This is a short story, containing no bad language or violence, in which Abigail Malprice meets Dryads but Constable Greasemore is led a merry dance. It is something of a sequel to 'Great Caspian's Day'.
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Midsummer revels
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Midsummer Day
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Juan Carter was most unaccountably hungry but didn't know why. He'd broken his fast just after dawn with a steaming dish of kidneys, chicken livers and mushrooms. His cart loaded with sacks, he'd set off, cheerfully, into what promised to be a fine summer morning. It was surely little more than an hour since he'd eaten? What was left of Backhouse Lane ran from Spink Wood to the outskirts of Streddling (a modest market town that served the royal castle). At best it was now little more than a track, disappearing altogether in places. It met the much more recent Castle Road at the point of a proposed - and unpopular - turnpike. Backhouse Lane was one of the few places in Telmarine Narnia known by its original name. A fingerpost had survived into the early years of the settlement. Now, place names tell the cognoscenti much about old lands otherwise hidden. Even a corrupted name like 'Backhouse' has its secrets. The original road ran as far as the 'Bag O' Nails' alehouse in Streddling, which is again very telling.
"Good morning!" Juan greeted an old fellow jogging by on a sturdy donkey. He was unfamiliar but Juan was the friendly sort.
"A good morning to you," the man replied, puffing slightly, a little out of breath.
Juan Carter stayed his horses. "Are you heading for Streddling?"
"Streddling? Oh yes, Streddling." The stranger clapped his hands to his considerable stomach as if reassuring himself that it was all still there.
"Just visiting?"
"Visiting? Yes, as you say, just visiting." The man turned his bald head to study the new brickwork on both sides of the road. "What is this, please?"
"You've not heard?" Juan shook his head in wonder. He concluded that the stranger was from country parts; Clovis' Ditch or still further afield mayhap. "They're building a turnpike."
"A turnpike?"
"A toll road; folks will have to pay each time they use the road, or buy a permit."
"Across Backhouse Lane?"
"Across… Oh, yes, that's right, just here, where the two roads meet."
"And this is well liked?"
"No, my friend, it is very much disliked!"
The lawn of Malprice House ran down to the Stickledyke and was a gay carnival of wildflowers in summertime. The ditch, which was prone to flood in winter, was a dry channel once more. Old boards, kept out of sight behind a bush, were used for crossing. Juan Carter wasn't the only local out early that morning, for Abigail Malprice was just returning home. Abigail was a tall girl, seventeen years of age, fair of face yet dark haired. She'd not yet made her debut at the royal court but her guardian was already considering eligible suitors. The girl crossed the Stickledyke then paused; it would be quicker to run across the lawn, to the back of the house. By tucking up her skirts she could climb the drainpipe easily enough, to get to her bedroom. It would be safer though to follow the edge of the lawn and approach more surreptitiously. She yawned for she was tired, which settled the matter for her. She ran quickly across the grass.
A third floor window flew open and a head, hair full of curlers, shouted. It was her Cecilia Malprice. "Abigail Malprice! Where have you been?"
"Dancing, Aunt!" was the unwise answer.
"If you go down to the woods today"
'Gallows Greasemore' tucked his distinctive white hat, a badge of office, under his arm to knock on the heavy oak door. This shady part of the castle, gloomy in winter, was something of a relief at noontide on a hot summer day.
"Come! Ah, Constable, sit down." Mistress Malprice had officially been the Deputy Sherriff for two years but the de facto Sherriff for rather longer. Her husband was confined to his bed but clung to life (to the persistent annoyance of his loving spouse).
"I thank you ma'am."
"You are well?"
"Yes ma'am; and yourself?"
"I'm concerned, Constable, concerned." With that, Cecilia Malprice told Damon Greasemore the strange story that her niece had relayed. The girl, of course, knew only what she saw but I can reveal rather more.
Where the Telmarines thrived, Old Narnia slept. Only in the lonely spots – the deep woods, high hills and wastes – did some semblance of the past continue. Spink Wood was not an old place by Narnian standards, being but a plantation two centuries earlier. As Old Narnia failed, the neglected plantation expanded and became a proper wood. It suffered little by logging for there were different, better trees elsewhere. The superstitious and foolish told tales of 'Old Caballo,' half man, half horse, that had once lived there.
Silenus hadn't been in those parts for a long time. The last monarch of Old Narnia, Queen Alfreda, had been but middle aged then. She lived to be one hundred and five; unmarried, clinging to the throne as a barnacle does to a ship's hull. She was a great ruler, for her era, but she could do nothing to stop Narnia failing. Even back then, Silenus' wanderings were tinged with nostalgia. He saw the great trees asleep, the rivers and streams that had fallen silent. He woke them – briefly – and they remembered times long ago. Yet, when he left, they fell back into their repose.
