Before Helen of Sparta, there was the Rich, Beleaguered Princess. Before Pegasus, there were the Flying Pigs of Hogbourne. Before Romulus and Remus, there were Shorty and Nome: heroes in woolly hats. When a drunken visitor to their pub on the Island of Albion tells the tale of the besieged and beautiful but maimed Princess, the two boys set out to rescue her and win riches (almost) beyond imagination. But this is a fairy-tale that refuses to play by the rules. A philosophical dragon lines the travellers' purse with his scales. A run-in with a fake fairground time traveller lands them behind bars, where a trickster-heroine haggles for their release. A warrior's horse is clamped by a town council, and winged pigs serve for transport to the Princess's tower. But will the two would-be heroes arrive in time to save her, or will they be late for their own legend? What is the crucial question that they have not yet asked? Miss Fortune's wheel points to the number seven, but will the naive Islanders take the hint? Myth, fairy-tale and the classics feed into this satirical fantasy in the tradition of Tolkien's "Farmer Giles of Ham."
Before Helen of Sparta, there was the Rich, Beleaguered Princess. Before Pegasus, there were the Flying Pigs of Hogbourne. Before Romulus and Remus, there were Shorty and Nome: heroes in woolly hats. When a drunken visitor to their pub on the Island of Albion tells the tale of the besieged and beautiful but maimed Princess, the two boys set out to rescue her and win riches (almost) beyond imagination. But this is a fairy-tale that refuses to play by the rules. A philosophical dragon lines the travellers' purse with his scales. A run-in with a fake fairground time traveller lands them behind bars, where a trickster-heroine haggles for their release. A warrior's horse is clamped by a town council, and winged pigs serve for transport to the Princess's tower. But will the two would-be heroes arrive in time to save her, or will they be late for their own legend? What is the crucial question that they have not yet asked? Miss Fortune's wheel points to the number seven, but will the naive Islanders take the hint? Myth, fairy-tale and the classics feed into this satirical fantasy in the tradition of Tolkien's "Farmer Giles of Ham."
Before the Giants came, the Island of Albion was a peaceful place for quiet people. The fields and hillsides, woodlands and valleys of that most charming of islands were peopled, for the most part, with farmers, brewers, weavers, carpenters and smiths. There was no king, emperor, duke or sheriff, for it was an idiopragmapolitan society: everyone minded his own business, and very well it worked, too, until it was stamped on by the iron sole of the gigantarchy, and it took a large force of armed Trojan expatriates out of Italy to deal with that.
In the Old Insular culture, the one place where it was not only licit but laudable to attend to other people’s business was the public house. In the village of Slightfield (for so its name was later rendered in the English tongue), there was a man called Scratchstubble who kept such licensed premises at the sign of The Shaggy Dog. On a pinching night between winter and spring, or at mellow sunset in blithe midsummer, the men of Slightfield (for a pub, in those days, was a place for men) had no better resort for thermal comfort or aestival refreshment than the Dog. Domestic vexation and commercial anecdotes seeped into discourse as the ale-head ran over the rim of the mug. The host himself was professionally exempt from the bonhomie, for it was his privilege merely to facilitate what others came there to do. He spent opening hours seeing to it that all were served, saying little, wiping grubby hands on an even grubbier apron and occasionally calling his junior bar staff to order. The staff were two in number; their names were Shorthand and Nomore. They moved in an ambiguous zone between the landlord’s abstemious taciturnity and the liquid loquacity of the patrons. They could fraternize up to a point, but not to the detriment of the service. If they dawdled, a sharp bark of “Shorty!” or “Nome!”, for which a fierce glance or smart clip round the ear could do duty, was enough to recall them to work. Work, for them, consisted of serving and refilling ale-mugs, mopping up spillage and, after hours, washing down tables, washing up vessels, sweeping the floor and hearth. The company did not, of course, have the wherewithal to smoke. If it is true, as some say, that in an earlier age the weed-art was known and practised on the eastern side of the great western ocean, at the time of our story the art was in its desuetude, since no traveller came back from the far west, and few attempted the journey. In those days, it was justly considered adventure enough to sail east across The Sleeve, and achievement enough to return; for some rovers did return, and thereon turns the tale.
