air. There was a heavy thunk as the back of the axe blade hit the forehead of the sow and she was on the ground, silent and immobile. Three people rushed forward. One with the knife and two with a bucket each. They worked quickly, slitting the jugular vein and letting the blood gush into the buckets. Pig Boy was wondering what the rush was since the sow was unconscious, and then he remembered. The pig’s legs started to move as if she was running on her side. Her face seemed strangely placid and uninvolved, her eyes were already shut. A kick from one of those whirling legs could leave you lame. Soon, the rhythm of the kicking slowed and stilled. After the silence, they started to sing as they cleared up and piled straw on the dead pig.

We fed you, sister pig Now you will feed us Your flesh will become ours We made you fat, sister pig Now you will make us fat Your flesh will become ours May we be worthy of it

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As the two worlds turn In their opposite directions

They set fire to the straw and scorched the pig’s bristles off her skin and then hoisted her onto the bench where Pig Boy had been sitting only a few minutes before. They used the knife to scrape off the bristles and then four people took the pig into a shed, while women carried the buckets of blood into the kitchen. In the shed the pig would be gutted and the women would start sewing the intestines into casings for sausages. The meat would dry for a while and then be suspended above the fire in the hall to smoke. The blood would be made into black pudding which would be served, hot and steaming, in just a couple of hours. Pig Boy picked up the blood-spattered bench and put it back against the outside wall. He straightened up and looked down at the old bench that he had sat on so many times. Sometimes on his own, resting his head against the wall behind him, and sometimes as a refuge after his punishing training sessions with Cai. It was also a place of quiet companionship with a friend or earnest conversation with Owain, Bedwyr or Taliesin. Now the bench had a new story written in pig blood splashed over its seat and dribbled down it’s legs. For a moment it looked as if the bench itself was bleeding. Pig Boy ran his fingers over the surface and felt how the soaked-in blood made the surface of the wood slightly tacky. He stood up, rubbing his fingers together. This was not the first time this bench had been used in the slaughter of a pig and certainly not the last. It was strange to realise that somewhere that he had always treated as a place of refuge was also an instrument of death. Soon these vivid blood stains would fade like all the others. One day the bench would break and be tossed into the pile of broken bits and pieces near the pigsty or be chopped up and thrown in the fire to heat a cauldron of pig blood to fill the mouths of hungry people with steaming hot black pudding. The sow that Pig Boy had helped to kill fed the heroes and warriors that had gathered in Arthur’s court that night. The king was glad that they were aggressive and proud because boar hunting was a dangerous pursuit at the best of times and the Great Wild Boar was immeasurably

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 170 more dangerous and cunning than any other creature. Wild boar were fast and furious and, in spite of their bulk, had an uncanny knack of disappearing into the forest, even when you are just a few feet away from them. When you do first see it, it has an advantage over you because it has been keeping an eye on you and sizing you up since you first walked down the forest path. It will be deciding whether this is the time to let you walk past or rush out and gore you. They have long curved tusks coming out of their lower jaws and when they attack they make great slashing upward thrusts which will rip through your thigh and up into your innards leaving you to die in agony in the woods. You need a special long spear with an extra wide blade to hunt them because a normal, slim blade will not stop its attack. A wild boar will think nothing of pushing up along the length of a normal blade, and the shaft that holds it, in order to gore you. Just carrying a boar spear all day is a feat in itself, let alone wielding it against such a monster. The Great Wild Boar was enormous, much bigger than any other creature that had ever been seen. Very few people had actually seen it, so there was a fair bit of disagreement about the details, but everyone agreed that it was huge. On top of that, it was not alone. There were seven of them in total and even the smallest of them was a monstrous size. Yes, these men, horses and dogs would need every ounce of their strength, skill, determination and aggression.

Everyone needed for the hunt had now arrived and Arthur’s ship, Prydwen, was all kitted out and ready to sail and, as the first autumn mists drifted through the trees at dawn, Arthur knew that it was time. The Great Boar was in Ireland but it was a big place and he needed to know where to land. He called Menw, the magician, and together they went outside where the host of warriors, huntsmen, dogs and horses were waiting to board. Arthur formally gave Menw his commission and the men sang a blessing. As the voices blended and swelled Menw’s body began to tremble and, suddenly, his man’s body crumpled to the ground. From where he had been, a blackbird launched itself into the air. They all

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 171 watched it fly up into the sky and disappear into the mist, trailing its liquid, golden song behind it. It was a good day for flying. The air still had some of the warmth of summer. Once over the sea, the wind was kind and by the end of the day the bird was roosting in a thorn bush, a few miles inland on the Irish side of the sea. Inside the bird’s body the mind of Menw the magician lurked, planning what to do next. The search started in earnest the next day. But the bird found no trace of the Great Boar that day or the next and by the end of the week he still hadn’t seen any sign of him, or his tribe of wild pigs. He searched for a month without any sighting until, one chill morning, he was flying over land where he had already flown before. He desperately scanned the ground below for some sign, some clue. But, once more, there was no sign of the wild boar. One evening, just as he was about to stop his search because the light was beginning to fail, he spotted a range of hills that he hadn’t seen before. This was very strange. He had criss-crossed the whole of the island of Ireland and he had never noticed these hills. He flew lower and ducked under a layer of cloud to get a better view. Then his bird’s eyes saw something that his human mind could not understand. These hills were shimmering. Not the shimmer of grass in the wind, it was something else. There were several of these hills in a straight line with the biggest of them at one end and they all had this strange shimmering along their ridged backs. But this was not the movement of bracken or grass blowing in the wind, so what was it? Mad though it seemed he had to check something. He flew lower still and hovered in the air and then he understood that the impossible thing that he thought he had seen was actually happening. This long line of hills was moving through the landscape! He had to see more and flew lower until there was no longer any doubt. This was not a row of hills rumbling through the countryside but enormous wild boar. He had stumbled on the Great Wild Boar and his tribe. Here he was flying right above them and they had no idea that he was there, right above them. He flew a bit lower, to see better just how huge they were. The size and power of them seemed even more impossible than the idea of hills actually walking over the landscape. His chest thrilled to the low rumble

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 172 the earth made as they thudded on their way and he could even hear their snorting and breathing. His job was done and he should have gone back and reported to King Arthur but he couldn’t resist slowly coming down to get a better view of these extraordinary creatures, so near he could almost smell them. No other human had got so close undetected and there was something about the casual way these creatures wore their power that utterly fascinated him. He flew closer to see even better. Suddenly the sun’s rays poured through a gap in the cloud and lit up the backs of the wild boar. He could see the dust raised by their feet, the muscles of their backs working away under the bristles and coarse hair and, as he came just a little bit lower, he saw his own bird-shadow fluttering on the Great Boar’s back. Menw felt that he was part of their group, trotting through this land with absolute assurance and power and utterly undefeatable. Just then he winced and shut his eyes against a sharp light that appeared from somewhere below. He blinked a few times and looked again to see what it was. There they were. The prizes they were all looking for, glinting and shining between the ears of the Great Boar. The comb and scissors of shining gold that Arthur had to seize in order to satisfy the final and most dangerous of all the tasks that the Hawthorn Giant had set. There they were, and none of the wild boar had any idea he was just above them. He folded his wings and dropped, feeling the air pushing against him as he fell through it, balancing against its force with his wings and tail, lowering and opening his claws to seize the prizes. He could almost hear the praise songs that would fill the feasting hall when he laid the prize in front of Arthur. Suddenly a shudder went through the back of the Great Wild Boar and the bristles on his thick neck started to quiver and stand up. Menw had the sickening feeling in his guts that he had made a terrible mistake but there was no turning back. When Menw was only a few feet above him, the Great Boar let out a loud, rasping grunt and the bristles squirted a sticky poison into the air. The liquid stung Menw’s eyes so he couldn’t see and he felt his feathers shrivelling and his skin blistering where the poison had hit him. He felt his body weaken and his mind fade and he knew that he was close to death. But by using all his strength and magic

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 173 he managed to summon up an old spell he had never used before. He wove an enchantment over himself that protected him enough to lift himself back into the air. The seven wild boar, who had been looking forward to stamping the body of the bird into the mud, screamed with loud-fanged rage and knifed the air with their tusks, watching the bird’s ragged flight to safety. Two days later, in Arthur’s court, there was a strange shuffling and flapping sound from under one of the chairs where Arthur was consulting with a small group of advisors. One of the officers of the court came to sort out the disturbance and retrieved a bird that looked as if it had been savaged by a dog. He was about to ring its neck and throw its body on the midden when Arthur shouted, ‘Stop!’ The king gently took the bird, cradled it in his hands, knelt down and slowly placed it on the floor. Then he crouched low, put his ear to the creatures beak and listened. ‘Stand back!’ he said and the chairs were scraped a foot or two away and the men stood in a circle looking down at the bird. Its beak opened and shut as if it was trying to say something. The body tensed a few times and they thought the bird was dying. Then there seemed to be a kind of mist in front of their eyes. There was some kind of voice, or voices, swirling in the air and for a while they felt dizzy and disorientated and suddenly the strange noise stopped. The dizzy feeling left them and everything was normal again. And then they saw the mangled form of Menw on the ground, his limbs twisted, his skin burnt and his face contorted in agony. The court doctors rushed in and carried him off. A few days later Arthur came to visit him. He asked Menw many questions about what he had seen, congratulated him on his bravery and assured him that, before the end of the day, the court poets would be singing his story to all who visited the castle. But in spite of all this Menw could sense that Arthur was worried and he knew that his king had every right to be. Facing the Great Wild Boar would be the fight of his life and, if he lost, defeat would be total. He would have to throw everything he had at this enemy, get the support of all his allies and call in every favour he had ever been

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 174 owed to have any chance of putting up a decent fight against this tribe of monster wild boar. Menw’s recovery was slow and, just when everyone thought he was back to his old self, he would take to his bed again or be seen leaning heavily a stick in order to walk. One day Pig Boy saw him in the hall resting against the wall. There was an open door in front of them and the doorway framed the bright sunlight outside. Pig Boy thought that some sunshine would do Menw good, so he went to him and took his elbow. He allowed the magician to put his weight on his shoulder and Pig Boy was surprised by how light this grown man had become in his illness. He led him outside and they slowly made for the bench that lay by the outside wall of the building. They sat down side by side and Menw rested his head against the earth and straw wall, shut his eyes and let the heat of the sun bathe his face and the reﬂected warmth from the wall soothe the back of his neck. He lifted his arm and patted Pig Boy’s leg in thanks and smiled thinly, still with his eyes shut. In front of them was the court’s herb garden. Pig Boy got up and went to see what was growing there. He wondered if he could remember one of the remedies he had been given over the years. As he mumbled the incantations the recipes came back to him. Five minutes later he had a handful of herbs and he went back inside to ask for some hot water and honey from the kitchen. A few minutes later he watched Menw’s eyes open and his smile broaden as he smelt the concoction. ‘Thank-you, Pig Boy,’ he said and took a few sips. The bitter and fragrant herbs were doing their job and Pig Boy could see some colour coming back to his cheeks. Menw looked down into the wet leaves and twigs at the bottom of the cup and smiled again. ‘My mother used to make me that,’ he said. He lifted the cup and drained what was left inside. Then he turned to face the young man. ‘What do you know about magic Pig Boy? You must be curious. Everyone is but no one knows how to ask.’ ‘Yes, I am curious,’ said Pig Boy, ‘I know that magic is part of the Two Worlds but I don’t understand it or know what I should do about it. Frankly, I’m at a bit of a loss about the whole thing.’