Spink Wood was wholly new to him. He'd not troubled himself with the plantation on his last visit, but here at least was something new that was also better. He urged his donkey on, and it brayed its assent. "Trees," he observed, perhaps unnecessarily. "Trees," he approved. He had no fear of being seen by poachers, foresters, wood gatherers or any other such folk as might use the place. Although rather weighty and plain he was in fact a nymph. He had his own ways of remaining unseen, when it suited him. "I must tell Bromios," he muttered.
It was Midsummer Eve which, as you may know, is an auspicious occasion when all manner of strange things may be possible. Even so, what happened in Spink Wood was particularly uncommon. "Oh, goodness, I'm hungry," Silenus declared. It's fair to say that was rather more common. He found a hollow at the heart of the small wood and slid from his mount in an ungainly manner. There was no need to tether his clever and faithful ass. Silenus conjured up a bunch of crisp, sweet carrots, broke them into pieces, and tossed them to the ground. With a groan he plumped himself down onto the grass, his back to a tree. A jug of ruby red wine and a stone cup appeared before him. He filled the cup and held it momentarily, "With thanks to the Lion," he said solemnly. For all his oddities, Silenus knew who to praise and respect. Then, looking up, he spoke more loudly, "Pray show yourself, daughter of Eve."
A young woman stepped out. She'd been playing, in the guise of gathering wild flowers. At seventeen one is too old to openly play. That can't be done again until one is considerably older. "Hullo," she said. We all know the dangers of strangers in lonely places but she judged that he was far too heavy and indolent to catch her. "I'm not Eve's daughter," she added in clarification.
"Oh, but I think you are," Silenus replied, with confidence.
"No, my mother was called Wisteria and she's dead." Abigail didn't know why she'd revealed so much, but she had no real fear of the man.
"Your mother is dead? I'm sorry to hear that."
"My father is dead too." Abigail found this urge to inform most perplexing.
"And what is your name, daughter of Eve?"
"Abigail Malprice."
"Sit, where you are, Abigail Malprice, to eat." Silenus waved a hand and a chequered picnic blanket appeared at her feet. On the plates were all the things she most relished. The grapes were fat, like ping pong balls. The finest vineyards in Calormen had never produced such grapes. The golden honey was scented with lavender and the bread – how that bread smelled – glorious and freshly baked. Big strawberries, cushioned in cream, peeped out from a golden sponge cake, its top liberally sprinkled with sugar. Edmund Pevensey might have cautioned Abigail on the dangers of eating enchanted food but unnecessarily, for the food itself wasn't magical.
After Abigail had done more than justice to the repast, she too settled back against a tree. Silenus – one of nature's great trenchermen – would have provided still more but she was full to capacity. Politely repressing the urge to burp, the girl asked, "You keep mentioning the Great Lion. Would you please tell me about him, sir?" – and so he did. Silenus told her how Aslan 'was' before the world 'was' and how all created things came into being around him. Of the White Witch, that great adversary, he'd say little 'for I'd not spoil a beautiful day with such sour matters.' Abigail learned of the Good Kings Bran and the wonderful years that slipped by, one after the other, like beads on an abacus. Then came the bad years: the poor kings, the weak kings and the wicked kings. The Witch returned, seemingly in triumph, but her days were numbered, for Aslan performed the greatest act of love the world had ever witnessed. Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve once again filled the land, yet all too soon they forgot what they'd learned.
"And then we (the Telmarines) came."
"And then you, the Telmarines, came," Silenus agreed. "But we grow so serious! Would you like to meet others that dwell alongside you?"
"May I?" Abigail was wide eyed at the prospect.
"Of course!" Silenus stood up and clapped his hands. "Come Silver Fir, come Spruce, come Pine; it is time to quit your slumber and dance." Abigail glanced about her, "See, these ladies are Firs," he said. Eight slender (seemingly young) women, with greyish brown skin, clad in green robes, stepped out uncertainly. They wore their hair up, bushy at the crown. They blinked, as one might if roused from a particularly long sleep. "They are young," Silenus told Abigail as an aside, "probably no older than one hundred and fifty." If one thinks about it, this is quite young compared to some trees. The Firs began to greet each other and chatter excitedly, before making their curtsies to Silenus.
"Ah, now here are the Spruces!" The five Spruces had a much warmer brown complexion than the Firs and wore their hair in a curious upward spike. One yawned and another rubbed sleep from her eyes. Soon they were talking volubly to their Fir cousins, casting an occasional glance at Abigail as if to say 'we don't want to be rude but we wish you'd get on and introduce yourself'.
