The Song of Deptford (2023) - Short Story - S Etana
Many years ago now, a small village of Albioneans fished, farmed, prayed and played by the banks of the River Thames. These were simple times, when the sky wasn’t so grey, and the earth wasn’t so hard, and all around for miles one would see green, galloping fields. These were ancient days, and happy ones. When the winter rolled by, all the village folk would gather together for a mighty feast, in thanks for the abundance that their Father Thames had brought them.
Old Father Thames, however, had other feelings about the arrangement. Though in the summer, under the warm, open sky, he smiled kindly on these fishing folk–and their rods in his depths felt like a nice scratch on the back–in the winter things changed. He became grumpy in the cold, and grumbled to his Neks (the spirit folk that tend to him) about the peaceful village on his bank. ‘These meddlesome Albioneans’, he would complain, ‘they come out on their boats and they steal all of my fish, and then they reap my bank-side crops and give me nothing in return! I can hear them now, in their nice warm houses, eating my fish and drinking my ale. I have a right mind to take it all back from them.’ ‘My Lord’, the Neks would plead, ‘these people are only making do with the little they have. They are a pious and caring people, and they mean you no harm with their rods and their scythes. Think back to warmer days, when you would chuckle with glee at their songs and their tools, and tell all the gods just how glad you were for them–much gladder, you’d say, than for the other towns you have to deal with!’ But it was clear that Father Thames was too proud, and felt jealous of the festivities and the warmth of the village houses. ‘I care nothing for their childish rattle and scraping metals!’ As his envy grew, so too did his waves, and his body soon crossed over the banks, sinking the fishermen’s fleet. ‘Oh dear,’ the Neks said, as they knew that Father Thames would grow so great as to flood the whole village.
In the village hall, the Albioneans were at their annual winter feast. ‘Mighty fine kipper!’, one exclaimed. ‘Excellent ale!’, cheered another. A band played on a platform as the whole village ate side-by-side on a long, fine table, crafted from a local oak. The priest with his ministers sat at the front. Next to them sat the fishing folk, and then the farming folk, and lastly all the children. Up stood the village priest, and made a toast. ‘To Father Thames do we dedicate this bountiful feast! Everything comes from his gracious generosity; let us give thanks!’ The whole table cheered, and poured a little ale out on the floor in libation. Then the ladies stood up and danced in the traditional style of the time, arms flowing and legs skipping to the beat of the village band, as though they were bobbing on the river’s surface.
‘You see?’ said the Neks to Father Thames. ‘The Albioneans have the greatest respect for you, my Lord. Won’t you accept their libations?’ In his heart, Father Thames knew he was wrong, but still his anger grew, faster now out of the shame of his own pettiness. ‘Dare you question me, little Neks? I am a god and they are a pestilence. I shan’t miss them one bit,’ he said, and his waves grew stronger and wilder, until all the fields of the village were drowned. ‘We must do something!’, the Neks agreed, and quickly made their way to the village hall, to warn the Albioneans of their Father’s coming.
The Albioneans continued their feast, smiling and laughing and singing and dancing in the warmth of each other’s company. That was, until in a rush of cool air all the candle flames suddenly went out and the hall was plunged into darkness, save for an eerie blue glow that hung over the dining table. A great silence filled the room, and in that silence the people could hear the waves of the river, which should not have been heard so close to the hall. Water started trickling in through the floorboards. The priest spoke in a loud, calm voice. ‘We must leave the village immediately. Bring only what you can carry, and do not return home. We will make our way to our lord in Grenwic as soon as possible. Let us go.’ Calm and collected, the Albioneans listened to their priest, and followed him out of the hall, taking what little they had with them, and nothing more. Stepping out of the hall, their feet plunged nto a stream of cold water, swiftly rushing by their ankles, and growing by the second. They made their way quickly over the fields and away from the hall, following the great pilgrim’s path to Canterbury, the river following quickly on their heals. Eventually, they reached the town of Grenwic. There they were greeted by their lord, who arranged beds for them and what spiritual comfort he could. But nothing could truly console them, for their village was lost. Awful lamentations rang out through the night.
The next morning, the lord summoned the priest of the village. He arrived as soon as he could, and was greeted to a stern look. ‘Have you and your people remembered Father Thames?’ the lord asked him. ‘Why, of course!’ the priest returned. ‘We live by his graces! We had only just poured out libations to him when the river spirits came to warn us of his coming!’ ‘And they said nothing of the cause of Father Thames’ anger?’ the lord replied. ‘Nothing at all,’ said the priest. The two were stumped. ‘Why would Father Thames destroy the village if all the thanksgivings had been made?’ Failing to come to a conclusion, the priest was dismissed, and the lord left troubled by these new spiritual qualms.