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‘Well, you can relax,’ said Menw, ‘because I can tell you now that you will never be a magician, and you should be grateful for that, believe me. You would have thought that I could just magic myself better but it’s nothing like that. Sickness is part of the magic and it is out of the sickness that the magic comes. All real magicians were sick as children. So sick that everyone thought they would die. It’s in that terrible sickness you learn about magic. Just as your family chant and pray around your sick body there is another part of you that seeps out of your body and hovers without shape or form in the room. It’s you but not you. It doesn’t think like you and can’t really plan or do anything. So you just hover, waiting for what happens next. Sometimes nothing happens and your earthly part dies and that is the end of that.’ Menw's voice trailed off and he leant his head back against the wall and his eyelids were beginning to droop shut. ‘Wait a minute,’ said Pigboy, ‘You're still here. You didn't die. What happened to you?’ ‘You certainly are curious.’ smiled Menw, faintly. ‘It went something like this. There I was, hovering in the air, both me and not-me at the same time. I gradually became aware that I was not alone. There was a noise like chattering around me and I could feel the presence of other things. Occasionally one would loom out of the dark and have a good look at me. Don't ask me how I knew, but I felt as if they were wondering what to do with me. They looked at me for a long time and then started to poke me with long, cold ﬁngers. The prodding became more insistent and several of them were at it at the same time. I just wished that they would just leave me alone when, suddenly, it went quiet. There was a moment of relief and then they all grabbed me at once. We all went ﬂying through the roof of my house and out into the night air. We went higher and higher into the freezing, dark air and I saw the stars spinning around me and, do you know, they really do make music. Beautiful, eery and scary music like you've never heard. Then without warning they all started to pull me in different directions, ripping my body apart and I saw bits of me being whirled around and spun out into space.’

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‘But didn't it hurt?’ interrupted Pig Boy. Menw smiled indulgently and said, ‘Being ripped apart doesn't hurt at all. In fact you don't feel a thing. It's being put back together that's agony. You feel yourself fading as the bits of you separate and then there is a kind of gap where there is no feeling of time. Then the pain starts. To begin with it is dull and doesn't seem to have any location but, as they fix you back together, each twist of muscle and relocation of joints is agonising. And it goes on and on. Your eyeballs squeezed back into your sockets, your intestines rewound and shoved back in, your...’ Menw glanced at Pig Boy, saw how pale and still he was, and stopped. ‘Well, the upshot of it all is that you find yourself back home, lying on your bed, exhausted and in pain with your family whispering all around you. A bit of you imagines that you might be about to go back to your old life but, as you recover, you begin to understand that things will never be the same again. Because you are not the same person anymore.’ ‘How do you mean?’ ‘Well, how can I put it? Yes, you are the same. You look and sound the same. You still have your favourite food and songs and moments in the day but you are also something completely different.’ ‘Go on.’ ‘Those spirits, or whatever they are, never really leave you and when they want your attention you can't ignore them. Also, when someone needs help because the hunters can't catch anything or the rains won't come to swell the grain or someone is really sick you can call on them and they will help you.’ ‘So you called on them to turn you into a bird in order to find the Great Wild Boar.’ ‘Exactly.’ ‘So, did the Great Boar have stronger spirits than yours who warned him that you were coming?’ ‘No, Pig Boy, the Great Boar's strength and power comes from a lower, darker place that you might learn about from someone else at another time. I was injured through my own stupidity and pride. In the moment when I saw the golden comb and scissors, my mind was taken by

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 177 dreams of glory and triumph, so I was no longer really present. No longer doing what I had to do, and that is when he got me. So, Pig Boy’, said Menw looking straight into Pig Boy’s eyes, ‘Learn from my mistake.’ Menw smiled and levered himself up. ‘And now I need to rest.’ And off he walked back inside, leaning on his stick. Pig Boy sat on the bench looking at the trees beyond the ﬁelds and thought, ‘I know he's right but I am almost always somewhere else in my head. How can I possibly succeed to stay with what's going on if even someone like Menw gets distracted?’ A slow grinding feeling came from inside his belly. It spread across his liver and into his spine. He could feel the creaking in the soft discs between his vertebrae and that was where his love curse had decided to make its home today. How he hated this debilitating pain which humiliated him so completely each time it came. But this time, in the middle of his hatred and resentment, he thought of Menw, his friend the magician. Menw, who had been distracted in the middle of his task and paid the price. On one hand Pig Boy would have gladly have found any source of distraction to avoid this pain but, on the other, he knew deep down, that this was part of his quest. The others had great heroic tasks laid before them that tested their mettle and found their limits but this was his task. To face the pain of his love curse without running away or curling up into a ball. Day by day, he learned to face it for a little longer and he stopped dreading the almost daily episodes of searing pain. Now when the curse came calling he would clearly and deliberately turn to face it. The ﬁrst time he did it he thought he felt it hesitate, feeling out his new determination before pouring pain into him. Although it never got easier, he felt less like a hopeless victim when it approached and in, its guttural call, he thought he sometimes heard another voice.

It’s hard work this waking up This paying attention to yourself and the Worlds A hundred stories swirl around you Looking for somewhere to perch Don’t let them land, don’t let them settle

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Better your own inarticulate voice Than an empty borrowed one

He was on the floor again when it finished. The pain drained away and he got to his feet. He felt flimsy but in one piece. Normally he would hide himself away after an attack, feeling like a failure and a freak. But this time he dusted himself down and got shakily to his feet. He saw a group of men and women loading a cart outside and went out to see what was happening. They waved him over and he joined in the work, adding such strength as he had to theirs. Day by day, all the other tasks were completed and the court was filling with the treasures and weapons that the Hawthorn Giant had demanded. An army of warriors and huntsmen were camped outside and beginning to get restless. The king realised that the time had come to get his ship, Prydwen, ready. Arthur called all those who owed him allegiance. He called men from the old kingdoms of Cornwall, Wales and Brittany and from the Old North, which you might know as southern Scotland and Cumbria. He called them from as far away as Normandy and other places over the sea until everyone was mustered and Arthur led them down to the shore and on to the ship.

A crisp breeze blew in from the sea. Prydwen looked magnificent with flags flying from her masts and her newly painted sides gleamed. Slots on the gunwales waiting to display the shields of the heroes who would board. Looking at the long line of men, horses and dogs waiting you would never have guessed that there would be room but, by the end of the morning, as the ship turned out to sea and the wind started to billow out her sails, they were all on board. Their armour and weapons glinted in the sun, and over the ninth wave they went with a cheer. The crossing was easy, the sea was kind and, before too long, they saw the coast of Ireland. Because of the size of the ship they were spotted from miles out to sea and soon the long, curved, bronze trumpets rang out from the ship and the shore, the long wailing notes from each side mingling over the waves.

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A huge crowd had assembled to greet them. There were warriors, kings, chieftains, holy men and women and people who worked the land all waiting to see the great King Arthur. They had heard so much about and here he was to help them get rid of the Great Wild Boar who had been terrorising them for so long. The holy men and women blessed Arthur and his followers and told terrible stories about the suffering inflicted by the Great Boar. When the warriors and huntsmen heard the stories the enormity of this task finally sank in. When the lavish feast was over and they had recovered from their excesses it was decided that, because they were in Ireland, the Irish should have the honour of fighting first. The next day a fierce and ferocious band of warriors prepared themselves for battle, and an impressive and terrifying lot they were. They marched inland in search of the Great Wild Boar and they did not have too far to go. The Wild Boar had heard what was happening and had moved towards an open patch of land just a few miles from where the men were. The two forces faced each other briefly, but unlike a battle between two human armies, there was no lengthy preamble of boasting and insults. As soon as the Irish soldiers took up their positions the Wild Boar attacked. The battle was short, swift and bloody. In less than an hour, the whole of the Irish army had been destroyed.

That evening the survivors limped home, carrying those who could not walk and leaving the dead to the crows. They told stories of a strength, fury and speed that none of them had ever encountered before. The Wild Boar, on the other hand, sauntered home unscathed, snorting their victory into the air and longing for more. The next day it was the turn of King Arthur’s men. The army was huge and numbered great heroes and champions amongst them but their strength, skill and bravery counted for nothing. Once the fight had gone out of them the Wild Boar left the field, mocking Arthur’s men as they left. That night, once the survivors has limped home, Arthur called the leaders of the army together and told them that the following day he would fight the Great Wild Boar in single combat. Protocol dictated that, when a king made this kind of decision, his warriors would refuse and, boasting of their strength and valour, demand to take their place beside

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 180 him. This time nobody said anything. The men just nodded and looked back into the fire, glad it wasn’t them who would be facing the Great Wild Boar. When the two forces faced each other the following morning the wild boar watched as Arthur stepped forward, alone, out of the ranks to be met by a barrage of snorting, roaring and baying from the other side. There could be only one response. The Great Wild Boar himself walked forward and the two of them faced each other, staring into each others eyes without blinking. Slowly Arthur drew his sword, never taking his gaze off the narrowed eyes of the Great Boar. Suddenly, the two ran forwards and started to rain blows down on each other. Sword and tusks clashed and parried as the two tried to find a weak point in the other’s defences. They were evenly matched in skill and speed and the battle raged until the sun went down but, even then, they did not stop. The night sky was lit up, as if by lightning, as sword and tusks clashed. The battle went on for three days and three nights until, eventually, both were too exhausted to fight on and they each dragged themselves back to their own camps. After sleeping and eating Arthur held council with his advisors and one asked, ‘Who is the Great Wild Boar?’ ‘The Great Wild Boar’ said Arthur ‘was once a man like you and I. He was a great and powerful king whose power went to his head. He discovered how it is possible to amass power through evil and cruelty and from then on his lust for power just kept on growing until, eventually, he was incapable of doing anything except extreme evil. Finally God noticed and turned him into the monstrous wild boar that we know today. But although he has the form of a beast, he has the mind of a man so I am sure that, now we have reached a stalemate, there must be some way of getting what we want and going home.’ Arthur’s first thought was to send Menw in the form of a bird with a message to the Great Wild Boar but he was still suffering the effects of the poison. However, he did have enough strength left to use his magic and turn Gwrhir, who spoke all the languages of the world, into a bird. The next morning, away he flew. Looking for the Wild Boar was much easier than finding them. Gwrhir was sure he had a clear idea of where they must be but he flew for