"Come, come my friends; Miss Abigail Malprice, meet the Pines." The six Pines were tall, their hair curled about cones and they were strongly perfumed. It wasn't unpleasant but very like those air fresheners beloved of British taxi drivers. Finding herself quickly adopted by the curious Pines and the ice broken, so to speak, Abigail introduced herself to each Dryad as Silenus looked on in quiet satisfaction.
The young woman lost all sense of time; if she'd thought about it at all she could not have said if she'd been there an hour or a day. She was deep in debate with a Fir and a Spruce, as to the best season of the year, when she heard pipes. Looking about she saw, to her amazement, a creature, half man and half goat, lolling against a tree, panpipes to its lips. "He's a faun, my dear," explained the Fir, "there's not been a faun in these parts these last fifty years." The pipes seemed to speak of long, hazy summer days, when the cool of the wood became so inviting. Some of the Dryads began to form a circle and Abigail found herself hand in hand with the Fir and Spruce. "Why, we're going to dance," she decided. Dance, they did. The circle went first one way, then another, widening until meeting in the middle. Nobody seemed to be dictating the steps yet everyone, even Abigail, seemed to know them. Silenus cocked a sleepy eye and chewed lazily on a sandwich that had appeared in his hand.
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Constable Greasemore is on the case
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Mistress Malprice had of course given Damon Greasemore an 'edited version' of events; even Abigail was cautious enough not to tell her Aunt quite everything. Much pertaining to Aslan she was obliged to omit because she could see Cecilia's face darkening. "You will go to your room and stay there, in disgrace," she'd been told. "I cannot think what your poor mother and father would have had to say about all this. Dancing in the woods at night! With village girls too, up to their tricks no doubt, whilst you believed everything they said!"
Despite her incredulity, Cecilia wanted the matter investigating. Young people enjoying themselves in a wood, no, that was too much for a responsible adult to permit. If there wasn't a bylaw preventing it then she'd ensure one was drawn up and quickly. "Trespassing – drunkenness – public indecency – anything you can come up with, Constable. Keep an eye on the woods and stamp on this, firmly."
"Leave it to me, ma'am," Greasemore had promised.
The Bag O'Nails was a relatively modern building, being rather less than a century old. It stood on the site of an earlier hostelry, although the Telmarines knew nothing of that. It looked older than its years - being built of repurposed materials – and was rather hastily built. It gave one the impression that it might someday collapse in on itself. The front parlour had been temporarily put to official business. "The old girls' got a wasp in her wimple, hasn't she?" Peter Plough remarked jocularly, rocking back on his rickety stool.
"She has," Damon Greasemore agreed. The alehouse was hot and stuffy even with the shutters wide apart. "Anyway, tonight is as likely a night as any to catch these square toes." He spoke with all the contempt of a townsman for his country rivals.
"Midsummer Day and a fine one at that;" Peter nodded. His wife at least would be glad to be spared his sullen, threatening company for one evening.
"Ah, here are the others!" The Constable would take four deputies into Spink Wood at sundown (which would be ten o'clock at night, in that season). He thought five men sufficient. "I see you've all brought sticks; good. We'll teach 'em a lesson about unruly assembly. So, ale all round is it, boys?"
The peace officers timed their walk nicely, being in sight of Spink Wood at sunset. They were on foot for only the Constable had access to a horse. They hurried along the remainder of Backhouse Lane to reach the cover of the trees. Hydrangeas and azaleas grew there in abundance; planted long ago as part of a cottage garden that had backed onto the original plantation. Feathery Lady Fern graced the shadier parts with its elegant self. "Can you hear aught?" Doggy Halfacre asked. They all shook their heads; only the birds announced their presence. A blackbird chipped frantically, in unspecified alarm.
"We'd best follow the path then," Greasemore decided. "Go quietly; we're not carthorses at a tea party."
They walked on into the woods. The sky was hardly inky but the path was faint beneath their feet where the canopy was thickest, so they lit dark lanterns. The pungent, sickly smell of the weed known as 'Witches' Breath' assailed their nostrils. 'Phew' they complained, wafting hands before their faces. They'd gone about half a mile when they heard the drumming. "Do you hear that?" Doggy halted.
"Looks like we're in luck, boys;" Greasemore gave an unpleasant smile.
They continued to walk, trying not to step on twigs or 'Clapfoot' (a fungus that smelled strongly of dung if crushed). "A flute; smoke too," Peter Plough announced, cupping his ear. "They're in 'the hollow' I reckon."
"Same as last night then," Damon replied. His deputies gripped their sticks in anticipation.