In the relentless rain of a night in the young year, the thick-wrapped Rover slipped into the inn, shed his soggy outer cloak and ordered a mug of the house ale. He was served by Shorty, who then attended to the patrons on the far side of the room before Nome buttonholed him as he returned with his jug.
“Shorty! Who’s that?”
“A returning rover.”
“Yes, but who is he?”
“How am I supposed to know? I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“What does the company say?”
“It’s the consensus of the company that he is local, come back from Abroad. But that’s where the consensus ends. Some say he’s So-and-So from below the hill, others swear he’s Whatsisname of the spinney. He’s been away twenty years on one reckoning, closer to thirty on another.”
“So who’s right, do you think?”
“I think we’re unlikely to find out. I’ll bet you this evening’s tip that he won’t say, so that all parties can go on considering him their man. Agreed?”
“As you like.”
After a short interval in which his mug was three times drained and refilled, the Rover broke in on the speculation, resting a leather sole on a vacant chair and raising a fourth mug high above the bar, the hearth, the company and his own wolfish head.
“Yes, I have come back,” he owned, part snarl, part sigh. Of the proposed identifications, he neither affirmed nor denied any. Shorty nodded to Nome in satisfaction. “Back,” the Rover went on, “to this sodden sliver in the northern sea. Where each man minds his own business, because his neighbour has no business worth minding.”
The company liked that, and laughed loud. The Rover slammed his mug down on the bar, spilling a quarter of it, whereupon he promptly stuck out his hand for a refill from Shorty. Nome slipped behind the bar and swiftly applied a tattered cloth to the spilled beer as Scratchstubble stood by, frowning.
“I’ve seen things,” the Rover declared, as soon as he had quaffed the fifth mug, “that you sedentary sluggards would not credit. Mountains tall as Titans with snow in summer. Hot springs spewing steam into the air. Pigs flying over the Hogbourne hills, their pink wings glowing in the sky at sunset.”
This last claim was received by the company only with certain reservations, such as Pull the other one and Come off it. The Rover stood his ground; rather, he kept his left foot on the ground and his right on the chair, but stuck his arm out again for another refill.
“When you come to Hogbourne across The Sleeve,” he insisted, “your flying pig is your only mount for reaching the country of the Rich, Beleaguered Princess. But that’s a story you isolated Insulars will never have heard, isn’t it? Here’s to Ignorance!” He raised his mug again.
“Nescience,” said a voice from a corner of the room, drawing puzzlement in its direction. “I said Nescience,” the voice repeated. “It would be Ignorance if our not knowing the story were in any way a defect. But since we have no need whatsoever to be acquainted with the said narrative, there is no lack of due knowledge in the case, hence the correct term is not Ignorance, but Nescience. Just so you know.”
The company’s response was twofold. First, it shouted down the heckler, then it vigorously asserted its new consensus that the Rover should by all means relate the story of the Rich, Beleaguered Princess, whose country lay on the far side of Hogbourne across The Sleeve. The Rover obligingly lowered his right foot to the ground and his backside into the chair, then raised his mug to his mouth and his voice to the company:
“The Rich Prince of Foreland lives in peace until the Horde arises and races, ravaging, across the mountains. Swift metal, flame, smoke: stabbing, burning, smothering. Sudden leap and mauling of the indeflectible fiend. The Prince fortifies his tower, sends out runners, risks a rider, to tempt a hero to free the mountain passes. ‘Gleaming gold, winking stones, silver sheen, daughter’s dainty hand, all yours, all yours, only deliver us!’
“The Cunning Prince of Hinterland hears of the offer. He marks a mountain village, clears out the people, leaves only beasts, lets the Horde enter. His men hide high up, topple a boulder, start a rockfall: houses, beasts and Horde pounded under the stones’ furious fall.
“The Prince of Foreland opens his treasury, gleaming gold, twinkling stones, shiny silver, but all outglanced, outsparkled and outshone by the bright hair, candid face and lucid eyes of his daughter Cheora, for that is the name of the Rich, Beleaguered Princess.”
Shorty, who had paused, story-struck, at his work, asked the question that was perhaps beginning to occur to others, too. “Why is the Princess beleaguered, if the Horde has gone?”
Scratchstubble caught Shorty’s eye and gestured roughly to him to go and fill the mug of the Rover, who was holding out that very vessel for another measure. At the far end of the room, Nome was performing the same service for the tale-bound company.