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 181 hours over mountains, valleys and plains without any sighting. His wings were beginning to tire and he needed to rest. He landed half-way up a graceful ash tree on the edge of a clearing, ruffled the dust out of his feathers and then sang out to the forest to see if any of the creatures there knew where the Wild Boar had gone. There was an eerie silence in the woods, as if the land was holding its breath. A tension like the overfull feeling that the summer air has before a storm. There was some movement ahead but an instinct stopped him from launching himself into the air to investigate. He crouched deeper into the foliage to hide amongst the tree's long leaves and black buds. A rasping noise came from somewhere a little way off and Gwrhir's bird body clenched itself deeper into the shadows. The noise was getting louder and closer and a thick, heady, smell rose up and around him. The tree seemed to sway slightly in response to whatever was coming and, when he dared to look down, Gwrhir saw the rippling back of the great Silverback. The Great Wild Boar's second-in-command. His grunting rippled the air so that Gwrhir could feel it rumble his own chest. All he wanted was to stay silent and invisible until the monster went away. But as he cowered into the tree he remembered why he was there and who he really was. With a crystal clear flourish of birdsong he flew into the open and perched on a branch just above the Silverback's head. He finished his song with an elaborate flourish of notes and in the pause that followed he fixed the Silverback with his shining bird-eyes and said, 'In the name of God, give us what we want and we will go and leave you in peace. Why should we go on fighting like this? It doesn't do any of us any good.’ The Silverback raised his head. ‘Hiding in a tree, disguised as a bird and unwilling to fight. It is true what they say about Arthur and his men. Cowards all, only interested in the trappings of war and combat and always the first to run when the swords are unsheathed. And stupid too. Just think about it, if you can. Why should we do anything in the name of the one who turned us into beasts? If you want anything from us you already know what to do. You must fight us! And if it is the golden comb and scissors that you're after, then you'll have to kill us. All of us!’

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And before Gwrhir could think of anything to say in response, the Silverback lowered his head and powered straight towards the tree that the bird was perched on. There was a grunt and a thud and the tree shuddered all along its length. Gwrhir jumped off the branch just as the huge tree he had been resting in crashed into the earth in a mess of splintering branches, swirling leaves and dust. It was already dark when Gwrhir made it back to Arthur's camp. Small campfires burned where the wounded were being tended and exhausted men slept fitfully. A little way off a larger fire was burning where Arthur and his advisers sat staring into the embers. Arthur looked up when he heard the bird's wings and gave a few quick commands and men prepared themselves to receive Gwrhir and help him with his transformation back into a man. Eight men opened out a large blanket and laid it on the ground and waited, a man holding each corner and one half way along each side. The bird flopped into the middle of the blanket and slowly writhed in a feathery heap. Its eyes were shut and its beak opened and closed. Each man held onto his part of the blanket with both hands and began to lean back until the bird was gently lifted off the ground. Its body grew, shedding feathers, growing limbs, a face and beard until the magic was undone and they saw Gwrhir lying, exhausted on the suspended blanket. They lowered the blanket slowly down to the earth and one of them went to get a small horn filled with strong drink and some warm clothes. Gwrhir had just about enough strength to lift the horn to his lips. He swallowed clumsily and started to choke. The others laughed and gently clapped him on the back. Then the beating of their hands became stronger and they covered his body with a rain of blows that got his blood moving again until he was able to stand unaided. They watched him for a moment and then hugged him. Their friend was back and safe. Soon, he was sitting by the fire, eating freshly roasted meat and telling his story to Arthur who leant forward listening to every word, his eyes reflecting the fire. Dawn was slowly breaking and as their eyes were raised to the new light of day Arthur got to his feet and stretched. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘the only option is to fight.’

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There was a pause in which you could hear the unspoken thought of nearly every man there, ‘Why can't we just go home?’ Soon captains were on their feet marshalling their fighting units. Weapons were sharpened, war songs sung and the bronze war trumpets began to blare and all thoughts of home and comfort were forgotten. They were all swept up in the pride and the colour and noise of their war procession. They felt invincible and righteous as they marched, as one, towards the battlefield. They swept into the broad plain where so many of their comrades had been killed, whose bones, picked clean by eagles and crows still littered the ground alongside smashed weapons, slowly yielding to rust. They took up their positions in perfect drill formation and waited with bated breath for the order to attack.The racket of the war trumpets grew louder and each man gripped his weapon ready for the charge. In fact they were ready for anything, except for what was about to happen which was - nothing. They were the only ones on the battlefield. The warriors looked around, bewildered. The blare of the war trumpets faded to a dismal parp. The Great Boar and his followers were just not there. ‘If the Great Wild Boar will not come to us,’ shouted Arthur, ‘we shall go to him!’ The king raised his sword and the terrible din of war started again as he led his army towards the camp of the Wild Boar. The men broke into a run and yelled war cries. They charged over the brow of the next hill, ready to hurl themselves on their enemy in terrible slaughter. But once over the top they stopped mid-stride and stared. No wild boar anywhere, just hollows in the ground where they had slept and great gouges in the earth where they had been looking for food. And so, the awful truth dawned on Arthur. He had been outwitted and outflanked. Distracted by his strength and brutality Arthur had forgotten that the Great Wild Boar was also a wily and tactical opportunist. And now, stranded on the Irish shore, Arthur knew that the wild boar were swimming over to Wales and were already out of sight.

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Summoning all his bluster, he rallied his troops and led them back to his ship, which was floating peacefully at anchor in a sheltered bay a few miles away. Arthur maintained his regal stride and his commanding gaze as messengers desperately spurred their horses onwards to those looking after the ship so they could get everything ready in time. The men, dogs and horses came on board, the anchor was pulled out from the mud, the men’s voices filled the air as they hauled on the ropes and the ship’s sails billowed as the wind caught the ship and wafted her out to the open sea. On a very clear day, it is sometimes just possible, if you are on a high place by the sea, to see Wales from Ireland and vice versa. But not on this day. The wind slowed and gusted haphazardly so that, as soon as the sails had been re-set, the wind changed and the men had to start their work all over again. The ship rocked on the choppy sea and the men’s hands were chafed by the ropes and scoured by the salt air as they worked. As the men were wrestling with the uncooperative wind, Arthur knew that the Wild Boar were already being led ashore by their chief, wide-fanged in glory, ready to slaughter all who stood their ground against him. And there was nothing Arthur could do. Nothing except wait for the wind to change and the sea to allow him to sail to his homeland and defend his people.

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Chapter 12

Finally, Prydwen approached the shore. They had used the gaps in the patchy cloud to navigate by the stars and they came ashore at a narrow inlet called Porth Clais in Pembrokeshire. When they were close enough to see the damage that the wild boar had caused there was silence on board ship. The men stared at the twisted bodies of beasts and people littering the fields. The thatched roofs of the cottages had been caved in by the wild boar and set alight by the hearth fires abandoned by those who had fled. The earth all around was churned into mud by the feet of the Wild Boar. Huge clods of it lay around and the smell of burning thatch filled the air where once there had been a happy and thriving community. Beyond the shattered homesteads and destroyed fields Arthur could see the path that the Wild Boar had left behind them. A great muddy trench of destruction that led deep inland and slowly reached its way up towards the Preseli Mountains. Before he knew it himself he was standing in his stirrups, his sword held high and cleaving the air with his blade. Finally, after all this chasing Arthur had found some real fight inside him. A burning rage aimed at those beasts who came to his own country to destroy, kill and pillage. This country whose soil, mountains, people and creatures he loved like family. A great roar came from behind him as his followers fed off their king's rage. His anger was so strong you could almost feel the heat coming off him as they thundered over moor and crag towards the next horizon and the one after that and the one after that. The Great Boar knew exactly what he was doing and knew exactly how Arthur would react. He grinned, as he heard the shouting growing behind him. He led his troop of wild boar, panting and snorting, ever upwards until they got to Cwm Cerwyn, the highest point in the Preseli Mountains. Without a word of command having to be given, they took up a close, circular defensive position. Their tusks and fangs would be the first thing the men would encounter when they finally reached the peak, footsore and out of breath.

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There was a strange quiet on the flat top of the mountain. The wind scudded over the heather and the coarse hair of the wild boar shimmered as they snorted and stamped, ready for the slaughter. The sun shone briefly through a gap in the low, heavy cloud and the golden comb and scissors gleamed, sending shards of golden light across the moor and into the sky. The collision of men and beasts was deafening and furious and, for a moment, they looked evenly matched in the whirl of blades and tusks. But soon it became clear that the wild boar were winning. They cut and thrust with their tusks and slammed into rows of armed men, sending them spinning back down the mountain. On that craggy, slippery, heather-covered slope, it should have been no surprise that the four- legged wild boar would utterly defeat the men. There was a different singing the next day as the dead were buried. Not just tears at the loss of friends and brothers and songs of grief and mourning. But also proud elegies of the dauntless, young dead who imagined themselves immortal. The survivors praised the valour and splendour of the slain in terms of the sea eagle, wolf and stallion. They mourned that the lot of their dead, young friends was to know their own funeral feast before they were ever married. They crammed an ocean of feeling into tight, intense three-lined verses. They praised young, dead warriors who were lost for words in front of a young woman but who took their courage and strength and flung them, unblinking, in the teeth of Death. It was a sober and quiet mustering of the troops the next day. Each man knew that death was waiting for them at the top of that mountain. It would be hard going even before reaching the enemy, let alone the fight that would follow. Arthur and his men had learned from the mistakes of the previous day and had begun to see how the Wild Boar worked together to separate soldiers from their squad, rendering them isolated and helpless. On the second attack they managed to reduce casualties but, by the time they retreated, they were still utterly defeated and had not inflicted a single injury on even one of the Wild Boar. The next day the dead were lain out in rows, wrapped in their cloaks, their weapons and armour placed beside them. Some swords were as

