A "Dark is Rising Tale" set some decades before the events outlined in the books. A conversation between Merriman Lyon and Will Stanton unfolds a supernatural story (in the folk horror tradition).
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JOHN BARLEYCORN
A 'Dark is Rising' story
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Introduction
The sun was setting on St Austell as the last day-trippers made their way back to their coaches and cars. Two figures – one old, craggy, the other young and sturdy – stood looking out into the harbour. The boats, at rest for a few hours, bobbed about cheerfully on the gentle water. "The wild magic, Will, is thought unpredictable, yet that very unpredictability is something to count on," Merriman pointed out. His lips didn't move yet his words spoke, clearly, in his companion's head.
The youngster, turned Old One, frowned, lost in memory. "Like Herne and the Wild Hunt," he said in agreement. "Ex tempore rulings from judges noted for them."
"It's well put," and so it was, however odd from the lips of a schoolboy. "You know of John Barleycorn?" It was a rhetorical question for Will had read the Book of Gramarye with all the wisdom of the Old Ones contained therein. Needing no answer Merriman Lyon continued, "Let me tell you how the Dark once invoked the wild magic."
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A man of goodwill?
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"It was 1938 and Europe was on the brink of war, although few knew for certain. The Dark takes many forms, sometimes overt and sometimes covert. It may possess a man, promise him greatness show him all the power of the Dark (whilst concealing its folly and evil). At other times it gently encourages, it does not show its hand, no, instead it prods and goads, allowing a man's own pride and wickedness to further propel him. Britain would face a monstrous wave of attacks yet the Dark would be beaten back.
Not everyone of the Dark can see the bigger picture, only the great lords, for that is their way and it is ours too. When a major attack is building, all the lesser creatures can sense it though, just as birds know when a storm is coming. Lesser servants of the Dark, at such times, may betray themselves by impulsive actions. Such a man (and he was but a man) was the Reverend Aloysius Goodwill. One might expect a man of God to shun the path he took; after all, what communion does the light have with the dark? I later investigated his credentials: a short-lived ministry in a lesser schismatic church, formed from a minor, schismatic ecclesia. There are those who like the cachet and respectability of clerical office that should never be ordained. Anyway, I digress. During the spring of 1938 Aloysius lodged in the East Yorkshire Village of Sewarsbye, where he was at odds with the local vicar, over doctrinal matters. He'd been there since the previous autumn and wasn't popular, except perhaps with the landlord of the 'Barleycorn' (a public house he regularly frequented). It was generally known that Goodwill was writing a book about the history - and folklore - of the parish. Some wondered why, given he had no known connection with the area. Goodwill assiduously questioned everyone who would talk to him. Despite his off-putting manner, many willingly provided information in the hope of seeing a credit in print.
"He was an odd fellow," the Reverend Timothy Mainprise later told police. "Always wanting to challenge me about scripture, yet he had no real love for his contrary views. I can only think he came from a most peculiar church."
Like so many places in these isles, Sewarsbye is ancient. Dig beside the Roman road to the west and you'll find the flattened skeletons of the princes of the Britons. Some were Celts and others that ancient people who first crossed from what is now mainland Europe. I actually knew Siward, the Saxon from whom the modern village derives its name. He was master of all that he surveyed. His kin had arrived with sword and flame, in a wave of the Dark. Like so many others they eventually settled and came to the love the land. The fires of the Dark flare intensely, yet, to their frustration, soon burn out. The great things of the Light – such as the signs and the grail – will help us in the coming, final battle. There are however smaller items, lesser but useful, created by others beside the Light or the Dark. Mortal men have made such things. They are usually half-wise; dabblers in matters they don't fully understand. Sometimes the very act of creation brings an immediate reckoning. Such an experiment resulted in the Dial of Prior John. He was one of the fortunate ones."
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At Bretelton Priory
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"Bretelton Priory was a magnificent place of which only the nave remains (now a parish church). Henry VIII's despoilers saw to it that the altars were stripped, the monks ejected and stones tumbled. The last Prior of Bretelton was turned out of his nest and that ravenous bird, the King, swallowed the Priory riches whole.
Earlier, during the stewardship of John Siwardby the Priory prospered. It wasn't famous, being but the fifth largest Augustinian Priory in the north. It was however well regarded for its extensive and eclectic library. I'd been there once, sixty years earlier, in the guise of a friar, but none were likely to remember me. Few people lived to the ripe old ages enjoyed today. It was in the summer of 1365 that I arrived at Bretelton, on a private commission for the King (the third Edward). It wasn't an easy time, for the King's favourite, Alice Perrers, disliked me. She was corrupt, greedy, and suspected that I'd thwarted her twice. I was glad to leave court for a time and knew that I'd be unlikely to return for long.
