The King of Elfland’s Daughter 4

We spend a lot of time with the King of Elfland in these chapters. Here we discover he’s like the faeries in Ars Magica. The king is, in a very real sense, his land.

CHAPTER VI
The Rune of the Elf King

On the high balcony of his gleaming tower the King of Elfland stood. Below him echoed yet the thousand steps. He had lifted his head to chant the rune that should hold his daughter in Elfland, and in that moment had seen her pass the murky barrier; which on this side, facing toward Elfland, is all lustrous with twilight, and on that side, facing towards the fields we know, is smoky and angry and dull. And now he had dropped his head till his beard lay mingled with his cape of ermine above his cerulean cloak, and stood there silently sorrowful, while time passed swift as ever over the fields we know.

In the 1300s Edward III restricted ermine-wearing in England to the royal family. Later it spread out a little more. The placement of the black dots (which are the tips of the tails of the ermines) could be read to tell a person’s status.

Ermines are stoats, a kind of mustelid related to weasels and ferrets. In summer they have chestnut coloured coats, but they have a white winter coat, and that’s what’s desired by furriers. There’s a myth that the ermine would rather die than soil his coat, which is an allegory of moral purity, but for Magonomia it reminds me of one of the networks of intelligencers where “I’ll die before I damage my impeccable clothes” seems an entirely plausible sort of credo. I may have to name one of the handlers in that group “The Ermine”. Actually, there are ermine variants, so the leaders could be the Ermine, the Counter-ermine, the Erminios and the Pean, with an enforcer who may or may not exist called the Erminites.

We have discussed the history of cerulean blue in the Venice episode on the election of the first Doge. (Audio 271)

And standing there all blue and white against his silver tower, aged by the passing of times of which we know nothing, before he imposed its eternal calm upon Elfland, he thought of his daughter amongst our pitiless years. For he knew, whose wisdom surpassed the confines of Elfland and touched our rugged fields, knew well the harshness of material things and all the turmoil of Time. Even as he stood there he knew that the years that assail beauty, and the myriad harshnesses that vex the spirit, were already about his daughter. And the days that remained to her now seemed scarce more to him, dwelling beyond the fret and ruin of Time, than to us might seem a briar rose’s hours when plucked and foolishly hawked in the streets of a city. He knew that there hung over her now the doom of all mortal things. He thought of her perishing soon, as mortal things must; to be buried amongst the rocks of a land that scorned Elfland and that held its most treasured myths to be of little account. And were he not the King of all that magical land, which held its eternal calm from his own mysterious serenity, he had wept to think of the grave in rocky Earth gripping that form that was so fair forever.

So, he chooses not to weep, because his emotional state is reflected directly into the land, and he cares too much for its inhabitants to pass his pain on to them.

Or else, he thought, she would pass to some paradise far from his knowledge, some heaven of which books told in the fields we know, for he had heard even of this. He pictured her on some apple-haunted hill, under blossoms of an everlasting April, through which flickered the pale gold haloes of those that had cursed Elfland. He saw, though dimly for all his magical wisdom, the glory that only the blessed clearly see. He saw his daughter on those heavenly hills stretch out both arms, as he knew well she would, towards the pale-blue peaks of her elfin home, while never one of the blessed heeded her yearning. And then, though he was king of all that land, that had its everlasting calm from him, he wept and all Elfland shivered. It shivered as placid water shivers here if something suddenly touches it from our fields.

Characters with ties to Faerie can feel this: the aura of the place undergoes a change as the temper of the king changes.

Then the King turned and left his balcony and went in great haste down his brazen steps.

He came clanging to the ivory doors that shut the tower below, and through them came to the throne-room of which only song may tell. And there he took a parchment out of a coffer and a plume from some fabulous wing, and dipping the plume into no earthly ink, wrote out a rune on the parchment. Then raising two fingers he made the minor enchantment whereby he summoned his guard. And no guard came.

I have said that no time passed at all in Elfland. Yet the happening of events is in itself a manifestation of time, and no event can occur unless time pass. Now it is thus with time in Elfland: in the eternal beauty that dreams in that honied air nothing stirs or fades or dies, nothing seeks its happiness in movement or change or a new thing, but has its ecstasy in the perpetual contemplation of all the beauty that has ever been, and which always glows over those enchanted lawns as intense as when first created by incantation or song. Yet if the energies of the wizard’s mind arose to meet a new thing, then that power that had laid its calm upon Elfland and held back time troubled the calm awhile, and time for awhile shook Elfland.

Much as in Ars Magica there is some question of if faeries do anything at all when humans are not watching them, so when the king is calm, time does not pass in Elfland. It doesn’t need to, because nothing is happening.