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 187 clean and shiny as the day they had been made. Others were smashed and already rusting. It was still early and the sun had not yet burnt through the clouds. The embers of the fires kept a few fragile flames flickering but it was bitterly cold. Arthur walked slowly along the line of dead as praises to their bravery were sung, the men’s voices hoarse with weariness. One young man’s corpse caught his eye and he lingered to hear the song,

Gwydre son of a great leader how is mother will weep for him his first battle was his last

One of the many crows that had been attracted by the sight and smell of flesh hopped closer towards the head of the dead youth. Arthur quickly chased it away and continued down the line. Bedwyr and Owain exchanged glances. The dead warrior was Arthur’s youngest son. This was Culhwch’s first battle and he hoped it would be his last. Something happened to him in the fighting that he had not expected. His everyday self disappeared and he felt himself utterly joined to those fighting around him. His senses were heightened so that he knew what was going to happen before it did. As for the actual fighting, it was as if the sword was doing that for him and he was following it, not the other way round. Every bit of the sword wanted to inflict injury and death. The blade of course, but the pommel wanted to thud into the temple of the wild boar and the guard was itching to dig into an eye socket. The hardest part of the fighting was to remember to withdraw and let fresher warriors take your place so that you would have the energy later to take theirs. Once you let your sword skills lose their form and flow because of fatigue you won’t have long left. When the fighting was at its height the battle frenzy took over and it was only later that the horror of it began to sink in. When the survivors re-grouped back at camp, the singing started. Then they poured libations and wept and, finally, started to dance slowly in a circle. First, anti-clockwise with eyes shut and then clock-wise, with eyes open, looking around the group of survivors, taking in each face.

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They finished with a shout and then each warrior went off to clean his weapon. Pig Boy had just finished cleaning and drying his sword, pleased that his shaking hands hadn’t cut themselves on the exquisitely sharp blade. He could hear someone else nearby cleaning his weapon and he turned to see who was sitting in the heather beside him and suggest that they go and get something to eat. Beside him was the ugliest man he had ever seen in his entire life. It was difficult to guess his age but he looked vigorous and strong so was not old. His head was much too big for his body and lumps of his hair had fallen out. The bare skin on his scalp was red and mottled with dry, scabby patches. His clothes were filthy and made of patched leather and old bits of cloth. He grunted and sweated as he finished off the cleaning process and began to lever himself up to standing. Pig Boy stared at his companion’s face and the more he looked the uglier he became. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Dried, yellow ooze encrusted the corners and flakes of it juddered in the cold breeze. Waves of fetid body odour wafted over Pig Boy as the man stood up and turned to him. When he spoke Pig Boy saw two rows of jagged yellow teeth so big that they stuck out of his mouth even when it was shut, which was not often. But the thing that really grabbed Pig Boy’s attention was the huge, red boil that sat in the middle of the man’s forehead. You could practically see it throbbing and feel the heat coming off it. The man nodded at Pig Boy and said, ‘Hello, my name’s Afagddu. Pleased to meet you.’ After a pause he went on, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not offended. Most people take a bit of time to get used to me. Shall we?’ and he nodded to where food was being prepared on a fire nearby. ‘Afagddu,’ said Pig Boy ‘If I am not mistaken that name means...’ ‘Utter darkness. It was my mother’s idea but she had a pet name for me as well, “Morfran”’ which means “cormorant”. The names suit me don’t you think?’ Pig Boy did not know what to say and Afagddu laughed, sending out a rancid stink and slapping his new friend on the shoulder with a huge, clammy hand. They walked towards the group, who greeted them and they sat and ate in silence together for a while.

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Slowly Pig Boy put the pieces together and worked out who this man was. The man messily chomping his dinner beside him was the one who had thrown Taliesin, the poet, into the sea just after his mother had given birth to him. This is the person who missed out on the three drops of inspiration that would have given him all the knowledge that has ever and will ever exist. Yes, he was extremely ugly but he was, in every other respect, completely normal, friendly and good company, to boot. As the night surrounded them they all huddled closer to the fire and one by one they lay down and slept fitfully under their cloaks. Afagddu and Pig Boy were the last ones to sleep and eventually he had to ask the question that had been sitting on the tip of his tongue since he had worked out who this was. ‘Don’t you mind missing out on the three drops of wisdom?’ ‘Of course not!’ said Afagddu, ‘Can you imagine what that would be like? All that noise in your head all day every day. And another thing - nothing would ever be new! You wouldn’t be able to discover anything or learn anything because you knew it already. Taliesin is welcome to it all. He’s much better at it than I would ever have been, anyway. Well, to be honest with you, there was a time, when I was much younger, when it was difficult. But my mother gave me something that Taliesin never got. ‘Ceridwen, our mother, was a difficult, unruly and powerful woman but was always, totally herself and that’s the biggest lesson she taught me. When we lived by the lake we kept a few animals and grew some vegetables so, of course, we had a compost heap. It was my job to throw in all the dung and peelings and so on. We had two piles. A new pile which we would add to every day and an old pile, covered in leaves, that would be waiting for the following Spring to be spread on the soil. One day, I was carrying a bucket of pig manure and, as I was about to pour it on top of the pile, I lost my footing and fell right in. Worse still, the bucket fell on top of me and I got covered. I was stinking, soaked and miserable. Finally my mother heard my cries and came out. She was in a foul mood as ever, picked me up and swilled me by the ankles in the water of the lake. She shook me more or less dry and then we walked back to the compost heap. “Come here” she said, leading me towards the old, leaf covered compost heap. “Have a rootle around in there”. I didn’t want to because

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 190 of what I knew had gone in there. “Go on!” she insisted, so I did. Under the layer of leaves there was a pile of fibrous soil. I picked it up and felt it warm in the palms of my hands. I crumbled it in my hands and saw worms, centipedes and all sorts of life in there. There was no stink, just the warm, healthy smell of good soil. “Without that,” my mother said, “there would be no growth in the garden next year. There would be nothing for us to eat and nothing would ever grow. All the life around you, you and me included, comes from that.” And here she pointed to the stinking pile I had fallen into. And I understood.’ Afagddu yawned so wide Pig Boy thought he was going to dislocate his jaw and the smell that came out was not too different to the stinking compost heap that Afagddu had fallen into as a child. He wiped his slobbery mouth with the back of his hand, mumbled a ‘goodnight’ to Pig Boy, lay down on his side. Then he farted so loudly it fluttered his cloak. Then he started to snore.

Meanwhile up in the mountain the Wild Boar had long gone. They had slipped away in silence by the light of the moon and were making their way southwards, away from the mountains and down towards the shore. When Arthur’s scouts gave him the news he cut the funeral rites short, mustered the army and watched in amazement as the men jumped to it to get everything in order when he himself was feeling the exhaustion sinking deeper and deeper until it settled in the marrow of his bones. Once more, they followed the trail of the Great Wild Boar. The going was easier now and they were making good progress and, before long, they saw the sea shining on the horizon. Scouts rode back to say that the Wild Boar had reached the sea but not gone in. Instead they had turned left, heading eastwards. They spurred the horses on and a few miles further on, not far from the coast, the Wild Boar stood their ground again. The men hurled themselves against them in a huge rush of ash- shafted spears and war cries. Despite their valour they fared only a little better and, before long, those spears littered the field, shattered and smashed.

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Once more the funeral songs rang out and then there was a flurry of men, horses and dogs and they were off again. After half a day of travelling, slowly gaining on the wild boar, a huge estuary blocked their path. At this point three rivers flowed together into the sea and made a swirling mass of water at high tide and impenetrable mud flats at low tide. The tide was on its way out when they arrived and they stared through the reeds, past the wading birds, beyond the mud flats and the receding water. Suddenly one of the most keen-eyed scouts shouted and pointed to where the furthest river, with gleaming white beaches, flowed into the others. They could just make out a flurry of water in the distance that could only mean one thing. The Wild Boar were making their way up that valley. Arthur’s army could not make it through the mud and tidal channels that the Great Wild Boar had used, so there was no option but to take the much longer land route. The following day they looked for the telltale signs of where the Wild Boar had been. But there were no signs of destruction or newly laid tracks to say which way their enemy had gone. There were no felled trees or scarred earth. No smashed cottages and disemboweled cattle. No sign at all that they had ever been there. The sun filtered through the branches and the birds sang and the air was fresh. It was as if these enormous and destructive monsters had been swallowed up by the earth or disappeared into the sky. Some sign or other needed to be found so that Arthur would know in which direction to lead his force. He dispatched groups of warriors and huntsmen to search for clues. One scouting party was sent off up a river valley that flowed into the great estuary that they had recently crossed. The valley floor was heavy with wild garlic, the vivid green leaves carpeted the ground and the round heads of the flowers bobbed in the breeze. A little further up the valley, birch trees filtered the light and the air was alive with bird song. The whole place invited them to slow down and sink into the peace of the woods. They let the horses graze and drink from the river as the dogs sniffed around. Suddenly, one of the dogs lifted its head. It was confused, sensing danger but didn’t where it was coming from. The horses were also spooked by something that the men could not hear or see. But soon they began to feel it. A low rumble coming from somewhere. They looked up

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 192 and the sky was still clear through the branches so it wasn’t thunder. There it was again. A deep rumble that shook the earth under their feet. There was a brief moment of quiet and then it came again but much stronger and the men rushed for their weapons. Suddenly the earth under their feet started to heave upwards and the plants of the forest floor tumbled to the ground around this growing mound of earth. It split along its length and a huge bristling head burst out of the earth. Its yellow tusks jabbed the air, followed by the rest of its huge body. Silverback, the Great Wild Boar’s second in command, emerged from the Earth as if it was giving birth to him. The only man to survive this attack gave his report to Arthur and his advisors a few hours later. He was filthy, weaponless and still terrified but cogent enough to describe the slaughter. Men and animals had been caught off-guard, without any chance to prepare or make any kind of formation. The silver-backed boar had stamped, hacked and gouged at every living thing until the forest was quiet again, leaving one terrified soldier hiding behind the crumbling wall of a ruined house to escape and tell the tale. As the man was led away to wash and eat Arthur called his chief warriors and said, ‘He’s going up the valley towards the Great Lake. Tomorrow we follow.’ The men nodded. With a human enemy there would have been a long discussion about the opponent’s weaknesses and strengths, the tactics they liked to employ and what their end-game might be. In a hunt all you need to know is where the quarry is, flush it out, drive it down and hope that skill and luck combine to make a kill and feed the people back home. But this was very different. Arthur had started this chase in order to get the golden comb and scissors that lie between the ears of the Great Wild Boar to satisfy his kinsman, Pig Boy. He had marshalled troops and huntsmen from all over the known world, called in every favour and act of generosity he had ever made and now the whole story seemed stuck. Something needed to change but it was the Great Boar that was leading the chase, twisting and turning and making stands, provoking battles and moving on when it suited him. At this rate there wouldn’t be

