Richard Cowper - Piper at the Gates of Dawn

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Among the twenty-two books which comprise the Avian Apocrypha, the one which

has been called by certain scholars "Old Peter's Tale" and by others "The Book

of Gyre," has always occupied a place somewhat apart from the rest.

Recent close textual and stylistic analysis by Professor P. J. Hollins and

others would appear to have confirmed the presence of no fewer than three

distinct contributing hands, at least two of which have been confidently

identified with the anonymous authors of "The Book of Morfedd" and "Orgen's

Dream."

In electing to offer to a wider public his new version compiled from the three

earliest extant manuscripts I have purposely eschewed the two titles by which

the work is generally familiar and have chosen instead that under which the

story appears in the "Carlisle m.s." (circa A.D. 3300).

RJ.C.

St. Malcolm's College,

Oxford.

June, 3798.

PIPER AT THE GATES OF DAWN

Richard Cowper

1975

Contents

PROLOGUE

Cold curtains of November rain came drifting slowly up the valley like an

endless procession of phantom mourners following an invisible hearse. From

beneath an overhang of limestone a boy and an old man squatted side by side

and gazed disconsolately out across the river to the dripping forest on the

far bank. Suddenly a salmon leaped-a flicker of silver in the gloom and a

splash like a falling log. The boy's eyes gleamed. "Ah," he breathed. "Did you

see him?"

The old man grunted.

"I'm going to try for him, Peter."

The man glanced round out of the tail of his eyes and sniffed skeptically,

"What with?"

The boy unfastened the thong of his leather knapsack, delved inside, and

pulled out a slender double-barrelled wooden pipe-something between a

twin-stemmed whistle and a recorder. He rubbed it briskly on the sleeve of his

gray woollen pullover then set the mouthpiece to his lips and blew softly. A

note, clear and liquid as a blackbird's, floated out from beneath his fingers.

Another followed, and another, and then came a little frisking trill that set

the old man's pulse fluttering.

"Who taught you to play like that, lad?"

"Morfedd."

The boy rose to his feet, stepped out into the rain, and had taken four or

five paces down the slope toward the river's edge when the old man called him

back. "Here," he said, pulling off his cap and flinging it across. "It'll keep

the rain off your neck."

The boy grinned his thanks, dragged the waxed leather scuttle over his untidy

mop of black curls, and skipped down to where a flat rock jutted out into the

stream. There he squatted, as close as he could get to the hurrying tawny

water, and once more put the pipe to his lips.

Squinting through the veiling rain, the old man became uncomfortably aware of

a chill area around the back of his neck where his cap had been and he hunched

down deeper into the collar of his sheepskin coat. Like wisps of gossamer, odd

disconnected threads of music came floating up to him from the rain-pocked

waters below and, as he half-listened, there suddenly flickered unbidden

across his mind's eye a lightning-sharp vision of a large and succulent

dragonfly. So vivid was the image that for a confusing second he was convinced

the insect was hovering a mere hand-span before his nose. Next instant there

was an excited shouting from below, a flurry of splashing and he saw the boy

staggering among the rain-wet boulders at the water's edge with a huge silver

fish struggling in his arms.

With an alacrity which wholly belied his years the old man scrambled down the

bank just in tune to prevent the boy from measuring his own length in a pool.

He grabbed at the gulping salmon, thrust his thumbs firmly into its gills and

contrived to bang its head against a rock. "Blast me, boy!" he cried. "I never

saw such luck in all my days! Blast me if I did!"

The boy laughed delightedly. "He's big, isn't he? Did you see him jump? Right

up at me! Swoosh!"

The old man lifted the shuddering fish and contrived to hold it out at arm's

length. "I'll swear he's nigh on ten kils," he panted. "A regular whale! What

are we going to do with him?"

"Why, eat him, of course."

"Ah, some for sure, lad. The rest we'd best try to smoke. But we've got to get

ourselves across the stream first. With all this rain, by nightfall she'll be

up to twice your own height, and it's ten lom or more round by Kirkby bridge.

Nip you up aloft and fetch the packs. We'll try for a crossing up around the

bend."

The boy clambered back up to the overhang and ducked out of sight. The old man

selected a stout stick from among a tangle of driftwood, took a clasp knife

from his pocket and, having sharpened one end of the stick to a point, spiked

it through the salmon's gills and hefted the fish up on to his back.