The priest decided to walk out into the lord’s courtyard to ponder the mystery further. He found little inspiration in his thoughts, but noticed that some of his villagers had joined the townsfolk praying at a local shrine in the distance. He decided to go down and join them. In times like these, thinking only harms the soul, and there is little more one can do than pray. When he arrived, he realised that they were standing around a well, a holy well dedicated to an ancient and powerful goddess. The priest knew the well faintly, and had been to the occasional service here on request of his lord, and took great relief in the poetic words of the minister. ‘Frau Holda, gracious goddess, warm heart of the wintry breeze, may you hear our prayers, relive us of this terrible flood, and return to us our beloved lands.’ Some milk was poured into the well, and the minister proclaimed a fast, advising the village people not to eat anything but fish and gruel for the next three days, in order to appease Frau Holda, and to visit the well with libations as often as they could. At that, the ministering candle was blown out, and the congregation returned to their homes–all except the priest, who was intrigued by the well, and stepped closer, taking a careful look down it. The well was incredibly deep, and nothing could be made of it much further than a couple of feet. The priest threw a silver coin down it, but did not hear it hit the ground. There he stood, staring for a while into the darkness, until a sudden rush of excitement took over him; he lifted himself over the wall, swung his feat over the edge, and jumped in.
He fell in complete darkness. The priest felt as though he may never reach the bottom. His mind raced. He was in complete disbelief at what he had just done. ‘What has compelled me to such a reckless action? Should I die here, I will be disgraced for defiling a holy shrine!’ And yet, in spite of this extremity, part of him felt calm and assured. Then, as though he were never falling at all, the priest found himself in a new world: a large, white field, under a bright, purple sky, where a cold breeze moved the silver blades of grass to dancing and the priest’s eyes to tears. Elder trees stood tall in the distance, with bronze bark and emerald leaves. In the distance was a small cottage, attached to a farm. It was white with black beams, and a pointy thatched roof, with smoke coming from the chimney. The priest decided he should go there to seek help. The silver grass brushed coldly at his ankles, and the wind was an obstacle to break through. Eventually he came across an apple tree, with silver leaves and ruby apples, and heard several small voices coming from it. At first, the priest thought it was just the wind blowing through the leaves, but as he listened further, he realised they were speaking words in his language. ‘Mister, mister!’ they squeaked in a sweet, high-pitched tone. ‘Mister, please help us!’ The priest looked up at the tree in disbelief, and realised that the golden apples hanging from the tree were the source of the voices. ‘Why, however could I help you?’ he stuttered. ‘Mister, we are happily ripe and ready to eat, but no one has come to pick us from this tree! If we are not harvested soon, we will rot, and do nobody any good! Please, if you would, take us down so that we may serve the gods well!’ The priest obliged, and carefully picked every apple off the tree, one by one, and placed them into his priestly gown. ‘Thank you, mister!’ ‘But what shall be done with you now?’ the priest asked. ’To the cottage, mister!’ the apples replied, and so the priest picked up the basket of apples and continued on his way to the cottage.
He knocked on the door and called out. ‘Hello? Is there anybody in?’ The door swung open to its own accord, and a woman’s voice came from inside. ‘Come in!’ The priest stepped inside, and the door shut itself behind him, revealing to him a kind corridor with flower-patterned wallpaper and the smell of sweet ginger wafting all around. The priest made his way to his right, into the front room, where a large fire was lit in the fireplace, though he felt not the slightest bit warmer. In front of the fire, in the centre of the room, was a small couch, facing the flames. The priest stood there for a while, not sure what to do, when the voice came again. ‘Well you’ll do no good standing there, will you? Come over here where I can see you. I’m almost finished.’ The priest obeyed, and slowly walked up to the couch.
Sat in the chair was a tall, beautiful older woman, with sparkling white hair coming down to her hips, wearing a plain, dark, satin frock, and with glowing blue eyes. A thin wooden headband sat on her perfectly parted hair, with a small runic symbol filled with silver in the middle. She was spinning a thread that was close to its end, and was very much devoting her attention to this work. At last, she turned around to face him, just a few finger measures still left of the thread. ‘Ah! you brought the apples! Thank you, darling!’ She took them from him, the apples happily humming to themselves. ‘Excuse me for my interruption. It felt as though some force had brought me down here. If I may… are you…’ the priest trailed off, too afraid to ask, and so the lady asked for him. ‘Frau Holda?’ ‘Y-yes,’ he stuttered. The lady laughed to herself, stood up, and took the priest by the hand. Her skin was as cold as ice, but the priest resisted the urge to shiver. ‘I believe one of my children has brought you to me, and I think I know which one.’ She spoke softly, but with intention, and called out to the corridor, ‘Bertha!’, and a pair of tiny feet could be heard tumbling down the stairs.
