Pig Boy E-Book

Michael Harvey

• Herausgeber: Cinnamon Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 494

Beschreibung

Cursed with love by his step-mother, Culhwch (Pig Boy) is condemned to love and marry Olwen, the daughter of the Hawthorn Giant—pitiless, violent and huge. So begins the quest—first to the court of King Arthur to wins support for the quest. In this earliest and earthiest of Arthurian tales, we are in the grip of the Otherworld, where landscape, nature and doing what we can to make a better future, no matter how impossible that might seem, are everything. Making a future despite the odds and despite the terrible and debilitating pain that afflicts Pig Boy as part of his love of Olwen will see him tested him again and again as he faces each task along the quest, the last to hunt the Great Wild Boar and seize the golden comb and scissors from between its ears so that the Hawthorn Giant can have his beard trimmed and hair combed for his daughter's wedding.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Half Title

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Pig Boy

A retelling of Culhwch and Olwen 

from the Mabinogion

Michael Harvey

Published by Leaf by Leaf an imprint of Cinnamon Press,

Office 49019, PO Box 15113, Birmingham, B2 2NJ

www.cinnamonpress.com

The right of Michael Harvey to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act, 1988. © 2023, Michael Harvey.

Print Edition ISBN 978-1-78864-972-8

Print Edition ISBN 978-1-78864-980-3

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A CIP record for this book can be obtained from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publishers. This book may not be lent, hired out, resold or otherwise disposed of by way of trade in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, without the prior consent of the publishers.

Designed and typeset by Cinnamon Press.

Cover design by Adam Craig © Adam Craig

Cinnamon Press is represented by Inpress.

Acknowledgements

With many thanks to Cinnamon Press and early draft readers of Pig Boy.

i storïwyr Cymru

to the storytellers of Wales

Pig Boy

Chapter 1

‘I walk out the back hauling a bucket of slop as big as myself. I know my way, and my jobs. I get diverted by broken things lying about. Pottery shards, rotting wood, sparkling stones. I pick them up, feel their weight, their hardness, or how they crumble. I poke the ground with fingers, hunting beetles. Tiny white ones, round and red ones or wriggly green. My favourite—the boss beetle. Black, busy and reflecting the others’ colours.

‘I’m at the wall now, leaning to one side to balance the bucket. The wall is too high and steep to climb. It’s warm and I lean my head against it to collect the sun’s warmth. In gaps between stones, it is cool. I poke my fingers in. There can be moss or more beetles in there. I don’t think they like it when I disturb them. They fuss and bother when I interfere, so I usually leave them alone.

‘I know there is something big on the other side. I hear it move, feel it. Its noises are too big and deep and snotty for me to picture it. I try to make the same noise from my side of the wall, but it doesn’t sound right.

‘I’m by the gate now. It feels dangerous and I am afraid. The stone wall is thick and strong. But the gate might open, and it could come out. The thing. There is a gap between the gate and wall; I look through, ducking to peer under the hinge. I don’t know what I am looking at until it moves. It is a face. Huge and bristly. It chomps and I see its tongue. It’s so close it looks like a fat arm swirling in a bath of foamy spit. I see uneven rows of yellow teeth. Grinding and chewing and stabbing. And I know, one day, it will eat me.’

That dream again. Pig Boy hauled himself up to sit where he slept. The dream still swirled; he waited for it to fade. He wanted to cling to it, its magical, terrifying images, instead of sliding into the routine, monotony and grimness of waking reality. He couldn’t hold to it though and let it all slip back from where it had come.

He sighed and levered himself out of bed. First things first. Get the fire lit, get layers on and take out the slop bucket. As he bent to pick the bucket up life and dream were superimposed. The sleepy part of him still expecting to see an eight-year old’s hand reach for the bucket’s rope handle surprised to see a big, almost-man hand. It was just a bit too big for the rest of him and didn’t belong.

He heaved up the slop bucket with a grunt and went outside. He struggled to the pigsty and levered it onto the top of the drystone wall that surrounded it. He balanced it there with his hands and shut his eyes, turning his face into the morning sun to feel the air, sometimes warm, sometimes cool on his face. The pigs had already trotted out before he arrived and were grunting impatiently. He looked at the three expectant faces, mouths chomping in anticipation.

‘It’s coming, your majesties,’ he said, tipping the slop messily into the trough. They gobbled and jostled, their bristled backs shaking to the rhythm of their chomping and, finally, two turned and headed towards the sty, replete.

Bristleback, the biggest, oldest and fattest, was more optimistic. She ran her snout along the length of the trough in search of the odd morsel, gently grunting. She looked expectantly up at Pig Boy who had clambered to the top of the wall, his feet dangling over the edge. He had a hefty stick in hand that had been leaning against the wall. Bristleback came towards him, and he leaned forward and scratched her back with the stick. He scratched hard, the tough bristles flicking mud, dust and dried pig dung into the air.

Pig Boy smiled. Here he was, sitting on a wall, scratching a contented, well-fed pig with a stick. What more could he want?

He felt someone nearby and turned to see his youngest stepsister standing there, looking up at him. She was the youngest and quietest and a girl to boot so he didn’t have much to do with her. He could see she was trying to work out what to say and, eventually, spoke with a young child’s seriousness, ‘Pig Boy, you need to come inside.’

Pig Boy followed her through the back door into the main room, where embers of the fire he had lit sent smoke curling towards the thatch. The fireplace was in the middle of the floor and a shaft of smoky light streamed in from the open door. His foster-family were all there and a tall, serious stranger wearing a long woollen cloak stood, backlit, between him and the door.

