The Chronicles of Raldus

1.Shall we start at the beginning?


Once upon a very nice time, not that long ago, there lived a happy little boy in an African bungalow that sat on the top of a steep Welsh hill. He was a very small boy and the hill was a very small hill-so small that he could chase after the princess, from top to bottom and back, without loosing his breath. He lived there with: his mother who was ill and often away from home, his father who was very strong and frightened him, the princess who cared for him when his mother was away and the “one ear up, one ear down corgi” Sossi.

" Inky Pinkie spider climbing up the spout,
Down came the raindrops and washed the spider out.
Out came the sunshine and dried up all the rain,
And Inky Pinkie spider climbed the spout again."

This was the princess’ song which she sang every evening when tucking him into his snug bed. Her voice was rich and comforting and if the verses ended happily a nice warm feeling crept through the whole of his body. Then he would slide into a restful sleep untroubled by any of those strange voices and weird dreams that, too often, haunt imaginative little boys at night. But now and then the princess, deep in one of her moods, sang about Inky in an ugly voice. This worried him for he was quite fond of his little friend whom he believed was not deserving of the rough treatment inflicted upon him. There were times when he shed a few tears for the little chap and was far too distressed to fall asleep. But, even then, the princess showed no mercy and dug deeply into her fertile imagination to draw out fresh stories packed with pixies, devils and a multitude of evil monsters. These she launched against the unfortunate Inky with a sustained ferocity. The princess had cared for him ever since his mother went away, and he loved her-so much that he had told her he would marry her when he was older. But lately he had become so disenchanted by her ill treatment of Inky Pinkie that he could, at any moment, change his mind. Though there were many princesses in his little world; his thoughts lingered on the one he saw every morning: Mavis the pretty smiley post girl who gave him a rosy apple one day and on another a big kiss when he wasn’t looking her way. It was a nice kiss that gently brushed his cheek- not a bit like the mushy ones from the princess when she “gobbled him all up.” But it still made him blush to the roots of his jet-black hair, and he wondered what Henry Harry would have said if he had been there to see it. At the very least, he would have teased him forever and ever.
One wild and stormy night in December with the rain beating on the windowpane, the wind rattling the tiles of the low roof and wild spirits whispering spitefully down the chimney into the bedroom; he lay in his bed and was not afraid. He felt secure knowing that the princess lying beside him had promised to tell him a story that would end happily ever after. Half closing his eyes he curled to a comfortable position and expected to hear another episode of the adventures of Inky Pinkie Spider. She started quietly enough with her voice no more than a whisper. But he soon realised that she was taking him on an adventure with someone very different from his gentle friend. It was, to his dismay, the tale of the terrible Babba Yagga, the dreaded witch with the iron teeth who had developed the disgusting habit of eating little boys for her supper.
The princess was at her best with this kind of material. With her many voices, she found it easy to exploit it's horrors and it provided her with many opportunities to create a grisly gothic atmosphere. He recalled the many occasions when her facial distortions achieved such alarming plasticity that every hair on the back of his head stood smartly to attention. Indeed her performance could be so convincing that he felt iced waters chilling his spine. As he lay there, he anticipated a repeat of this performance in which she, as a personification of the old hag, would scare the living daylight out of him.
With a serious expression on her young face the princess positioning herself on one arm, leant over him, and stared long and hard into his eyes as she drew him into her world of horror. Apprehensively he listened but was mystified by the strangeness of the story‘s beginning,
“Now then. Tonight I am going to tell you a new story,” said the princess. “ Its the story of Mrs. Hughes. You remember her. She’s the old hag living in that gloomy house around the corner by Henry Harry’s farm. You saw her once standing in her garden. Standing there and staring at you with eyes shining red like coals on fire.”
Raldus recalled, with a shiver, the weird old lady with her white face of death, who had stared at him with fiery eyes until he and the princess had hurried to turn Henry Harry’s corner.
“I can remember her. She was creepy and I didn’t like her at all,” said Raldus, “and she smelled like one of Henry Harry’s pigsties.”
