The Wild Hunt

This is the start of a festive tale I've been working on, featuring a variety of Scottish, Nordic and Icelandic Christmas characters and traditions...uhm...I haven't actually finished it though. So for now, it's just a bit from a thing...

1 - The Clanging Chimes of Doom

Clarence had been trouble from that first Christmas morning. Kyle's dad had got him from the cat rescue as a last minute surprise. Clarence had burst out of a big pile of Christmas wrapping paper looking all cute and tiny and Kyle's little sister Holly was so excited she had just burst into tears. Within five minutes, Clarence had peed on Kyle's playstation, knocked over the tree and smashed a scented candle, briefly setting fire to the advent calendar until dad doused the flames by chucking Kyle's hot chocolate over it. Everyone laughed about how they would have to get used to having a cat around the house, but not Kyle - he knew then.

That was almost three years ago, and since then, Kyle had got used to the ear piercing early morning shriek which meant that Clarence had left them another 'present' downstairs; voles, bats, frogs...they had seen it all. In one particularly epic battle, the catflap had snapped right off the door as Clarence had charged through it with a huge angry crow. The crow had flown into the toilet and it just sat there all day - glaring, flapping and cawing. Everyone held it in for as long as possible and just when they all thought they might have to move house rather than deal with the crow, the RSPCA turned up and took it away. Somehow, Kyle still ended up last in the queue for the toilet, so the whole thing annoyed him more than everyone else.

This morning's shriek seemed more shrill than usual, but that was possibly because Kyle had a thumping sore head. He had been off school with the cold for two days already and he didn't much fancy trudging back through the snow to go back today. There was going to be more Christmas Party social dancing rehearsal. Who rehearses for a party, thought Kyle, practicing fun in case you get it wrong. Mental. Although, he supposed he should be grateful that Mrs Nickneven was allowing any fun in her school at all - even carefully organised fun.

Kyle sat up in bed a little too quickly and white spots floated in front of his eyes like little sickly snowflakes.

"What's he brought in this time mum?" shouted Holly as she bounced down the stairs.

"Oh I can't even tell," wailed Mum. "A robin maybe? Don't come down here just yet love. It's like a horror movie. Honestly, that cat needs to go."

She always says that, thought Kyle, but he's still here.

"Oh Kyle come and get these please will you?" shouted Mum. "Dad's already away and you know I can't face it."

"But I'm not well!" said Kyle.

"Exactly," said Mum. "So you probably can't feel any worse."

Kyle shuffled out of bed and wobbled woozily downstairs, holding on to the bannister.

"A robin. Seriously?" he said "Very Christmassy. Maybe we're supposed to hang it off the tree..."

Mum was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, looking the other way, "Thank you sweetheart," she said, giving him a kiss, a dustpan and a binbag, "I'll make you some porridge."

Through half closed, still blurry eyes, Kyle looked around for Clarence's horrible Christmas gift. There really wasn't much there - no feathers at all in fact. There was a lot of glitter, and rather strangely, a little green Santa hat with a bell, but that was all.

"Mum there's nothing here," said Kyle. "I think he's just broken a tree decoration, or knocked something off the shelf again."

"Are you kidding?" shouted Mum from safely inside the kitchen. "There's...stuff...everywhere. Just sort it out please."

"Fine," muttered Kyle, brushing up the glitter and some torn cloth. "At least it's not another squirrel."

It was the kind of classic sick day when Mum didn't even ask if Kyle felt well enough to go to school, she just sent him straight back to bed after breakfast.

"I need to nip to the shops for ten minutes though," said Mum. "I want to get some disinfectant to properly clean up downstairs. Will you be okay?"

"Fine Mum," said Kyle, "I'll just try to get back to sleep."

He didn't even hear Mum lock the door...

...Kyle woke with a start.

Bells. He could hear bells.

He sat up and waggled his finger in his ear. The bells kept ringing.

Kyle blinked and rubbed his eyes, slowly the bedroom flickered into focus. And that's when he saw it.

There was an elf standing at the bottom of his bed. Rosy cheeks, curly shoes, cute nose - the works. An elf. An elf who was angrily jangling the bell on her little green pointy hat.

"Your stupid cat killed me," said the elf. "Now what are you going to do about it?"

Here's Bjork singing a song about one of the characters in the story, Jolakotinn, the terrifying and merciless Yule Cat...

The Christmas Spiders

Christmas Spider from The Spider Lady

Not so long ago, and not so far from here, there was a little cottage right at the edge of a forest. In the cottage lived a widow and her two young children. The widow had lost her husband some years back – he went off to the war and never returned, but before he left, he and the children planted a pine cone from the forest in a pot by the door, and he told them he would be back to help them decorate it when it had grown into a tree. The tree grew sure enough, and the children grew, and Christmas drew near, but the widow knew her husband would not be returning home.

It had been a hard winter, and there was little money, but as she watched the children skip off to bed talking excitedly about how they would decorate the tree the next day, the widow thought of a way to try and make the sad little tree a little more special for them. Taking her old yellow dress, which had faded these last few years, she cut out a cloth star, and put it at the top of the tree. Then she went to bed, hoping that the children would be happy to see it in the morning. All three of them huddled in together against the cold.

And as they slept, the spiders crept out from all the dark places in the house. The little family were always kind to spiders, never chasing them out of the house, or brushing away their webs before they had eaten. The spiders saw the little tree, and the cloth star, and they decided to help decorate the tree too. They worked all through the night, spinning and weaving their webs across the tree. Then they scuttled back into the rafters and corners to sleep until morning.

It so happened that St Nicholas passed by the cottage in the forest. He saw the little tree with the tattered cloth star, and he saw how the spiders had tried to help by covering the branches in their dusty grey webs, and he decided to help the family and their spiders out too.

St Nicholas took an old leather pouch from the pocket of his greatcoat, and from it, took out gold and silver sand which he sprinkled all across the tree. And the webs turned to strands of silver and glittered like a morning frost and the cloth star turned to gold.