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 193 an acre of his kingdom that wasn’t mangled by the great feet and snouts of the Wild Boar. Or a family in his realm that wasn’t singing new elegies for their fallen brothers, sons and fathers. Another day, another valley. Uphill again towards a wide range of flat- topped mountains, the river rushing in the other direction down to the sea. Suddenly there was a shout! One of the scouts had spotted something. ‘Boar!’ went up the cry from the men and, this time, Arthur told the huntsmen to release the dogs and the king himself unleashed his own huge hunting dog, Cafall. And now these dogs showed their mettle. They had been waiting during the grim weeks of slaughter to show what they could do and they shot off ahead and locked onto the scent of the Wild Boar. And soon the men, who were galloping hard behind, watched the pack-mind of the dogs forming. Taking it in turns to lead, finding a stride and rhythm that was made by them all. Easily breaking up and reforming when there was an obstacle or tricky piece of ground to get over and flowing onwards, up the valley, a lean, baying river of teeth and hunger. As they thundered up the valley the men began to notice the first signs of uncertainty amongst the Wild Boar up ahead. A moment’s hesitation here, a missed footing there and a loss of that smooth, confident stride and strut that they had shown in the previous encounters. Men and dogs all smelled it at the same time and they leant deeper into their stride, becoming more and more sure of victory. Even the horses, who had only ever tasted grass and oats, were straining forwards, delighting in the chase and eager for the kill. Everyone saw it at the same time. The moment that one of the wild boar lost its place in the herd and started to be left behind. You could see the effort in its body as it strained forward. But now it seemed as if this land that Arthur ruled over was finally coming to his aid, slowing and tripping the wild boar until it knew that it would inevitably be caught. In that moment it turned and the chasing horde slowed. Hunter and prey eyed each other until the moment came when there was some signal, an acquiescence, a quiet recognition of the inevitable from the boar. Men and dogs fell on him in a splintering of spears, and an urgent thrashing of teeth and tusks. Finally the beast lay dead and, in the

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 194 stillness that followed, punctuated by the panting of men and dogs, Arthur shouted from his saddle, ‘Brave and terrible boar. Your blood has coloured this river and this river will forever bear your name.’ And so it is to this day. The river is called the Aman from one of our ancestors’ words for pig. And so it continued, one boar after another turned to face its doom. Their blood stained two tributaries of the River Aman and giving them their names, Banw and Benwig, to help us remember the story. The chase continued until there were only three wild boar left. The three biggest and most ferocious. The Great Boar himself, Silverback and one more huge bristling monster. The three remaining Wild Boar made their stand on the shores of Great Mountain Lake, in the middle of the moorland and heather, the flat topped mountains reflected in the water behind them. From the outside it seemed like so many of the battles they had fought in the preceding weeks. The men, horses and dogs called on every ounce of their strength and courage to keep going up the valley towards the commanding position held by the Wild Boar. But, for Arthur’s men, this time it felt different. Before, they had hurled themselves against an enemy that seemed immovable but now the Wild Boars’ feet slid and slithered on the muddy battleground. Before, they had effortlessly out-fought and out-manoeuvred the men but now they were on the defensive and the men had begun to read and anticipate their moves. Once the Wild Boar had been sure of their strength, now the men could feel Victory urging them on. Suddenly the three wild boar split up and ran in different directions. One raced westwards to hide in an endless marsh. But the men of the West cornered it and killed it before it could disappear. Another raced eastwards but ran straight into the men of Brittany and it was killed in its tracks. The Great Wild Boar himself made his way southwards, running and hiding and then running again. He couldn’t get his bearings in this landscape and his mind and body needed to rest. He woke one morning and started to explore the landscape around him. He was still groggy from sleep and he missed his footing and slipped down a steep sided bank. He rolled all the way down and landed with a crunch. He found

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 195 himself in a shallow,, fast flowing river about twice as wide as himself. He got to his feet, shook himself and felt the flow of the river. Then he started to move with it, slowly at first and then quicker and quicker as an idea formed in his mind.

At this point many other leaders would have taken the advantage and put every effort into finding and chasing the Great Wild Boar. Arthur did something different. This was a turning point and they need to be marked because, once you are on the other side of a turning point the rules suddenly change. If you are still playing by the old rules your efforts are doomed to failure. So he did what he always did when he needed new direction. He consulted the landscape he ruled. He rode out with his dog, Cafall, and followed paths for a day and a night until he was watching the sun rise in the East from the top of a high escarpment, with a sparkling, clear river below. It was clarity he needed so he had come to this place, above the shining River Wye for inspiration. He dismounted and felt the land under his feet, knelt and touched it and, rising, touched his own heart in greeting. He was on the eastern side of the river, facing the rising sun. He greeted it and watched it climb into the sky. Then he turned to watch his kingdom receive the sun’s light and power and reflect it back at him as beauty. From up here the wooded valley looked as if it had never changed, other than the gradual and repeating rhythm of the seasons. Arthur looked upstream and knew that the water flowing towards the sea below him sprang from high in the Five Mountains as a simple spring. It gathered speed and strength until it cut a path for itself through the mountains to the sea. Not far from the source of the Wye is the source of the Severn, which curves in a huge arc eastwards and southwards before entering the sea in a great estuary where her younger sister, the Wye, joins her. He also knew of a third river, the youngest of the three sisters. When the three were sent to the sea by their father, the Five Mountain Giant, it was the youngest who did her father’s bidding and went direct to her mother, the sea. She was the obedient one, the dutiful and responsible one and the one that everyone forgets. He shook the

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 196 stories from his mind and cleared his thoughts hoping for some inspiration. Suddenly the water below him began to surge and Arthur looked down in to the valley. It was the Great Wild Boar! He was trotting at an even pace and then stopped in the middle of the river, facing downstream and cocked an ear. Then he sniffed so loudly that Arthur could hear him from the top of the steep-sided valley. He raised his head and looked straight at Arthur, grunted and started to run with the flow of the river southwards. How had the Great Wild Boar been able to see him? He had the sun and the trees behind him and he should have been invisible to anyone down in the valley. When Arthur saw the Great Wild Boar quicken his pace, he matched his mind to the mind of the creature and suddenly knew exactly what his enemy was going to do. He raced back to his horse and leapt on her back and started to gallop back to where his men were celebrating their victory. This meant a long round trip to a ford where he could cross the river in order to rejoin his men. Arthur’s dog, Cafall, soon realised that he would not be able to match the pace of his master’s galloping horse and would be left behind so, after a few paces, he stopped. He watched his master gallop off and then ran back to the point where he had been with Arthur just minutes before. He accelerated towards the cliff edge. His dog mind stayed focussed on the opposite cliff. He ran faster and faster until he reached the very edge and then he leapt with all his might. He jumped right over the river to the hill on the other side of the valley and was waiting with the other men, barking with pride, when Arthur arrived on horseback. The men were expecting Arthur because of the dog’s leap and were saddled and ready when he arrived. If it hadn’t been for those few precious minutes gained, this story would have ended very differently. The dog’s leap was made with such force and passion that he left the mark of his paw on the rock he jumped from. That mark still lies in the same place today, a witness to the dog, his master and this story. Arthur rode into the group of waiting men and gave his orders from the saddle. He called Gwyn, the god of the Otherworld, and his earthly opponent, Gwythyr, to mount their horses and take Mabon, the eternal youth, and Cyledyr, the madman of the North with them. Their task was

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 197 to keep the Great Wild Boar moving along the river, otherwise he might disappear into the landscape as he had done once before. The four horsemen were off, and soon reached the banks of the river. They galloped through its shallow waters, chasing after the Great Wild Boar who they could hear careering along just ahead of them. The river twists and turns at this point and at every corner they could see their quarry disappearing round the next bend. The men spurred on their horses, leant low in their saddles and whispered incantations in their horses’ ears. Arthur had learned an important lesson and knew that the Great Wild Boar was quite capable of disappearing so not even the dogs could detect him and then, when Arthur and his followers were most vulnerable, he would attack. Whatever happened the Great Boar must be kept moving. But on the other hand, he must not be allowed to follow the river into the sea because from there he would be able to swim across the Severn estuary, land on the other side and make his way westwards to Arthur’s court in Cornwall which he would utterly destroy and that would be the end of Arthur as king. Arthur was risking everything to get the golden comb and scissors. But he also knew that the fateful step had been taken all those months ago when he set sail for Ireland to face the Great Wild Boar. Now everything depended on the horsemanship of the four horsemen and the strength and spirit of the horses. That, and the bravery of the four men he sent galloping southwards to stand in the mud and receding water of the estuary to wait for the Wild Boar. Tracker, who had found the way to the oldest animals, led the four men galloping along secret and twisted paths to the place where they would wait in ambush for the Great Wild Boar. The four men in question were Osla Big Knife, whose knife was so big that the sheath was the size of a small boat; Manawydan, who had seen more battles and bloodshed than anyone else and could keep his head when all others were distracted or panicking; Cacamwri, who was so strong he had attached two millstones to his belt so that the Great Wild Boar would not be able to drag him anywhere and, finally, Gwyngelli, one of Arthur’s most trusted and steadfast servants.