“Well, she stared at you because she likes plump little boys,” laughed the princess and continued,
“Of course, Mrs Hughes isn’t her real name. That’s what she called herself when she moved into Gloomy Cottage last winter. Her real name is Babba Yagga,” and with a deep voice continued, “She was a horrid Witch with iron teeth. Did you know that she was thrown out of her little house that ran about on chicken legs in far away Russia? That was before she moved into the dark woods under Graig hill.”
“Why did she change her name?” asked Raldus, “Mrs. Hughes is a silly name for a witch.”
“It is a silly name,” agreed the princess but if they’d known her real name she would never have got into the country,” and added, “She’s been a very wicked witch indeed”
“And has she got real iron teeth?” Asked Raldus
“Yes she has and they were made in one of the biggest ironworks in Russia. This is famous for its tanks and railway engines, as well as iron teeth for the top witches throughout the world” answered the Princess.
“ Why does she want iron teeth? ” asked Raldus nervously dreading her answer.
“ To gobble up little Russian boys and now, perhaps, little Welsh boys,” she said with a hysterical laugh and she took hold of him and shook him until he was dizzy.
This was far too much for Raldus to bear and turning away from the princess, he closed his eyes tightly and feigned sleep. The princess continued, but was so engaged with her story that she was unaware that her voice was falling upon deaf ears. After a while he felt himself drifting away from her images of horror. Her voice, droning on and on, was gently receding until it seemed to be much further away than the spirits that were whispering to him from the roof. Gradually it mingled and dissolved within their hushed whispers and soon there was nothing to hear but those spirits on the roof that never stopped whispering to him........

“Soft o’er the fountain
Lingering, falls the southern moon,
Far o’er the mountain,
Breaks the day too soon”……..

This was his mother’s song. This she sang in a warm contralto voice as she worked around the house during the day. She was sad and often cried quietly to herself, but never told him why. In the evenings he loved to listen to the music played by village children who came to the bungalow for piano lessons. This was a time when, snug in the warmth of his bed, he was at peace with his little world. As the evening passed by, he would struggle to keep awake until the children finished their lessons and left for home. Then he was transposed into a magical world of sound through his mother’s playing of the music of her favourite composer- Ludwig Van Beethoven who she said was quite mad. As he listened he sometimes felt that it was the music of a madman-as angry as a raging storm one moment and gentler than the hush of falling snowflakes the next. There were clashes of thunder that made his heart leap and silvery glissandos that stretched through the skies to brush the twinkling stars that winked at him through the fluttering lace curtains of his bedside window. There was music, music everywhere and as it squeezed around him he felt himself slipping into a world of fairyland dreams devoid of elves, demons and monsters. And, there, waiting to greet him was his friend Inky Pinkie together with the omnipresent spirits whispering ever so kindly to him.


2.Valhalla

The village of Ceredin rested uneasily below the African bungalow. From his bedroom window, Raldus could see its dwellings stretching across the hilly terrain. Here and there, he was able to make out such monoliths as the Glitzy Ceredin Arms, the sombre Zoar Chapel and the ramshackle New Park farm. Another prominent landmark, scarring the landscape, was the main thoroughfare which straggled haphazardly around the village before it broke free and headed towards the Rhondda Valley. The village, itself, lacked the endearing features and rustic delights expected of a region bordering the fair ”Vale of Glamorgan”. It is a regrettable that on no occasion did this crumbling settlement follow the example of its neighbours and enter the “best kept village competition” or participate in the prolific Cymanfa Ganu festivals. Its high pinnacle of achievement seems to have passed unnoticed when it reached the final of the Vale Domino championship in 1949. Even then, its quest for fame and glory was dashed when several members of their team failed to make an appearance on the all-important night. It was remarkable that the inhabitants of this unremarkable little place were oblivious to the pervading ordinariness that cramped their very existence. It did, however, label them with something quite extraordinary that set them apart from the more active folk residing in the neighbouring communities. As far as the Ceredinites were concerned, Ceredin was their planet world set in the far-flung reaches of an uncharted galaxy- somewhere in outer space. There they lived in a blissful state of self-importance, which did not endear itself to their neighbours and was particularly alarming to new entrants and visitors. These were simply classified as intruders and faced a series of daunting hurdles before they could ever hope to achieve acceptance.