Twenty minutes later the two of them were over the river and picking their way

along the deer track that followed the far bank. By then the rain had eased

off to a steady, depressing drizzle. Though it was barely two hours gone noon,

the low clouds and the brooding forest dimmed the light almost to curfew

gloom. Conversation between the two travellers was restricted to grunts of

warning and acknowledgment as the old man negotiated rocks and exposed tree

roots which had been made even more treacherous by the rain.

They had covered some two kilometers in this fashion when the track broadened

out perceptibly into a discernible path. The boy at once seized the

opportunity to move up to the old man's side. "Will we reach Sedbergh before

nightfall, Peter?"

"Not without breaking our necks, we won't. But I recall a 'stead hereabouts

might lodge us for the night. I've been trying to bring the man's given name

to mind, but it's twenty year or more since I last trod this track."

"A farmer, is he?"

"Bit of everything as I recall it. Like most of 'em round here. Newton?

Norton? Norris! That's the name! Norris Coopersonl Yes, yes, now it comes

back. Old Sam Cooperson was a color-sergeant in Northumberland's dragoons. Won

his freedom in the Battle of Rotherham in '950. That takes us back a bit,

doesn't it? Old Sam leased a stretch of the Lord's grazing down the river a

way. Did well enough for his boy to buy the freehold. I seem to recall that

young Norris wed a lass from Aysgarth. And didn't her people have property

round York? Or was it Scarborough? Funny how his name slipped me. Norris.

Norris Cooperson. Aye, that's him."

"Where does he live, Peter?"

"On a bit yet. I seem to mind a beck skipping down from the fells. Old Sam

built his 'stead facing southwest, backing right up into the hills. 'Guarding

his rear' he called it." The old man chuckled. "Sergeant Cooperson had had a

Jock spear up his arse in his time, so he knew what he was talking about."

They came to a waist-high wall of rough stone which had recently been

repaired, clambered over it, and headed off on a diagonal course away from the

river. After they had gone about five hundred paces the old man paused, lifted

his head, and snuffed the air like a dog. The boy watched him closely.

"Smoke?" he asked.

"Horses," said the old man. "Smoke too. It can't be far now."

The ground rose slightly and the forest trees began to thin out almost as if

they were withdrawing fastidiously from a contact which was distasteful to

them. The two wayfarers trudged up to the crest of the rise and saw below them

a long bowshot off to their left, the low outline of a substantial stone

stable, a bracken-thatched barn, a farm house and a scattering of timber

outbuildings. A herd of long-horned, hump-backed cattle was grazing in the

meadow which sloped gently down from the homestead to the distant river.

The old man shifted the salmon from one shoulder to the other and nodded with

satisfaction. "I wasn't wrong, was I, Tom? But it's grown a fair bit since I

last set eye on it. Reckon you'd best get yourself a stick while you can.

They're bound to have a dog or two."

The boy shook his head. "They won't bother me."

"It's not you I'm feared for, lad. It's our supper here."

The boy unfastened his knapsack and again took out his pipe. "Dogs are the

easiest of all," he said scornfully, "They'll believe anything."

The old man studied him thoughtfully, sucked a tooth, seemed on the point of

saying something and then, apparently, changed his mind. Side by side they

plodded off down the hill toward the farm.

The shaggy cattle raised their heads at their approach, regarded them with

mild, munching curiosity and then nodded back to their grazing. They had

passed almost through the herd before the farm dogs got wind of them. They

came hurtling out from behind the stables, three lean, vicious-looking fell

hounds, snarling and yelping in their eagerness to savage the intruders.

The boy stood his ground; calmly waited till the leader was but a short

stone's throw distant; then set the pipe to his lips and blew a series of

darting notes of so high a pitch that the old man's ears barely caught them.

But the dogs did. They stopped almost dead in their tracks, for all the world

as if they had run full tilt into a solid wall of glass. Next moment the three

of them were lying stretched out full length on the wet grass, whining, with

their muzzles clasped in their fore-paws and their eyes closed.

The boy played a few more notes then walked forward and prodded the largest of

the curs with his toe. The animal rolled over on to its back and offered its

unguarded throat to him in a drooling ecstasy of abject submission. "You see,"

said .the boy disdainfully. "They're such ninnies they'll even believe they're

puppies."