Much later when he looked back on what was about to happen it was a blur. He remembered being hugged, words of blessing and his neck being squeezed by the arms of the youngest girl and then it was time to go. His mother was dead, that’s what they said. The journey ahead was long. His mother was dead. It was time for him to go home. His mother was dead. Someone squeezed his hand in theirs—his mother was dead.

He was led out through the door when, from deep inside, he felt something wake and he span, held out his hand, and said, ‘Give me my ring!’

His foster-mother looked at her husband and he nodded. She went to a wooden box on the floor and, after rummaging a moment, returned with a small linen parcel. He took it and slowly untied it, unwrapping the layers, feeling the hard metal of the ring inside reveal its shape and then, there it was, gleaming in his palm. He could feel tears coming so he wrapped it again, tight, and pushed it into the leather bag that hung from his belt.

The stranger who had come to fetch Pig Boy was already outside leading a young grey horse. It was a long time since he had been on the back of a horse but as soon as he had the reins in his left hand and felt the leather of the saddle under his right, Pig Boy’s body knew what to do.

The stranger bent, expecting Pig Boy to bend a leg so he could heave him onto the saddle from his knee. But Pig Boy lifted himself and swung his leg over the horse with no more effort than sitting on a chair. The man who had tried to help him made his way to his own horse and mounted, a half-concealed smile on his face.

As they turned, Pig Boy saw his foster-mother pour a perfunctory libation of water on the ground and his youngest foster-sister mouthing a farewell song. The others had already turned to go indoors.

The two horsemen climbed a ridge a mile or two from Pig Boy’s foster-family’s house and then, on higher land, rode into a stinging, cold wind. Pig Boy kept his face up and let the wind scour his skin, peeling tears from his eyes and sending them spinning. They kept silent company as they rode on and, as the evening came, the weather softened. Pig Boy’s companion, handpicked by his father for the job of fetching him home, watched him unobtrusively as they made their way to the home that the lad could barely remember.

The man noticed, approvingly, how Pig Boy managed his horse. He had a natural balance and sway in the saddle, and he could see how Pig Boy was communicating with the horse with his whole body, not just yanking the reins and digging in his heels. The horse under him was calm and attentive and young man and creature had instinctively found a rapport, respect and pleasure in each other’s company.

The man had been apprehensive when he first saw Pig Boy, fresh from the sty. He was uncouth and unskilled. More a country bumpkin than the heir of a nobleman but watching him ride put the man’s mind at rest. His own mother had died when he was roughly Pig Boy’s age, and he could feel the well of grief was slowly filling inside his young charge.

‘My name is Owain.’

Pig Boy did not respond.

Later that evening, once camp was made, Owain looked at the evening sky and gave Pig Boy a nudge. They left the newly lit fire smouldering and followed a slope towards a river that tumbled over rocks and opened out into a pool. They slowed down as they approached the water. Owain picked up a fist-sized stone from the bank and put it in Pig Boy’s hand.

‘You’ll be needing this,’ he whispered. Owain crouched as he approached an over-hanging part of the bank and slowly knelt. Pig Boy moved downstream a few paces where the river curved to see what Owain was doing. Owain had a sleeve rolled to the shoulder. He knelt and slipped his hand into the river. Pig boy could see an indistinct shape under the water. It was undulating in the shade of the undercut bank. Some trout. Pig Boy crept as close as he dared. Owain’s hand was under the fish’s body, and he had started to stroke the underside of its belly with his index finger. He slowly worked his hand towards the trout’s head, until he reached its gills. Pig Boy could see Owain’s lips moving with a lullaby’s cadence as he gently coaxed his prey into whatever sleep is for a fish.

With a fling and a shout, he threw the fish on the ground before Pig Boy.

Pig Boy knelt before the gasping fish and held the stone high in his hand. He fixed his gaze on the thin, pulsing gash of gill and readied to release the killing blow.

Owain watched the boy’s face and the pent-up energy in his body, waiting for the impact. But instead, he saw the force inside him drain and his body crumple. All the intention and aim seeped out. Pig Boy’s grip slackened, and the stone fell from his grasp and landedwith a thump.

Owain grabbed the stone and bashed the life out of the trout and then turned towards Pig Boy, who was slowly slumping forwards to the ground. He knelt with him and put his arms around him, supporting him with his own body. A thin wail seeped out of Pig Boy. Owain readied for what was to come.

The well of grief opened and flowed from him and out of him and through him. His hands clutched Owain’s sleeves and Owain held on, keeping him upright. After a while, the wail changed to a rhythmic keening and the two slowly rocked. Owain’s grip slackened as Pig Boy took more of his own weight and then the two voices merged, Owain leading Pig Boy in a song for the dead. It was an old verse Pig Boy had forgotten he knew that they sang by the riverbank. His dead mother’s name ‘Bright Day’ shone in their singing.

The dimming of the day leaves me empty

The stilling of the harp calls my tears

I am swallowed whole by this grieving

For you have gone, Bright Day, you have gone

Too soon, too soon for your son

They went back to their camp near the river and Owain let the exhausted Pig Boy rest as he thanked the fish and river, and the Worlds that had made them. Then he made a fire and baked it in the ashes, wrapped in leaves. They ate silently. Pig Boy savoured the delicate fish. The heat steamed in his mouth and his belly became full and warm.

He stopped chewing and, with his mouth half-full of fish, asked, ‘What’s my real name?’

‘Well, its Pig Boy, of course.’

‘No, that’s just what they called me at my foster-family’s house because they made me look after the pigs.’