My business was soon conducted and Prior John, at least, took a liking to me. I stayed for some days longer than necessary; days spent conversing on all manner of topics, from history to science. He was an educated man (of his sort) and had travelled throughout France and to Rome. You will come across people, Will, who recognise and respond to the Light without realising it. One night we were walking by the priory fishpond and John told me something most unusual. I think he was glad to unburden himself and there was none amongst the monks to whom he could speak. "Invocavit itaque Esaias propheta Dominum…" the Prior began. He was quoting from the Old Testament (the Latin Vulgate was in use at that time). The prophet Isaiah cried out to the Lord and the shadow, on the sundial, went backwards by ten degrees. There was something about that passage that had always intrigued the Prior. Now, like some other learned men of his age, he dabbled in alchemy and the pseudo arts that led to our modern science. When such mortal men experimented they occasionally performed magic, intentionally or by accident. It's a dangerous thing to do and may well attract the attention of the Dark. Perhaps John was blessed because it had passed unnoticed. The good Prior had created some sort of device or engine for briefly turning back time itself. That is a powerful thing in any hands, especially the wrong ones. It failed far more often than it actually worked, for which he had no explanation. Although grateful to discuss the matter with one who didn't ridicule or condemn him, he was reluctant to fetch the thing. I had the impression that he was secretly unhappy with what he'd done and wouldn't need much persuasion to destroy it. A word of praise or condemnation might sway things, I thought. Using his own scriptures I showed him that he was wrong to make the device and most certainly shouldn't use it. I was gentle and kindly but frank. In the end he agreed to destroy it. I then gathered that it wasn't actually at the Priory but in some other place (that I wotted not of).
Even Old Ones make mistakes, Will. I had lingered in the north too long and had to return to the King without further delay. I should have been a terrier, pursued the matter and harried John until I saw the thing destroyed. Yes, I could have taken it from him by force, but it felt wrong. Anyway, there were greater things of power than an uncertain toy, produced by man. I trusted John and was certain that I'd got through to him. I resolved to return as soon as possible, but it would be too late, for he died of plague the next winter. I could only hope that he'd done what we agreed."
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Merriman investigates
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"I've had a fondness for historians since my association with Nennius, an eighth century minister under Elvod (bishop of what we now call Bangor). Back then chroniclers were a strange breed. Sources were dubious and they often wrote to establish the legitimacy of princes rather than for love of the truth. It was entirely by chance that I discovered Aloysius Goodwill was in Sewarsbye and asking questions of the late Prior John, supposedly researching a book. I was conscious of unfinished business; I'd long regretted not overseeing the destruction of his device. We have a sense – you and I – when something is wrong; just as choirmasters can pick out a wrong tone. I hastened north and took a room in Bretelton, just two miles walk from Sewarsbye.
My first encounter with the Reverend Aloysius didn't go well. I came across him, not entirely by chance, on the cliff road. It was a broad, well worn track then (paved today) overlooking the headland. It was one of those rare, bright February days with a false promise of spring in the air. I saw the lofty but bent figure of Goodwill walking towards me. I'd already spied him out, at a distance. He was a tall man, with a perpetual stoop and the air of one who considers himself better than his fellows. I greeted him cheerfully, "Good morning, father."
"Yes," he drawled, considering whether I was worthy of his consideration, "as you say, a fine morning."
I noted the battered leather satchel at his side and frankly itched to see inside. I could have caught him outside of time but it's unwise with creatures of the Dark. He might have been protected or, at the very least, I might have drawn attention to myself. "A fine view, is it not?" I gestured towards the headland.
"Certainly."
"I gather the Danes thought so." Now, I admit, that was clumsy. I had no excuse to converse so I threw the so-called historian a bone, in the hope that he'd catch it in his teeth.
"So I understand." Goodwill looked at me speculatively. "You are local, Mr… um?"
"Ambrose; Paul Ambrose. I'm staying further down the coast, for a few weeks, convalescing."
"Ah," he returned. He paused momentarily, then rejected my offering. "Well, Mr Ambrose, I trust you will find the air beneficial," and with that he was gone. Maybe he suspected me or had decided I was of no use to him (not being local).
I ran into Goodwill on half a dozen occasions but never again got more than a 'good morning' from him. I now think he knew me to be of the Light. Certainly, he never seemed comfortable in my presence. Now, to the north of Sewarsbye is Maltus farm. It didn't require any great leap of the imagination to realise that a brewer's malthouse had once stood thereabouts. I'd seen Goodwill leaving the farm twice and took the opportunity of introducing myself to the farmer, one Jowett, in the local hostelry. A couple of pints of best Yorkshire bitter soon loosened his tongue. I steered the conversation easily enough. "Oh, the Reverend Goodwill," Jowett said. "He's writing a history of the village."