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They arrived at the place where the River Wye opens out into the Severn estuary. They were only just in time and the Great Wild Boar would soon be thundering down the valley towards them. The tide was on its way out and the river was low. They waded into the shallow water and found a steady place where they could stand and wait. There was an eery silence, broken only by the River Wye’s slide in to her sister river, the Severn, and the breeze from the sea. It wasn’t long before they heard the sound that they remembered from all their other encounters with the Great Boar. A sound like distant thunder and a faint rumbling and trembling from under their feet. The Great Boar was on his way. The noise and vibration ebbed and flowed but there was no denying that every time they felt it, it was stronger. They widened their stance, braced themselves and suddenly the Great Wild Boar was bearing down on them. None of the men flinched but kept their gaze firmly on the huge beast. They felt the rhythm of the creature’s feet and legs in the brown water of the estuary. They heard the deep rasping of his breath. As he got yet closer he became much bigger than they remembered from any of the battles they had fought against him but none them took their eyes off him. The Great Wild Boar was focussed on the open sea and gave no thought to the men in front of him. He was just going to run straight over them and trample them into the churning water. As the Wild Boar thundered over them they each kept their gaze and readiness fixed on the creature’s huge legs and feet. Each man knew which was his to grab and, as the legs and feet whirled murderously overhead they reached, grabbed and hung on. Their combined weight tripped up the Great Boar and brought him crashing to the ground sending up a huge wall of water. Behind them came the four horsemen breaking through the swirling wall of water at full tilt. As they galloped over the Great Boar, Mabon, the eternal youth, and Cyledyr, the madman, both reached down between its ears. A moment later each had his hand raised high and their faces gleamed with victory. In Mabon’s hand the golden comb shone and in Cyledyr’s hand they all saw the golden shears glisten. A huge shout of victory went up from the banks of the river. By now a huge crowd of followers and subjects had lined the estuary and the rest

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 199 of the warriors and huntsmen had arrived too and the victory songs began to fill the air. The singing was loud and raucous. Everyone was entranced by the site of the golden comb and shears. At that moment the site of those glittering treasures took their minds. Their own hands were on these magic objects. They had won them and the glory was theirs. The job was done and the victory theirs. But the Great Wild Boar was not finished with them yet. He righted himself and got firm ground under him and then pushed himself out into the estuary. The men tried to stop him but he was too strong for them and as they struggled in the sea, they lost their footing. Cacamwri was pulled down under the waves by the weight of his mill-stones and Osla’s huge knife fell from its sheath which quickly filled with water and pulled him under as well. Both were drowned. Only now did Arthur truly realise what he had staked in order to hunt this creature. The Great Wild Boar would swim over the Severn Estuary to Devon. From there he would undoubtedly turn right, heading west towards Cornwall. When he got to Arthur’s court he would destroy it and then everything would be obliterated. Arthur’s court, his status as king, his fame and honour and all the stories about him would disappear for ever. And then if the land was not ruled by Arthur who would be its chief? The Great Wild Boar, of course. Arthur leaped on his mare and called the two dogs Aned and Aethlem who had been brought for the hunt by the King of France, no less. He started to gallop, but not into the water because he knew he would never catch up with the Great Wild Boar by sea. Instead he had to go east, keeping the sea on his righthand side, going further and further along the estuary until it turned northwards and became a river again. Arthur galloped up the bank of the Severn. The same way that Cai and Bedwyr had gone on the back of the Great Salmon. He got to the Shining Fort, where Mabon had been imprisoned for so long, singing his lonely song. He crossed at the first bridge and, once over, Arthur, his horse and the dogs raced down the other side of the river. They were travelling in the same direction as the river this time and, when the river opened out into the sea, they were finally on the southern side of the estuary. The same side that the Great Boar had been heading for. The King of France had told him not to let the dogs off their leads until the prey was sighted

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 200 otherwise he would never see them again. Arthur kept a firm grip on the leads as he galloped. He galloped westwards through Somerset and Devon and from the, top of the cliffs, Arthur could see the coast of South Wales on his right, looking so peaceful in the distance in spite of everything that had happened. Suddenly, he could see some kind of disturbance in the water. A churning made by something under the surface. It could have been mackerel or some other kind of shoaling fish but he hoped with all his heart that this would be the Great Wild Boar. It was. Arthur briefly reined in his horse and gave a curt order to his dogs to stay down. He didn’t want to give his enemy the chance to go back out to sea and land somewhere else. He let him come, dripping, onto the shore. He waited in hiding until the Great Boar was well out of the sea and still getting his breath back. Then Arthur let out a yell that could have been heard from the other side of the estuary and he, the dogs and his horse raced as one towards the Great Boar. He was startled for an instant and then bolted westwards towards Cornwall and Arthur’s court. The chase was on! All of them were given new energy by being so close to each other and Arthur began to urge the horse. Even after all the galloping they had already done, she found some more pace from somewhere deep inside her. The Great Wild Boar sensed this and sped up too. If this game went on they would never catch him. Stopping, even for a moment, seemed like courting defeat but Arthur knew he had to do it to stand any chance. It took a painfully long time for the horse to come to a stop but, once it finally did, Arthur leapt to the ground and unclipped the leads from the two hunting dogs’ collars before urging them into the chase and getting back into the saddle. It was true what the King of France had said. These dogs could run faster than the wind. Much faster. Arthur had never seen running like it. Their stride just ate up the land they were running on. There was something about the way they ran that seemed to change the way the ground behaved. It was no longer a solid and inert thing that you pushed against in order to get somewhere. It seemed to have become springy, propelling them ever faster and further forward with every silken stride. By now they were snapping at the Great Boar’s heels but the beast found even more speed. He ran so fast that he ran right past the point

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 201 where he would have to turn in order to attack Arthur’s court. Arthur knew that he had finally pushed the Great Boar to a point where he could no longer think, no longer plot. The only thing he could do was run. Just run to get away from those dogs and their infernal speed. Ever since this King Arthur had turned up, uninvited, in Ireland he had been fighting, running, fighting again, swimming and now he had no comrade wild boar to snort and bellow with. The only thing he could do was run. So he ran. Westwards they ran towards the setting sun, gleaming golden against the water as it made its way under the Earth. Arthur squinted into the light and slowed down for fear that he would disappear with his horse into one of the steep inlets that he knew were in front of him. He slowed to a trot, waiting to hear the inevitable growl of the dogs and the snarling of the wild boar, cornered for the final time. But as he got closer all he could hear was the sound of the surf crashing against the cliffs below and the seagulls circling above. He trotted slowly over the last and most westward piece of land. He scanned every direction for some sign of what had happened. Then he saw big muddy gouges in the grass and heather. The Wild Boar had been this way. He followed the tracks which led him to the edge of a cliff. He got off his horse and walked to the edge and then clambered down to a ledge from where he gingerly leant forward. There was another swirl and shimmer in the sea but it was no shoal of fish. It was the Great Wild Boar and the two dogs thrashing in the water, still in the chase. Arthur watched as the hunt continued down under the waves until the water was as it always had been. The shimmering, ever-moving surface that keeps the secrets of what lies down there in the deep. He glanced off towards the horizon. The cool sea breeze swirled around his face and the clouds were beginning to thin. The light began to build and the rocks and waves of the Cornish coast sprang into startling detail in the evening light. He clambered back up to the top of the cliff and stood in the chill wind looking out to sea. Then he ripped the jewelled brooch that fastened his cloak and sent it spinning high into the evening air. He watched it plummet in a graceful arc into the sea in

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 202 honour of the dogs. He remounted and turned his horse’s head back towards his court. Soon all those who had taken part in all the many impossible tasks gathered there with tales of riding on the backs of huge fish, fighting monsters, talking to ants, hurling spears at a giant and a mother’s golden ring. They just kept on coming. The huntsmen, the warriors, the demigods, dogs and horses. They set out all their glittering, deadly and precious treasures in the middle of the hall. The place was full of their stories and, as time went on, the impulse to show-off palled and the other stories of wonder, terror, loss and grief came out. Those who told the stories drew on details of the objects on display and the marks the stories had made on their bodies and minds. The night-dark leather on a sword hilt; the empty earthenware pots that contained flax seed that was now growing in a field nearby to be harvested, drenched and spun into linen; the strange looking dog’s leads that hung on the wall that were actually made from the strands of a man’s beard, and so many more. Each object bore a story that they had heard told with such intensity that it felt like they had been there themselves. Those who had gone on the quests would never be the same again. Many had not returned and their memory was kept alive by all who had known them telling their stories, prompted by this great collection of wedding gifts. As the stories linked from one to another they all led back to one young man who, with all the arrogance of youth and some spectacular clothes and accessories, had ridden into Arthur’s court on the back of his horse and asked for help to marry a woman he had never seen.

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Chapter 13

The Great Hall in Arthur’s court was packed. Packed with people and the objects they had won. Incredibly, they had achieved what they had set out to do and would soon be riding off to the Hawthorn Giant’s castle for Culhwch to claim his bride. There was a truly huge feast to celebrate and remember what they had achieved. Over the days that followed, the crowds began to thin. Early one morning Arthur was there alone. It was so early the ﬁres had not been lit and he walked among the piles of objects that were waiting to be packed into wagons and onto donkeys to be carried to the castle of the Hawthorn Giant. It was good to take some time alone at the end of all the struggle and effort to appreciate all that had been done and to inwardly mark the end of the tasks. Suddenly he felt that there were people in the room. He turned and saw that Gwyn and Gwythyr had just walked in. Gwythyr bowed and greeted Arthur formally and Gwyn raised his hand in an Otherworld blessing. Getting these two mortal enemies to work side by side was one of the accomplishments he was most proud of. Fighting the Great Boar had been a great trial but a very straightforward one. Getting two men, one of whom was an Otherworld god, to work together while both were married to the same woman was much trickier. But he had managed even that and he smiled as they approached. The faces of Gwyn and Gwythyr remained impassive. ‘Arthur,’ said Gwythyr ‘you have forgotten something.’ This was simply not possible. The king frowned. First at the two men and then at all the objects around him and was about to put them right, when Gwyn spoke. ‘Before we take the curved fang of Whitetusk and shave the Hawthorn Giant his beard must ﬁrst be softened with blood.’ Of course, how could he have forgotten? The giant’s beard must be softened with the blood of the Deepest Darkest Witch Daughter of the Brightest Whitest Witch.

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‘I will lead you into the Otherworld,’ said Gwyn, ‘to a place some of you Upperworlders refer to, unﬂatteringly, as “Hell”. We leave now.’ Servants had already been preparing horses and, before the rest of the court were awake and without fanfare, singing or blessing the three of them trotted into the brisk morning wind. And so they went to Hell. Arthur riding on his mare, Gwythyr the man, on one side and Gwyn the god, on the other. A troop of soldiers and servants rode behind them and two scouts were up ahead. The morning air was chill and crisp and the breath of men and beasts rose and swirled into the air as they rode to the opening that would take them down to the Otherworld. When they approached the place Gwyn dismounted and took the lead, searching out the entrance. Even for the God of the Underworld this was far from easy, as the entrance is always disguised and it changes from one day to the next. He led them to a small wicker gate that led into a vegetable patch beside an old dilapidated cottage. ‘Is this really it?’ said Gwythyr. ‘For now.’ replied Gwyn, opening the gate and ushering them in. As they crossed the threshold everything changed. The cottage faded and the soft earth became hard and irregular. There were ﬂat rocks underfoot with many small round pebbles that made the horses skid and stumble. The sky above was a uniform dirty grey and it was as if there was not quite enough air in the atmosphere for them all to breathe. The horses' harness and bridles, that had jingled lightly just minutes before, made a sharp, jangling sound that irritated both men and horses. They travelled in silence feeling the temperature get more oppressive the further they went. There was no more talk between them, just the occasional curt direction from Gwyn as they got closer to the cave of the Bright Witch of Darkness. Finally they arrived in front of a cliff face with gash-shaped entrance to a cave in front of them. ‘This is it.’ said Gwyn.