‘Not quite,’ said Owain. From the moment you arrived all those years ago, you wanted to look after the pigs. When you got there you didn’t speak to anyone for a month and they thought there was something wrong with you and that is why you had been sent so far away. One day they saw you muttering to the pigs and from that day looking after them became your job. You were good at it, apparently.’

‘How do you know all this?’ asked Pig Boy, irritated this stranger knew more about him than he himself.

‘Your foster-father knows your father well and brought news of you every time he visited.’

Pig Boy lapsed into silence. These things had been arranged around him and he never had any idea.

‘But still, Pig Boy. What kind of a name is that?’

‘A good name,’ said Owain, ‘when you know the story behind it.’

Pig Boy took the parcel out of the bag on his belt and unwrapped his mother’s ring. He watched the firelight flicker on it and felt it warm gently in his touch. She had given it to him when he left home all those years ago and, since, he had never looked at it. This gleaming and perfectly wrought piece of gold had once enclosed his mother’s finger and, here it was, gleaming on his own hand. It was beautiful and precious, and he had no idea what to make of it. He folded it back into its linen cloth and stuffed it into his bag, turning to Owain. ‘So, tell me the story of why I’m called Pig Boy, then.’

‘I can remember when she gave you that ring,’ said Owain. It was the day you left for your foster-home. She pressed it into your hand, kissed you on the cheek, hugged you to her tightly and turned to go inside, erect and graceful like the queen she was.’

Pig Boy lifted his hand to his cheek and remembered the warmth of his mother’s face when they embraced the day he left. In his memory, there was the faint brush of a tear, but he couldn’t remember if it was hers or his own.

‘Your mother was quite a woman. “Bright Day” is a difficult name to live up to but she did. One of her sisters married King Arthur, you know! When she walked into a room, she really did light the place up. When she married your father, everyone had high hopes for the future but…’

Owain’s voice faltered, and it was clear he had, without realising, started a story that would be hard for Pig Boy to hear.

‘Keep going,’ said Pig Boy.

‘Well alright, but…’

‘Keep going!’

‘Well, when she became pregnant with you something strange happened…’

One glance at Pig Boy was enough for Owain to realise he had to go on.

‘Well, like I was saying, once she was pregnant she went… she went completely mad. And I don’t mean just a bit strange but completely off her head. She stopped speaking and just made these weird animal noises. And then she started to attack people. My wife went a bit peculiar for a while when she was expecting our eldest but nothing like this. I mean, your mother went properly crazy. She raved and screamed and tore at the eyes of those who wanted to help her. She ripped her clothes and yanked chunks of her hair out and one day she ran, barefoot and ragged, from the castle off into the woods and nobody, not even your own father, had the courage or the strength to stop her.’

Owain was getting into his stride now and shouted, pulled terrifying faces and waved his arms as if he was the crazy one. Getting news like this about his recently deceased mother in such graphic and loud detail was overwhelming but Pig Boy understood that this was a situation where it was either “all or nothing” and he had chosen “all”. Owain eyeballed Pig Boy and took a long, deep, breath to launch into the next episode.

‘In the woods, she squatted in her rags on the roots of a gnarled, old tree by a stagnant pool. She stared at the moon’s reflection and muttered and moaned as the baby grew inside her. Her hair became matted, her skin covered in scabs and insect bites. The nails on her hands and feet grew and curved into tough, yellow claws and she just sat there, stinking and crazy, chewing on roots and frogs.

‘Eventually her time came and, as the intensity of the labour pains increased, she returned to her senses. As her mind cleared, she uttered the first coherent thought since coming into the darkness of the woods. “What am I doing here? I’m about to have a baby. I need to get home!”

‘She struggled to her feet and walked until she found a path. Soon, she got her bearings, started to recognise landmarks and, before long, knew that she was on the way home. After a while she was on a proper path that led her past fields and villages.

‘“Soon be back home,” she said to the baby in her belly, as she walked heavily along the path.

‘Now, coming the other way was a man herding his pigs. He urged them on and swished his stick to get them down the road and they gathered speed. There was a bend ahead and the man herded them round the corner. Right into the path of your mother! But, poor woman, she was exhausted and didn’t have the strength to get out of the way. The pigs surged past her in a sea of grunting, yellow tusks and pig stink and your mother fell to the ground with a scream. It is a miracle that she wasn’t trampled to death and that you are around to hear this story!

‘Anyway, moments later, the swineherd turned the corner and he saw something he would remember for the rest of his life. A naked, newborn baby lying in the road waving his arms and looking up at him. Yes, you!

‘The swineherd picked up the baby, wrapped him in his coat and took him to the castle because there was no doubt this was a noble child. They knew your mother couldn’t be far and, before long, she was found and taken back to the castle. After washing and putting on her royal clothes once more, she had her baby in her arms. Your father gently embraced both her and you and she said, “What shall we call him?”

‘Your father softly passed his hand over your head and said,“We’ll call him ‘Pig Boy’.”

It was a few days’ journey back to Pig Boy’s father’s court and they were in no hurry. Apart from one day of foul weather, they slipped into a companionable routine of travel, talk, eating and early starts until the landscape around Pig Boy became familiar and called to him with stories of his people, his family and his own childhood.

There was the beech woodland where he had played and rolled in bluebells. And, over there, the places he had collected wild garlic in the Spring and blackberries in the autumn. No, wait, those places were closer to his old house. He was projecting memories onto the wrong places. But still, he was sure he knew the landscape they were travelling through. He tried to summon memories from the form and feel of the land, but nothing came. He had already forgotten and misremembered so much. Would he even recognise his birthplace? He urged on his horse. This place was familiar and called to him, but he didn’t know how to respond.