At the bottom of the steep little hill-the one part of the village that Raldus could not see from his window-lived the Denvers in an old house with its nameplate ‘Valhalla’ prominently pinned to the front door. Standing apart from the dreariness of the village it was submerged in a garden shaded by deciduous woodlands. This was home to the twins Tomos and Archibald who he knew only from the princesses’ colourful descriptions. Though her reports had been far from encouraging, he could hardly wait to meet them. But he had to admit that his interest in them had been slightly diminished by her cautionary hints, that on a bad day, they could be two little tyrants to be avoided at all costs.
“Tell me about them,” said Raldus impatiently, one day, when they were passing Valhalla.
“All I know is what Marie my friend told me,” she answered, “Marie is Mrs Denver’s skivvy. She’s not, at all, happy living there because the boys are always bullying her and their mother always takes their side.”
Determined to glean a complete picture of them Raldus fired a series of questions rolled into one and delivered at speed with one breath, “Are they older and bigger than me, are they good fighters, and what is their father like?”
The princess promptly dealt with his salvo of multi questions by means of one convoluted multi-answer,
“ Whew! What a lot of questions! She exclaimed. “Well I’ll give you a lot of answers. They are the same age as you. Tomos measures to your size but poor Archibald is a puny little mite. Marie says he’s like a rat with the sniffles. Marie likes Mr. Denver but everyone else thinks that he is a bad lot for he is forever chasing after women. He’s always done it and she didn’t blame him one bit because Mrs. Denver was such a miserable old sow. It was because of her that Valhalla was dark and gloomy. The place gives her the shivers and it was only when Mrs. Denver was off on her shopping trips that the sun penetrated through to its dark corners.”
A little while after this, the princess left him for a short holiday and one sunny morning when he was miserable and missing her company, he was surprised to hear his mother say,
“I was talking with Mrs Denver today and she would like you to meet her darling little boys-Tomos and Archibald. So we must make sure that you wash behind the ears and get you into your new grey suit. Then you’ll be ready for tea and cream cakes on their lawn.”
His mother’s use of the phrase ‘darling little boys’ worried him for he did not conceive that he would take to creatures of this description. It stood to reason that if they were darlings, they would be sissies like Pansy Potter from Mill Cottage who played with tea sets and undressed dolls. A heavy scowl enveloped his face and he frowned disapprovingly-signals his mother knew only too well.
“I don’t want to see those sissies,” he mumbled and thrust his hands deep into his pockets and stared defiantly at her.
After a little while, his mother, perceiving no movement on his part, caught him by the ear and led him painfully into the bathroom. There he was scrubbed and rubbed until his skin glowed a healthy pink. When he emerged there were tears, not of pain, but of frustration, rolling down his cheeks. Within minutes, mother and son were walking down the hill towards Valhalla. The mother strolled lightly, breathing in the pure country air and quietly humming a favourite tune. The son, assuming a sideways gait, dragged one foot behind him while he slapped the other in the gutter stream that bubbled down the hill.
When she reached the entrance to Valhalla his mother turned and was surprised to see Raldus, well back up the hill, still busily dragging and slapping his feet in the gutter. His shoes were wet and his legs and short grey trousers were spattered with streaks of yellow mud.
“God give me patience with that boy,” she murmured and added, “And I pray there’ll be no problems when the boys get together this afternoon.” This she said with little conviction for all signs pointed firmly in the direction of trouble.
Raldus, in the meantime, happily involved in his favourite pastime of construction and destruction, was unaware that their visit was not designed for his benefit. He would never have guessed that his mother had taken advantage of Mrs.Denver’s wish to get the boys together for one reason alone- to cement a relationship between herself and the most important lady in the village. She was the key that opened the door to acceptance by the most desirable of its institutions. A blessing bestowed from her self appointed position of high authority was an essential step along the rocky road of social progression.
“Well he’s not going to blow away my chances this time,” she mumurred and with hands on hips she stretched to full height and called him to her with a voice that resonated retribution. He detected warning bells and realised that he was close to breaching the limit of his dumb defiance; it was time, to postpone further protest; at least, until he was in the company of Tomos and Ratface.