The little family and the spiders woke that Christmas morning to a tree that sparkled bright enough to light the room. And with all the silver and gold, the little family never wanted for anything again, though they always took care to leave a window open for spiders in the autumn, and let them stay all through the winter.



This is my take on a traditional Ukranian folktale. There are lots of different versions, sometimes it's Jesus who visits, not St Nicholas, sometimes, no one visits at all, they are just magic spiders who spin gold. You will be delighted to know, that you can indeed purchase that now “must have” item for your Christmas Tree, a Christmas Spider, from a variety of Etsy shops.

To be clear though, here is a real Christmas Spider below, if you see one of these in your house, don't annoy it. They bite.

Read more of my Winter Folktales here

Shocking Chillers

Earlier this year I contributed a text story to the smashing small press horror comic Hallowscream. Myself and Andy Lee have a strip in the Scary Christmas Special as well. The first two pages are below, you can read the rest this December via The Theatre of Terror.

It's based on a story I recorded a few Christmases ago. The strip will also appear in a slightly different format in next year's Tales of the Oak comic...

Here is Bjork's version of a traditional winter song about the Jolasveinar...




And quite frankly any excuse for my family tale of terrifying winter fun from last year...Santa's Little Werewolves....





I've been sharing festive and winter stories all month here and on the Tales of the Oak blog. It's my favourite time of year for writing and telling stories. But I'm actually supposed to be maybe possibly moving house this week, just in time for Christmas, and I've honestly run out of steam. Here's a well intentioned selection of links in place of anything else new this year, just in case yer still in the mood, and feel like gorging on wintery folktales, fables and festive fear.

Alice's Winter Wonderland Christmas

A tale of unease featuring Master Mariner Para Handy

A Christmas message from Councillor Harry Macarthur

Another comic strip of festive terror The Green Oak Trees

A lost chapter from Wind in the Willows in which badger and mole talk Mithraic worship.

Midwinter fables featuring robber wives, christmas present quests and scary rabbits.

My thoughts on the ancient practice of trying to ruin Christmas for everyone in Midwinterfestivusmas

Or if you'd rather not be bothered with all that sort of nonsense, here instead is a specially selected wee Christmas playlist of alternative classics. I picked them just for you.

Feliz navidad.
xx

Midwinter Fables - The Silver Snowflake

There once was a boy, a good boy, but a poor boy, and with winter celebrations approaching, he had no gift to give his mother, and no way of buying one.

He walked up onto the hills behind his village and watched the snow fall onto the trees and rooftops below, holding out his hand to catch the flakes as they fell.

And then a snowflake floated gently onto his hands…and did not melt. The boy waited, wondering if perhaps his hands were now to cold to warm the snow, but the snowflake did not melt. Gently, he picked it up between his fingers to look at it more closely; it was cold, but felt more like steel than snow. And it would not melt.

The boy realised that he could give the snowflake to his mother as a gift, but now that he had the snowflake, he wondered if Wayland the Smith would be kind enough to hang it on a chain for him.

The boy went to see Wayland the Smith and showed him the silver snowflake.
“I’d like to give this to my mother as a gift.” he said “Could you hang it on a chain for me?”
“That’s a very nice snowflake.” said Wayland “I like how it doesn’t melt. Of course I could hang it on a chain. That would be one gold coin.”
“I have no money.” said the boy “Is there any way I could do some work for you to help pay?”
“Well,” said Wayland “You could run me an errand. Below the mountains, lives Rathsvith the Dwarf. And he has in his armoury a mighty hammer which I would very much like to have in my smithy. If you get him to give you the hammer, I will give you a chain for the snowflake.”

So the boy wandered up towards the mountains and then down the hidden ways into the caves beneath the world. And he found Rathsvith in his armoury, sharpening one of his axe blades.
“Hello Rathsvith.” said the boy “I’m on an errand from Wayland Smith who says that you have one of the finest hammers in the world…he would very much like that hammer for his smithy.”
“Hah!” said Rathsvith “I bet he would! And what would I get in return for this gift?”
“Well,” said the boy “is there anything I could help out with? I was once a Page and know my way around an armoury.”
“Hmmm.” said Rathsvith “I’ve no need of a Page Boy. But do you see that old treasure chest in the corner? That chest was given to me by my grandfather, but the key was stolen by a Selkie who now lives in the river. If you get me that key, I’ll give you my hammer.”

So the boy followed the cave streams out from under the mountains and down to the river. He stood by the rivers edge and called out to the Selkie (though he was careful not to stand too close as he knew how they liked to drag children down into the dark waters)
“Yes?” said the Selkie “What are you bothering me for?”
“Hello Selkie.” said the boy “I have just been speaking to Rathsvith the Dwarf and he was wondering if he could have the key for his grandfathers treasure chest back.”
“You mean this key?” said the Selkie, who was wearing it as a charm. “And why should I do that.”
“Well” said the boy..
“Come a little closer, I can’t hear you properly.” said the Selkie.
“No if it’s okay, I’ll just stay here thanks.” said the boy. “If you give me the key, maybe I could do something for you? But without coming any closer to the river.”
“Clever boy.” smiled the Selkie. “There was a song I used to sing, many years ago now, all the children loved my song. That song was stolen from me by the Banshee. I have no idea why, she has a terrible singing voice. If you get me my song back, I will give you the key.”

The boy followed the river all the way down to the woods by the castle keep and waited, for he knew the King was very ill. That night, the Banshee howled for the King, and when she had finished, the boy went to speak to the hag.
“Hello Banshee.” said the boy “I was speaking to the Selkie this morning, and she was asking if you had finished with that song you stole from her?”
“Was she indeed? No I am not finished with that song. I sing it most beautifully.”
The Banshee screeched and howled for a few moments to prove her point.
“Very nice.” said the boy. “But you sound as if you are maybe getting a bit tired of singing it. Maybe I could trade you for something?”
“Perhaps.” sighed the Banshee. “There is one thing I have always wanted, and that is to see the sun rise. I am tied to the night time. I would dearly love to see the day.”