One day, as they rode, Pig Boy noticed his friend was quieter than normal and bothered by something. He tried to get a conversation going but Owain wouldn’t talk and in the end, he had to ask outright.

‘What’s the matter? It feels like there’s something you’re not telling me.’

‘I should have told you this. When you were sent away to your foster family there were great hopes for you but there was a dispute between the family you were staying with and another for the favour of the local lord and your foster-family lost out. Once a fostering arrangement has been made it cannot be changed so that’s why you ended up feeding the pigs for so long instead of training in all the skills a nobleman needs.’

‘What skills are they?’ asked Pig Boy.

‘Well, horse riding for a start.’

‘I can do that already.’

‘So I see. But how are you at lifting weights, running, leaping, swimming and wrestling?’

‘Pretty good,’ replied Pig Boy ‘but I might have to work on my swimming. How good do I have to be?’

‘There’s a lake near your family home. It takes two hours to walk around it and you must be able to swim across from one side to the other.’

‘Lengthways or widthways?’

Owain smiled. ‘You also need to be able to fight.’

‘I fought all the time with my foster-brothers.’

‘I mean wrestling, fencing with a sword and buckler, fencing with a two-handed sword and using a quarter staff.’

‘Will there be people to teach me at my father’s house?’

‘Of course, your father himself and many others.’

They rode on in silence as Pig Boy digested all this. Then Owain went on ‘And there’s hunting. Hunting with greyhounds, fishing and falconry.’

‘Will I have my own falcon?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘I can’t wait to get started! Is there anything else?’

‘Yes. Poetry.’

‘Poetry? Are you serious?’

‘Serious indeed. If you can’t compose poetry in strict metre nobody will take you earnestly.’

‘What is strict metre?’

‘It’s the length of the line, how you make the rhyme and the way the consonants balance from one line to the next.’

‘That sounds complicated but I suppose once I’ve got this strict metre thing it won’t be so hard.’

‘I’m afraid there’s more than one strict metre.’

‘I’m frightened to ask how many.’

‘Twenty four.’

‘Twenty four!’

‘And you have to be able to play the harp, sing and draw a coat of arms.’

Pig Boy stared at Owain ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, you have to be able to play two different types of chess and tune a harp. You’ll get your own ivory-handled harp tuner.’

‘Great,’ muttered Pig Boy.

That night Owain could tell Pig Boy was overwhelmed by the tasks before him. All these things he had to master, including things he didn’t know existed, like strict metre poetry. It was just too much. The two of them sat by the fire after a wordless supper. Pig Boy was glum and withdrawn.

Owain broke the silence. ‘Pig Boy, I know it sounds too much but we’ve all had to do it and It’s not impossible. Yes, it will be more difficult for you because you’re starting out later, but you’ll get there. It’s meant to be hard, that’s the point. And because It’s hard you will learn about the Worlds and yourself and be ready and skilled for what life will throw at you. And you’re not alone. You’ll have the best people to teach you and, remember, we are all here to help. All of us who have learnt are obliged to help those learning. You were not meant to spend the rest of your life looking after pigs. You have a destiny to fulfil.’

Pig Boy had no idea what Owain was talking about. He jabbed the fire with the stick in his hand, tossed the stick in the flames, wrapped himself in his cloak, lay with his back to Owain and pretended to sleep.

The next morning, as they saddled the horses, Pig Boy asked, ‘Why was I fostered? After talking to you over the last few days I understand It’s not something that happens to everyone. I want to know why I was taken from a royal court and sent to feed pigs so that now that I’m going “home” I’m not even sure how to behave when I get there.’

Owain tightened the girth strap on his horse and came over to Pig Boy. He saw the hurt and confusion in his face.

‘Sorry, Pig Boy. I wasn’t sure how much you knew. I can see that your foster-family have kept you in the dark. Well, maybe that was for the best. Anyway, your question deserves an answer.

‘It is the custom for the sons of noblemen to be fostered with other noble families from the age of seven or so. We do this so powerful families have a connection through fostering that makes war between them less likely. That is the theory, but it doesn’t always work out. Sometimes boys make such a bond with their foster brothers they side with them against their own families when the time comes to fight.

‘Anyway, that certainly didn’t happen to you. It was just unlucky they fell out of favour, and you ended up having the childhood of a farmhand not a young warrior chieftain.’

Pig Boy was surprised to feel himself bridling at this dismissal of his foster-family, which was confusing because he had been miserable and bored there. Why was he feeling so defensive? It wasn’t because of his foster parents. The lads were good for rough and tumble, but their play fights had begun to be more real in the last couple of years and they would gang up on him if ever he looked like winning. The youngest stepsister? He had hardly noticed her. He put one foot in the stirrup and was about to mount the horse when he knew the answer. Pig Boy was annoyed by Owain’s words about his foster family because he was protective of the pigs he used to look after. Those pigs, how he missed them. And with that longing came a homesickness for the place he thought he had been so glad to leave.

Soon Owain and Pig Boy were on the home straight. Over the last days, they had developed a rhythm of riding that suited them. The easy stride of Owain’s horse counterpointed by the quicker pace of Pig Boy’s and its shorter, younger legs. Sometimes they would ride in silence and sometimes talk. Pig Boy quizzed Owain about details of the home and parents he could no longer remember. To begin Owain hedged and edited his answers but before long, the rapport that grows between two people who have shat in the same woods for a week meant there could no more half-truths or avoidance.

It would only be a matter of a day or so before they got to the place Pig Boy was now referring to as “home” and he was both eager to get there and not in any hurry at all. This was a journey he knew he would never take again, and he wanted to feel its progress. He stopped and faced Owain. Owain looked down at his friend’s face and knew there was a big question on the way.