"Yes, so I believe. And he's interested in your farm?"
"Aye; there was a malt-house there, oh, centuries ago. I've a map, y' see, on t'wall, hundreds of years old it is. It shows the old malt-house, in what's now my twelve acre field."
I arranged to visit the farm later in the week, having shown a keen interest in the chart of which Jowett was so proud. I was made most welcome, not least because I'd brought several bottles of pale ale with me as a gift. It was hard to date the map precisely, at least without using magic. I judged it to be from the mid sixteenth century and I examined its crabbed script most carefully. Some of it was in Dog Latin and the rest idiosyncratic modern English. It was hard to be sure but the malt-house appeared to be marked 'Johanne's malthus' (which I took to mean John's malt-house). That explained Goodwill's interest."
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Good Friday
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"Matters came to a head on Good Friday; the fifteenth of April 1938. You think that a strange day perhaps, Will? Why so? A day when true goodness appeared at the lowest ebb? Indeed, the Dark chose the day advisedly. I spent a sleepless night, alarmed, aware that something was afoot. I didn't know whether Goodwill had found Prior John's device or if he was about to make an attempt to locate it. I had to choose between watching the Reverend or Maltus Farm. It wouldn't be easy to watch his lodgings unobserved so, in the early hours, I made my way to the village and on to the farm.
It was a fair April (if a little unsettled in the north parts) and particularly warm mid month, so it was no great hardship to set off well before dawn. I made for the crest of the ridge above Jowett's twelve acre field. It was a good vantage point (well, as soon as it became light) yet I was nicely concealed in the line of trees. In the middle of the field stood a dejected scarecrow on its pole, an unlovely thing and ill formed. "Watch with me," I whispered impulsively, as if it might hear and assist. The local crows were unafraid of my presence and settled nearby pointedly, prepared to convene a court of judgement if required.
As you know, dawn is one of the favoured times for pastoral magic (although I was by no means certain that Goodwill intended to perform any such thing). He might have appeared with a pick and spade, if he was still looking for the Prior's machine. It always lightens before the sun appears and I was heartened to see a distant figure trudging along the field boundary. I hunkered down a tad lower to avoid detection. I noted that he had no tools with him but carried the satchel once again. After some score of yards he walked out into the middle of the field, crushing shoots underfoot. Satisfied of his position, he reached into his bag and pulled something out. With ordinary, mortal eyes and ears he would have been too distant to make sense of it. Happily, with the enhanced senses of an Old One, it was easy enough. The Reverend speared the spike of a small, silver sundial into the soil, awaiting the arrival of the sun. He began to say the biblical text once used by Prior John, but this time in full. "Cui ait Esasias hoc erit signum a Domino qoud facturus sit Dominus sermonem…" and so forth. I won't trouble you, Will, with the entire passage.
Next was that spell created by Liethali, of Dimetae, which seeks to mimic our own power of taking a mortal temporarily out of normal time. It's a powerful thing and rarely used except by the lords of the Dark. I doubt they'd entrusted it to one so lowly and still puzzle over how he came by it. I wondered what effect – if any – it would have in such a deserted place, used in conjunction with the Prior's machine. Then we waited: one, two, three, four, five minutes went by. Only on the sixth minute did something happen. The very air changed, it was suddenly charged as if seared by lightening. The birds, that proclaimed the start of a new day, were silenced.
Old names tell of knowledge often forgotten or but half remembered. I should have thought more, Will, about that given to the local pub: 'The Barleycorn'. You too once made that mistake, remember, when you met the witch girl on Old Way Lane? John Barleycorn – that ancient personification of harvest, of ale, of Britain, of death and rebirth – is a thing of the Wild Magic. I'd been blind but was suddenly alarmed; what did Goodwill want with John Barleycorn? For there he now stood: a stout figure, of medium height, with a chest like a beer barrel and a complexion that spoke of its contents. His hair was as yellow as standing corn and as unruly as a tangle of briars. It escaped in all directions from the greasy woollen cap that he wore. He wore a stained smock, gaiters and square toed boots. They must have been ancient when William the Bastard sailed from Normandy. "John Barleycorn," Reverend Goodwill called, confidently. The combination of date, the spell of Liethali and the Prior's machine had – however briefly – conjured and held John Barleycorn.
"What do you want of me?"
"I have called you here, Barleycorn, because I have a task for you. The Dark has a task for you."
John Barleycorn's bloodshot eyes seemed to look past Goodwill, right at me. I was sure that he knew I was watching. Even so, he addressed the clergyman. "The Dark has a task for me? What have I to do with the Dark? I am of the Wild Magic."