The barking had brought a woman to the door of the farm house and now she

called out to the dogs. Slowly, dazedly, they rose to their feet, shook

themselves and loped off toward her, pausing every so often to glance back and

whimper perplexedly.

"And who might you be, strangers?"

With his spare hand the old man doffed his cap, allowing the damp breeze to

flutter his white hair. "Old Peter the Tale-Spinner of Hereford, ma'am.

Legging for York City. This here's young Tom, my niece's lad. We missed our

way short-cutting it through Haw Gill. We'd be glad to pay silver for a

night's dry lodging."

"My goodman's out timbering," responded the woman doubtfully. "I dursent say

you yea or nay without he's back."

"That would be goodman Norris, I daresay, ma'am?"

"Aye," she said, screwing up her eyes to see him better. "Aye, it would."

"Then you must be Mistress Cooperson."

"Aye," she admitted. "What of it?"

"Tell me, Mistress, does Old Sam's halberd still hang bright over the

chimney-breast?"

The woman raised her right hand in a strange, hesitant little half-gesture of

uncertainty. "You'll have been here afore then, old man?"

"Aye, ma'am. Close on twenty year since. Just agin you and young Norris wed,

that would a' been." He cocked an eye up at the sagging, dripping clouds. "If

me 'n the lad could maybe step inside your barn yonder, we'd hold it more than

kind. This wet strikes a deathly chill into old bones."

The woman flushed. "No, no," she said, backing over the threshold. "Come you

in here and dry yourselves by the fire. It's just me and the young lass alone,

you see." Then, by way of explanation, she added: "We heard tell there was an

Irish raider into Morecambe Bay afore Holymass."

"That's real kind in you, ma'am." The old man beamed, swinging the salmon down

off his back and holding it out toward her. "We even thought to bring some

supper with us, you see."

"Oh, there's a wild beauty!" she exclaimed. "How came you by him?"

"Singing for our supper, you might say," said the old man winking at the boy.

"I've been thinking we could maybe split master silversides longwise and

perhaps smoke one half of him in your chimney overnight. That way you'll have

a fine supper and we'll have ourselves fare for our morrow's fooling."

"Yes, yes," she said. "There's oak afire this minute. Do you bring him through

here into the scullery." She called round over her shoulder: "Katie, lass!

Come and liven up that fire right sharp!"

A blue-eyed girl of about twelve, with hair so palely blonde it was almost

white, emerged from the shadows, took a long hard stare at the visitors and

then vanished. The old man wiped the mud from his boots on the bundle of dried

bracken piled for the purpose just inside the doorway, then carted the salmon

through into the scullery and flopped it out on the slab of dark green slate

which the woman indicated. She reached down a knife and a steel from a shelf

and honed a rapid edge. Then with the skill of long practice she slit the fish

down the belly and began scooping its insides into a wooden bucket.

The boy meanwhile had wandered through into the long stone-flagged kitchen and

now stood silently watching the girl arranging dry oak billets against the

smoldering back-log in the huge fireplace. She glanced at him over her

shoulder. "You can blow, can't you, boy?"

He nodded, moved across and knelt beside her as she crushed dry bracken up

into a ball and thrust it into the space behind the propped logs. "Well, go on

then," she commanded. "Show me."

Obediently the boy leant forward and puffed till the white ashes leapt aside

and exposed the glowing embers beneath. He reached out, pressed the bracken

down and blew again. The kindling began to smoke. Next moment a tiny

snakestongue of flame had flickered up. He blew more gently, fanning the flame

till the whole ball was well ablaze and then he sat back on his heels and

brushed the powder of ash from his cheeks and eyebrows.

The girl laid a few sticks across the flames and turned to him again. "What're

you going to York for?"

"To Chapter School."

"What's that?"

"My cousin's spoken me a place in the Minster choir. He's Clerk to the

Chapter."

"What'll you do?"

"Learn to read and write. Sing in the choir. Maybe play too."

"Play what? Your pipe?"

He nodded.

She studied him long and hard by the light of the spurtling flames. "I saw

what you did to the dogs," she said thoughtfully.

He smiled. "Oh, that was easy. The fish was much harder."

"You did that to the fish too? What you did to the dogs?"

"Sort of," he said.