The boy walked to the edge of the horizon, and by the time he got there, The Sun was just rising.
“Good morning!” said the boy “I wonder if I could ask you a favour. I have a friend who can only come out at night, but would very much like to see you.”
“I’m not allowed to come out at night,” said The Sun, “Not any more. Once, long ago, I could dance around the world with The Moon, but it’s been so many years since I have seen her. I would love to once again kiss the Moon. If you could bring her back to me, then it would be night time in the day.”
“Who could help me move The Moon?” asked the boy.
“Only the Moonwitches.” said The Sun.

So the boy rowed out to the islands where the Moonwitches lived, but when he arrived, there was only one witch, sitting there, alone.
“Hello Moonwitch.” said the boy “Where is everyone else?”
“All my sisters have passed on this last year. It’s just me now. Me and The Moon.”
“Talking of The Moon,” said the boy “I wonder if you could help me. I was talking to The Sun, and he misses The Moon. I wonder if you could move The Moon so he could see her.”
“It’s much too hard for me to do that on my own. I’ve grown tired and sick since my sisters passed.”
“Well…they say laughter is the best medicine, so if I could make you laugh, would you move The Moon?”
“I would do anything to laugh again.” sighed the Moonwitch.

The boy knew just where to go, back down in the valley, there lived a very Old Joke.
“Hello.” said the boy. “I know someone who would love to hear from you.”
The Old Joke was delighted as he hadn’t been heard in years.

The boy sailed back to see The Moonwitch.
“Hello again.” said the boy. “Why wouldn't the lobster share his toys?”
“I don’t know.” said The Moonwitch, 'Why wouldn't the lobster share his toys?"
“Because he was shellfish.”
The witch laughed, because it really had been a very long time since she'd heard a joke, and then pulled down The Moon for The Sun.

The Sun kissed the Moon and they both shone in the sky.

The Banshee came out in the moonlight, and saw The Sun shining brightly, so gave the boy her song.

The Selkie took her song back and she sang it beautifully, then carefully passed the boy the key.

Rathsvith took the key and opened up his treasure chest (which had a picture of his grandmother inside that made him smile and cry). He gave the boy the hammer.

And Wayland took the hammer and made the boy a chain for the silver snowflake.

The boy gave the silver snowflake to his mother and she wore it every winter.

And then one day she gave it to the boys daughter, Who gave it to her daughter. Who gave it to her daughter. And so on down the years.

And the snowflake never melted.

Midwinter Fables - The Wishing Mirror

The first snows had fallen, and as Christmas was on the way, the Robber was out looking for a gift for his wife.

He had passed three little houses so far, but everyone was still awake, singing and drinking mulled wine. He was beginning to worry that he wouldn’t be able to steal anything for his wife at all, when he saw a little house by the trees all hidden in darkness.

The robber peered quietly in through the windows, no one was home. He carefully opened the door and sneaked into the house. It was a very bare house, with not much to steal, but just as he was about to leave and try somewhere else, the robber noticed a little mirror lying on the table. Thinking that would be ideal for his wife, he snatched it up and ran out of the house.

What the robber did not realise, was that this was the house of Old Mab, the witch. The mirror was to be a gift for her niece. It contained three wishes. When Mab returned and found the mirror stolen, she cursed the little mirror, and the thief, and then sat down at her fire to wait.

On Christmas day, the robber gave his wife the mirror and she was very pleased.

A few days later, she stood by the window admiring herself.
“If only my eyes were as dark as my hair.”
And at once, her eyes turned black as coal and all the world around her was in darkness. Cursing and blinded, the wife threw the mirror out the window into the river that ran behind her house, and it was carried away down stream.

The poacher was out that day, and as he stood, stealing fish, he saw the mirror come floating by. The poacher was not popular at home at the moment, as his wife did not appreciate the trout he had given her for Christmas. “This will fix things!” he thought.

So the poacher took the mirror and gave it to his wife that evening over supper. She was so delighted that he got two helpings of pudding.

A few days later the poachers wife was walking home, admiring herself in the mirror.
“If only my nose were as small as my feet.”
And at once, her nose shrunk back into her face until it was not there at all.
The poachers wife threw the mirror into a field as she ran past shrieking.

There was no pudding that night.

Later that night, the horse thief was out in the fields, having very little luck with so many horses stabled for the winter. As he wandered, he found the little mirror. The Horse Thief had not only forgotten to get his wife a gift for Christmas, but had also forgotten that it was her birthday a day later. “She will certainly like this mirror!” And so she did.

A few days later, she stood admiring herself in the mirror.
“If only my lips were as red as my cheeks.”
And at once her lips grew a dark, angry red, drawing all the blood from her face and leaving her pallid and weak. The horse-thief’s wife no longer had the strength to hold the mirror, and she dropped it. As she did, a crow flew in through the window and caught it. And the crow knew just what to do.

Old Mab sat by her fire and smiled as the crow flew in with her mirror. She gave the Crow some crumbs from her Christmas Cake. The she wrapped the little mirror with a slice of cake, and walked down to the village to see her niece.

Love’s greatest gift is to see that love reflected. That is something which cannot be stolen.

Alice In A Winter Wonderland

Wassail! By Mhairi M Robertson

 

On November 26 1862, Charles Dodgson sent a copy of his handwritten manuscript Alice's Adventures Under Ground to Alice Liddel as a Christmas present. Dodgson famously made up the story while on a boating trip with the Liddel sisters. A revised version of the manuscript was eventually self published as Alice in Wonderland in 1865.

Since then there have been Manchester based steampunk sequels, mythology building comic versions, controversial adult retellings, crazy crossovers with other classic novels and a dodgy 3-D movie.

