![[tick]](./images/smilies/tickic.png "Tick")
The Men of Straw
They always came in threes, they did, to our little village of Kettleworth up in the western marches. The Men of Straw, that is. Others came in threes, of course. The Wise Kings came at midwinter, but they were really just old Parlam and his dour brothers. They did it for the play put on by the priests, you see. But everyone knew them. And the Raven Queens; sisters and queens of a realm now long lost. Everyone knows to toss a silver ring into the deep pool under the spring, if you want good fortune in some dealing. The priests don’t much like them, saying they’re just old wives tales.
Well, everyone also knows what they say about the tales of old wives!
But not so the Men of Straw. Quiet fellows, for the most part, they kept to themselves and made more sound than a quiet rustling as shuffled about some part of a field or pasture. Where they hailed from had always been a matter of some conjecture. Some folks said they came from down in the south away and others up in the highlands to the east. Where ever they came from, I can’t rightly say, but what I can say is the last time they came through Kettleworth, well sir, we’d have done better with roving Giants or a legion of demons!
Ah, twas mid Fogstide when the Men of Straw came to town. As they always did, there were three of them. Tall and lean they were, hooded and cloaked. They never spoke a word to anyone, they just went to work. They worked from Ciderfeast to Ciderfeast, and neither a day more nor a day less. Not even gammer Spindletooth knew how long they’d been working our fields, but she can recall as if it were yesterday when she was a young maiden and her old gramma told her the story of the Cider Girls, and that story is pretty old indeed!
It seems way back then, years and ages gone by now, the King of the Ravens was waging a war on the young Graf wan Kettleworth, the new lord of these lands. Seems they had some kind of disagreement over land rights, and the king brought in thousands of his warriors each plantingtide for three years, and they ate every seed, every seedling and every green shoot in every field around. By the third winter, folks was near starving. Seed was hard to come by, meat & flocks were gone and so were the cats and even the rats of the place.
But then a sort of strange young girl came up to the Graf before his court and declared that she could solve the problem. A great dark blue cloak she wore around herself, and it seemed like her shoulders were hunched. Her feet were bare and white as snow.
“How will you do this?” asked the Graf. “Not even all our brave soldiers and all our skilled hunters have more than culled a halftithe of the vile beasts!”
She pushed back her blue hood and the cloak fell aside from her right shoulder, revealing the midnight black wing of a dwimmerqueen! The sorceress drew from the pocket of her sleeve a long wand of hazel. The hall erupted in astonished murmuring, and many folks took to blessing themselves. Some, indeed, to ward off the evil eye. Others, to be equally sure, to welcome a potential ally.
“I shall call forth three men and three men only. But do my bidding and they shall overthrow the Raven King and your plantingtides shall be peaceful and your harvests as plentiful as may be.”
The people were delighted by her words and shouted their acclamation. The Graf, however, was not so easily swayed and became rather uneasy about the offer. He asked her, as cunning as he could: “What do you need us to do? And what if we choose to do otherwise?”
The strange girl only smiled and, piercing his eyes with hers, said: “You shall do my bidding. Or you will die. That is your choice, lord. As for what you must do, it is this only: during the planting festival and the harvest festival alike, you are to send a girl bearing a wicker basket out into the old ring of trees outside the town. She is to bear in her basket three small bottles of cider and a dozen apples resting on a bed of straw. Nothing more and nothing less. The girl will leave the basket in the middle of the grove. Sometimes the girls will wander away. You are not to follow them. Most times, you will find they make their way home again. Sooner or later.”
And so it was: each plantingtide and each harvestide a gift of cider and apples was left in the middle of the ancient ring of trees outside the town, and sure enough, three odd fellows came into the fields and overthrew the armies of the Raven King. And so it’s been ever since. Each year before planting, the Cider Girl takes our gift out to the old grove and the Men of Straw work our fields, driving off the birds and other beasts that would despoil our crops. And then, each year at harvest, another Cider Girl takes out our gift of thanksgiving and the Men of Straw disappear again.
No one rightly knows their names, these Men of Straw, nor if it’s the same men every year, but they’ve been given names all the same. Mawkins is the shortest of the fellows, but tall and gaunt all the same, always carries a great flail with him; Mowrmat is the middle fellow and he carries a scythe and an old sack; and then there’s old Hodmedodd, very tall and lanky. He comes alone out of the fields on moonless nights and sits himself down on the old bench outside the pub and plays his fiddle. Always a mournful old air. Reminds one of empty towers and ruined countries and long lost loves.
And so it was until these three years past. That was the Year of the Returned Prodigal, and it was a year of wonders all around.