"How do you do it?"

His smile broadened but he said nothing.

"Can I see your pipe?"

"All right." He got up, walked over to the doorway where he had left his pack,

took out the pipe and brought it back to her. She held it in both hands and

examined it by the firelight. Deep inside one of the tubes some crystalline

facet caught the flames and twinkled like a diamond. She raised the mouthpiece

to her lips and was just about to blow when he snatched the instrument from

her. "No," he said. "No, you mustn't. It's tuned to me, you see."

"That's daft," she said, her cheeks flushing scarlet. "How could I hurt the

silly thing?"

"I'm sorry, Katie. I can't explain it to you." He stroked his fingers in a

slow caress all down the length of the pipe and then looked up at her. "You

see, Morfedd made it for me."

"Morfedd? The Wizard of Bowness?"

"Yes."

"You knew him?"

The boy nodded. "Morfedd's in here," he said, lifting the pipe. "And in me."

"Who says so?"

"It's true, Katie. He chose me on my third birth-night-ten summers ago. He

twinned my tongue for me. Look." His lips parted and the tip of a pink tongue

slipped out between the white, even teeth. As Katie watched, fascinated, the

boy's tongue-tip divided and the two halves flickered separately up and down

before flicking back into his mouth. "Believe me now?" he asked and grinned at

her.

The girl's blue eyes were very wide indeed. "Did it hurt?" she whispered.

"No, not much. He did it bit by bit." The boy held up the pipe and pointed to

the twin air ducts. "You see he wanted me to be able to tongue them both

separately," he said. "Listen."

He set the pipe to his lips and blew gently down it. Then, without moving his

fingers, he sounded two gentle trills, one slow, one faster; yet both somehow

intertwined and as sweetly melodious as two birds warbling in unison in a

green glade of the deep forest.

Katie was utterly enraptured. She had quite forgiven him his ill-mannered

snatching of the pipe. "Play me a tune, Tom," she begged. "Go on. Do. Please."

"All right," he agreed. "What would you like?"

"I don't know. Make one up. Just for me. Could you?"

Tom rubbed his nose with the back of his hand then he turned slowly to face

her and gazed deep into her eyes. As he did so he seemed to go very, very

still, almost as if he were listening to some sound which only he could hear.

For perhaps a minute he sat thus, then he nodded once, set the pipes to his

lips and began to play.

Norris and his two grown-up sons returned from the forest at dusk. Well before

the others heard them Tom's sharp ears had picked up the distant jingle of

traces and the squeal of wooden axles. A moment later the dogs gave tongue to

a raucous chorus of welcome. Katie and her mother hustled round making the

final preparations for supper while Tom and old Peter sat one on either side

of the fire, steaming faintly in the drowsy warmth.

Norris was the first to enter. A thick-set, heavily bearded man, with graying

hair and eyes the color of an April sky. He dragged off his hooded leather

tippet and slung it up on to an iron hook. Almost at once it began to drip

quietly on to the flagstones beneath. "Halloa, there!" he cried. "What's this

then? Company?"

Old Peter and Tom had risen at his entry and now the old man called out:

"You'll remember me, I think, Norris? Peter the Tale-Spinner. Son of Blind

Hereford."

"Sweet God in Heaven!" exclaimed Norris striding to meet him. "Not the Prince

of Liars in person? Aye, it's him, right enough! Welcome back, old rogue! I'd

given you over for worms' meat years ago!"

They clasped forearms in the pool of yellow lamplight and shook their heads

over one another. "And who's the sprig, then?" demanded Norris tipping his

chin at Tom. "One of yours?"

"My niece Margot's lad. Tom by given name. Margot wed with a Stavely man. I'm

taking the boy to York for her."

"York, eh? And legging it? Ah so, you shall tell us all over supper. Well met,

old man. What's ours is yours. And you too, boy. Katie, wench! Is my water

hot?"

He strode off toward the scullery, boisterous as the North wind, and soon they

heard sounds of noisy blowing and sluicing as he swilled himself down at the

stone sink. His wife came into the kitchen and clattered out wooden bowls and

mugs down the long table. "He remembered you then?" she said with a smile.

"Aye," said Peter. "I've changed less than he has, it seems. Not that he

hasn't worn well, mind you." He tipped his head to one side. "How comes your

lass by that barley mow of hers?"