When they were reunited at the dark and gloomy entrance to Valhalla, Raldus was briskly cleansed by a combination of spittle and elbow grease. This was applied by way of a grubby kerchief his mother discovered lurking in his secret pocket. With shoes, knees and trousers almost restored to their former glory, it was time to make a cautious entry into the unknown. Together they walked up the drive. His mother kept one hand firmly resting on his shoulder, while he marched forward purposefully, his exaggerated strides, scrunching loudly on the loose pebbles beneath his feet. As they reached their destination, the front door opened abruptly and a generously proportioned blond, with important bosoms, protruded from within the gloomy interior. Back in the darkness of the hall he could just make out two wriggling figures who circumnavigating the fleshy mound, darted up to him and inspected him intently at close quarters. With their expressionless eyes they continued with their close scrutiny but not a word was exchanged among them. Much to Raldus’ relief, eye contact was broken when Mrs. Denver warmly greeted her visitors. However his feeling of relief was short lived as she stooped low to welcome him with a bone crushing hug and a saliva-laden kiss. Already unfazed by the peculiar behaviour of the twins, he stepped back and almost toppled down the steps. Things were becoming very difficult for him of late he sighed. It was all very well for the princes and Mavis, the post girl, to kiss him from time to time but a sloppy soaking from this floppy woman was one kiss too far. He would have to think of a way to repulse further lunges from this potential tormentor. He would give it some thought.
As the ladies settled in the lounge, the princess’ friend Marie led the boys into the garden and left them by the side of ‘Lake Denver’-as she called it. Left to their own devices the twins, maintaining strict silence, resumed their detailed examination of him. He became increasingly uneasy, and began to wonder if he possessed some facial disfigurement that was of particular interest to them. He could put up with their soulless stares, but it was the eerie silence that worried him. Unable to think of a suitable verbal opening he picked up a flat stone, and sent it skimming it along the smooth surface of ‘Lake Denver’. This ‘cracked the ice’ and Tomos reacted with a refined but squeaky voice
“I can do more than that. I can make sixteen bounces,” he cried and took aim with a stone, chunky and jagged, which flopped in the water after two paltry bounces.
“I made seven,” said Raldus modestly, and graciously offered a little advice, “You only did two because you chose the wrong shape stone and didn’t throw it hard enough.”
“You can’t count wheedled Ratface” who selected a missile of more suitable design, and hurled it with all his might into the water where it sank without registering a single bounce.
Raldus was pleased by the way events were progressing. Even at that early stage of their relationship, it was clear to him that he was establishing a modest degree of supremacy over the strange boys. He had, already, demonstrated his superiority in the delicate art of water skimming and had generously offered them appropriate advice to improve their technique. He reasoned that if he was to acquire the role of instructor; he would soon qualify as leader of a gang of three. And in this position he would command his small force in many fantastical adventures around shores of Lake Denver. There, together, they would do battle and show no mercy to the monsters lurking in the gloomy forests that shrouded Valhalla. He could only contemplate a relationship with them under these terms- he would be the undisputed leader.
Unfortunately his dreams of totalitarian glory were rudely shattered when Ratface, deeply annoyed by his failure to make his mark as a “ducks and drakes” expert, embarked on a course of unbridled violence. Sniffing and jabbering he hurled his second stone, this time, straight at Raldus’ head. He ducked and the stone neatly removed a decorative windowpane from the Victorian conservatory. Regretting yet another failure, he gave a loud cry and charged Raldus with the specific aim of butting him in the breadbasket. Raldus easily avoided his blind onslaught and assisted the unfortunate traveller on his way with a neat tap to the ankle. The once peaceful garden echoed to a cry of frustration as he lost balance, to what was a good old-fashioned ankle tap and, after a hop skip and a jump, plunged into the muddy shallows of ‘Lake Denver.’ The splash soaked Tomos and Raldus to the skin, but their plight was nothing compared with that which befell Ratface. He lay there, partly submerged, in the agitated soup of mud and decaying vegetation while a stream of bubbles navigated around his still form to disturb the surface with gentle plopping sounds. After a while the dripping Ratface staggered to his feet and, subsequent to two further plunges, clambered on to dry land. By then his horrified mother, wobbling with anxiety, was hurrying towards him. Unfortunately for her, she tripped over another of the accursed tree roots to take her turn in the mud bath. Raldus felt that the afternoon’s events had reached an interesting stage but did not believe, for one moment, that he had contributed to the series of disasters that had occurred. He reflected that the ankle tap was his only act of participation but that could be fully justified on the grounds of self-defence.