Little enough of note happens in the Grafdom of Kettleworth, but during the fall fair that year, this fellow came up from the low countries driving a painted cart. He called himself by the name of Doebuck, representing himself as a “hyetinerant merchant”, and indeed his waggon was full of all kinds of goods. Some things he sold right off the back of his cart, but other things he said could only be bought through the Royal Post, at very reasonable rates of carriage.
One thing he took particular note of was our newly harvested fields.
“My good sirs,” said he; “veritable lords of the furrow and field, it has not escaped my notice that your fields stand defenseless in the face of that most cunningest of foes, thatmost craftiest of enemies, the common crow!”
But freeman Sobriety Mustwait spoke up then and informed him that the Men of Straw came to clear out the crows and other beasts, although he said it with a tear in his eye. “Only thing is, mister, twice a year we send out a young girl with payment for their service. And this harvest our Incontinence Exercise done gone out to the old grove. Only she ain’t come back home yet...”
Mister Doebuck put his arm around the poor farmer, with a look of the gravest concern on his face. “How is it, my dear friends!, that in these modern times, the common Man must rely solely on the wiles of some dark sorceress for the defense of his fields? Why, my good folks, gather round!” He pulled off the counter of his waggon a large book, full of little pictures of things that he was selling. The Greatest Catalogue in the history of the World he called it.
Flipping through the pages, he came at last to a particular page. “Ah! Here we are at last! The truest answer to every vermin known to farmer, cottager, gardener or vintner! Gather round good people and witness the sure solution to the problem of field crows and disappearing maidens!”
With a grand flourish of his right hand, and holding aloft the Greatest Catalogue in the history of the World in his left, he showed them the Farmer’s Steadfast Friend, also known as the Patent Frightener of Crows and Birds of Every Kind. “Yes, good gentles, the Farmer’s Steadfast Friend: but stand him up in your fields and he’ll guard them every day of the year, night and day alike and, what is more, no reliance of spotty thaumics no one can hope to understand! Crows fly from these fellows; sparrows flee in terror; every kind of bird that likes to nibble on seedling and shoot is instantly removed from your fields in an entirely conventional and hygienic manner. All for the one time price of sixpence, yes sirs!, half a dollar per each. And, what with the power of buying in cooperative bulk, your whole village can save considerable sums over buying individually. And also, have I mentioned our Premium Savings Plan? No? Well, let me just mention in passing that with each purchase of as small as one single penny, from many of our fine products kept in stock at all times at our warehouses in Auntimoany and Narfoun, you will receive a chitty that, when accumulated in sufficient numbers, will allow you to redeem them from this handsome catalogue of gift goods!” Here he brought out with another flourish of his nimble hands yet another Catalogue of goods. “Why, sirs, you could easily earn enough chitties from your purchases this very day to obtain these very nice silk ribbons for some pretty young lass, or perhaps this handsome pocket knife, or even this assortment of fine sweing needles and threads?”
The women of the town were sold instantly on the practicality and economy of the scheme, even if the men weren’t quite so fast on the uptake. Goodwife Complacency Misconstrual spoke for all there gathered: “Mister, sign us up! And here’s sixpence for that straw fellow of yourn. We’ll not have our dear Impudence Lackgrace fotch off by elves or whatnot in the woods!”
And so it was that the village of Kettleworth voted with their sixpenny pieces, exclusive of a very reasonable rate for carriage of course. And by midwinter, every field in the quiet lands around the old manor was graced and guarded by a genuine Spears & Doebuck farmer’s steadfast friend. And more than one young girl sported new ribbons in her hair and more than one goodwife took to darning and patching with the best bronze sewing needles the Premium Savings Plan could buy that Yule.
And all was well that year. No Cider Girls went out to the ancient grove. No baskets of apples or cider were left in the ring of trees. And more to the point, the Men of Straw did not return that year.
And all was well the next year as well. A few crows were seen skirting the marches, but they seemed to be quite terrorised by the strawmen, their patchwork sleeves blowing in the breeze, their broad brimmed hats shading their faceless heads.
But on the third year, that was a year of terror indeed! Just after plantingtide, legions of the King’s ravens bore down on the fields of Kettleworth, and within three days, not a seed or greenshoot was to be found. The ravens attacked the strawmen again and again, but found them to be flimsy and unable to fight back. They were quickly thrown down and torn to pieces! The people of the village applied again to their lord for a defence against the marauding crows.
He sent out all his best warriors, and they shot all their arrows and cast all their darts. But hardly a raven was killed. He sent out all his best hounds and falcons, and they chased the birds this way and that over field and pasture, but the ravens overwhelmed them and killed them all. He sent out his best hunters and they cast their nets and set their snares and not a single bird was captured.