‘Owain, how did my mother die?’

Owain sighed and smiled thinly. ‘She got sick, Pig Boy. She got sick and nobody could help her. The doctors and magicians came, and they soon realised there was nothing they could do. She faced death with clarity and certainty, thinking of you. She called your father and asked him to make her a promise. Of course, the promise that is made to someone on their deathbed is one that must be kept. Your father leaned in, holding to her hand to catch every word she said. And what she said was strange. “When I am dead and buried,” she said “you will want to remarry.”

‘She smiled at your father’s demurring.

‘“Do not worry, it is right and good you marry again for the sake of your dynasty but listen now to the promise I want you to make. Before you remarry you must wait until you see a double-headed thorn growing out of my grave.”

‘She was coughing and having trouble breathing and your father called for a doctor.

‘“No,” said your mother, her eyes shut and her face tight with pain. “Not the doctor. Call the priest.”

‘The priest arrived and was shown into your mother’s bedroom. As you know, it is bad luck for healthy people to hear the final prayer of the dying and so it was just the priest and your mother in the room. He prepared himself, shut his eyes briefly while resting his hand on hers and then turned to her to recite the death prayer and anoint her. With her last strength, she grabbed the priest’s wrist and stared into his face with dim, yellow eyes.

‘“This is my dying wish,” she hissed, “which you must obey. Weed my grave! Weed my grave so nothing grows there.”

‘This strange and urgent request scared the priest. The force of it such that he couldn’t resist. Her face, eyes and the feeling of her bony hands on his wrist never left him. And when he felt that ghostly grip in the months and years following, just had to go to the graveyard and weed her grave, no matter what time of day or night, or whatever else he was supposed to be doing.

‘He got unhinged towards the end and drank and after a few years died and we only know any of this happened because, when he got particularly drunk one day, he told someone about the promise. And that was that; word was out.’ Owain paused and looked at Pig Boy to check he was still taking all this in. The lad was alert and expecting more so Owain carried on. ‘Now listen. Be careful with your words, Pig Boy. When I was your age, I thought words were just for getting what you wanted or explaining things or having a laugh. But words are much more important than that. Words make the Worlds, Pig Boy. Once they’re out theywork their way for good or evil and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

Pig Boy was aware of all the careless, stupid and cruel things he had said. He wondered how much harm they were doing in the world and how long it would be before he found the harm he had done coming back to get him.

And then every phrase that popped into his head was tainted with an ulterior motive. He could feel insincerity lurking under his impulse to thank Owain. Hypocrisy and vanity hid in the declaration to use words wisely and kindly. Nothing was the right thing to say. And Pig Boy remembered what Owain had said about the weeding of the grave.

‘What happened next?’

‘Every year on the anniversary of your mother’s death your father would sit in vigil before her grave. Each year he would return. And each year your mother’s grave was as bare and barren as the day she had been buried. After a couple of years, he realised something strange was going on. His wife’s grave had remained stony and bare while all the others were a tangle of wildflowers and thorns. How could this be?

‘One day your father and his friends went hunting. It was one of those days when nothing goes right. The hare and boar were nowhere to be seen and your father became separated from his companions and dogs. He called out but there was no response from any direction. He blew his hunting horn, but the only reply was the empty echo of his call.

‘Your father has known the woods round here since he was younger than you are now so he couldn’t explain how it was that he got lost but get lost he did. He wandered for hours and hours and eventually was planning to spend a night up a tree to avoid the attention of wolves and bears when he got his bearings. He was not far from your mother’s grave. He walked into the graveyard and stood before it. And there, growing out of it, with clusters of tiny white flowers sprouting, was a double-headed hawthorn.’

There was a pause while this part of the story sank in and then Pig Boy blurted, ‘What? So my father has remarried?’

‘Yes, Pig Boy, he has. But remember, when you are a leader of men, love and marriage are not the same as it is for other people, like myself. And it is particularly important you realise this now so there is no confusion about your place in the world.

‘Our leaders marry as leaders and not as men. For them that means love is not the beginning of something but a quality to be worked at over the years and, if the Worlds will it, then love might grow and flourish.’

‘I think I understand,’ said Pig Boy, understanding nothing. ‘Now, please tell me who he has married.’

‘A grand council was called and your father’s advisers said he should marry the wife of King Doged. The fact that she was married to King Doged was a problem soon solved by killing him in battle, invading and occupying his territory and seizing his wife.’

Owain saw the look of shock and confusion in Pig Boy’s face.

‘Listen, I know It’s difficult for you to understand, especially since this is all so new, but that is how things are. There are winners and losers, and you need to know which one you want to be. And don’t feel too sorry for your father’s new wife. She’s a canny and wily operator and remember, although none of this was her idea, the result is she is now the queen of twice the territory than she was a few months ago.’

Pig Boy didn’t know how to respond. The adult world he was about to enter was a place where people were more capricious and irresponsible than children. Except they had much more power and the potential to do damage, as well as being armed with the brains to justify all this pain and violence as normal, inevitable and good.

He made a silent promise to never to get sucked into a world where killing and cruelty are justified in terms of the benefits people think they bring, or the inability to imagine a better future. And he would certainly never walk into a marriage ceremony, with its depth, hope and promise, because it was expected or expedient.

Owain saw how quiet and serious his young friend had become and put a big, heavy hand on his shoulder and, smiling, said, ‘You’ll learn.’

It was another day’s journey to the fort where he had been born and he wondered how it would be when he arrived. When would the ceremony of his mother’s death and the celebration of her life take place? What would be his role? How should he greet his father?