Mrs. Denver, though physically powerful and blessed with rude health, was of a neurotic disposition, and could easily be provoked into bouts of irrational behaviour. In the light of the afternoon’s developments, it would be easy to conclude that the earlier exhibition of extraordinary behaviour by her son was no more than a hereditary trait- something to be expected of a small chip from a dominant block. This hypothesis was given credence when she, emerging from Lake Denver with her dripping offspring, grabbed Raldus and shook him until he felt his eyeballs loosening. His mother, who until then had stayed away from the firing line, intervened and tried to drag him away from the demented woman. As the two women pulled his body in opposite directions, he feared that he was about to divide into two portions. There had to be a way to induce at least one of the protagonists to release her grip and in desperation he relieved the situation by aiming his second kick of the day- this time into the fleshy Denver backside. Though his foot was small, this was no gentle tap and it hurt. White with fury she loosened her hold and chased after him with murder in her eyes. But handicapped by her bulk, she was unable to recapture her quarry and he slipped beneath her grasping hands. He raced away and hared out of Valhalla to the relative safety of the hill that lead to the African bungalow. Having lost her prisoner Mrs. Denver, who was waving her arms like a hysterical windmill, rounded on his mother.She stood her ground and did her best to pacify the raging lady.
At this point one may reflect that the little village of Ceredin, though insignificant in so many ways, had always been regarded as a haven of peace and tranquillity. It had, within living memory, never experienced a riot-that was until the fatal meeting between Raldus and the Denver twins. It may well have been a small riot; but the racket made by two muddy little boys and their muddier mother, screaming hysterical abuse up the hill at the indignant escapee, attracted a voluble audience of neighbours. As they took sides, applauding and jeering their chosen champions, Raldus noticed that it was his opponents who attracted the greatest share of catcalls and jeers. This pleased him and he was reminded of the princess’ story of the battle between David and Goliath. He imagined himself as David while the Denver woman was, without doubt, the bullying Goliath awaiting her demise. However, the distracted lady came to her senses and retrieved her decorum quickly when she spotted Dai Smith, the Ceredin news hound, approaching them with notebook and pencil at the ready. In the heat of the afternoon’s events, the unfortunate lady had summarily forgotten that, as the prominent member of local society, she owed herself the duty to appear to her public in the best possible light at all times. In realisation of this and sober in defeat she sobbed quietly with frustration and, gathering her soiled off springs to her bosom, disappeared into the anonymity of Valhalla.
The creatures of the air were quick to sense a return to normality at Valhalla and, once again, the busy droning of bees combined with the songs of the blackbirds and garden warblers graced its woodland. The field of battle was free for them to reclaim and enjoy. Its disruptive elements, the Denvers were safely entombed in the gloomy house where they could reflect on their various misfortunes. At the same time Raldus and his mother were returning by way of the steep little hill to the relative sanity of the cool African bungalow. His mother was disappointed by the way things had turned out, but believed the blame lay squarely on the shoulders of the two strange little boys that lived within the shadows of Valhalla.
As they arrived at the gate to the bungalow, Raldus still smouldering with resentment, spoke to his mother in heated terms,
“The princess told me that the twins were bullies and that Mrs Denver was an old sow who made everyone feel they were waiting to have their teeth pulled out” and added “She’s more of a witch than Babba Yagga and I told you that I did’nt want to go down to see them!!”
His mother smiled, and secretly agreed with him but fell short of telling him so. Instead she gave him his best news of the day.
“They’re a bit of a handful but don’t worry your little head about them. Your princess will be back with you next week and you can forget all about them.
Overall it had been a satisfactory day and he felt that he had coped very well with each tricky situation as it came his way. The clashes of personality, the battles, the site of his adversaries in damp discomfiture cheered him no end and there was the bonus of the princesses’ return. What a story he would have to tell her and his friend Henry Harry.