“The Horde has gone,” the Rover conceded, “but the Prince of Hinterland remains and wants his reward: gold, jewels, silver, bride, all four, and that’s the trouble.” He drained his mug and held it out again before Shorty could move on.
“The Princess won’t marry him?” asked Nome, who was also pricked by an incipient interest in the story.
The Rover was sourly amused. “Nor is her father glad of the match. You see, the Prince of Hinterland is a cunning strategist, but he is also cross-eyed, floppy-haired, bow-legged, crow-footed, ham-fisted, you name it. The Rich Prince of Foreland sobs before his daughter. ‘My child, how can I give you to this … mess?’
“‘Dearest Father, you don’t have to,’ says the Princess.
“‘But I do!’” The Rover himself was by this point so lachrymose that there was hardly anyone present who could not feel the protagonist’s pain. “‘I have sworn by all the powers in heaven, earth and Hades that whoever freed the mountains from the Horde should have your hand.’
“The Princess smiles and kisses his wracked brow. ‘Don’t distress yourself, dearest Father. You shall keep the letter of your oath: no less, but no more.’
“The Prince of Hinterland presents himself at the Tower of Foreland and finds, standing ready, the chests that contain his reward. Great chest of gold, middle-size chest of gems, small chest of silver. A servant of Foreland brings him a fourth box: a case, really, such as you might use to keep a dagger as an heirloom. The Prince takes the case, inspects it. ‘What’s this? I didn’t ask for other goods. I want the Princess’s hand.’
“‘And there you have it,’ says the Princess.
“Half-disbelieving, half-suspecting pranks, the Prince of Hinterland opens the box, and there, on a small cushion, is a woman’s right hand, the ring of the ladies of the House of Foreland sparkling on the middle finger. The Prince looks up, still suspicious. The Princess now draws her right arm from under her cloak and holds up the cauterized stump of her hand, cut off at the wrist, for the verification of her claim and for the gratification of the ghoulish curiosity of all the world.”
The Rover downed another mug while the company took an audibly sharp breath.
“The Prince of Hinterland hurls the hand in the teeth of the Prince of Foreland, breaking one or two of them. The guards raise their spears to spit the aggressor, whose own companions bare their blades. The Princess takes charge and restrains the spearmen. ‘He saved us from the Horde,’ she reminds them, ‘so we must forgive him this injury.’ Then she speaks to the Prince of Hinterland: ‘I gave my right hand so that my father should break neither his oath nor his heart. You have lost nothing, and are twice as wealthy as you were yesterday, if you take the chests. And my right hand is still yours, if you really want it. The ring is quite valuable and is offered gratis. Take all and go, and may the gods be kind to you.’
“‘Take all? Take all?’” The Rover was roaring at the summit of his voice; outside, a solitary dog made plaintive answer. “‘By the gods, I will take all: every last leaf of gold, every chip of stone, every sliver of silver in this accursèd house, and of you, Princess, I will have every foot!’
“‘I still have two of those, but only two,’ says the Princess.”
The heckler “Nescience” chortled into his beer. His kind of girl, obviously.
“And so,” the Rover declaimed, “begins the War of Cheora’s Hand. The Prince of Hinterland withdraws, rubescent in shame and wrath, returns with men and arms. The Prince of Foreland perishes in the fighting before his tower. His maimed heiress remains inside, the ringed walls standing between her and the Prince of Hinterland. And that is why she is known to the world as the Rich, Beleaguered Princess.” The Rover hauled himself from his chair and laughed with raucous contempt as he stuck out his mug for another measure and quaffed two thirds.
“All the wealth of the House of Foreland is locked with her inside the tower! If anyone were to raise the siege and rescue her, that man could expect more riches than any of you petty … parochial … provincials could possibly – ” His eyes rolled and closed as he pitched forward onto the floor, landing where his mug had spilled a sour little pool as it pounded the ground before him. To his audience, the unfinished sentence was the most amusing part of all. It was the consensus of the company that too many years Abroad had led the Rover to underestimate the provincial imagination.