Cast anything into a deep pool from a land strange to it, where some great fish dreams, and green weeds dream, and heavy colours dream, and light sleeps; the great fish stirs, the colours shift and change, the green weeds tremble, the light wakes, a myriad things know slow movement and change; and soon the whole pool is still again. It was the same when Alveric passed through the border of twilight and right through the enchanted wood, and the King was troubled and moved, and all Elfland trembled.

So, Alveric brings Time, by bringing change.

When the King saw that no guard came he looked into the wood which he knew to be troubled, through the deep mass of the trees, that were quivering yet with the coming of Alveric; he looked through the deeps of the wood and the silver walls of his palace, for he looked by enchantment, and there he saw the four knights of his guard lying stricken upon the ground with their thick elvish blood hanging out through slits in their armour. And he thought of the early magic whereby he had made the eldest, with a rune all newly inspired, before he had conquered Time. He passed out through the splendour and glow of one of his flashing portals, and over a gleaming lawn and came to the fallen guard, and saw the trees still troubled.

“There has been magic here,” said the King of Elfland.

And then though he only had three runes that could do such a thing, and though they only could be uttered once, and one was already written upon parchment to bring his daughter home, he uttered the second of his most magical runes over that elder knight that his magic had made long ago. And in the silence that followed the last words of the rune the rents in the moon-bright armour all clicked shut at once, and the thick dark blood was gone and the knight rose live to his feet. And the Elf King now had only one rune left that was mightier than any magic we know.

This seems an odd choice. A human monarch would just hire a new guard. The King’s creations are, in a real sense, an extension of himself.

The other three knights lay dead; and, having no souls, their magic returned again to the mind of their master.

It seems that at least some of the King’s actions are drawn from a Might pool that is permanently depleted, until the effect is finished..

He went back then to his palace, while he sent the last of his guard to fetch him a troll.

Dark brown of skin and two or three feet high the trolls are a gnomish tribe that inhabit Elfland. And soon there was a scamper in the throne-room that may only be told of in song, and a troll lit by the throne on its two bare feet and stood before its king. The King gave it the parchment with the rune written thereon, saying: “Scamper hence, and pass over the end of the Land, until you come to the fields that none know here; and find the Princess Lirazel who is gone to the haunts of men, and give her this rune and she shall read it and all shall be well.”

And the troll scampered thence.

Note that any troll would do. This is not the most cunning troll, or the one that knows the fields of humans best. Perhaps the rune is so powerful it cannot help but be delivered.

Stats for the troll eventually. Note he is a short creature that scampers and moves in great leaps, not a troll in the traditional sense.

And soon the troll was come with long leaps to the frontier of twilight. Then nothing moved in Elfland any more; and motionless on that splendid throne of which only song may speak sat the old King mourning in silence.

So, until the King does something new, time stops again. Time requires action.

CHAPTER VII
The Coming of the Troll

When the troll came to the frontier of twilight he skipped nimbly through; yet he emerged cautiously into the fields we know, for he was afraid of dogs. Slipping quietly out of those dense masses of twilight he came so softly into our fields that no eye had seen him unless it were gazing already at the spot at which he appeared. There he paused for some instants, looking to left and right; and, seeing no dogs, he left the barrier of twilight. This troll had never before been in the fields we know, yet he knew well to avoid dogs, for the fear of dogs is so deep and universal amongst all that are less than Man, that it seems to have passed even beyond our boundaries and to have been felt in Elfland.

So, this is a Sovereign Ward.

In our fields it was now May, and the buttercups stretched away before the troll, a world of yellow mingled with the brown of the budding grasses. When he saw so many buttercups shining there the wealth of Earth astonished him. And soon he was moving through them, yellowing his shins as he went.

This gives us an indication of his height. As an Australian ,the thing I call a buttercup is apparently entirely different from what Lord Dunsany was thinking about ,so I thought the troll was a lot taller than he actually is.

He had not gone far from Elfland when he met with a hare, who was lying in a comfortable arrangement of grass, in which he had intended to pass the time till he should have things to see to.

When the hare saw the troll he sat there without any movement whatever, and without any expression in his eyes, and did nothing at all but think.

When the troll saw the hare he skipped nearer, and lay down before it in the buttercups, and asked it the way to the haunts of men. And the hare went on thinking.

“Thing of these fields,” repeated the troll, “where are the haunts of men?”

The hare got up then and walked towards the troll, which made the hare look very ridiculous, for he had none of the grace while walking that he has when he runs or gambols, and was much lower in front than behind. He put his nose into the troll’s face and twitched foolish whiskers.

“Tell me the way,” said the troll.

