‘On the
darkest, longest night of the year,’ begins Jack Green, Lord of Misrule, ‘it is
never wise to venture outside once the sun has dipped below the horizon. Much
safer to stay indoors where you will be safe and warm. Do not walk your dog,
nor nip to the pub because there is nothing much on telly and the pub is running a far more entertaining quiz night. And especially do not stand under
the clear night sky and admire the billions of stars up there in the infinite
and glorious space we call our Universe. Because if you ignore my warnings and you
DO stand outside and look up, you will see that not all the stars are standing
still whilst they glitter and shine. Some of them are moving, and are moving at
a fast pace, too. The sort of speed that, if you tried to escape, your efforts
would be both futile…and fatal…’
‘Is it
Father Christmas?’ calls out a child. ‘Is it Santa and his reindeer racing across
the sky delivering presents to all the children in the world? Is he bringing me
a Play Station 5, an electric guitar and loads of chocolate?’
Jack shakes
his head. ‘Sadly not, small and commercially greedy person. Father Christmas
wasn’t even a glimmer of an idea when this Lord of the Skies was doing his rounds.
No, the one we are talking of here is none other than the Great Norse God,
Odin. Do you know anything about Odin, small person?’
The small
person shakes its head. ‘I know about ‘Paw Patrol’ and ‘Strictly Come Dancing’,’
is the reply. ‘And ‘Love Island’. I know about ‘Love Island’, too.’
‘How do you
know about ‘Love Island’?’ says the small person’s accompanying responsible
adult, probably its mother but its difficult to tell these days. ‘You shouldn’t
know about ‘Love Island’. You’re only eight years old.’
‘When you
go out with Auntie Mel and Auntie Sue, you know, for your important meetings at
the pub, Daddy lets me stay up late, and we watch ‘Love Island’ and we get a ‘don’t
tell your mum’ take-away delivered…’ says the small person, sharing just a little
bit too much information which makes the accompanying responsible adult blush.
Some of the
audience titters – ha ha! Aren’t children SO cute and honest? And some of the
audience tuts at the shoddy parenting skills of 21st century.
‘Shall we
move on?’ says Jack. ‘Lord Odin is waiting and we don’t want to upset him, do
we?’
‘Oh yes we
do!’ shouts a small and confused contingent of audience on the back row.
‘Oh no we
don’t!’ shouts Mrs Pumphrey from behind the shadow puppet screen where she is
wrestling to fit all the Wild Hunt puppets on one wing so she can carry on
drinking her Buck’s Fizz with the other.
The story
continues. In quiet tones that convey the fear and dread of witnessing The Wild
Hunt in action at the Winter Solstice, Jack Green tells how Odin – principal
god of Scandinavia, great and wise magician, cunning trickster, war lord and
one-eyed poet - takes to the skies on Sleipnir, his eight-legged horse, hunting
out and collecting the souls of the dead. The Night of the Winter Solstice is a
time when the veil between the living and the dead is especially thin and so
his job is made easy. He is accompanied by other war gods and witches, ravens,
and black horses and hounds. He cares not for fairness or justice - and that is
why you should never go outside on Winter Solstice night, because if you are
seen by the Wild Hunt, you, too, might be abducted and dragged off to the
Underworld, never to be seen again. Stay indoors, everyone. Stay safe! (Where
have I heard THAT before??)
The evening
is a success. Some of the audience is sufficiently spooked that they ask Mrs
Miggins if there are any rooms available for the night so they don’t have to
travel home and risk being spotted by the Wild Hunt. ‘See?’ whispers Mrs
Miggins to the other hens, ‘we could run a B & B!’
Ptolemy
Pheasant is behind the shadow puppet screen whispering to Mrs Pumphrey.
‘What say
you, dearest Gloria?’ he says. ‘Shall we risk Odin and Wild Hunt and scoot off
over to the bothy for the night. Jack looks like he is settled here…’ and he nods
towards the Lord of Misrule who has fallen asleep in front of the cheerfully blazing Yule Log, ‘…and I’ve rather missed our games of Scrabble.’
Mrs
Pumphrey giggles and agrees the risk is definitely worth the rewards. ‘Do you
think that fire will be okay, burning all night?’ she says, as she and Ptolemy
slip out through the French windows.
‘I’m sure it’s fine,’ says Ptolemy. ‘Jack is
there to keep an eye on it, and Yule logs have been burning in hearths for
hundreds of years, haven’t they? What could go wrong?’
He and Mrs
Pumphrey slip away across the lawns to the woodlands. Not a sign of Odin and
the Wild Hunt spooks them, although a vole out on a late-night hunting trip makes them jump a bit as they head
into the woodlands.
Jack wakes
from his slumber by the fire. It is warm, too warm. He gets up and finds his
way into the kitchen where he settles instead in the rocking chair by the Aga.
Much
Malarkey Manor is dark and quiet. A calm and settled atmosphere hugs the house like a fuzzy blanket.
In the
ballroom, the glowing Yule Log shifts in the grate.
A shower of
bright and lively sparks jumps from the log. They land on a pile of carelessly
discarded paper shadow puppets in front of the hearth…
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