This is my contribution...Alice's Winter Wonderland, a wee bit from a Christmas Story I wrote for Sharon as a Christmas gift a few years back, which has Alice wandering through Wonderland exploring the folklore and traditions of the 12 Days of Christmas. I keep footering with it, and at some point myself and Mhairi hope to release a complete illustrated version. Fingers crossed. Mhairi and I also created a series of unusual adventures for Alice in The Wonderful Worlds of Alice.


Alice's Winter Wonderland - Ten Pipers Piping

As Alice stepped back over the hill back onto the snowy path, she could see to her dismay that she was right back where she had started, and no nearer the Ministers House at all.

“I’m beginning to forget what it is I am to recite this evening. I know it was something to do with Christmas.” thought Alice to herself, “I had better keep practicing.”

As she walked she sang to herself.

“Angels we have heard can’t fly,  

Are now travelling on trains,

So the Doctor’s coming by,

For to salve their aches and pains.”
 

Alice was sure this was not quite right, but just as she was about to start over, she realised she was again standing by the fruit tree in the town square, with the little Green Village down the hill on the left and the little Red Village she had just returned from, down the hill on the right.

“Back again?” said The Partridge, “You really ought to listen to your elders and betters.”

“Why should I listen to you?” said Alice. “You sent me off in completely the wrong direction the last time we spoke.”

The Partridge sniffed haughtily, in a way which reminded Alice of her Great Aunt Matilda.

“It’s hardly my fault that you cannot follow instructions. What a dim girl you are.”

The Partridge even sounded like her Great Aunt Matilda.

“And what a rude bird YOU are.”

Alice turned on her heel and marched down towards the little Green Village, only just remembering how much trouble she had found herself in when she tried this approach with Great Aunt Matilda.

“That’s the wrong way.” trilled The Partridge “They’re all mad that way.”

“Well it’s too late to stop now.” thought Alice to herself, “I’ll look even more foolish if I turn around and go back. Besides which, I have already tried going the other way.”

As she drew nearer to the Green Village, she could hear a fantastic din, the little street was full of people of all shapes and sorts, each carrying a different musical instrument, and clearly playing their own tune. 

Alice was most pleased to notice that at the head of the band was her friend The White Knight, he seemed to be having some difficulty with a drum. It being the type of day it was, Alice was not at all surprised to see The Mad Hatter helping The White Knight secure the drum straps around his armour.

“Hello sir!” said Alice “May I ask what this noise is all about?”

“We are the Town Band.” announced The White Knight rather importantly in the incorrect tense “We go from house to house, singing songs and warming ourselves by the winter fire. Or rather, we would do, if we could just all start at the same time.”

Alice looked at the long line of people in the band.

“By the time I’ve started, and word gets carried all the way down to the people at the back, I’m already on a different song.”

“Does the drum not help to keep everyone in time?” asked Alice, who knew a little of how music was supposed to work.

“It should my dear.” said The White Knight, “I brought this drum all the way from eastern climes. Sadly however, I left the sound behind.”

“Don’t be silly. You can’t leave a noise behind.” said Alice.

“Of course you can, I know of at least three gentlemen who are able to throw their voice. One threw it so far than it got lost and could not come back.”

While Alice stopped for a moment to consider this, The Mad Hatter explained further, “It’s all true. So now there’s a street in Constantinople where all day a drum beats without a drum.”

“It is most annoying for those nearby.” said The White Knight “For they have no way of stopping it.”

Alice could see from the sad look on his face that The White Knight was quite serious. 

“Perhaps,” Alice ventured, “You aren’t playing it entirely right. I’ve had quite a number of piano lessons, I may be able to help.”

Here, Alice felt it was not important to mention that her last piano lesson had ended with her Music Mistress sobbing.

“Now,” said Alice with some authority “Where is the drumstick.”

“I gave it to a passing Badger in exchange for an excellent chutney recipe.” said The White Knight.

“What use would a Badger have for a drumstick?” asked Alice.

“I believe he wished to use it to beat eggs. Or chimney sweeps. At any rate, I didn’t need it if the drum wasn’t making a noise. I am not even that fond of chutney, but it did seem like the correct thing to do in the circumstances.”

All the while Alice had been talking to The White Knight, she had been politely trying not to notice The Mad Hatter unsuccessfully attempting to untangle himself from what looked like a sack full of sticks, but as ever, her curiosity finally got the better of her manners.

“Excuse me please, What are those?” asked Alice.

“These are my Regicidal Bagpipes.” said The Mad Hatter, beaming with pride. “They are over four hundred years old.”

“Really?” said Alice, very impressed. “That’s very old indeed.”

“Yes. Though sadly, I have had to replace both the bag and the pipes several times owing to their increased age.”

“Well then they aren’t old bagpipes at all!” said Alice. “They are completely new bagpipes.”

“Which part? They still sound old.” said The Mad Hatter, “Now, would you like to hear our song?” 

If truth be told, Alice was already tiring slightly of people insisting on singing songs at her, but it seemed to be the only way that she might get someone from the band to help her on her way. “Besides,” she thought “perhaps this song will be one I know.”

“Is everyone ready?” asked The Hatter “Excepting of course, those who are not? Let us sing ‘Here we come a-waffling’.”

Here we come a-waffling,

Among the streets serene.

Here we come a wobbling,

We haven’t got a bean.

Our waffle cup is made,

Of the old Tulgey tree,

And we prefer to see it filled,

With finest Earl Grey tea.

Bring us out a table,

And spread it with green cheeses.

Bring us out some cinnamon,

To spare our festive sneezes.

God bless the master of this house,

And all his cats and dogs,

For you we come a-waffling,

And dance with finest clogs.

The company concluded with a little dance, and gave themselves a rather impolite and ill deserved round of applause.

“Well,” said Alice, trying very hard to think of what to say “That was nice.”

“Precisely!” said The White Knight, “But sadly the folk of this village do not entirely agree with you. We have decided therefore to make an expedition over to The Red Village instead. I know of a Piemaker there who will be very pleased to welcome us.”