When the hare perceived that the troll did not smell of anything like dog he was content to let the troll question him. But he did not understand the language of Elfland, so he lay still again and thought while the troll talked.

It’s odd that -everything- knows the language of Elfland, except this hare, who, as we have said, is of a species commonly associated with witches. Does this indicate Magic Resistance protecting against the communicative glamour?

And at last the troll wearied of getting no answer, so he leaped up and shouted “Dogs!” and left the hare and scampered away merrily over the buttercups, taking any direction that led away from Elfland. And though the hare could not quite understand elvish language, yet there was a vehemence in the tone in which the troll had shouted Dogs which caused apprehension to enter the thoughts of the hare, so that very soon he forsook his arrangement of grass, and lollopped away through the meadow with one scornful look after the troll; but he did not go very fast, going mostly on three legs, with one hind leg all ready to let down if there should really be dogs. And soon he paused and sat up and put up his ears, and looked across the buttercups and thought deeply. And before the hare had ceased to ponder the troll’s meaning the troll was far out of sight and had forgotten what he had said.

And soon he saw the gables of a farm-house rise up beyond a hedge. They seemed to look at him with little windows up under red tiles. “A haunt of man,” said the troll. And yet some elvish instinct seemed to tell him that it was not here that Princess Lirazel had come.

He apparently has a version of the faerie power Hound. How he gets through Lirazel’s resistance is unclear: possibly it has something to do with a penetration bonus due to the Rune.

Still, he went nearer the farm and began to gaze at its poultry. But just at that moment a dog saw him, one that had never seen a troll before, and it uttered one canine cry of astonished indignation, and keeping all the rest of its breath for the chase, sped after the troll.

The troll began at once to rise and dip over the buttercups as though he had almost borrowed its speed from the swallow and were riding the lower air. Such speed was new to the dog, and he went in a long curve after the troll, leaning over as he went, his mouth open and silent, the wind rippling all the way from his nose to his tail in one wavy current. The curve was made by the dog’s baffled hopes to catch the troll as he slanted across. Soon he was straight behind; and the troll toyed with speed; breathing the flowery air in long fresh draughts above the tops of the buttercups. He thought no more of the dog, but he did not cease in the flight that the dog had caused, because of the joy of the speed. And this strange chase continued over those fields, the troll driven on by joy and the dog by duty. For the sake of novelty then the troll put his feet together as he leaped over the flowers and, alighting with rigid knees, fell forwards on to his hands and so turned over; and, straightening his elbows suddenly as he turned, shot himself into the air still turning over and over. He did this several times, increasing the indignation of the dog, who knew well enough that that was no way to go over the fields we know. But for all his indignation the dog had seen clear enough that he would never catch that troll, and presently he returned to the farm, and found his master there and went up to him wagging his tail. So hard he wagged it that the farmer was sure he had done some useful thing, and patted him, and there the matter ended.

The troll -almost- flies. Remember that winged faeries are basically a Victorian invention.

And it was well enough for the farmer that his dog has chased that troll from his farm; for had it communicated to his livestock any of the wonder of Elfland they would have mocked at Man, and that farmer would have lost the allegiance of all but his staunch dog.

Glamour, here, is mildly infectious.

And the troll went on gaily over the tips of the buttercups.

Presently he saw rising up all white over the flowers a fox that was facing him with his white chest and chin, and watching the troll as it went. The troll went near to him and took a look. And the fox went on watching him, for the fox watches all things.

He had come back lately to those dewy fields from slinking by night along the boundary of twilight that lies between here and Elfland. He even prowls inside the very boundary, walking amongst the twilight; and it is in the mystery of that heavy twilight that lies between here and there that there clings to him some of that glamour that he brings with him to our fields.

“Well, Noman’s Dog,” said the troll. For they know the fox in Elfland, from seeing him often go dimly along their borders; and this is the name they give him.

The fox knows the borders of faerie. Handy for a Bjornaer magus? Foxes of course are tricksy creatures in European folklore. They are a little less-well intentioned than the hare or the spider, who have a similar job.

“Well, Thing-over-the-Border,” said the fox when he answered at all. For he knew troll-talk.

“Are the haunts of men near here?” said the troll.

The fox moved his whiskers by slightly wrinkling his lip. Like all liars he reflected before he spoke, and sometimes even let wise silences do better than speech.

“Men live here and men live there,” said the fox.

“I want their haunts,” said the troll.

“What for?” said the fox.

“I have a message from the King of Elfland.”

The fox showed no respect or fear at the mention of that dread name, but slightly moved his head and eyes to conceal the awe that he felt.

“If it is a message,” he said, “their haunts are over there.” And he pointed with his long thin nose towards Erl.

“How shall I know when I get there?” said the troll.