"Bar me all my folks are fair," she said. "Katie's eyes are her Dad's though.

The boys seemed to fall betwixt and between." She stepped up to the fireplace,

caught up a corner of her apron and lifted the lid of the iron cauldron which

hung from a smoke-blackened chain above the flames. A rich and spicy scent

floated over the hearth. She nodded, re-settled the lid and squinted up into

the chimney where the other half of the salmon could be dimly seen twisting

slowly back and forth in the hot air and the blue-gray woodsmoke. "Let it down

again, lad," she said. "We'll souse it just once more."

Tom unhooked an end of the chain and lowered the fish till she was able to

reach it. "Hold it still now," she said and picking a brush of twigs out of a

pot on the hearth she basted the now golden flesh till it gleamed like dark

honey. "Up with it, lad."

The fish vanished once more up the throat of the flue and a few aromatic drops

fell down and sizzled among the embers.

As Tom was making the chain fast the door to the yard opened and Norris' two

sons came in followed by the three dogs. The men eyed the two strangers

curiously and watched without speaking as the dogs bounded up to the hearth

and then ranged themselves in a grinning, hopeful semi-circle round the boy

who looked down at them and laughed.

Norris appeared at the scullery door toweling his neck and bawled out

introductions as though he were calling cattle in from the fells. The young

men nodded and flashed their teeth in smiles of welcome. "You must have got a

way with dogs, lad," observed one. "That lot don't take kindly to strangers as

a rule. They're like as not to have the arse out of your breeks."

Tom eyed the dogs and shook his head. Then Katie came in and summoned them to

her. In her hand she held the wooden bucket of fish offal. She opened the yard

door, stepped outside, and the dogs tumbled after her, whining eagerly.

Ten minutes later the men and the boy took their places at the long table.

Katie's mother ladled out thick broth into wooden bowls and Katie set one

before each guest, then one before her father and her brothers and, last of

all, one each for her mother and herself. Norris dunked his spoon and sucked

up a noisy mouthful. "My women tell me we've got you to thank for this," he

said to Peter.

The old man shrugged modestly and winked across at Tom. "You wed a fine cook,

Norris," he said. "I've not tasted such a broth since I sampled your

mother's."

Norris smiled. "Aye, old Mam taught Annie a thing or two afore she went. How

to bear strong men for a start. Now tell us some news, old timer. Is it true

there's a new king in Wales?"

"Aye. Dyfydd men call him. They say he's a fierce and cunning fighter."

"That's as may be, but can he keep the peace? Hold off the Paddys? Hey?"

"Maybe. Along the west border there was talk of him laying court to Eileen of

Belfast-King Kerrigan's widow. That might do it-if he pulls it off."

"The sooner the better," said Norris, reaching out and tearing a ragged lump

from the wheaten loaf before him. "You heard they'd fired Lancaster Castle?"

"There's no truth in that story, Norris. They were held at Morecambe and

hanged at Preston."

"Is that a fact?"

"I did a two-day telling in Lancaster myself a month back. On my way up to

Kendal. By the time we leg it into York I daresay folk will be telling us the

Paddys hold everything west of the Pennines."

Norris laughed. "Aye. If cows grew like rumors we'd none of us lack for beef."

Peter smiled and nodded. "Are you still under Northumberland's shield here?"

"For what it's worth. The last border patrol we saw was nigh on a year back,

and they were a right bunch of thieves. No, the only time his Lordship wants

to know about us is at the Mid-Summer Tax Harvest. Our trouble here is that

there aren't enough of us freeholders to make up more than a token force. And

we're spread too thin. The Paddys could pick us off one by one if they'd a

mind to, and none of us would be a wit the wiser till it was too late. It's

our luck there's not much up here they're likely to fancy."

"You've not been troubled then?"

"Nothing to speak of."

The younger son glanced round at his brother and murmured something too low

for Peter to catch.

"Poachers?" Peter asked.

"We had a spot of bother a year or two back. That's all settled now. Let's

have some more beer here, Katie, lass!"

The girl brought a huge stone jug and refilled her father's mug. "Dad killed

one of them," she said to Peter. "With his axe. You did, didn't you, Dad?"

"It was them or us," said Norris. "Don't think I'm proud of it."