Everyone would be watching him. He was no longer a child, his every action was public. However, no amount of forethought and conjecture could have prepared him for what was to happen.

They rode together and round the next corner saw the ramparts of his father’s court and the smoke rising from the hall. His stomach lurched when he saw the roofs and curling smoke. “Home”. The word felt lumpy and strange in his mind.

Everyone was expecting him, so Pig Boy was expecting a certain formality, but walking through the palisade and into the courtyard where he had played as a child was strange.

A welcome song started, and he stood in the middle of the group, taking in the rise and fall of the melody and the strangeness of the old words. He stood in his peasant’s clothes and scanned faces. Some gleamed with recognition and others were blank, just like Pig Boy’s own. As the song finished the circle opened and he was clearly meant to walk into the main hall. The refrain was kept up until he disappeared into the smoky darkness of the hall, and the big wooden doors were shut behind him.

It took him a moment to get used to the smoke and gloom. He could hear his own breath and feel the warmth of the hall seep into his face and body. The smoke stung his eyes, and indistinct shapes appeared as he got used to being inside.

He was expecting to see his father on the great chair, butinstead there was a woman he had never seen. She was tall and slender and wore clothes not in his people’s style. She sat upright, her arms resting on the arms of the chair and her rings glinting in the firelight. He could also just make out a figure waiting in the shadow of the wall to one side of the chair.

‘Welcome, Pig Boy!’ said the woman in the chair, ‘A warm welcome indeed and I am happy to be able to give you excellent news.’

She sat in the silence after her words, clearly expecting Pig Boy to respond. Gradually, pieces of this puzzle fell into place. This woman before him could be none other than his father’s new wife.

Protocol decreed he should go to her, and they exchange a kiss of kinship and then she would probably give him a significant gift. Maybe one of the rings she was wearing. He stood rooted, unable to move, his mind paralysed.

Pig Boy watched a tightness creep across her face. He saw her eyes flicker and knew she was going to change tack. She hissed something to the figure to her left and a young woman stepped forward. Not a servant, as he had thought, but a young noblewoman. Slender and shy, wearing a new dress of soft wool and jewellery that looked just a bit too heavy and big for her.

‘Pig Boy,’ said his stepmother, gesturing towards the girl, ‘This is my daughter.’

Pig Boy looked at the girl and she looked away, the two of them angular and awkward in this strange game neither understood.

‘And she shall be your wife!’

Pig Boy couldn’t have been more shocked if the woman before him had sprouted wings, flown into the air, dived into the fire and disappeared. He managed to control the spinning he felt in his head and the weakness in his legs. Then he heard his voice echo off the walls.

‘Forgive me. I cannot do that. I am too young to marry.’

His stepmother stared as his refusal sank in. This was impossible. She had been dragged from her own country to marry this simpleton’s father after the death of his crazy wife and the only way for her to get some control back was for her daughter to be married off to this Pig Boy and get some royal babies in the palace as soon as possible. Then her grandchildren would be ruling this place and, finally, she would have real power.

Pig Boy could feel a scream coming. A deep and full silence filled the hall and he felt as if he was suspended in mid-air. When his stepmother breathed in she sucked in the air from the room. There was a moment’s stillness and a curse poured out of her like a poisonous snake. It slithered round the room and searched him out. The words poured over him and through him and it felt like they were flowing through his veins until his own blood took up their song.

‘You,’ she said, ‘will hold no woman in your arms and will call no woman your wife unless you marry Olwen, the daughter of the Hawthorn Giant.’

The words were simple, yet he didn’t understand them. As he heard them, the strangest things happened inside his body. Parts of him he had never been aware of came to life. He could feel every detail of the marrow of his bones, the gathering of nerves in his belly and the brooding strength of his liver just as he was normally aware of his arms and legs. And all these familiar and strange parts of himself groaned and sang with love for this Olwen, whoever she was. A longing he knew would only be satisfied when he married her.

He could hear a strange discordant song and was astonished to realise it was coming from inside his own body.

We are poisoned with love

Your heart will clang out of tune

Your liver will brew sickness from your longing

The marrow of your bones will fester like a sore

Your blood will boil, spin and shriek

Your joints squeal like a rusty gate

This curse is yours

This curse is ours

This curse is love

We will not let you forget

At some point the woman and her daughter must have swept out because the next thing he remembered he was alone with the heat of this longing inside him and no idea what to do about it. The intensity of the pain faded and he tried to get to his feet. Then there was a hand on his shoulder and a man’s voice said, ‘What’s the matter?’

Pig Boy let himself be helped up. He was disorientated after that strange attack and still couldn’t string words together. He smiled gratefully at the kindness of this stranger and watched the eyes of the man crease as he smiled back. The face was in early middle age with a full mouth under a thick dark beard, streaked grey. There was a moment when he just saw a man’s face and kindness and suddenly realised who he was looking at. It was his father.

He tried to kneel, as he knew he was meant to after not seeing his father so long, but he lost his balance, and the big man grabbed him round the shoulders and helped him over to a bench at the side of the room. His father held onto him, keeping him upright until he was able to support his own weight. They both sat there and waited for Pig Boy to feel strong enough to raise his head. Finally, he falteringly explained what had just happened.

His father interrupted him, ‘Listen to me, Pig Boy. This is your destiny that you are meeting. Did Owain explain why you were fostered? Well, that was only part of the truth. You should have been fostered with a noble family but instead we had to hide you away.’

‘But why?’

‘I can’t tell you right now.’