“If it is The Piemaker I have just met in The Red Village, that is very unlikely.” Alice thought to herself, but she did not want to upset The White Knight.

“I wonder if one of you might be able to help me.” said Alice, who now felt it was appropriate to ask for assistance since she had been so kind about The Town Band’s performance. “I’m looking for The Ministers House, I have a recital to give there this evening.”

“What is the house number?” asked The Mad Hatter.

“You know, I’m not sure.” said Alice. “Seven I think. Or twenty-three.”

“Then he must be a Prime Minister.” declared The Mad Hatter, before continuing to wrestle with his bagpipes.

“The Lords and Ladies would know best where to find a Prime Minister.” said The White Knight. “They are all dancing down by the forest. Come along and I’ll show you.”

Alice and the White Knight walked off through the snow towards the forest as the band marched off out of time, on their expedition to The Red Village.

Lewis Carroll frequently parodied contemporary poems, the nonsense above is more popularly known as "Here We Come A Wassailing", sung by winter wassailers looking for a warm drink by the fire. Similarly, Alice is not quite remembering "Angels We Have Heard On High". But as I'm fond of saying...if ye have to explain it...

I do enjoy scribbling a bit of Christmas fan fiction, here's some lost pages from Wind in the Willows.

Here's Blur's version of The Wassailing Song




And, while we're doing Christmas specials...here's The Two Ronnies 'Alice in a Winter Wonderland'...

Watership Down : When Frith Sleeps

This month's fanfic celebrates the 40th Anniversary of the publication of Watership Down by Richard Adams. If you are only familiar with the excellent animated version, the book is well worth exploring, especially for the folktales about the rabbit prince El-ahraihrah. Adams released a sequel in 1996, which collected many more of these rabbit folktales. I've gone for something in that vein..

At the turn of each year, the Lord Frith must sleep, and rabbits fear this time most of all, for the days grow shorter, and elil claim the long nights as their own. One year, Frith had been busier than usual with the summer and harvest, and slept longer than before. So there came a bitter winter, with high winds and deep snows - rabbits gathered and huddled in burrows, and every day fewer and fewer woke up. And so those who still had strength came to El-ahrairah and asked him to help.

El-ahrairah went to the Prince of Rainbows and asked for him to waken Frith and hasten the springtime.

"All the seasons have their time El-ahrairah, and neither I nor Frith himself can hurry them. But there is one who can make the winter less cold."

"Who is it?" said El-ahrairah "For my babies are dying in this long freeze."

"This season belongs to  Marlie Eleer, the Queen of Midwinter, and only she can ease the winds and snow."

"Excellent!" said El-ahrairah "Where may I find her?"

"She will not be easily convinced…" said the Prince of Rainbows, for her very heart is ice."

"Am I not El-ahrairah who visited the Black Rabbit of Inle in his stone burrow, who bested the Crow Witch at her riddles and who has dined with ancient Kings in the hollow hills?"

"Very well El-ahrairah. The Queen of Midwinter lives just beyond the other edge of the world in a castle made of frost and bones. The only way to get there is to follow the frozen river from the end of the forest, and when you pass the edge of the world, the frozen river is the bridge of ice you must walk across to her keep."

El-ahrairah returned to his warren and bid his good friend and brave companion Rabscuttle to once again join him on an adventure. And as a new snow started to fall on their friends and families, they began to follow the frozen river.

The river ice cracked and splintered beneath their cold feet on the long journey, and just below the surface, blind pike snapped and grinned, waiting for the rabbits to fall through into the icy dark.

They followed the frozen river up into the jagged mountains, where the giant eagles nest, and daily they screeched and swooped down on El-ahrairah and Rabscuttle, so that they had to hide in the mountain caves among the bats and wild pfeffa.

The river ran down the mountains into the zorn lands, scorched black by man. And so they came to Lendri Pass, where the ghosts of dead badgers prowled the fields, looking for rabbit souls to feast upon, their cold claws grabbing and dragging away the unwary. It's said Rabscuttle lost three years off of his life in their journey across the dead fields.

And finally, they saw the other edge of the world and the castle of the Queen. On the icy bridge, stood a pure white She-Wolf, the Queen of Midwinter herself.

El-ahrairah and Rabscuttle tried to cross the bridge, but the Queen growled, not allowing them passage across.

"Queen, I am El-ahrairah, Prince of Rabbits, and I come to ask you to ease the winds and snow, for the winter is hard on my rabbits."

"And why would I do that? What do I care for rabbits? Or for anyone else."

El-ahrairah could see that the Queen was lonely, and her heart would only grow colder with each passing winter. And right away, he thought of a way to solve their problem.

"Good Queen, you should travel to see how your winter changes the world. It is most beautiful and there is much more than can be seen from your castle. If you meet me at the edge of our forest in one week, I will show you the icy webs spun by the snow spiders and the fields of woven snowflakes.." said El-ahrairah.

The Queen thought about it.

"My winter is beautiful?"

"Oh indeed," said El-ahrairah, "and if you were to meet me in a week, I could show you it all."

"We shall never get home in a week!" whispered Rabscuttle.

"We shall," said El-ahrairah "for already the frozen river is thawing."

So Marlie Eleer agreed to meet them in one week and wasting no time, El-ahrairah and Rabscuttle balanced on broken trees and sailed back home down the river.

When they returned El-ahrairah sent Rabscuttle back to the burrow with some winter provisions for the pups. Then he sought out the Prince of Rainbows and asked him to take him to the sleeping Lord Frith.

"I will take you El-ahrairah, but you must not wake him, for if you do, we'll all feel the wrath of his fiery temper."

For five days, El-ahrairah watched the King as he was sleeping, and whispered in his ear about the beauty of the Queen of Midwinter. On the sixth day, he whispered to him to wake and meet him at the forests edge the next day.