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Arthur made ready to go in straight away and be done with the old hag inside but Gwyn and Gwythyr each put a hand on his arm and exchanged glances. Then Gwythyr said, ‘Arthur, she is only a witch. Fighting against her is beneath your honour, let servants go into the cave to deal with her.’ Arthur nodded his assent and four servants pulled swords from their belts and went into the cave for what would surely be a short and decisive struggle. The sound of blows and screaming soon came from inside. It was going on a bit longer than those outside had anticipated but they were sure that the servants would be out soon. The sounds of battle stopped abruptly and then the soldiers came out but not in the way that Arthur had expected. The mangled bodies of the four soldiers were hurled out of the cave and they landed in a series of painful crunches on the hard ground. The men groaned in pain. Then their mangled weapons were hurled out, clanging, broken and useless around the wounded men. Arthur began to draw his sword again to avenge the slighted honour of his men and to silence this witch forever. But Gwyn and Gwythyr both insisted that this was beneath his dignity and he should let the soldiers go in. A small troop of battle hardened soldiers rushed into the cave, yelling and screaming, whirling their weapons above their heads. Once more, the sounds of battle echoed from deep inside the cave. Suddenly there was silence. And then the bodies of the soldiers came whirling out of the cave, landing hard and heavy on the stony ground, followed by their shattered and twisted weapons. Arthur, Gwyn and Gwythyr got off their horses and helped those who were able to, to get up on their feet again. They carried those who couldn’t over to the horses and ﬂopped them, groaning and wincing, over their backs. Now Arthur realised that it was his turn. He walked towards the mouth of the cave without any idea of what he would face or how he would cope with whatever was inside. He stopped brieﬂy at the mouth of the cave and felt the thick darkness inside leaking out and around him. He felt a

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 206 liquid feeling in his belly and a slight tremor in his legs. He hadn’t felt like this since he was a child. He breathed and stepped into the soft dark of the cave and felt the blackness surround him. He kept stepping deeper into the cave, even though he had no idea what was in front of him. He fought the impulse to duck under imaginary outcrops of rock or feel his way forward with his feet in case of a sudden drop. He kept on walking slowly forwards with even strides and his gaze turned towards the blackness. The thick dark began to surround him and then fill him on the inside as well as the outside.Then he stepped further still until he had gone further into the cave than any story or storyteller can ever tell because most who have gone there have never come back, but it may have gone something like this... Still he went deeper in, until it was not clear whether it was he or the cave that was moving or if he was in the cave or the cave in him. He kept on going until he felt a darkness even deeper than the darkness around and inside him and in its centre a great burnished silence. He stood there, just himself, his breath and his heartbeat. And somehow he knew what to do next. He gently unsheathed his knife, Carnwennan, and made a single, simple pass in front of him. He felt the blade tug against the very fabric of the air of the cave into something even older and deeper. Gwyn and Gwythyr were waiting outside. Even Gwyn was glad that he was not the one who had to go inside. Time is very different inside and outside the cave and although it felt like minutes to Arthur they were outside waiting for him for several hours. Then they heard footsteps and jumped to their feet and saw Arthur slowly and calmly walking out carrying his knife, unsheathed and point down, dripping with blood. The two men rushed to the pack horses and rummaged in the baskets until they found two stout leather flasks. Then they rushed to where Arthur stood, pulled the stoppers out and held the flasks to receive the drops of blood. They were amazed when they saw how the few smears and trickles of blood on the blade began to merge and flow down into the flask, filling it to the brim. More blood was still oozing from the blade and they started

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 207 to fill the second flask. The blood was thicker and darker than normal blood and, as it slowly filled the flask, the men glanced at Arthur. What kind of battle had happened in the cave? They had heard no noise of struggle or fighting. Arthur was unharmed and calm, keeping his gaze focussed on the tip of the blade so that not a single drop would be wasted or lost. ‘It was strange in there,’ he said, almost to himself, ‘I never even saw her but I got closer to her than anything else in my life. It felt that the thing that I call ‘Arthur’ began to unravel. Underneath there was another thing without a name that is more real and more me. Even the Otherworld seems to have other worlds hiding inside it. This blood is not the result of violence or death but is the blood that we need to live.’ Gwythyr pushed the stopper tight into the flask and they were brought back to themselves by the groaning of the injured men. Time to go home. As usual, just as things get mundane and boring Gwyn had slipped off and they slowly made their way back to this world, sending one of the scouts ahead to prepare hot water, medicine and poultices for the wounded. ‘And preparations for a feast tonight, my Lord, now the final task has been accomplished?’, asked one of the scouts. ‘No,’ said Arthur, ‘no feast. Tonight will be a quiet one. Today’s task was too deep and broad to turn into a song’. Back to Arthur’s court they went, the blood of the Witch of Darkness, sloshing and gurgling darkly in its flasks as they made their way back into our world.

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Chapter 14

A few days later, a mile-long, jostling line of carts bearing all the objects, prizes and treasures that the Hawthorn Giant had demanded set out from Arthur’s Court. In the lead was Arthur himself, his queen, Pig Boy, Bedwyr and the rest of the seven that had gone on the ﬁrst expedition. Cai was the only one who wasn’t there. Even at this moment of victory and joy he could not overcome his wounded pride. Behind them came a wild cavalcade from Arthur’s Court with all those Culhwch had named all that time ago. They jostled and sang, drunk with celebration and joy. There were dogs, horses, warriors, huntsmen, weapons, and magical treasures piled high and glittering on the carts. The singing rose and fell with the road all the way to the giant’s castle. When the Hawthorn Giant heard those voices echoing off the hills, forests and sky he knew that his time of tyranny and aggression was over. They marched into the castle, singing and unopposed. They laid out the objects they had won and presented the huntsmen and warriors they had recruited to the glowering giant. Arthur and his people stood amongst these glittering treasures and, piece by piece, the stories were told of how each and every one had been won through tenacity, guile, courage, luck and magic. It was Mightygrasp, Arthur’s gatekeeper who had tried to turn Pig Boy away from the castle gate right at the beginning if this adventure, who had the honour of telling the stories behind the most important objects. He gave what was, in his own humble opinion, a masterful and inspired performance. Pulling all the old tricks out of the bag and leading his willing audience from elation to terror and from laughter to tears as he told each story. Throughout it all the giant scowled down at them, listening to the story I have just told you, from the release of Mabon, the eternal youth from his

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 209 prison, to Arthur’s encounter in the cave with the Bright Witch of Darkness. When it was all over Arthur said, ‘And now, Giant, you shall be shaved!’ They laid him down and scrubbed his beard with the witch’s blood until his bristles began to soften. And then Cadw the Pict, who was never the most nimble fingered of men, took the long and exquisitely sharp tusk of the wild boar, Great Tusk, and started to shave the giant with big, sweeping strokes, making a noise like a heavy sack being dragged over gravel. When he had finished, the giant’s beard lay in tattered fragments, dotted with chunks of his face and ears. And then Cadw said, ‘Giant, are you shaved?’ ‘I am shaved,’ growled the giant, ‘but you should know that none of this would ever have been possible had it not been for King Arthur.’ They took him outside into his own courtyard and called for Gorau, the lad once known as ‘Leftover’ because he had been kept in a box for fear that this very giant would, one day, kill him just as he had killed his twenty-three brothers. They put the sword of Wrnach, the giant, in his hands and with one clean, sweeping stroke he took the head off the Hawthorn Giant. The castle walls rang with the sound of cheering. Then they all went inside where the smell of food filled the hall, ready for a celebration. In the middle of the huge crowd that milled around the great hall were an anxious looking couple. They were both huge and wore simple farmers’ clothes, although they had tried to spruce themselves up as best they could. It was Custennin and his Gwen, his wife, who had looked after Culhwch and his friends when they had broken into the Hawthorn Giant’s castle and heard the great list of impossible tasks. They were looking for their son, Gorau, but couldn’t see him anywhere. In front of them was the young warrior who had cut off the head of the giant, young and proud with his sword by his side. He was staring at them, moist-eyed, and in that moment they realised who he was This man was their child. That boney little urchin who had spent his childhood in a box had grown into a young man. He looked assured, skilled and confident but in that moment of recognition he was their boy again, just

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 210 as he had been all that time ago. They rushed towards him and hugged him, surprised by his new size and shape and his man’s face. When the hug was over and the tears were dried his friends gathered round, ruffled his hair, teased him and introduced themselves to his parents, telling them what a credit he was to them. Gorau could only smile and blush. Suddenly, a huge lowing noise came from just outside the castle. It was the two Great Oxen driven by Amaethon and Gofannon, the gods of the field and forge, sons of the Great Mother Goddess. They had finished their work of sowing, ploughing and reaping in just one day, as ordered by the Hawthorn Giant. They had brought barley and wheat to make the bread and beer for the days of feasting ahead. They dumped huge sacks of winnowed grain on the floor of the hall, which sent clouds of dust high into the rafters. As the sacks were dragged away by the bakers and the brewers Owain sidled up to Pig Boy. ‘Time for you to get yourself ready,’ he said, nodding to a side door. Pig Boy followed Owain up the spiral staircase. The quiet of the back stairs was a relief after the shouting, cheering and showing-off downstairs. They went up three flights without speaking, just the shuffle of their feet on the steps for company. On his way up Pig Boy looked out of the slit of a window that was on each floor. The view changed as they went up from the bloodstained courtyard, to the top of the outer wall, to the view of the trees until he could see over the tops of the trees to the mountains and broad sky beyond. Finally Owain opened a door and led Pig Boy along a short corridor, opened another door and ushered him into a small and simply furnished room. Owain gave Pig Boy a look and a smile and backed out, shutting the door after him. It was quiet inside and it felt good to be away from the crowds and the noise and be on his own for a while with nothing to do except get himself ready for his wedding ceremony. There was a chair in the corner near the narrow window. He went to sit down for a couple of minutes and was about to clear the things off the