Pig Boy clutched his belly as pain searched the gaps between his liver and stomach looking for somewhere to settle. The love curse curled around his spleen and squeezed. With his free hand he grabbed his father’s arm and hissed the words, ‘Who is Olwen? I don’t want to marry. Make it stop!’

The pain gave him one more big squeeze, Pig Boy shuddered and then collapsed as the curse withdrew. He had a metallic taste in his mouth, his arms and legs felt like water, and he couldn’t think straight. Pig Boy spat, leant his head against the wall behind him and groaned. He shut his eyes. He may have slept for a few moments, he wasn’t sure.

He could feel his father still there beside him and, without turning to look at him Pig Boy said, ‘Explain.’

‘We are at a turning point. We’ve known it’s been coming for a while. We’re all involved, and we’re all needed but there are people who are called to take on certain roles. Me, Owain, your foster-family. And you.’

‘Me?’

‘Everyone. Poets and seers have been talking about this moment a long time and now it is happening we all need to play our part.’

‘Fine,’ said Pig Boy, sitting more upright on the bench, ‘What’s mine?’

His father paused, glanced at Pig Boy, looked away, thought for a moment and then turned back.

‘You’re one of the people the poets and seers have been singing about.’

‘Me? Why me?’

‘That’s not a question I can answer but I can tell you what I know. In the big coming change there are people who will have a bigger impact than their age, experience or status would normally allow. Remember Owain telling you about how you were born, how you got your name and your mother’s death? These things made myself and others think you might be one of these people. We weren’t sure but we needed to keep it quiet because when a big change comes there are always those who want to subvert the change or channel its energy for their gain. That’s why you were fostered miles from anywhere. To keep you safe.’

‘What, I was given the life of a peasant because of some daft superstition. Won’t things just grind on with the same monotony forever as they always have?’

A smile wavered on his father’s face. ‘The day will come when you might yearn for a bit of monotony. It all changes now because of what you did and said in the hall. Your words and the curse you received have shown us that you are the one the seers and poets have been singing about. Part of this work is to turn that curse into a prophecy of better and more just times by marrying Olwen the daughter of the Hawthorn Giant.’

His father could see Pig Boy was beginning to get lost in all this talk of prophecy and change and marriage. He turned to his son and looked him full in the face.

‘You must face up to this curse and all it brings. You don’t need to understand it yet, just face it. Face it and the Worlds will help you. Face it and people will help you and you will have friends for life. Face it with the forces of the Worlds you have recruited unknowingly in your short life and we will have a story to tell.’

Pig Boy was getting annoyed with this talk of “the Worlds”. What were people on about? It didn’t make sense to him. Nobody had talked about “the Worlds” when he was looking after pigs.

‘So who is this Olwen and why is her father a giant and what am I supposed to do about it?’

‘Pig Boy, I have no idea who this Olwen is and, until today, I had never heard of the Hawthorn Giant so I can’t help you. You need the help of the wisest, bravest and strongest so you will have to go to the fortress of your cousin, King Arthur. And there’s one more thing. Pig Boy is not your real name.’

‘So what is?’

‘That’s something you’re going to have to find out. In fact, its something we all must find out. But look at you, you can’t go in that state! Let’s get you ready.’

Pig Boy staggered outside after his father with a hundred questions inside his head. He still wasn’t sure what had just happened to him. First he was engaged and then he unengaged himself and then the woman who was no longer his mother-in-law had cursed him and his whole body tortured him and then his father, who he hadn’t seen since he was seven, pops up and reminds him that he is a cousin of King Arthur and, what’s more, he’s to go and see the king to recruit him to help him marry the daughter of a giant and if he did all that the land would be saved.

Pig Boy walked with his father to the stable. He looked inside and saw a beautiful pale-faced stallion who snorted him a greeting. His father called the servants in and they carried in weapons and clothes and, as they laid everything out, Pig Boy ran his hand along the horse’s back and put his arm over its neck and said, ‘Looks like you and I are going on an adventure.’

The horse nodded.

Nobody really knows what happened between father and son in that stable. The half a dozen stablehands who were with them never breathed a word of what went on during the day and a half they were locked in there.

Pig Boy himself could not have told you what went on, although he had vague memories of his father’s voice intoning words he couldn’t follow. He could remember his head spinning and many faces pass before him. He had a dream of animals who talked to him and, although he could not understand the words, he could follow the meaning.

There was chaotic fighting with horrible images of mutilated bodies and screams of victory. A hawk flew over a lake on whose banks hundreds of purple foxgloves grew and swayed in the sun and then there was a deep, empty and endless darkness.

When he woke from whatever state he had been in he was in the stable with his father nearby. He felt calm and alert. The servants were brushing down the horse and he could see daylight filtering between planks of the stable wall. As he got to his feet, he saw a set of stunning clothes and exquisite weapons laid out, just for him.

When the stable door opened the crowd that had gathered outside didn’t recognise the young man who came out. The word went round, and all the men and women of the court came out and were startled by what they saw.

The lanky lad, who looked like he’d been made from random, cast-off bits and pieces, rode out gleaming like a young god on horseback. He stopped to look at them briefly with an impassive gaze and then imperiously twitched the reins and he was off to the court of King Arthur.

The nobles, the servants, the warriors and the wise men, medicine women and children all sang, lifting their voices in cascading harmonies, carrying Pig Boy on his way long after he was out of sight.

Ride Pig Boy, ride

Ride that pale faced stallion

May the gold of your reins and saddle

Shine like the sun

May your battle-axe

Draw blood from the wind

May your gold hilted sword

Sing in the air.

Let the clods of earth

Lifted by the hooves of your horse

Fly around your head

Like swallows in the summer.