The next day, El-ahrairah waited by the forests edge. The trees grew brittle and cold as the Queen of Midwinter swept down the river, and then, the ice melted on the branches as Frith came down from the sky. The King and Queen looked at each other, bowed in respect and then smiled. El-ahrairah knew his plan had worked.

So it was that El-ahrairah played matchmaker for Lord Frith and Marlie Eleer, and while the winters are still cold, and Lord Frith still sleeps, the Sun King and the Queen of Midwinter now meet for a few days each year. On those bright cold days, the frost melts and rabbits can have a few hours silflay, and run to keep warm while Frith and Marlie Eleer share their winter dance.

The rabbits of Watership Down speak their own language, lapine. Adams provided a glossary in his books, but further work on developing the language has been done since then, check out this English-Lapine dictionary.

Now, here's a lovely cover version of Bright Eyes...

Candy Bones

This is my entry for The Woman In Black Ghost Story competition, run as part of the promotion for the new film version of Susan Hill's classic novel. It reached the finals, but then got totally battered.


It was kind of a wee tribute to the stories you used to get in the Armada Ghost Books...anyone ever read them at school..."scary stories for children"? No..? Still available in all good second-hand bookshops.

So...I'm conscious of the fact that theres more folk reading the blog (and the Tales of the Oak blog) as a result of being in that competition. That might just be a wee temporary thing, but it just made me very suddenly conscious of what a big jumble of things are on here.

There's loads of stuff on here I've written for fun or for my friends or family, and there's stuff I've written for other competitions. More often than not, writing for competitions these days can mean harassing friends, family and complete strangers to support you by "liking" things via social networks. Bit of a riddy.

Recently I've got to thinking, I don't write or blog just to try and win things, but I do enjoy sharing what I write either way. Down our way that can sometimes seem a wee bit "show offy" and no one likes that. Sadly...that isn't going to stop me. Nor should it stop you! There's a nice wee book around just now, by Ellen Arnison, a local writer, "Blogging For Happiness", and one of the things it deals with, is how blogging is a nice way to help yer mental health. At the very least, that'll do for me.

Pretty sure you have something to say too.

Santa's Little Werewolves

Wee bit of festive fun. Just finished it this week.
A Christmas card from me and my wee family.

Merry Christmas!

A Bit of The Moon!

This was the first Christmas poem I wrote for my children. It accompanied a genuine purchase of lunar property. I believe land is now also available on Mars, assuming of course you are prepared to take it by force from the martians. Anyway, I still have all the documentation, and am assuming that this land purchase is legally binding and therefore when we eventually move into terraforming we'll be quids in. Check out some cool Christmas in Space photoshoppings here..


What should I get you for Christmas?

A new rattle? A carved silver spoon?

Never mind a new toy, you’re a lucky wee boy

I got you a bit of the moon!

I could’ve got you a big woolly mammoth

Or a hunting hat made from raccoon.

But there’ll be no fur for you young sir

I’ve got you a bit of the moon.

I could’ve got you a trip on a pirate ship

On the second last fortnight in June.

But no treasure yet, no parrots for pets,

See I’ve got you a bit of the moon.

How about a Tibetan safari?

In a marvellous hot air balloon?

But we’ll see yeti later, Kung Fu monks can just wait,

Cos I’ve got you a bit of the moon!

And maybe one day, you’ll fly away

To the sea of tranquillity.

You’ll build a wee home inside of a dome

And we’ll fly up to your house for tea.

Snowflake

Now When The Wine Is Drawn

(suggested by The Wind In The Willows)

It was bitterly cold that winter, and by mid-November, Toad had resolved to quit the riverbank for sunnier climes and so left to visit a cousin in Constantinople. The Rat and the Mole were sad to see him leave, however, autumns hot-air ballooning fiasco had thinned their tempers and a little less Toad was perhaps not too terrible a thing.

Of course no Toad also meant no Christmas feast at Toad Hall. At first Mole and Rat intended to spend Christmas at Rat’s home on the Riverbank, but the river had risen, then frozen solid and so Badger had kindly invited them to enjoy advent and yuletide at his home within The Wild Wood.

Badger’s winter provisions and wine cellar were legendary and for all his fire and thunder, everyone in the Wild Wood knew that he made sure there was enough to go around in the lean years.

So it was then, that just a few days before Christmas, Mole, Rat and Badger were sat by the fireside exchanging stories and songs. Badger had just finished an exciting tale of his father’s exploits during the Crimean War and now it was Rat’s turn.

“Well I have been dabbling with one or two poems, but I’ve nothing that’s actually finished…nothing ready for sharing…”

“Nonsense Ratty.” Said Mole “We’d love to hear whatever you’ve got written…ready or not!”

“Oh all right then.”agreed Rat “But you must remember…you asked for it…”

Rat removed the little leather notepad he always carried in his satchel, and cleared his throat to read.

“To move as the landscape

Balance and bob on the wash

Of the new, forever

Eroding the old.

There is nothing but stone

Left standing still,

And that, silent and alone.

Those old shadows will fall

For as long as the sun rises;

Temple silhouettes, broken stones

Burned forever against the dawn.”

“Bravo Rat!” said Mole “Though it seems sad somehow.”

“Yes it does rather.” said Rat “Especially now I come to read it aloud. Ah well…there’s time yet to change it.”

The three friends sat and drank a while longer, laughing and reminiscing about Toad’s passions across the preceding year and speculating on what would be next. All too soon it seemed time to retire to bed.

It was not so very much later that Mole awoke to hear a scuffling sound. The noise had not wakened him, rather it was the glow of a light. An underground creature such as the Mole was used to that special darkness which can only be experienced beneath the earth in the dead of winter. Someone must have left a candle burning in the study. Mole decided to go and extinguish it but as he opened the door of Badger’s guest bedroom, he could see that there was no candle burning. Rather, it was Badger wandering off down one of the many passages which wound in and out of his home; the light from his lantern cast dancing shadows against the tunnel walls. Where could he be going at this hour? For a moment, Mole was in a dilemma, with his desire to be a polite house guest getting in the way of his natural curiosity. As Badger turned the furthest corner of the tunnel and the glow of his lantern began to diminish, Mole decided to risk the displeasure of his host and scurried after him.

