So um yeah this is again me playing with a format or three setting up my piece for this season of hurt and horror of fear and of legend, will this Handsome man live or die? Will the Inn burn around him or will he escape the curse? The video isn’t the best because I am not massively talented with video editing and couldn’t run it as just an audio file. The music borrowed from the amazing Nick Cave who I came across via Peaky Blinders. The images are things I have found over the years a mix of stock photos a John Convey painting and wiki entries and yes most of the voice is me. If you don’t want to lend me 15 minutes that’s cool the text is here but please those who do give me a comment on here or youtube about whether it worked.
Tale of the Handsome Man - click me for the story as a audiobook thing.
We Brit’s are a superstitious lot of old, a tribe more than a country, to kith and kin beholden and even in this “enlightened” age have myth, legend, tale and task. And so listeners follow me take my hand as we walk through the streets to a block of flats, up the stairs to a door and inside to a room. A room with a mirror.
And we stand and watch a young man of twenty five summers stands staring into the mirror as he dresses, strangely for this modern flat, this city of smoke and cars and light and noise, he stood in a linen shirt tied with a drawstring, a pair of heavy woolen hose and soft leather boots. The room lit with a candle. He stares into the mirror one last time before turning and placing the candle into a brass lantern box. We follow him as he walks down the stairs taking a heavy woolen coachman’s cloak off the hook and sliding it on adding scarf and heavy gloves and taking his black hat and stepping out into the night.
Riding down out of the city impossibly unnoticed on this powerful charger, a pale horse bearing a rider in black, leaving the city noise and moving out across the lanes and across the fields. The world becoming dark and cool as he seemed to step back in time as he moved from city and car and flat and factory to country lane and brook and stream.
He arrives at a set of old stone plinths a ring around a village from a time of disease and quarantine, the point at which the afflicted couldn't stray beyond and those bringing food and drink could leave their packages without entering tainted land. He saw the path of reed mat leading from the edge of the village boundary right to the entrance of the inn.
The Handsome Man, he could see the sign from here, incongruous among the cars and lights, it was as he remembered from the day he was cast out, the day his father died. Walls of straw and reed around a wooden frame, thatched roof, a thick weave, the sign hand painted many years ago , paint bubbling and blistered from the heat of fires long past.
He left the horse tied to the boundary line and stepped onto the reed walkway inhaling deeply as he recognised the sickly sweet aroma of petrol, he walked onward and when stood at the door of the in on the wooden step he struck a match and threw it over his left shoulder. For a brief second illuminating his dark smile and the blood red stain of his right hand. The match tumbling in the dark landing on the reed, catching the vapour alight and suddenly the dark moonless night was split by a blazing inferno as the fire consumed all he had touched. His laugh echoed over the crackling roar of the flames as he knocked on the oak door, the oak stained with his touch. A symbol of his presence and a far older legend of this all hallows eve.
I laughed at the wait and count three seconds before opening the door, these monsters so scared of the tradition so scared of who I represent. These people, whose ancestors left mine to die in order to save their village. Riding a pale horse I have returned to play my part to punish them by standing as a reminder of what and who they made a deal with to save themselves.
A man I do not recognise one who moved into this blighted place I assume stands and sneers, "Just who in God's name are you!? I've been dragged here by this lot because of that ridiculous clause in the bloody deed! Now, someone had better tell me what the hell is going on here and why I am sat in this ruddy inn watching-" here he rounded on me nostrils flaring "you stroll in as if you own all!"
I laugh and raise my hand, the red glinting in the torchlight as I turn to face the man who dared interrupt me, dared challenge me in this place, “My friend, God has nothing to do with this blighted place and as for owning all that’s because on this night in this Inn I rather think I do. I am a representation of the man these people surrounding you, well their ancestors made a deal with. The Devil walked among them” I walk around the group stroking the hair of a young child to calm them and stroking the throat of a young woman as I move through the crowd, “They sold a family into slavery and sacrificed a man to the flames for a cure for the plague that afflicted this place, My grandfather many times passed locked inside The Handsome Man as it burned to the ground after a night entertaining the Man with a red right hand, he the most traveled of the village having fought in France for our king spent the night telling tales of love and loss.”
I move angry now talking with my hands and ranting, “they watched as the Inn burned with bows and sticks to ensure he died, his young wife heavy with child forced to watch as he screamed, she gave birth and the rider took the child and promised these monsters that he would return on the year of his twenty fifth summer to speak of love and loss. A price MY Family Pay to save these wretched lives, I cannot touch the ground of the village of my birth a condition of the pact with the demon so I burn the reeds I stand on, this Inn at morning light with either be ash or razed to the ground by the churchwarden. If my tales are judged to be enough, I will be allowed to live in the land of my birth and take a bride marked for me by the demons and live to bind my child to this curse, if, if I have failed, I will burn in the Inn this night and a child will be found in the ashes, a child taken from their home and sent away to return as they reach twenty five summers.”
