[As told by Sir Dafyd ap Gwilliam to the assembled knights of King Vitalex at Bridgetown Castle, Logres, on the night of All Souls in the year of our Lord 475, with minor editorial emendations.]
Some of you may have wondered at the strange design that appears on my shield, the golden harp in the tree with the red dragon flying above. Tonight I thought I would tell you of my famous ancestor who originated it. It's a tale of heroes and ghosts and witches and wizards, of mothers and comely young maidens, of dragons and spell-ships and beer, and of a Thing of Ancient Magic from the time when gods walked the earth and things were more perfect than they are now.
The hero of my tale is my great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather, Hobin ap Romag. He was the grandson of Lleran, the chief of the town of Llanfariobas, a port on the shore of the Western sea that was famous for its fishes. Hobin was tall and young and handsome, a stout fighter who could drink any man under the table, but the gods had not exactly gifted him with intelligence (in that, at least, I surpass my ancestor). Fortunately it did not matter much, for his mother Rhita looked out for him.
Now the people of Llanfariobas were at war with the people of the neighbouring town of Gorgorin, who were in league with the accursed Romans (hoick, spit). And though the fighters of Llanfariobas were strong and brave, the accursed Roman hordes (hoick, spit) beat them back time and time again. Lleran summoned his grandson and said "Alas, for we are doomed! We cannot stand against the men of Gorgorin and their accursed friends!"
"Fear not," said Hobin, "for I shall save us all. I shall consult with the old man who lives on the mountain, the wizard Gyrflas. Doubtless he will know some means whereby we can be saved." And so he toiled up the mountain to the old man's cave, pushed aside the animal skins and entered the smoky cleft. Presenting Gyrflas with an offering of a freshly killed rabbit, he described the peril to him.
"Aaaahh," said Gyrflas, his rheumy eyes gleaming in the light of the fire that licked at the bubbling pot in the centre of the cave. "I believe there is a druid in Gaul who brews a potion that gives all who drink it the strength of ten men, but he won't tell anyone else the recipe... No, you're doomed."
"But I don't want to die!" wailed Hobin. "There must be something that a mighty hero like myself can do!"
Gyrflas thought further. "Aaaahh..." He reached up and fetched down a leather-bound book. Opening it, he ran a wizened finger down the page.
"Aaah!" he said. "You must seek the Harp of Storm's Ending. That may save you."
"The Harp of Storm's Ending? What's that?"
"To answer your question," said Gyrflas, "I must tell you a story of our ancestors the gods. Are you sitting comfortably?"
"Er, yes."
"Then I'll begin. Long ago, when the gods still walked the earth, the Storm God beheld the Earth Mother and lusted after her. But the Earth Mother was wild and tempestuous, as from time to time she still is, and refused his advances, for she was angry that a mere sky god should seek to penetrate her richness. So the Storm God sought the aid of the witch Arith, and with her created a magical golden Harp of great beauty. And the magic of the Harp was this; all who heard it felt in their hearts a great peace, like that after a storm when the sun shines once more and the rain drips from the trees. And using the Harp, the Storm God tamed the Earth Mother and made her his, and from their union came forth a marvellous child whose tale must wait for another day.
"Now when the Storm God had finished with the Harp he returned it to the witch Arith with instructions to hide it, for it was too powerful a thing for any man to own. This she did, and the Harp remains where she placed it, safe from all mortal eyes. Well, all except mine... Find that Harp, and you can bring about peace between yourselves and the accursed Romans (hoick, spit)."
"Sounds good to me," said Hobin. "So where is it?"
"It is in an orchard on an island off the shore of the Western Lands. But to take it is no easy thing, for it is guarded by a great red fire-breathing dragon. And even if you defeat the dragon, you must still pass the tests that Arith herself will set you."
"The Western Lands? That's where your soul goes when you die, isn't it? I don't want to die!"
"Fear not, for I will create a spell-ship that will let you travel to the Western Lands without the parting of your soul from your body. Be at the harbour at dawn tomorrow, and it will come to you."