“By the smell,” said the fox. “It is a big haunt of men, and the smell is dreadful.”

“Thanks, Noman’s Dog,” said the troll. And he seldom thanked anyone.

“I should never go near them,” said the fox, “but for …” And he paused and reflected silently.

“But for what?” said the troll.

“But for their poultry.” And he fell into a grave silence.

“Good-bye, Noman’s Dog,” said the troll and turned head-over-heels, and was off on his way to Erl.

Passing over the buttercups all through the dewy morning the troll was far on his way by the afternoon, and saw before evening the smoke and the towers of Erl. It was all sunk in a hollow; and gables and chimneys and towers peered over the lip of the valley, and smoke hung over them on the dreamy air. “The haunts of men,” said the troll. Then he sat down amongst the grasses and looked at it.

Presently he went nearer and looked at it again. He did not like the look of the smoke and that crowd of gables: certainly it smelt dreadfully. There had been some legend in Elfland of the wisdom of Man; and whatever respect that legend had gained for us in the light mind of the troll now all blew lightly away as he looked at the crowded houses. And as he looked at them there passed a child of four, a small girl on a footpath over the fields, going home in the evening to Erl. They looked at each other with round eyes.

“Hullo,” said the child.

“Hullo, Child of Men,” said the troll.

He was not speaking troll-talk now, but the language of Elfland, that grander tongue that he had had to speak when he was before the King: for he knew the language of Elfland although it was never used in the homes of the trolls, who preferred troll-talk. This language was spoken in those days also by men, for there were fewer languages then, and the elves and the people of Erl both used the same.

This is an interesting development. Is this before Babel?

“What are you?” said the child.

“A troll of Elfland,” answered the troll.

“So I thought,” said the child.

“Where are you going, child of men?” the troll asked.

“To the houses,” the child replied.

“We don’t want to go there,” said the troll.

“N-no,” said the child.

“Come to Elfland,” the troll said.

The child thought for awhile. Other children had gone, and the elves always sent a changeling in their place, so that nobody quite missed them and nobody really knew. She thought awhile of the wonder and wildness of Elfland, and then of her own home.

“N-no,” said the child.

“Why not?” said the troll.

“Mother made a jam roll this morning,” said the child. And she walked on gravely home. Had it not been for that chance jam roll she had gone to Elfland.

Bill Bryson does a lovely line in one of his books about how the English are the only people to put jam in things to make it really special, and how he loves them for it. That being said, jam roll is delicious and faerie is always there…

“Jam!” said the troll contemptuously and thought of the tarns of Elfland, the great lily-leaves lying flat upon their solemn waters, the huge blue lilies towering into the elf-light above the green deep tarns: for jam this child had forsaken them!

Then he thought of his duty again, the roll of parchment and the Elf King’s rune for his daughter. He had carried the parchment in his left hand when he ran, in his mouth when he somersaulted over the buttercups. Was the Princess here he thought? Or were there other haunts of men? As evening drew in he crept nearer and nearer the homes, to hear without being seen.

Let us return to the jam roll and the mysteries thereto. I doubt this a modern jam Swiss roll. It’s too early. Basically the modern Swiss roll is a thin sponge coated with an adhesive layer, then rolled. In my part of the world it is then sometimes baked with a sugar syrup drizzled over it. I presume this is the older jam rolypoly, the evocatively named “dead man’s arm”. The recipe below is from “A plain cookery book for the working classes” by Charles Elmé Francatelli.

“Ingredients, one pound of flour, six ounces of suet, half a pint of water, a pinch of salt, one pound of any kind of common jam, at 7d. Mix the flour, suet, water, and salt into a firm, compact kind of paste; roll this out with a rolling-pin, sprinkling some flour on the table to prevent the paste from sticking to either; fold up the paste, and roll it out again; repeat the rolling-out and folding three times; this operation will make the paste lighter. Next, roll out the paste one foot long by eighteen inches wide, spread the jam all over this, roll up the pudding in the form of a bolster, roll it up in a well-greased and floured cloth, tie it up tightly at both ends; put the pudding into a pot of boiling water, and boil it for nearly two hours; when done, turn out carefully on to its dish, without breaking the crust.”

You’ll note the only leavening in the pastry here is air mechanically trapped by layering. Suet, for those of you fortunate enough to be unaware of it, is a sort of spongy animal fat. In modern times you can get a vegan version, which smells less like being forsaken by God. Arguably this would also put little holes in the pastry, as some of the fat liquifies and drains out into the boiling water. The pudding is also sometimes called shirt-sleeve pudding, as a shirt sleeve makes a perfect pudding cloth for it. From this it also gets the name “dead man’s arm”. or “dead man’s leg”.