Badger wandered further into the labyrinth of chambers and passageways than Mole had ever been before. He walked at such speed, that few times, Mole would turn a corner and find the chamber before him empty and dark. Momentarily panicked, the Mole would have to use his nose to keep track of his wise friend.

Just as it seemed that he could walk no further, Mole wandered round a bend and found Badger’s lantern hanging from the wall. This chamber seemed less grand than many of the others they had passed through – some of those had been filled with old and broken statues, long faded mosaics barely visible upon the walls. Here though, was more like a little cave. There was one carving on the far wall and in front of that, a little stone table at which Badger was currently busying himself.

It was only now that Mole could see that Badger had carried with him a knapsack which was now being carefully unfolded. From it he took two plates, two goblets, a bottle of wine and a selection of food. A picnic in a cave? Very curious.

As Badger continued to set his queer table, Mole again tried to examine the detail of the carving. It was a man slaying a bull, but there seemed to be other beasts as well, Mole leaned forward, squinting…and clattered his head against Badgers’s lantern. Badger turned immediately.

“Who’s this?” he growled “Show yourself!”

Mole stepped cautiously into the light.

“Sorry Badger. It’s Mole. I wondered where you were off to so late…I….I didn’t mean to intrude.”

For a moment, Badger was silent, then he smiled in his gruff manner, and Mole knew all was well.

“Not at all Mole…it’s been a long time since anyone joined me for this meal.”

Badger gestured to his table, now set for a small feast.

“Badger…I must ask…” began Mole.

“Why a feast in a cave in the middle of the night?” smiled Badger.

“Well…yes. I mean…not that it doesn’t look wonderful…”

Badger sat down upon the stone floor and motioned for Mole to do the same.

“Mole, many years ago now, when I was still a boy, my father brought me to this cave, on this same night in the middle of winter. We enjoyed the first of many feasts, just as he and his father had, and his fathers father. A tradition going all the way back to when these great underground halls were still a city.”

Mole looked at the carved relief.

“And is it somehow connected to this chap and the eh…poor bull?”

Badger chuckled.

“Let’s have a toast Mole.”

Badger opened the wine and filled both goblets. He passed one to Mole and held the other aloft.

“Sol Invictus!”

“Sol Invictus?”

“Yes Mole. The coming in of the light. This here, is Mithras” Badger pointed to the stone relief. “The men who once dwelled in this ancient city used to celebrate in his honour with a midwinter feast.”

Mole smiled.

“Well that sounds like a jolly way to remember anyone.”

“Indeed Mole. Indeed. All animals, man and beast must struggle against the winter and fight on into the springtime, counting ourselves lucky if we do. We feast and dance and sing to keep ourselves warm and the silent darkness at bay. Old Mithras here is a winter Sun King, giving hope that the sun will return and that all the life and greenery will be born once again. He wasn’t the first, nor the last, but my father taught me to remember him…and so I do. And in those moments Mole, I remember him too. I remember him too.”

For a time Badger sat silently, smiling, then he roused and bade Mole tuck into the feast, which Mole did, more out of  a sense of ceremony and propriety than actual hunger.

When they were finished, Badger took a moment to recite some latin verse, which Mole enjoyed immensely, and then he stood, and once again raised his goblet.

“To Osiris! And Belwe! Attis, Prydeni, Mithras! And many more. Sol Invictus Mole…the winter days grow longer and we are each morn now closer to Spring.”

“Sol Invictus!” cried Mole, quite taken with the occasion.

The two friends drank to the Sun King, while outside the snow and ice covered The Wild Wood. Finally, Badger solemnly packed everything away, and together they walked back through the tunnels, already feeling warmer than the season would suggest.

Historical Note

Kipling celebrated Mithras as the God of Roman Soldiers in his Song To Mithras

Many people believe there to be a connection between the Nativity and the story of the birth of Mithras.

Many other people believe this to be absolute nonsense.

The wonderful Arthur Rackham picture above hangs happily in my living room. It's my favourite.

The Duchal Well

The one surviving gentleman insists that the entire enterprise was his erstwhile colleagues suggestion. It is not for us to cast aspersions upon his character, simply to examine the facts, such as they are.

You would have read no doubt about the strange and unfortunate incident at the Duchal ruins last winter. There is good walking on the backroads and farmland behind the town, and having risen to a particularly pleasant January morning, the two friends Messrs Harkins and Wilson strode out in good humour.

You may also recall there had been a recurring story in the local press regarding the frequent – though unconfirmed – sighting of a large black wildcat in the area. Equipped with binoculars and a service revolver, Harkins and Wilson joked about capturing this elusive beast.

The two reached Kilmacolm just before 11 oclock, and having already worked up a capital appetite, they resolved to enjoy tea in the village before walking on.

A fire crackled in the hearth as the two tucked into the warm buttered crumpets for which this particular tearoom is famed. Not wishing to forget the purpose of their expedition, Harkins asked some of those gathered in the tearoom if there had been any further news of the beast. The ladies present simply giggled or ignored them, but one of the older gentlemen provided them with a very severe stare which served to put an end to that particular attempt at conversation.

Undeterred and all the better for tea and crumpets, the two friends set off once more, now leaving the old straight track and marching cross country. It was in this fashion that they came across McPhee the ploughman. Sensing that he would be more inclined towards lively conversation than the genteel tearoom crowd. They once again enquired after the beast.

“Oh aye,” said McPhee “Somethin’s naw right. Next farm doon’s lost three sheep in a fortnight. Nae tracks or anythin obvious.”

“But has anyone actually seen it?” asked Harkins, gesturing with his pistol.

“Plenty think they huv.” smiled McPhee “But efter a few drinks ye see a whole lot o things on the hills.”