So Hobin descended to the town and said to Lleran: "Do not worry old man, for Gyrflas has told me of a Thing of Ancient Magic that will save us all. And being the great hero that I am, I shall seek it for you far and wide, yeah even unto the shores of Death."
And Hobin's mother said, "I'm coming too."
Hobin was aghast. "You can't! Heroes don't take their mothers on quests with them! It's not done!"
"And who's going to look after you and make sure you wrap up warm if I'm not there?" said Rhita. "You stupid boy! I'm coming and that's flat'" And no amount of persuasion could make her change her mind.
So it was that the next morning Hobin, Rhita and five brave companions were standing on the harbour wall. And as the sun god rose into the sky behind them, the oddest boat came sailing into the harbour. From prow to stern it was black as night, and inscribed on every inch of it were the Runes of Power that only the wise know how to read (needless to say, Hobin didn't understand them at all). When Hobin and his companions had climbed aboard, this curious vessel turned about and headed into the west at good speed, although there was not a breath of wind.
All day they sailed without a sight of land. The storm god was kind, and the sun glinted off the gently lapping waves. Friendly dolphins frolicked nearby, which Hobin stuck with harpoons, hauled aboard, and ate. At length, as the sun god went to his long battle with the god of death and water in the west, an island appeared ahead of them.
And a most remarkable isle it was. For at its highest point was a castle made entirely of gold. Gold were its turrets, gold were its flag-poles, gold were its doors. The castle gleamed in the dying sun god's rays, almost too bright to be looked at.
"That seems a good place to spend the night," said Hobin. "Let us put in here and see whether the owner of this castle will grant us hospitality."
So the companions took down the black sail and the spell-ship drifted into the harbour. Hobin, followed by his company, climbed the winding path that led to the castle and knocked on the golden door. There was no reply so Hobin, being an unmannerly fellow and thirsty to boot, kicked down the door and walked straight in. He beheld a great dining hall shrouded in darkness save for a fire roaring in the hearth. In a huge chair in front of the fire sat a figure, but such was the gloom in the hall that Hobin could not see anything of him at all.
"Who dares to enter uninvited the hall of Tormac Algath?" boomed the figure in a voice like thunder in the mountain.
"Uh... it is I, Hobin ap Romag," quavered our brave hero. "We c-c-come in search of h-h-hospitality."
"So it's hospitality you're wanting, is it?" The figure strode into the light and Hobin beheld the biggest man he had ever seen. Eight feet tall and eight feet wide he was, with long black hair and a thick black beard, and eyes that stabbed into your soul. He was dressed from top to toe in armour of gleaming gold, and a small rusty sword hung at his side. "Very well. If you can defeat me in a test of arms you shall have the hospitality of my house, and a gift. But if I defeat you, your head and those of your companions shall adorn my battlements as a warning to others who would dare to invade my privacy. Do you accept my terms, or are you a coward?"
"Well..." said Hobin uncertainly.
"Hobin, Hobin! Go for it!" cried his companions enthusiastically. Hobin could not back down now. "I accept," he said.
"Very well. You may choose the weapons. But have a care, for you should know that I am a grandson of the storm god himself, and the mightiest fighter in the world!"
"Ah," said Hobin, "I wish you'd said that before..."
"Too late now. Choose!"
"Beer," said Hobin in a ringing voice, for he knew that he could drink any man under the table.
"Beer?" expostulated Tormac. "What kind of a weapon is that?"
"Are you suggesting that drinking beer is not a true test of strength and manliness?" retorted Hobin.
"No, of course not... Very well, then. Bring on the Pembroke Old Peculiar!"