Shorty and Nome glanced at each other, then at Scratchstubble, whose mouth was twitching in the barest sketch of a rueful smile. They knew what he was thinking. He disliked the uproar, much preferring the habitual quiet. Nevertheless, the customers had been entertained to a degree that was scarcely bad for business, and, fortunately, in a way that did not admit of frequent repetition. It was not every night that a rover returned. There was a mess to clean up, but why else did he pay bar staff? “Shorty! Nome!” he called out, as they expected. “Debit the gentleman’s account, please.”
That was their signal to search the insensible patron for anything by way of wallet, pouch, pocket or purse, then to examine it for coins of any mint or denomination, extracting pieces to the value (real or estimated) of what the patron had drunk, to which were added the costs of overnight accommodation on the floor of the inn without prior booking. Shorty and Nome made a start.
“Hm,” Shorty observed, “not all that many foreign coins. I expected more. By the way, I won the bet for the tip, remember?”
“I suppose he’s made an exchange,” said Nome.
“How so?”
“Well, he must have landed somewhere before he came here on foot.”
“If he came on foot.”
“He didn’t say anything about a horse.”
“Or a pony.”
“Or an ass.”
“He thought we were the asses.”
“But he wasn’t going to need foreign money here, was he? So my guess is that he exchanged what he had for local currency at the place where he landed.”
“Likely enough. But he didn’t exchange all of it: there are some pieces here that aren’t native.”
The alien coins were mostly small and nondescript, but one silver piece bore designs on its obverse and reverse that made Shorty start and whistle softly as he inspected them. “It’s all true!” he whispered to himself, quickly pocketing the piece before anyone, even Nome (who was crouching on the other side of the Rover), could see it. Yes, Shorty reflected, that would do very nicely for a discretionary service charge.
Meanwhile, the company was considerately dissolving itself. The evening’s entertainment had passed its peak, and the boys had extra work to do. When all had settled up and gone, Shorty and Nome lifted the recumbent Rover and carried him between them to the fireside. Depositing their burden before the declining fire, they dusted their hands and smirked at the sleeper.
“Your friends at Scratchstubble’s remind you – ” Shorty began.
“ – to drink responsibly!” they both chorused, and laughed loud.
After that came the mopping-up, the washing-up and the washing-down, the sweeping of the floor but not of the hearth, since they would leave the fire to spend itself, especially for the benefit of the patron who, by their good offices, had just paid to spend the night by it. Then they could rest. They would get nothing to eat that night, but they were allowed to drink a mug of ale each before retiring to the poky shed where they, the staff, slept. Nome bedded down first, but Shorty stayed up a while, running keen fingers across the coin he had pocketed, over its rim and beaten images. A bitter sob rose from the floor behind him.
“You all right, our kid?” he called.
“It’s so cold,” came the desolate reply.
“It is,” Shorty murmured. “I think we’ll find it warmer on the other side of The Sleeve.”
“What did you say?”
“Never mind. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
Outside, the solitary dog whined again into the wind.
Since the author’s name in Latin means “writing,” we can be sure that’s what the book is all about. And therein lies a problem. There is a tiny subgenre of the Fantasy book world that is peopled by scholars and nerds who just love this sort of thing.
Unfortunately, most of that same little cadre consists of Sci-Fi/Fantasy fanatics who read a great deal of those genres. For example, my qualifications as a reviewer include writing two novels a year and reviewing thirty or forty more.
And these experienced readers are looking for quality in everything, not just the writing style. The story is about the problem of naïvety, but they don’t want to spend time with people who are quite that stupid. They are looking for excellence in the little details. They don’t want to notice that one day our heroes are paying one dragon scale for a couple of drinks, and the next day they’re renting a boat for only four. And the whole flying pig concept is supposed to stretch reality until it becomes funny, but for the mature reader, it just doesn’t make it.
Teenagers graphic novel readers with little experience in the real and written world are quite happy with this level of sophistication, and a volume of a hundred pages or so is the perfect length for them.
The two main characters are likely to appeal to that age group, as their thought processes are quite believable, and their dialogue is bang-on. However, that demographic have no interest in hearing half a dozen different honorifics for a dragon, none of which is “dragon.” Nor are they likely to catch the allusions and parodies promised in the introduction. Not that readers of that sort are likely to get past the introduction and the poetry and the second paragraph of Chapter One (which is two pages long), without putting the book down and walking away.
In the final analysis, this book was written for two separate mutually exclusive audiences, so despite some very clever writing, I don’t know who to recommend it to.