May your purple cloak billow

Like the sails of a ship.

May you take the arrow’s path

To the door of Arthur’s court.

Chapter 2

Pig Boy rode to the door of King Arthur’s court. To the legendary king of the Island of Britain. The door was firmly locked and bolted and there were no signs of life. A shrill wind spat sharp rain in his face, the water soaked to his skin and he shivered.

Since nobody was coming to let him in, he got off his horse and hammered on the great oak door. He hammered until his fists hurt and the echoes billowed the interior of the great building. There was still no response, so he thumped with his fists again and yelled for the gatekeeper to open. Still, nothing.

An angry warmth grew deep inside him. He felt his lungs suck the chill air and he bellowed, ‘Is there a gatekeeper?’

He heard his own words echo the corridors and halls inside and was taking another breath to shout again, when there was a shuffling approach on the other side of the door.

‘Yes there is!’ a man’s voice snapped, ‘I am the gatekeeper in Arthur’s court tonight and my name is Bravegrey Mightygrasp. What do you want?’

‘I have come to see King Arthur, King of the Island of Britain and keeper of the Thirteen Treasures. Open the door!’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean, “no”?’

‘Well, knife has gone into meat, wine has been poured into cup, there is coming and going in Arthur’s court and none may enter except the first born son of a mighty king, a master craftsman or a master musician, and I can tell, by the tone of your voice, that you are none of those. Now, go!’

Standing in the wind and stinging rain, ridiculous and miserable, the bravura and swagger wilted inside Pig Boy. He looked at the horse beside him, ears pricked, nostrils flared for adventure. The horse shook his head and jangled the rich ornaments on his bridle and snorted disapproval.

Pig Boy looked down at himself and saw his rich purple cloak, trimmed with gold, his gold-hilted sword, and felt the weight of the twisted gold torque round his neck. Then he summoned whatever words and magic had been uttered in that stable over the previous day and a half, lifted his head and shouted in a voice that rattled the iron studs of the door.

‘Open the door! If you do not, I will go from here and bring shame and disgrace on your head and the head of your king for your churlishness and lack of generosity!’

There was no response. ‘And before I go, I will shout three times!’

Pig Boy could feel the man listening through the door. He was certain he had his ear to the crack between the two huge doors, so he stepped forward and spoke, firmly and gently, about two inches from where the man’s ear was cocked.

‘At my first shout, all the men in Arthur’s court will lose their strength!’

He waited for the implications to sink in and then drew another breath.

‘At my second shout, all the pregnant women in Arthur’s court will miscarry!’

Pig Boy thought he heard a gulp from the other side of the door.

‘And at my third shout,’ his voice crescendoed to a terrible bellow, ‘all the women who are not pregnant in Arthur’s court will be barren forever!’

Which would mean the end of the kingdom and Arthur as king. There was a pause and then a more hesitant version of Mightygrasp’s voice came through the crack.

‘Don’t go. I’ll see what I can do.’

Apart from turning away unwanted guests, one of Mightygrasp’s favourite things was the moment he walked into the feasting hall with news from the gate. Voices would still, eyes would turn to him, the king would grant him his attention and say the words Mightygrasp loved to hear most.

‘Gatekeeper, is there news from the gate?’

Mightygrasp milked the pause and, with a bow to his king, launched into his news with a preamble. ‘My lord, great king, son of Uthr Bendragon, I have been with you on your campaigns and journeys over the world and seen many great and unforgettable things in my time in your service.’

All this was supposedly directed at the king, but he was playing those seated in the feasting hall and cast his gaze round the intent faces, enjoying how they hung on his words, how his singsong cadences and timed pauses kept them on the edge of their seats.

‘We have travelled together through the whole wide world.’

He was getting into his rhythm and strode, pausing and gesticulating at the right moment, filling the great hall with expectation and wonder.

‘We have been in Scandinavia, France, Greater India and Lesser India.’

Everyone there had heard this many times, but although Mightygrasp was overplaying his role, nobody begrudged his demands on their attention or his hammy delivery—they loved him for it.

‘We have visited Lotor and Ffotor together and also Sal and Salach.’

He was not afraid of inventing places he was supposed to have visited with Arthur. This was for effect, to delay the moment of giving the news, one he could no longer put off.

‘In all those lands we have seen many great, mighty and fantastic kings but, never, in our travels, have I seen a man as startling and extraordinary as the one who now stands at your door.’ This last word was delivered at such a pitch it made the rafters ring.

Arthur replied. ‘Well, if you came in walking, go out running! It does not do to keep such a man waiting in the wind and rain.’

Mightygrasp scuttled out, glowing with post-show satisfaction. As the hum of conversation filled the hall once more, a tall, slim figure turned to Arthur and spoke. It was Cai, his greatest warrior.

‘My lord, if you took my advice you would not change the rules of this court for the sake of one young stranger.’

‘Cai, my friend. Do not worry. It is through our generosity our fame spreads. And if he is half as interesting as Mightygrasp says, he will be worth seeing.’

Mightygrasp pulled back the wooden bar that held the double doors firmly shut. Servants rushed to join him and heaved the gates open so Pig Boy could enter. Pig Boy had remounted, and they were expecting him to get off his horse to stable the animal, but that did not happen. Pig Boy trotted past, straight to the doors of the hall. Mightygrasp and the servants stared after. The doors of the feasting hall opened and, even then, Pig Boy did not dismount but slowed his horse to a walk. Then, before the astonished gaze of those present, he rode up to the king and looked down at him from his finely wrought, gold-inlaid saddle, one hand on the reins, the other on his hip.