"Well, I am," said Katie stoutly.

Norris laughed and gave her a cheerful wallop on the behind. "Well, it seems

to have taught them a lesson," he said. "We've not been troubled since. Now

tell us how the world's been treating you, Tale-Spinner."

"Never better than this," said Peter taking a long pull at his beer. "I

crossed the narrow seas; lived a while in France and Italy. Joined up with a

Greek juggler and voyaged with him to the Americas. Made some money and lost

it. Came home to die two years ago. That's about it, Norris. Nothing you've

any call to envy me for."

"You've never felt you wanted to settle then?"

"It's not so much a question of wanting, Norris; more a question of royals.

Some can save money; some can't. Mind you, I'll not say I haven't had my

chances. I was three whole years in one town in Italy. Still got connections

there in a manner of speaking. But I'll not be putting to sea again. These

bones will lie in the Fifth Kingdom. All I'm waiting for now is to see the

millennium out."

Katie's mother spooned out steaming portions of rosy fish on to the wooden

platters, piled potatoes and onions around them and passed them down the

table. Norris stretched out and helped himself liberally to salt. "And just

what's so special about the year 3000?" he demanded. "A year's a year and

that's all there is to it. Numbers aren't worth a pig's turd."

"Ah, now, if you'll pardon me for saying so, Norris, there you're mistaken.

The fact is the world's grown to expect something remarkable of A.D. 3000. And

if enough people get to expecting something, then like enough it'll come to

pass."

"Peace and Brotherhood, you mean? The White Bird of Kinship and all that

froth? I just wish someone would have a go at telling it to the Paddys and the

Jocks."

"Ah, but they believe in it too, Norris."

"Oh, they do, do they?" Norris snorted. "It's the first I've heard of it. If

you ask me the only tune the Jocks and the Paddys are likely to fall on

anyone's neck is when they've got a broadsword to hand."

"There'll be a sign," said Peter. "That's how it'll be."

"A sign, eh? What sort of sign?"

"Some speak of a comet or a silver sky ship like they had in the Old Times. In

Italy there was talk of a new star so bright you'll be able to see it in the

day sky."

"And what do you think?"

"Well, they could be right, Norris. Stranger things have happened."

"No doubt. And telling people about them has kept your old belly nicely lined,

eh?"

"Someone has to do it."

"Oh, I'm not belittling you, old timer. In truth I sometimes think we need

more like you. Faith, it's a poor look out for folks if they can see no more

to life than scratching for food and working up their appetite for it by

killing their fellow men." He waved his knife at Tom. "What do you say, boy?"

Tom swallowed his mouthful and nodded his head. "Yes, sir," he said. "There is

more than that."

"Bravely said, lad! Well, go on, tell us about it."

"Peter's right, sir. About the White Bird, I mean. It is coming."

"Oh, yes?" said Norris, winking at Peter. "What'll it be like, son?"

"I mean for some of us it's here already, sir," said Tom. "We can hear it now.

It's in everything-all about us-everywhere. That's what I thought you meant,

sir."

Norris blinked at him and rolled his tongue pensively around his teeth. Then

he nodded his head slowly. "Well now, maybe I did at that," he said. "Not that

I'd have thought to put it just so myself."

"Tom's a piper, Dad," said Katie. "He plays better than anyone I've ever

heard."

"Is that a fact?" said Norris. "Then after supper we'll have to see if we

can't persuade him to give us a tune. How about it, lad?"

"Gladly, sir."

"Good," said Norris stabbing a fork into his food and turning back to Peter.

"You use him in your tellings, do you?"

"Not so far," said the old man. "But the thought crossed my mind just this

afternoon. There's no denying he's got a real gift for the pipes. What do you

say, Tom, lad? Fancy coming into partnership?"

"I thought you were supposed to be taking him to the Chapter School at York,"

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摘要：

Amongthetwenty-twobookswhichcomprisetheAvianApocrypha,theonewhichhasbeencalledbycertainscholars"OldPeter'sTale"andbyothers"TheBookofGyre,"hasalwaysoccupiedaplacesomewhatapartfromtherest.RecentclosetextualandstylisticanalysisbyProfessorP.J.Hollinsandotherswouldappeartohaveconfirmedthepresenceofnofewe...

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Richard Cowper - Piper at the Gates of Dawn

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