And so the contest began. Now the beer of Pembroke is thick and brown, and it is said that the quaffing of this ale gives Pembroke men their characteristic thick skulls. But Hobin and Tormac drank the castle dry, and both were still standing at the end of it. Then the beer known as Old Ironguts was brought in, so called because only men with iron constitutions can keep down more than a pint. But this too ran out and both combatants remained upright. So Tormac called for the Stoat's Breath ale, that must be kept in casks made only of the oldest and most mature oak, for lesser woods are rotted away by it, and whose foamy head is used by the effete Romans to stuff cushions. And after the Stoat's Breath came the beer called Motherslayer, that is brewed by black-cowled druids in the wilds of Norgales and makes honourable men to become mad and howl at the Moon. Still neither man would give ground to the other. Then Tormac became impatient and called for the Grim Reaper, a legendary beer spoken of in hushed whispers wherever the truly drunk are gathered together, whose sole brewmaster was quietly done away with for the good of humanity. And on it came, green and bubbling like a witches brew, carried in tongs by gauntleted servants who wore dampened towels over their noses to protect them from the sulphurous reek. The combatants gazed levelly at each other and drank it down at a single draught. Hobin staggered and braced himself on the table.
"Ha!" cried Tormac triumphantly. "Itsh getting to you! Admit defeat!"
"Never!" gasped Hobin. "I call for - the Black Malt!"
There was a cry of horror from the onlookers and a rush for the door. For the Black Malt is the beer of the God of Death, whose existence is a dark secret known only to those who have reached the most exalted level of inebriation, where mystical visions of its effects are granted in the last few moments before total unconsciousness. Nonetheless, on it came, pushed across the floor by servants with long sticks who would move it on a few feet, then collapse from the fumes and be replaced by others. And both men gazed at the liquid sitting in its magically reinforced containers, black and thick and still as a moonless night, and knew that oblivion stared them in the face.
"Admit defeat," said Tormac, "and I will shpare you and your companionsh."
"Never'"
"Very well. Drink!"
Hobin and Tormac blew away the black clouds that had gathered over their flagons and picked them up. As one they raised their cups and took a single sip. Then Tormac's eyes slowly crossed and like a mighty oak felled by lightning he crashed face down onto the floor. A few moments later, Hobin followed him. The spilled beer from their flagons ate through the stone floor and into the earth itself until, 'tis said, it reached the abode of the Earth Mother and made her merry for a hundred years.
The two men awoke several days later, and the extent and depth of their hangovers were such as no man before or since has ever experienced, excepting possibly Sir Afan. When Tormac felt well enough to speak, he said:
"Noble Hobin, truly you must be a mighty hero to have defeated me thus. I am no match for your strong right arm. I promised you a gift and you shall have it. You may choose between my golden armour and my rusty old sword. Which shall it be?"
"Well, that's not much of a contest, is it?" said Hobin. "Who wants a rusty old sword? I'll take that nice-looking armour."
Then his mother spoke up. "You stupid boy!" she said. "What good is golden armour? Gold is a soft metal, it won't protect you at all! Take the sword!"
So on the advice of his mother, Hobin took the sword and rejoined his ship. And on they sailed for days and days until at length another island appeared. And this island was as curious as the first. For at its summit was a tall, straight tower made entirely of glass. Round it fluttered a cloud of beautiful multi-hued butterflies and at its top a fair young maiden gazed anxiously out to sea. When she saw Hobin, she cried out: "Oh brave hero, come and rescue me! For I have been locked in this tower by the wicked witch Arith and cannot escape, save by dashing myself to pieces on the rocks below!"
"Fear not!" shouted Hobin, and gave orders for the spell-ship to be made fast in the harbour. As soon as he could he jumped to shore, ran up the path to the tower and smashed the glass door with his thick leather boot. He bounded up the glass stairs and emerged onto the summit of the tower, where the maiden was waiting for him.
She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her eyes were as large and blue as Nydryn Tarn, her lips as red as rubies, her hair as yellow as corn, and her breasts... her breasts were as big and white and round as the moon. Aaaah...
[Editor's Note: At this point Dafyd had to stop and take a swig of ale, as he appeared to be salivating excessively, A number of puzzled looks were exchanged among his audience.]
The maiden gazed at Hobin with her beautiful eyes and said "Oh noble hero, you have rescued me from my imprisonment. You must have a. reward. Anything I can give, you may have."