The man scoffs and moves to stand, “bollocks, this is rural bollocks I’m not sitting here with you country inbred’s and listening to this shit” he moves to leave and I watch impassively the door refusing to budge even as it is unlocked. The ring of flames from the reed surrounding us.
I turn to his panicked attempts to exit this place, “This isn’t a tall tale or a game sir, sit and rest and enjoy the night, eat and drink and be merry, you best start believing in tales of demons and deals, for my friend you’re in one. Has a maiden been marked by the sign” I ask and enjoy the nervousness and fear as the priest stands and nods.
“Young Eliza, eighteen and fair of face and hair, found this morn her hand dripping blood that would not stop” she stands and curtsies and moves to sit in the place by mine bearing drink and food set for the travelling man.
“the compacts have been met, the door is sealed, we are all here, from bairn to priest, from blacksmith to lord, it is time.” I grin as the thunder rolls a great wicked crack as lighting strikes the inn. This is what I’m born for, my purpose my life and tis soon time to begin. I drink and eat talking and meeting these monsters and murderers, watching those who only know of the story from tales of their parents face the guilt and weight. It’s easy for them to nod and say they understand till faced with the man they have to condemn. I take the time to talk with Eliza, she’s as they told me, everything that I would desire. The demons speak truth in that, the teller of tales rewarded by their mate being everything their heart could need. In looks, in life, in views, in thoughts, the perfect lover everything my soul could want and my body desire.
I take a sip of wine and stand moving to my seat by the fire, lit by the wicked red glow I move and start to speak, “I come from many miles from here, for to fulfill an ancient pact, to tell of things and times long past of love and loss and ash. To speak of many wonders, of hope of hate of heart. You are crowded here to pay old debts and for me to pay my part. I have ballads and story, myth and legend all which tell of love, of passion of sex and debauched joy and of faith and home and hearth. So I sit with wineskin in hand my promised bride at my knee.” I look down at Eliza adoringly, she the one good part of this bargain, that we few we marked we red handed, would find our loves early. “ The sky black, the moon hiding as the devil walks this night and I this outsider looking in this Red Handed man staring into flames will recite the words searched for over many miles and wait and hope and pray. For if those who judge my worth say naught I burn at mornings light. I pay the price I’m bound to pay, to risk my life for you, for want of a cure you cast me in this role to fight the plague. “
My voice rising as a fell wind whispers and licks across the floor, creeping through cracks and gaps raising hackles and hairs, the fire roaring up behind me and for the first time I smile at the crowd. “All are assembled who took part in the compact and our judge is on the wind, so my Lord, your Chosen Man begs leave to speak and to pay his tithe, fulfill his role” I nod to the Lord whose family traditionally owned the village and on receiving his nod I breathed and waited.
One, two, three flashes of lightning and I took up the tale again, “And now I sit and permission is given to speak and sing, tonight my monsters listen and listen well for the stories I was forced to know, to buy my freedom and my life I speak and show and sing, the ritual done, the background aired tis now time to begin, three tales I have prepared this night, love lost, love won and desire, tragic love lost and sex all weaved into the words herein. Get comfortable and get drink for tis now time to begin.” The words spiralling from me as if I knew them all my life, words given to me by the role I play my accent thick and strong as I become the storyteller, all my family past I feel here now watching and giving strength as I weave the tales that decide whether I am to live or die.
the handsome man's tale part 2
First of all gods, I am sorry its so quiet, had mic issues and also sorry my voice is so bloody rough and flat due to this Autumn cold and the low budget not allowing me licencing rights or hiring a singer. The Handsome man telling his tale this one a tail of tragedy and pain. as Always I hope this tale finds you well on this all hallows eve.
Confident that his audience of sceptics had been cowed by both his words and the eerie chill and the crackling flames he returned to his role of the showman the jester, the one man who thought mad can tell the truth in this blighted world. He leaped up onto the bar ands clapped his hands twice in a sharp staccato rhythm and began to weave his spell of otherworldly stories.
He slowly began to weave his tale as the audience watched spellbound by old magics, “I was in Ireland and walking across land long since empty lands filled with loss and pain and on this land I found a cross, a memorial from long past and so at midnight I returned and stood as I expected was a girl of twenty six summers dressed in skirt and blouse draped in a soldiers jacket to keep out the chill, she greeted me and we talked, she told a tale of her life and her death, she told it in song to me just as I am telling now. She was young when the war started, twas nineteen fourteen and the air was thick with patriotism and hope a war that would end all wars a war that would be fought against the hun and be over by Christmas, she had grown up the daughter of the publican and over the years caught the eye of a local boy, a young man a bookie who sold dreams and hope in a small dreary town, that brief moment on raceday where if the winds blew right copper could turn to gold. She turned to me and sang, sang of hope and love. My voice is not hers though the words are but the voice is something I can share.
The air grew thick with tenseness as the music started the music a mournful violin that though different from the original seemed to fit.
I'm a girl that's just come over,
Over from the country where they do things big;
And among the boys I've got a jolly sweetheart,
Since I got a sweetheart I don't care a fig.
For the boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me;
There he is, can't you see him waiving off his handkerchief,
As merry as the robin that sings in the tree?