And so a year passed. And the next year, the same happened! Just after plantingtide, legions of the King’s ravens bore down on the fields of Kettleworth, and within three days, not a seed or greenshoot was to be found. The ravens attacked the strawmen again and again, but found them to be flimsy and unable to fight back. They were quickly thrown down and torn to pieces! The people of the village applied again to their lord for a defence against the marauding crows.
He sent out all his best warriors, and they shot all their arrows and cast all their darts. But hardly a raven was killed. He sent out all his best hounds and falcons, and they chased the birds this way and that over field and pasture, but the ravens overwhelmed them and killed them all. He sent out his best hunters and they cast their nets and set their snares and not a single bird was captured.
The year after that one was truly a starving year, and the miserable Graf sat in his hall bereft of its treasures, sold off in order to buy food from distant markets for his people. And now even that food was long gone. It should have been a bountiful harvest, for the weather had been fair all the year long, but there were no harvest feasts this year! And there came a strange young girl, wearing a blue greatcloak round her hunchbacked shoulders. She threw back the hood from her raven black hair and the cloak fell from her shoulders, revealing her great wings, black as midnight!
The old women gathered in the hall gasped, for they well remembered the ancient story of the Cider Girl, a story the Graf would have done well to recollect!
“What do you want, black sorceress? Have you sent these ravens and crows against my peaceful lands?”
“No, lord,” she replied coldly. “You invited them to these lands that shall now know peace no longer!”
“What are you saying!? Seize the charlatan. Shall I be mocked in my own house!”
She drew from the pocket of her long gown a slender wand of hazel, and a darkness fell upon the tall windows of the hall, a darkness of never ending nights, dawnless and comfortless. The guards cowered in fear.
“Nay, lord, I shall not be seized by you or your men. I shall declare your doom and the doom of all your people. You have broken our agreement, lord of these lands, and your doom is to lose the lordship of these lands. As for your people, they too have broken our ancient covenant, and gladly they have done so! Their doom is that of death.”
And with that, she swept her wand high above her head and all the lights and fires of the place were snuffed as if they’d never been lit in a thousand years! Cries rang out in the hall, and bells of alarm clanged outside. The only sounds to be heard were the tramping of bewildered boots on the flagstones and the confused shouting of men and women utterly lost.
A strong hand grasped my wrist and pulled me away from the bedlam of the hall, away from my comfortable stool in the corner behind the brazier. Its grip was irresistible and my unseen guide dragged me for quite some way. At last, I heard a door open and I knew we were outside and running. All was darkling and cold fog and mizzle had descended on the village. Only a wan and feeble sun could be seen above, and she cast no shadows down here below. I could see only dim shapes of things that would have been familiar an hour ago in the strong sunlight of noontime! The sounds of terrified people trailed off behind us, and I knew we had come at last to the old road that went down into the lowlands beyond our little country. Here my guide stopped and I tried to catch my ragged breath.
I could see shapes, indistinct and darker than the mists around me. They moved with a dire purpose, like an army on the march. They spoke no words and made no sound louder than a kind of rustling shuffle as they trudged along the verges of the road on either side. I thought I could see the shapes of tall, broadbrimmed hats perched upon the heads of tall, lanky men. They were many, and terrified as I was, I could not help but wonder at their appearance in the village: “Who are these men?”
My guide gripped my wrist again, whispering into my ear. “Harvesters. You alone are to be spared, the seed of a new crop. You do not know now, but you shall understand the price to be paid when sacred covenants are broken. You alone shall tell the tale to others, and they will learn.” A woman’s voice it seemed. Very old and also very young sounding, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether she was crone or maiden or mother. Or maybe she was all of them together. She spoke no more, but thrust me away from her. “Run! And do not turn away from the road!”
And so I ran.
As I ran along the lane, I heard the sound first, before I could see the last of the dark shapes striding along by the roadside. A music, both sad and gay surrounded me. One figure bore a flail and the other a scythe and the last had an old fiddle on his arm and he was playing a slow air the like of which no mortal fiddle had ever sounded before! And sure I knew at last who these three were. The Men of Straw.
Although I shall ever recall the music, it is his face I shall never forget. A hideous and misshapen thing! Like an old sack stuffed with bones and gristle. Its eyes were but holes in the sack and in them was the deep black of a starless night. Straw poked out from the neck and cuffs of his misshapen tunic, and it seemed his bones were all wrapped with straw and vines. His fangs contorted into a grimmace of what at first I took to be hatred. I somehow knew these strange warriors, these harvesters, were come to kill everyone in the village. And there was nothing I could do but run. But now, these many years later, as I sit here telling these tales in this city by the Sea, I think it was a grimmace of disgust, of trust broken irreparably. Aye, of a great sadness.
The Men of Straw marched into Kettleworth for one last harvest.