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 211 chair when he recognised them. A purple cloak and a small leather bag that had once held blood-red rowan berries. The purple cloak that was draped over the back of the chair was weighed down in each corner with an apple-sized piece of gold. He hadn’t seen it since he had ridden his horse into the court of King Arthur. That felt like a lifetime ago but now the feel of the material and the weight and smell of the cloak brought it all back to him. ‘How strange,’ he thought, ‘that lad who did what I did was me but he feels like someone completely different.’ He could remember the jaunty way that pale-faced young stallion had carried him; the weaving of the greyhounds between the horse’s hooves so you couldn’t tell which one was on the right and which one on the left; the balance and gleam of the shield, spears and battle-axe he carried and the clods of earth ﬂying like birds above his head. He picked up the little bag and eased its drawstring open. He poked his ﬁnger inside but there was nothing but dry, grainy leftovers of what had once been there. He gave it a sniff and it smelt of old leather and dust. So, here he was with a few moments to himself to prepare for his wedding. He had been trained in war and words and the ways of the Two Worlds but nobody had told him what to do in the last few moments of bachelorhood before he became a different type of person. This, he realised, was the whole point. He had to work it out for himself. He had got a bit more used to the gloom by now and he looked around the bare little room for clues about what to do next. But there was nothing. After a while he stood up and lifted the cloak by its fur collar and felt its weight. With one movement he whirled it round his shoulders and felt it envelope him. It wrapped him up in all the stories, all the tasks and all the fear, joy, triumph and agony of the last few months, or years or however long it was since the last time he had worn it. And now something else began to stir inside him. His pain. His love curse. When it wasn’t there it was as if it didn’t exist and, for as long as there was a task to accomplish, he knew that the pain would end and he would be throwing himself headlong into the work of achieving whatever

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 212 needed to be done next with his comrades. But now everything had been accomplished there was nothing to distract him. The growling voices of his love curse knew this and started to speak,

We have not forgotten you We think nothing of your triumph This curse will fester and ooze through you Pour jagged sand in your joints Mix bitter bile with your heart’s blood Eat the speed and strength of your body Until nothing of worth is left and Your mind ﬂaps emptily in the breeze That blows through your hollow bones

Pig Boy was doubled over by now, his legs gave way and his arms clutched his belly. The cloak dragged on the floor and the gold ornaments rolled on the ground behind him. This cloak was for him to wear in his wedding ceremony and should not be taken off until he walked with Olwen to the room that held their marriage bed. But now it felt as if it was the cloak itself that was pouring the poison into his body and, if he had the strength, he would have ripped it off. Crouched low, he scratched the floor in agony and tears pricked his eyes. As the first tear formed in the corner of one of his eyes he remembered the crying eye of the ox in the story that the mad, old man in the apple tree had sung to him. Without realising that he was doing it, his lips started to mouth the words and the creaky old melody unwound in his mind. Then the words formed themselves in his mouth and his breath made them alive. It was barely audible and hardly recognisable as a song to begin with but, slowly, it gathered form and strength and the old, strange words rang out clear and strong,

The sun rises but my heart never will The ice in my veins will never melt

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My body will mix with the good earth Stunted ﬂowers will bloom brieﬂy and fade

The sea is full of sand and shells The woods are full of ﬂowers and leaves The egg is full of white and yolk And I am full of the love of a woman

I know the sun by its rising I know the moon by its shining I know the summer ﬂowers by their blooming I know the dew on the clover When will I know my love?

For as long as the eagle perches on the rock For as long as the sea is salty For as long as the ox grazes on the meadow The truth gleams in your eyes Seeing you is to rejoice

From next door the singing sounded strange, strangled and barely human. In that room were Olwen and Gwen, Constantine’s wife. ‘What a strange noise!’ Said Olwen, ‘Is it an animal?’ Gwen looked away, smiling. Pig Boy’s voice grew stronger and some of the words became audible. ‘Someone is singing but they sound ill.’ Slowly the individual words joined together and the lines and verses seeped through the wooden partition wall between the two rooms. ‘It’s him,’ she said, glancing first at Gwen and then at the door. ‘You can’t,’ she said, ‘you know you can’t.’ Olwen checked herself, then went to the wall that divided her and Pig Boy and knelt on the floor. She put her ear to the wall and the tips of her fingers rested on the wood. The singing wove in and out of making sense and making music and sometimes were little more than noises.

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She could feel the pain in those words and wanted to bring him relief but, at the same time, she wanted to get to know this voice. Amongst the inarticulate groaning she could hear his clear tenor making the words ring and then sometimes he would slip down to a chesty baritone that she felt tingling her ﬁngers through the wood. She sang back to him in a whisper, so quietly her voice was just outside his conscious awareness,

Against the eye of the one Who cursed you Against the bile of the one Who hated you Against the villainy of the one Who plotted against you

I place my own eye To see you clearly I place my own eye To give you health I place my own eye To bring you to me

On the other side of the wall Pig Boy’s voice began to firm-up and ring out as she whispered the words, repeating the mad old man’s verses over and over. Then his voice slowly quietened into silence. Next door, both women put their ears to the wooden partition wall and listened. There was silence, and then gentle snoring. They stifled their laughter and carried on with Olwen’s wedding preparations. When Pig Boy woke up he had no idea where he was. Why was he asleep on the floor? Then he remembered that there was probably something he had to be doing in order to fulfil one of his tasks. He started to panic as he couldn’t work out what it was that he was meant to have done. And what was he doing on the floor? And where was

PROOF COPY Not for distribution Harvey Manuscript 215 everyone? He thought he heard women laughing somewhere and levered himself up, blinking. Then he remembered. All the tasks were completed. Everything had been done. He silently sent a simple, big-hearted thank-you to the Worlds and those who had helped him. He struggled, groggily, to his feet, and shook the dust from his fine, purple cloak. Then he opened the door, nodded to Owain, who had been waiting for him, and they went downstairs. The wedding itself was simple and touching. Pig Boy and Olwen entered from either side of the hall and suddenly everyone was quiet. They made space for them to enter and you could hear the hushed noise of Olwen’s dress on the floor. Owain accompanied Pig Boy and Gwen walked in with Olwen. About ten paces short of the two ornate wedding chairs they stopped and the couple moved forwards on their own, looking steadily into each others eyes for the first time. They turned to face the gathering and sat. There was a long silence and then a slow, simple and haunting tune curled its way around the hall, the voices blending and swirling

The song faded into silence which was abruptly broken by Mightygrasp’s enthusiastic, but not always accurate, baritone voice banging out the wedding Call to Table song. They all joined in and soon all were sat and, as the food steamed in front of them, Gorau was called to lead the song of gratitude to the Two Worlds and soon the room was full of happy, feasting, smiling people. Owain and Gwen watched the couple carefully. They nodded to each once they saw that the wine had loosened them, but not too much, and the food had satisﬁed them but not too much. They appeared by Pig Boy’s and Olwen’s side and the young couple knew that it was time. They each got to their feet and were led upstairs, Olwen twelve paces in front of Pig Boy. In those days the ceremony was not the wedding. Couples were not considered married until they had been taken to the bridal chamber and the door shut behind them.

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Gwen walked beside Olwen and Owain beside Pig Boy and, once they were far enough away from the celebrations to be heard, they each put an arm around the shoulder of their young charge and spoke. ‘It’s like good wine’ said one, ‘it’s like good food’ said the other. ‘It’s like water on the soil’ said one, ‘It’s like sunshine on your face’ said the other ‘Like a day when there is no rush and nowhere to be. Let time expand. Let yourselves expand and invite the worlds to teach you slowly their way’ Gwen got to the door, turned to face Olwen, kissed her and walked on. Olwen walked into the candle-lit room and saw the bed, the candle flames reflected in the windows and smelt the herbs and flowers that had been scattered on the bed and around the room. She could hear Owain’s voice coming along the corridor and the men’s feet on the floor outside. Owain’s voice stilled and then she heard a pair of footsteps move off into the distance. And then someone came in, turned, closed the door and moved towards her. She turned and there was Pig Boy in front of her. They looked at each other, looked away, looked back and smiled an awkward smile. Pig Boy started fumbling with the catch of his cloak. Olwen stepped towards him and, for the first time stood in the space his body occupied. She felt the warmth of his body and his presence. She delicately unclasped the cloak and it fell to the floor, golden apples and all. And then he did the same for her and she for him and so on until there was nothing left to take off. Olwen reached out and took Pig Boy’s hand in hers, held it to her mouth and kissed it. She opened her other hand on which lay a gold ring, gleaming in the candlelight. It was Pig Boy’s. His mother’s ring that he had given to Constantine. ‘My aunt gave me this to give to you. It is yours after all.’ She gently slipped the ring on to Pig Boy’s finger and he felt the smoothed curve of it caress the length of his finger down to the knuckle. They smiled at each other and kissed and Olwen said ‘Culhwch’ to her new husband. This is how is name is said in the old language.

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Suddenly, the cold of the room clasped them and they rushed to the bed together. They found that someone had warmed the bed with a metal pan of hot ash and Olwen silently thanked Gwen, who she knew had done them this favour. Their eyes opened wide and clear to see in the candle light and, as their breaths mixed, they marvelled at the scent of each other and their tender urgency. Once their voices had stilled and their breathing eased they folded themselves into each other and let their bodies and minds expand and rest. Then a gentle, feathery rustling came from one side of the room. A bird jumped from the ﬂoor onto the deep window ledge, outlined by the moonlight beyond. It was hard to make it out but they saw that it was about the size of a starling but with a longer tail. Then another appeared and another. The three of them bobbed their heads and preened, as if they were having a conversation. Which, indeed, they were. Then they sang. It was much slower than normal birdsong. The lines of melody ﬂowed and mingled together in a way Olwen and Pig Boy had never heard before and would never hear again. ‘Otherworld birds?’ Said Olwen. Pig boy nodded. They held each other a little tighter when the music started but before long the strange song loosened their grip on wakefulness and the two lovers drifted into sleep.

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Thanks so much for getting through the book. I do hope you enjoyed it and if you have any questions about it, the story behind it or how I wrote it just drop me a line.

All your comments are valuable and will be a great help in the ﬁnal pre- publication editing process. Could you send any comments to this email address - [email protected] Feel free to write what feels important to you and/or use the questions below as a prompt...

What did you enjoy in the book?

What didn’t work for you?

Did you get lost or confused at any point? If so where?

Who would you buy this book for, or recommend it to?

Which section would you expect Pig Boy to be in a bookshop?

Is there a speciﬁc type of reader you think Pig Boy would particularly appeal to?

What would you change in the book?

Once the ﬁnal version of the book is ready I’ll let you know and you can tell me where to send your complimentary copy of Pig Boy.

One ﬁnal thing. If you enjoyed the book could you give me a short quote? I’ll anonymise them and put them on the website to get a bit of interest going before publication. Many thanks once again,

Michael [email protected] December 2019

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PROOF COPY Not for distribution