A horrible grin spread across Hobin's face. "I can think of one thing..." he said, and sprang across to embrace her.
His mother's voice came from behind him. "You stupid boy!" she said. "Get away from that girl! You're too young!"
"Aw Mam, I'm thirty-five!" whined Hobin.
"You're still too young!"
"I don't care! I want her and I'm going to have her!"
"Very well, have your wicked way. But remember - I'll be here watching!"
Hobin sighed and broke away from the maiden. "I'm sorry, my mother won't let me," he said, and gave Rhita a very black look. "This favour of yours - could we hold it on account 'til I can get rid of her?"
"You have rejected me!" cried the maiden, and began to change. She became shorter and her hair turned black and straight. Her face grew angular and her ears became pointed, until at length one of the Fair Folk stood before Hobin, a golden torc in her hair. At the same time Hobin's eyes were opened and he saw the tower as it truly was - a tower of flesh, built of the bodies of the faery's previous lovers, the butterflies that had fluttered about it now flies that feasted on the corpses. Hobin fled in horror down the stair of twisted limbs, and did not stop until he was once more aboard the spell-ship. Hastily they departed into the west.
And at once the skies grew dark and the winds blew strong and hard, and the rain lashed the heads of Hobin and his companions. Great waves like watery mountains assailed the little ship from every side. And Hobin despaired, saying "Surely we shall all be drowned, for even a spell-ship cannot survive these waves. I don't want to die!"
Then he saw in the depths of the ocean a ring of Stones of Power, glowing green. And a voice spoke to him, saying "Give me a sacrifice, and I shall spare your ship and all who sail in her. What is more, if the sacrifice be a good one, I shall give you power to destroy your enemies with a tidal wave."
"Sounds like a good offer to me," said Hobin. "Maybe I won't need to get this blessed harp after all, if I can simply drown those accursed Romans (hoick, spit). But where do I find a good sacrifice?..."
Then his mother spoke up. "You stupid boy!" she said, "don't you recognise the God of Death and Water when he speaks to you? You can't have power which isn't earned, you sheep-brain! Don't even think about accepting that offer!"
And Hobin looked at his mother, and a horrible grin spread across his face. "Take that woman, tie her up, and throw her over the side," he ordered. His companions did as he bid, for they thought Hobin a mighty hero and they were afraid of the storm. And Rhita, still squawking her protestations, fell in the sea with a great splash and sank like a stone.
After that the storm abated, and as the clouds cleared an island appeared in the west, a hazy shoreline in the dim distance beyond it. On this island was an orchard of the most beautiful apple trees had ever seen, with leaves as green as cat's eyes and apples as red and full and luscious as a maiden's lips. In the middle of this orchard there was a tree that was taller and more beautiful than all the rest, and from its branches came forth a gleam of gold.
"This must be the island that Gyrflas spoke of," thought Hobin. "I suppose since I'm here I might as well get that harp of whatever-it-was." So he gave orders for the ship to be made fast and with his companions he entered the beautiful orchard.
The tallest tree stood in the centre of a small clearing at the highest point of the Isle of Apples. Nestling in its branches was a golden harp of the most exquisite workmanship Hobin had ever seen. Elegant designs of extraordinary complexity were cut into the frame and the golden strings were as fine as hair. As the breeze blew through the tree the Harp emitted a low sweet note that filled Hobin's heart with peaceful feelings. "Ah," he thought, "if one skilled in the art could play such an instrument, then the power of peace would fill the hearts of all who heard it, just as Gyrflas said, and no army could withstand it. I must have it!" He approached the tree intending to take possession of this marvel, but as he did so a great red dragon emerged from behind it.
Now this dragon was as tall as Camelot's towers. But it was not this that made Hobin's knees knock in terror. From its mouth came forth jets of flame and smoke. But it was not this that turned Hobin's bowels to water. It was that the dragon was translucent!
"Who dares to trespass in the orchard of Arith?" roared the ghost-dragon.
"Uh. . . m-m-me, Hobin ap R-R-Romag," quavered our hero.
"You're not a knight, are you?"