Soon they heard voices, laughter and squeals. A single drum beat out a rhythm. A flautist played a wild tune that was somewhat unsettling. It induced in the men a feeling of unease, almost panic. As if to counter this, they all brandished their sticks in a warlike fashion. "Follow me," Greasemore whispered and – with that – they filed into the hollow. "In the King's name I command you all to desist!" The men looked about them. To their left burned a fire and a very odd fire it was too, for its flames were both yellow and green as were the sparks. A dozen young women – seemingly human yet not human – danced in a circle, each gripping another's hand, their heads lolling. They were wreathed with ivy and everyone's hair was a tangle of black curls falling to the smalls of their backs. Perhaps their eyes were the oddest thing of all, for at times they looked human but, at other times, more like those of a wild animal. They were clad in deerskins and went barefoot. Two others played their instruments.
The surrounding trees – despite being pines and firs – were draped with grapevines (and what grapes they were, being plump and succulent). Of course, grapes don't grow on such trees but they did on that night at least. Burning torches thrust into the ground, here and there, lit the hollow. On the far side sat a young man – little more than a youth – but almost too pretty to be a boy. He too wore deer skin and reclined languidly on the ground, dropping grapes into his mouth. Of course, the men of Streddling had no idea who the boy was, but he has had many names. Silenus often referred to his young pupil as Bromios but others have known him as Bacchus. "You are disturbing us," that wild youngster replied. The dancing stopped and the young women hissed, almost like a flock of agitated geese.
"This assembly is over," Greasemore announced, fighting a rising, inexplicable panic. "These… young persons… will give me their names and then return home, quietly. You… young man… will come with me."
Spiders seldom smile, as you doubtless know. Nevertheless, Bacchus gave Greasemore the type of smile one could envisage a spider giving to a particularly naive fly. "No, no, I don't think I will. Maenads: remove these men."
"Euoi!" the young women cried in unison. They looked nastily at the lawmen, their eyes wide and staring. Hands suddenly resembled claws, the type of claws that might tear a chicken apart. Each man made eye contact with a Maenad and felt himself frozen with fear. The face of one seemed to turn into that of Greasemore's long lost sister (a woman he'd wrongly in various ways). Another resembled Mistress Margery Plough, keen to avenge herself. "Run!" shouted Greasemore, the spell finally broken. The men quailed, dropped their sticks and fled. The Maenads ran after them, agile as fawns, always at their heels yet never quite overtaking them.
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Consequences
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"I still don't know what to make of it ma'am," said Acting Constable Serge Smallbeer. He shook his head. Such a state of fear he'd never seen in anyone! The five men had returned to Streddling, running like the wind, gibbering of witches and who knew what?
"We need some story to put about; it'll be the talk of Steddling for a sennight."
"I thought perhaps food poisoning, from bad mushrooms?"
Mistress Malprice sighed, "Well, that's as good as anything." She fiddled with a quill. "I've sent my niece away, to stay with my sister."
"Good idea, ma'am."
"I want the perimeter of the wood patrolled every evening till dawn, until I say otherwise. No-one is to enter without my express permission; I have his Majesty's authority."
Greasemore and Peter Plough were the worst affected. All five had collapsed of exhaustion as soon as they reached the safety of town. Damon and Peter had to be sedated with herbal simples as they were in a highly nervous condition. Neither man came round for twenty four hours but, even then, each was 'a bag of nerves' prone to flinch at the slightest noise or sudden movement. "I've arranged for a watch to be set on the turnpike diggings too," Serge told Mistress Malprice.
"Very good," Cecilia approved. Some unknown person (or persons) had thrown down the new brickwork on the Castle Road. Whether it was connected with the assailants from Spink Wood was uncertain. "This is a most peculiar business, all told," she decided. The Deputy Sherriff was quite right in that; it would have lasting consequences too. Peter Plough became increasingly uncomfortable in the presence of his wife. Six months later he found labouring work further south and left home forever. The abandoned lady, who had a great supporter in her sister, wasn't terribly sorry. Damon Greasemore was unable to continue in his role as Constable. After all, a peace officer who wouldn't leave the town boundary after dark wasn't much use. He too became rather shy of women, especially when confronted. He took over as the full time warder at the kidcote, preferring to work nights, locking himself in as securely as any prisoner. There I think we must leave this particular story but Abigail Malprice's tale is not yet done.
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The end
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Glossary / notes
This story is loosely inspired by The Bacchae by Euripides, premiered 405 BC.
Bag O' Nails Bacchanals (a suggested origin of a not uncommon pub name)
Caballo Trans. horse (Spanish)
Kidcote A small gaol
Sennight Trans. Seven nights i.e. a week (British, archaic)
Square toes Unfashionable shoes perhaps expected of a rustic
(English, archaic)