"Even so, I have taken you out of time and the Dark has work for you."
"What do you know of the Dark?" John Barleycorn said, focusing on his interlocutor. "You are but a man; you are not a Lord of the Dark."
"Not yet perhaps," Goodwill said, proudly. "Yet I hold you here and I will instruct you. The grain crops must fail – Barleycorn – the grain crops throughout the whole of Britain must fail."
"I see," John said, slowly.
"Good. I will release you but you must do this for me and for the Dark. Those crops must fail – not just this year - but the one after - and the one after that."
"You would starve your own people?"
"The Dark is coming, Barleycorn, it will have this land again, forever. You must do your part; I order you."
"You… order me?"
"That's right," said Goodwill, a note of triumph in his voice.
There was a long silence and I had almost made up my mind to break the spell, by taking the Reverend himself out of time. It wouldn't have been easy. The two similar spells were likely to blast us both into outer darkness, as it were, for a time at least. I'd survive but it was doubtful if the man would. Then, Barleycorn spoke. "You cannot hold me," he said, with a laugh.
"Yes I can," the man maintained. He looked slightly nervous though; his confidence briefly rocked.
"You brought me here but cannot hold me." There was a note of certainty in Barleycorn's voice. He looked at the small, silver sundial. "This is nothing but a conjuring trick," he said with surety.
"No, it holds you here."
"Briefly, but the power is already draining out of it," Barleycorn told him. "Rainwater fills the furrow and then it's gone."
"Do as the Dark commands you," Goodwill said, the slightest quaver in his voice.
"You are not the Dark – you're a fool meddling in matters beyond your understanding," Barleycorn mocked.
"I order you…" the Reverend began.
"Peace man – you order nothing – and nothing will you order ever again." Barleycorn cast his hands up in the air and his loose sleeves fell back, revealing his brown arms. "As the seed grows in the ground, as the rain waters it, the sun ripens it," he chanted, "so the barley grows, and the farmer cuts it, the women glean…"
"No, stop," Goodwill objected. He was sweating and his collar suddenly tight. He fumbled with his collar of office and flung it to the ground, pulling open his shirt, regardless of shirt studs. This incantation of Wild Magic was unexpected and not at all to his taste.
"The barley is stored, the barley is milled, the bread is eaten and the seed is sown…" Barleycorn declared, "…so you will go into the ground like seed, to grow in the earth, to be watered by the rain…"
"No, I… stop," the Reverend begged. He cringed and sank on all fours to the ground, whimpering like a whipped cur.
"…and ripened by the sun, to grow and be cut down! Into the ground you go!" With that shouted proclamation, Aloysius Goodwill melted into the very earth like snow in sunshine. He was seen, in this world, no more. "Into the ground that goes too," John Barleycorn decided, staring hard at the silver sundial which vanished from sight.
Dew had long since gathered on the face of the unlovely scarecrow. Warmed by the risen sun, wet streaks ran down its face."
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Postscript
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"The official investigation into Goodwill's disappearance didn't begin for several days. After all, he was a grown man and entitled to stay out unexpectedly, if he chose. The local constable rang the police station in town for help and an inspector was duly dispatched. In the meantime I used a little magical persuasion (shall we say) on Constable Sawdon so that I might search Goodwill's room. The officer stayed at the door, somewhat dazed, as I went through the Reverend's things. I found various documents relating to his former church in south London, which were of no particular interest. He had a bankbook showing a credit balance of nearly eight hundred pounds. He had troubled to make notes on local history so perhaps he intended to write something, if only as cover for his enquiries. Finally I found two items of some relevance. First was an old document, written in the insular French once used in England (wrongly referred to as Anglo-Norman). Where on earth Goodwill had acquired it I still don't know to this day. It spoke of Prior John of Siwardby and gave a fair description of a small estate, bordered in one place by a medieval malt-house. A second document, this time in Latin, was unsigned or dated. It told of something powerful but ungodly buried by its creator, somewhere near a malt-house in Siwardby. The pride of the writer in creating such a thing shone through, as did his shame in being unable to destroy the work of his hands.
Farmer Jowett harvested the grain from his twelve acre field in late summer but was bitterly disappointed. "I've never known owt like it," he complained, in the pub, to anyone that would listen. "It looked alright and I sold it to Masons' Mill, as usual, but they reckon it's unusable. It's got a bitter taste to it. I dunno what's wrong with it."
The Dark – as the Dark so often does – failed to understand the power that lies within the very soil of this isle, Will. It's there, it's potent and it won't be harnessed for evil. It's a lesson they have never learned."
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THE END