“You see.” Said Wilson “It’s not a wildcat we’re chasing…it’s a wild goose.”

“Mind though, there’s older folk reckon this isnae a new beast – that its been runnin’ ower the hills for hunners o years.”

“And how could that be possible?” smiled Wilson. 

“Whit makes ye think it isnae?”

“Come on man! Everything ages…all of us. Its hard enough to countenance a creature at all…never mind entertaining the notion its been around for centuries!” 

“Well,” said McPhee “There were witches in these parts not so long ago. A coven used tae meet doon at the Duchal ruins…that’s where most folk think the beast sleeps.”

“And you are suggesting this beast is a witches black cat gone feral?”

“Not a cat sir. A familiar. The witches demon. Familiars wid take the skins o’ them it wished tae be. Birds, beasts, aw sorts. This ones enjoyed living as a wildcat these last centuries. And why not? Good feeding oot here, good open land fur running, but plenty o places tae hide as well.”

“And precious few witches to tell you what to do anymore eh?”

“Oh ah dont know sir...wee Mrs McLatchie certainly gies me the evil eye if ah tramp into her shop without scraping my boots properly first.”

The three laughed, McPhee showed them where to walk to avoid the moorland bogs and with that, the two continued on their way.

An old stone bridge spanned the black water of Duchal at the point where the fields gave way to forest, the two followed what remained of the path up into the trees towards the ruins. It was here that they found the body of the deer. The poor creature had been dead for some days and it seemed very obvious that it had been the victim of some sort of predator either before or after death, for very little of its hind quarters remained. 

Wilson in particular was a little shaken by the discovery, and briefly the two discussed moving the deer or disposing of it in some way, before resolving that it was not up to them to interfere with the natural order of things. Harkins examined the corpse a little more closely, noting large teeth marks on the gnawed bones.  

The two were now acutely aware of the distance they had walked from the village and also, the dark of the trees. No doubt they would perhaps have left there and then, had they not heard the cries. It did not come to them immediately, it was while they sat, Wilson steadying his nerves with a nip from his hip flask. Muffled at first, easily mistaken for wind, but gradually becoming clearer as low, whining cries.

The two followed the noise to the remains of the castle’s rear wall. The ground by the Duchal water had crumbled considerably over the centuries, and so this wall was now perched on the edge of a hilltop high above the rushing winter waters below. Just in front of this wall, there was a hole.

“It’s an old well.” said Harkins “Mind your step.”

The whining was most certainly coming from the depths of the well, and even this close to the source it echoed in peaks and troughs giving the most immediate effect of the sound seeming to be all around them. One thing at least was certain, it was no human cry. Immediately, Harkins believed they had found their beast.

“Its fallen in the well! The beast is trapped down there and we’re the ones to find it!”

Wilson maintains he was less convinced.

“Steady on Harkins, it might just be a fox thats fallen down, or another deer”

“Deer and foxes don’t sound like this and you know it. We need a way to get down there.”

“Dont be ridiculous man...lowering yourself into a hole when you don’t know what manner of beast is at the bottom. Absolutely out of the question.”

“Well we need some way of getting it back up here.”

“We could go back to the village?” suggested Wilson “Fetch some help.”

Harkins was reluctant to leave his potential prize for someone else to find, and insisted on staying by the well alone.

Here, Wilson is quite clear, he returned the village and was back at the site less than one hour later with rope, hooks and tarpaulin. He had also alerted the local constabulary who were less than ten minutes behind him.

He rushed to the site of the well, expecting to find his colleague still there. At first, he did not see Harkins so he naturally began to assume some calamity had befallen him, and started calling out. No sooner had he done so, than he saw his friend standing some distance from the well, facing away from him, looking up at the ruined castle wall. He ran to alert him to his presence, still shouting and it was then, that slowly, Harkins turned towards him. Yet almost immediately Wilson says he knew that this was not Harkins. Wilson maintains that while it may have looked and dressed like his good friend Harkins, this was something else...something other.

Even now, relating these facts, Wilson shakes. The man he had believed to be Harkins was smiling, a broad rictus grin, his eyes yellowed and bestial. Moving slowly, awkwardly at first, he stepped towards Wilson. He noted with increasing alarm, the unnatural nature of his gait and movements, his legs had bent backwards at the knees and his arms hung limp and angular as though slightly detached from the shoulder. Despite Wilson calling out to him, he was making no reply, though from his black, smiling mouth there was a foul rhythmic gurgling.

Suddenly, and with absolutely no warning, Harkins ran straight towards him, howling, pushing him down into the dark of the well. For a brief moment, Wilson lay there, looking straight up through the darkness into the inhuman eyes of his now unfamiliar friend, convinced that he was about to jump down on top of him. And then he was gone. 

The well was not so deep that Wilson was badly injured, but certainly deep enough that he was unable to climb free himself. With the approaching dusk, the light was poor enough, and Wilson suggests that this was perhaps a mercy, for it was at this point that he began to become more aware of his surroundings. He was not yet entirely insensible, and as his vision was impaired, it was the feel and the smell of the well that made themselves known. Here were bones, many bones, and the unmistakeable rank odour of old meat. Could it be that this pit, was a charnel house for the beast to regularly return and feed? At this point, Wilson freely admits that he was so overcome that he lost consciousness.

Fortunately of course, the same constabulary whom he had arranged to rescue whatever poor animal they had believed trapped in the well, arrived shortly therafter and freed Wilson himself. He remained in hospital for several days. Of Harkins, no further trace was found. For some weeks the police maintained an eye on his house, assuming that he may return, revealing the whole incident to be nothing more than an embarrassing disagreement between friends. No such approach occurred. 

After enduring the accusatory eyes of his former peers, Wilson secluded himself, no longer interested in the constitutional walks he had once so enjoyed. Of interest, though perhaps only circumstantial, is the fact that since the event in question, there have been no further sightings of the black cat.