For the boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me;
There he is, can't you see him waiving off his handkerchief,
As merry as the robin that sings in the tree?
He is not tall, but yet he's manly,
And I always see him in the same old place;
Curly head is bobbing, don't you see him nodding?
There he is! don't you see his smiling face?
For the boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me;
There he is, can't you see him waiving off his handkerchief,
As merry as the robin that sings in the tree?
For the boy I love is up in the gallery,
The boy I love is looking now at me;
There he is, can't you see him waiving off his handkerchief,
As merry as the robin that sings in the tree?
“They fell in ,love and courted and were engaged to be married, that awkward period of unrequited affection and longing sighs, blushing smiles and nervous titters, waved neckerchiefs and notes turning to an engagement that filled the town with joy and laughter and the nervous energy of wedding bells approaching, but then as spring grew distant and the world turned, hope turned to fear as the men marched off to war, before he marched with his boyhood pals towards distant shores they wed out in the glades they had played in as children, just these two lovers promising before god that when he returned that they would truly be bound by priest and sacrament.
He took a sip of wine and looked at his bride to be talking more to her than the spellbound audience, pouring the pain into his tale and his fears, fears that if his words were not enough that he was damming her to a life alone unable to fill the aching burning regret and loss, the hole he would leave, maybe twas the worst of the curse, that his failure dams his mate to a life alone tortured with visions of what could have been, the one kiss they share the only love she will have if he is not enough to please the demons.
“he went to war marched off with boyhood friends, the scene could be anything from when they were young, broomsticks on shoulder playing at soldier now come true, pellet guns and shotguns now lee Enfield’s and webleys, he wrote letters home and she wept and prayed spending days in church on her knees begging for his safe return so she can spend her nights on her back or knees in pleasure not fear and prayer. The war wasn’t over by Christmas no, twas weeks longer then months then year after bloody year of dogeared letter and tale of shellscrape and machinegun nest till that fateful day, there was a knock and a letter, born by the local chaplain a old man of seventy, too old to fight left behind by the regiment to bring comfort and aid to the familys left behind. Rather than delivering it to home he took the notice to her, it was he that heard her wail of pain and loss as she knew what it was as he walked up the pathway,. That hateful black banded paper an arrow through her heart.”
He sinked to his knees in horror weeping at the scene his heart torn open as he recounted her pain, “the scream of pain the roaring howl of dying love and hope, a noise that was depressingly common in the village, the women flocked to her to support her as she lay wrapped in the boys dress uniform jacket, his casket laid down in the pub she worked for the wake, her night spent weeping over his cold form. He was buried and she was catatonic” he looked at his wife to be and held her closely, the women watching seeing this young man as human now, they saw and felt the guilt at the price he was to pay hitting them like a hammer blow as they realised that in their fear of the curse that they had forgotten that he was a boy just like theirs, he had been a babe in cloth, a child but he had known since birth that he may not be granted chance to grow old.
The guilt striking them as if a hammer blow to the chest as he murmured into his partners ear, that if he failed this night that this song was a begging plea for to live on to find a life after him. The sorrow of his cousin long dead something to be left in story alone.
I am stretched on your grave
And will lie there forever
If your hands were in mine
I'd be sure we'd not sever
My apple tree my brightness
It's time we were together
For I smell of the earth
And am worn by the weather
When my family thinks
That I'm safe in my bed
From night until morning
I am stretched at your head
Calling out to the air
With tears hot and wild
My grief for the boy
That I loved as a child
Do you remember
The night we were lost
In the shade of the blackthorn
And the chill of the frost
you swore before our god
we’d be married this was not just this night
As you left here for france
called me your pillar of light
The priests and the friars
Approach me in dread
Because I still love you
My love and you're dead
I still would be your shelter
Through rain and through storm
And with you in your cold grave
I cannot sleep warm
So I'm stretched on your grave
And will lie there forever
If you hands were in mine
I'd be sure we'd not sever
My apple tree my brightness
It's time we were together
For I smell of the earth
And am worn by the weather
He finished his song and quietly began to sob into the girls chest, for his cousin for the boy who died alone drowning in the mud under the weight of the dead, for the girl he left behind dying of heartbreak and finally for the first time for himself and his love as the weight of his path hit him. She knew in that moment that though he was the figure of legend that he needed her to be strong to love him, to be the only one in this blighted place to fight for him. She took him, guided him upstairs and kissed him frantically, hard rough and passionate, the two lovers taking the moment in the fear that it would be their first and last.
Shedding clothes and scratching caressing nipping licking, moaning and biting. Moving to the bed moaning the rocking of the headboard shaking the rafters and those present remembering years gone by, the songs of this young woman reminding them 0f the price and the fear their thundering climax muffled by the roar of the fire and the pealing thunder in the sky, as they slaked their thirst for each other together, spurred on by the curse’s need for a fresh victim, conceiving his child as he himself was conceived, in the fear that this was the last and whipped up by the fear, his terror and his uncertainty the same aphrodisiac that the march to war gave.
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