"N-n-no. "
"Glad to hear it. Hate knights. It was one that killed me, you know, fellow called George. If I ever get my claws on him again I'll - oh never mind. So you've come to take the Harp, have you?"
"N-n-no."
"Course you have, there's nothing else you could want here. Well, you'll have to fight me for it - you stand some chance, I suppose, since you've got a spirit sword -"
"I have?"
"What do you think that thing you're wearing is?"
Hobin looked down and saw that the rusty sword that Tormac had given him had become a mighty gleaming broadsword, incised with runes, while his own arms had become pale and insubstantial.
"Ha! Then I can defeat you!" he said, unsheathing it.
"Maybe, maybe not," said the ghost-dragon. "But know, mortal, that if I eat you as I fully intend to, your soul is mine forever. No reincarnation, no afterlife."
"Ah... well, in that case..." Hobin stepped back amongst his companions.
"Hobin, Hobin!" they cried, thrusting him forward. "Go for it! Kill that dragon!" Hobin could not retreat now. He charged towards the ghost-dragon, yelling for all he was worth.
So battle was joined, and a mighty battle it was too. Time and again the ghost-dragon breathed great jets of flame at Hobin, and time and again did Hobin, being adept at running away, neatly dodge them. Round and round the tree the battle raged, while Hobin's companions cheered on their leader or ran to the shore to fetch water to douse the fires that the ghost-dragon's breath had started. At length Hobin lunged with his sword and pierced the weak spot that all dragons have in their throats. The ghost-dragon gave a great roar and crashed to the ground, all four legs in the air.
"Ha! I triumph!" said Hobin, and stepped up to the tree to claim his prize. As he did so a claw whistled down and felled him to the ground.
"Fooled you," said the ghost-dragon sweetly. "I'm already dead. You can't kill me again!"
"But that means I can never defeat you!" protested Hobin.
"Quite right. Why do you think Arith chose me to protect the Harp? There's no point in having a guard you can defeat just by running a sword through him, is there?"
"That's not fair! In the tales there's always a way for the hero to win!"
"This is real life, boyo, and real life's unfair. Just as well you won't be experiencing any more of it. Say goodbye."
"I don't want to die!"
"Tough," said the ghost-dragon unsympathetically, and opened its mouth to gobble Hobin up.
A voice came from behind them. "You stupid dragon! Put that boy down! He's my son!" Rhita hobbled into view, water dripping from her clothes.
"Aw Mistress, do I have to? I was looking forward to this."
"Yes you do, and then go back to your cave." The ghost-dragon did as it was bid, looking very depressed.
Hobin stared at his mother in amazement. "You're the witch Arith?"
"Of course I am, you stupid boy! Why do you think I sank like a stone when you threw me overboard? Lucky I remembered a water-breathing spell, or you'd have been a dragon's dinner!"
"But - but you're my mother!"
"Yes, well, a witch has got to reproduce, hasn't she? And wasn't it just my luck to get such a stupid, addlepated, cloth-eared, dimwitted boy as you!" said Rhita, punctuating her words with cuffs to Hobin's head.
"I suppose this means I don't get the Harp," said Hobin sulkily.
"Oh, that. Take it, for all the good it will do you!"
"What about the tests?"
"You've passed as many of those as you're going to. Now be off with you!"
So Hobin took the Harp, and after many more adventures that I will not describe, he returned to Llanfariobas. Alas, the Harp did him no good. He could not play it, for he had proved himself unworthy by seeking power which he had not earned. Thus Llanfariobas fell to the men of Gorgorin, and Hobin was forced to flee. He never saw his mother again.
As for the Harp, the druids, it is said, took the Harp away from Hobin when he had shown himself unworthy. None but they know where it is hid now. It is said among my family that the harp which I now own is the one that they gave to him in its place.
And the moral of my tale? Well, difficult to say really. I suppose it's that you shouldn't go around sacrificing your mother to death gods. Especially if she's a powerful sorceress... Anyone got any more ale?
Mark Tolley
19th June 1994.
4329 words.