The Dark Rider part 20 and a cupfull about cauldrons

“‘Dad, um, this is, er, Billy. You know… the one I lent Carlton to,” Warren lied. He glared at Kay meaningfully.

Kay stood and scratched his head, his eyebrows furrowing together. He was clearly at a loss for what to say or do next but was present-minded enough not to contradict Warren or to ask where he now was.

“Yeah,” George chimed in. “He’s new around here. Moved to Wales last month. Doesn’t talk much. Right, Bill?”

Kay owned the sense to nod.

“That’s a charming outfit you’re wearing,” Gran said, a teasing twinkle in her blue eyes as she looked at Kay. “Some kind of historical re-enactment on, is it?”

“Yes,” he said, bowing. “My lady.”

“Oh, give over!” Gran peered closer at what Warren was holding. “What are you doing with Granddad Roger’s old trophy, you little stinker?”

Warren glanced at Ihesu’s folly. It was, he had to admit, a lot like his grandfather’s old badminton trophy in size, shape and overall appearance, apart from the star and the hole to put it in. Of course, the trophy had an inscription but as his Gran didn’t let him clean it often, the words were obliterated by a generous layer of grease and tarnish. He didn’t know what to do. If he refused to give it to her, there would be an argument, and if there was one thing Warren didn’t want to do, it was hurt her feelings. If he protested and said this might be the Grail – which, he realised, was what Ihesu’s Charm must be – nobody would believe him, Kay would claim it was something belonging to him, and Warren would lose the chance of helping the Lake-Witch, and lose the opportunity to get rid of the Dark Rider.

Very solemn, he pulled the star out of the cup behind his back and handed the cup to his Gran.

“Thank you.” She smiled. “I know you mean well by trying to clean it for me but it isn’t necessary. If you clean off the tarnish, you clean off the memories.”

She left the kitchen for her favourite armchair and a book, Warren gazing helplessly after her. What would happen when she found out there were two cups?

“So where is the flea-bitten, working mutt?” Iain asked Kay, looking around as if he expected Carlton to come bounding out from behind the warrior’s legs. “Outside, is he?”

“Ah… no… well, not exactly.” Kay towered a head higher than Iain Dyfed but his discomfort was plain. He gazed down at the man and blinked rapidly. “I’m afraid… oh…”

“It’s all right,” George said, watching Kay’s embarrassment with a smirk. “You can tell him. It’s not like he’ll ground you for a month or anything.”

“Ground?” Kay muttered. Out loud, he said, “Sir, I regret to inform you that your dog has expired.”

The smile dissolved from George’s face. “What?”

“What?” said Iain. His face took on a pinched, blotchy look. “What happened?”

“Well–” Warren regretted letting Kay explain himself. He floundered. “What he means is, Carlton’s not able to walk.”

“That’s correct,” Kay agreed, shoulders dropping. “The hound has brast his hind-leg.”

Iain looked at Warren with a confused, beseeching expression.

“He means he broke his leg. Sorry, he talks weird sometimes.”

“How did this come about?”

“He fell,” Kay said simply.

“I see.” Iain Dyfed’s left eye began to squint. Warren felt himself relax. “He’ll have to stay where he is until he recovers, then. I can’t come and pick him up, the van’s not working and I still haven’t fixed that tractor. Perhaps you’d like to give me a hand with it at some point?”

Kay faltered. “I beg your…?”

“Warren told me you’re at the farm nearby. Surely, your parents let you use a tractor?”

“He’s not interested in farming,” Warren said quickly. “He wants to be an actor.”

“Oh.” Iain Dyfed gazed into the middle distance, his interest dissipating. “I’m surprised you got as much work out of the dog as you did. When he’s here, all the sheepdog does is lie in his basket and whine. I’d have sold him years ago, money’s a bit of a worry here nowadays, but, you know, sentimental reasons…”

Warren and George’s father left the kitchen’s lamplight. His feet could be heard, heavy on the stairs, then the plumbing creaked into life as he ran a bath.

George turned to Warren and stuck his thumb at Kay. “All right. Who is he?'”

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A Segment About Cauldrons, Just Because

Last week I covered mythical swords, which is a more masculine element of old tales. It’s only fair now that we take a look at one of the more feminine ones, i.e. enchanted cauldrons / cups / vessels.

One of the most well-known legendary cauldrons is that belonging to King Bran.

Bran the Blessed (Bendigeidfran or Brân Fendigaidd, which translates as “Blessed Crow”) was a giant and a king of Britain in Welsh mythology. He was brother to Branwen, Manawydan, Nisien, and Efnysien. The Irish King Matholwch sailed to Harlech wanting to marry Bran’s sister, Branwen, and create an alliance between Britain and Ireland. Bran agreed, but the wedding festivities were interrupted by Bran’s half-brother, Efnysien, mutilating Matholwch’s horses (he was incensed at not being asked to give permission for Branwen to marry). Matholwch was affronted until Bran gave him his magic cauldron in compensation.

The magic cauldron was able to bring the dead back to life. Pleased, Matholwch and Branwen sailed to Ireland.

Branwen gave birth to a boy called Gwern. However, the insult that Efnysien paid to the Irish King still rankled among his people, and after a while Branwen was banished to the castle kitchens where she was beaten every day. In desperation she tamed a starling and sent it with a plea for help to her brother.

Bran (who was a giant) waded across the Irish Sea with his brother Manawydan and a huge number of warriors from the 154 “cantrefi” of Britain following him in their ships. The Irish offered to make peace by building a house big enough to contain and entertain the giant, but they hung rather a lot of bags of flour inside.

Suspicious, Efnysien slit open the bags of flour to reveal hidden soldiers, then killed them by crushing their skulls.

Later, at the banquet, Efnysien, once again insulted, burnt Gwern to death, and a battle commenced. On seeing the Irish were using Bran’s magic cauldron to revive their dead, he concealed himself amongst the Irish corpses until an unwitting enemy threw him into the cauldron. Then he destroyed it from within, but sacrificed himself to do so.

Seven men survived, and amongst them were Manawydan, Taliesin, and Pryderi fab Pwyll, prince of Dyfed. Branwen died of a broken heart. Bran was mortally wounded in the foot / leg and told the survivors to cut off his head and return it to Britain. For seven years, the survivors remained in Harlech, where Brân’s head entertained them as it continued to speak.

They later moved on to Gwales (which might have been Grassholm Island, off Dyfed) and lived there for 80 years without feeling the passage of time. Eventually, Heilyn fab Gwyn opened the door of the hall facing Cornwall, and the bad memories of what had happened to them returned. Then they took the (now silent) head of Bran to the Gwynfryn, or “White Hill” (thought to be where the Tower of London now is), where they buried it facing France in an attempt to ward off invasion.

Bran makes an appearance in my most recent novel, “The Dark Rider” on Wattpad. In the book, he is no longer a giant but a little man with a strange sense of humour and a blithe, amiable disrespect for everyone he encounters, even Merlin. I made his corpse-reviving cauldron be the same vessel as the Horn of Plenty, which I will dive into next week (not literally, of course, or I may never be seen again).