Richard Cowper - White Bird of Kinship 01 - The Road to Corlay

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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," said Katie's mother with an edge to her voice that was not lost on Peter.

"Why, to be sure I am, ma'am," he said. "We're legging by way of Sedbergh and Aysgarth.

Aiming to strike York for Christmas. That's so, isn't it, Tom?"

The boy nodded.

"I was hoping to make a start two weeks ago but I got an invitation to a telling in Carlisle which

held me back." The old man cocked a ragged eyebrow toward Katie's mother. "I seem to recall you to

be a native of Aysgarth, ma'am."

"You've got a fine memory, Tale-Spinner."

"I was thinking that maybe you would like us to carry some message to your folks for you?"

"You'd have to leg a deal further than Aysgarth to do it, old man," she said and smiled wanly.

"They're dead and gone long since."

"Is that so? Well, indeed I'm truly sorry to hear it."

"It happens," she said.

Supper over, Norris tapped a small cask of strong ale, drew it off into a substantial earthenware

jug, added sliced apple and a fragrant lump of crushed honeycomb, then stood the mixture down on the

hearth to mull. By the time Tom had finished helping Katie and her mother to clear the table and wash

the dishes, the warm ale was giving off a drowsy scent which set an idle mind wandering dreamily

down the long-forgotten hedgerows of distant summers.

They settled themselves in a semi-circle round the hearth; the lamp was trimmed and turned low,

and old Peter set about earning his night's lodging. Having fortified himself with a draft of ale, he

launched himself into a saga set in the days before the Drowning when the broad skies were a

universal highway and, by means of strange skills, long since forgotten, men and women could sit snug

and cozy by their own firesides and see in their magic mirrors things which were happening at that

very instant on the other side of the world.

Like all good stories there was some love in it and much adventure; hardship, breath-taking

coincidence and bloody slaughter; and finally, of course, a happy ending. It's hero, the young Prince

Amulet, having discovered that his noble father the King of Denmark has been murdered by a wicked

brother who has usurped the throne, sets out to avenge the crime. Peter's description of the epic duel

fought out between uncle and nephew with swords whose blades were beams of lethal light, held

Norris and his family open-mouthed and utterly spellbound. Not for nothing was the son of Blind

Hereford known throughout the Seven Kingdoms as "the Golden-Tongued."

When the victorious Prince and his faithful Princess had finally been escorted to their nuptial

chamber through a fanfare of silver trumpets the enchanted listeners broke into spontaneous applause

and begged Peter for another. But the Tale-Spinner was too old and wise a bird to be caught so easily.

Pleading that his throat was bone dry he reminded them that young Tom had agreed to favor them

with a tune or two.

"Aye, come along, lad," said Norris. "Let's have a taste of that whistle of yours."

While Tom was fetching his instrument from his pack, Katie made a round of the circle and

replenished the mugs. Then she settled herself at her father's knee. The boy sat down cross-legged on

the fire-warmed flagstones and waited till everyone was still.

He had played scarcely a dozen notes when there was a sound of frantic scratching at the yard

door and a chorus of heart-rending whimpers. Tom broke off and grinned up at Norris. "Shall I let

them in?"

"I will," said Katie and was up and away before Norris had a chance to say either yes or no.

The dogs bounded into the kitchen, tails waving ecstatically, and headed straight for the boy. He

blew three swift, lark-high notes, pointed to the hearth before him and meek as mice they stretched

themselves out at his feet. He laughed, leant forward and tapped each animal on its nose with his pipe.

"Now you behave yourselves, dogs," he said, "or I'll scare your tails off."

Katie regained her place and he began to play once more. He had chosen a set of familiar

country dances and, within seconds, he had feet tapping and hands clapping all around the circle. It

was almost as if the listeners were unable to prevent their muscles from responding to the imperious

summons of his jigs and reels. Even Old Peter found his toes twitching and his fingers drumming out

the rhythms on the wooden arm of the ingle-nook settle.

With the flamelight flickering elvishly in his gray-green eyes Tom swung them from tune to tune

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

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Richard Cowper - White Bird of Kinship 01 - The Road to Corlay.pdf

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Richard Cowper - White Bird of Kinship 01 - The Road to Corlay

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