A little girl trotted in to the room, dressed in a nightgown and with a smudge of chocolate on her face. Her long and knotty brunette hair looked a birds’ nest on her head, and the priest noted that her hands and toes were webbed. She had a cheeky smile on her face, and looked at the priest with a sense of pride. ‘Bertha, who is this man, and why have you brought him here?’ asked the old woman. ‘He is a priest, grandma,’ the girl said, ‘he has come from a village in the west. He is a good priest, for a kind people who have been unfairly robbed of their lands by the greedy Old Mister Thames! You must help them, grandma!’ ‘And why have you taken such a sudden interest in these people, hm?’, the grandmother asked. ‘I have been watching them, grandma. They play the most wonderful music, and sing the most wonderful songs! They dance and they cheer and they dress with such fun! And most of all, they are gracious and kind, like you grandma. They care for each other, and for their land, even if their river doesn’t care for them. It is all so unfair, grandma!’ ‘So this is why you have been so tired during our morning spinning lessons,’ the grandmother sighed. ‘You see that it is nearly finished.’ ‘Yes grandmother, sorry grandmother.’ A sorrowful look came upon the old woman’s face, but adjusted back to a wise frown in a flash. ‘Very well, thank you Bertha. Now, you go back up stairs and get ready for bed. Brush your hair and brush your teeth and wash your face–or you’ll be in big trouble–and make sure all your sisters are in bed, too. I shall be up shortly.’ ‘Yes grandma,’ said the girl, running out of the room and tumbling up the stairs with a giggle.
‘Well now,’ said the lady, turning her attention back to the priest, ‘what is to be done with you?’ ‘What your granddaughter has said is true, my lady. Our village was flooded last night, just as we were giving libations to Father Thames, and we have lost a great deal of our lands. If there is anything you can do to help, we would be forever grateful.’ The priest bowed his head, knowing that he was asking a great ask of the mysterious woman. ‘Yes, yes, that old man does get unfairly grumpy at this time of year. It’s the cold I think, and the dark. Oh, and he’s a jealous soul at that. Many a village has paid the price of thinking him a friend.’ The woman looked carefully at the priest, scrutinising him for a while, and then continued. ‘Musicians, are you? And dancers? Good at a party? If that’s true, then sing me a song.’ The priest was not much of a singer, and under the pressure, all the songs of his people left him, so he rushed a little ditty off the top of his head:
There was a Little Crown that sat besides a little Creek.
The barman who could put it on his head would win a treat:
For all the local punters would choose him to be their king,
And so four local publicans set out, the Crown, to win.
One a pretty puppy with a bell around his neck;
One a so-called Duke who dressed up like a pizza chef;
One another Marquis who claimed to be the Granby;
And one was just a bloke called John who smoked a lot of meat.
The first of them to run was the Dog with a ring and bark,
Who somehow had the nose to dig and find old Noah’s Ark.
Secondly the Duke got himself on the Royal George,
Which took a little tumble as it stumbled out of port.
Granby downed a brandy and he telegrammed a mate,
Who lended him the Royal Albert, won at last year’s fete.
And John went to intimidate the Aussie Maritimes,
To get himself their replica Endeavour just in time.
They were looking for the Crown,
Looking all around,
So they could win the heart of town,
And have it in beer, drown.
The Dog, by nature, couldn’t drive the ship that he had entered,
And crashed the mast straight through the glass out front of the Job Centre.
The George sailed pretty smoothly till it hit something down under,
The Duke went to investigate and found a hidden Bunker.
The Marquis knew just where to chart with all his Army charm:
A hidden stash of weapons they called the Amersham Arms.
Endeavour would not listen when John told the ship to rest,
And took him to a strange new land where giant birds would nest.
They were looking for the Crown,
Looking all around,
So they could win the heart of town,
And have it in beer, drown.
Well John he couldn’t stand the sting of guano in his eyes,
But enlisted the birds to help ‘cause they were decent guys.
And Granby loaded on his ship some nice, expensive guns,
Plus some armed, drunk teenagers just looking for some fun.
And the Duke he entered down beneath and found himself locked in,
Bombarded by a siren swarm of mermaids drunk on gin.
The Dog realised the Job Centre was full of the employed,
But got the suit-and-ties involved, on his mission to join.
They were looking for the Crown,
Looking all around,
So they could win the heart of town,
And have it in beer, drown.
Granby stormed the riverfront and found the Little Crown,
But quickly followed Dog & Bell with all the yuppies of the town,
Then up above Big John flew in on giant eagles’ backs,
Distracting all the yuppies with a rain of spicy snacks.
The Dog took the advantage, slipped the Crown onto his tail,
As Granby’s kiddy army started puking up cocktails,
Poor John knew that the eagles were to high to chase the victor,
The Dog ought to have had it but then he dropped it in the river!
#They were looking for the Crown,#
Looking all around,
So they could win the heart of town,
But instead the Crown did drown.
‘Very well,’ the lady said, ‘I will help your village reclaim their lands. I will send that old man running, and I will tell you the secrets of keeping him at bay in future, but on one condition: every winter, when the moon is bright, and your people think it right to celebrate the bounties of the year, awaiting the start of the new one, you must invite me along, through dedications and libations, and remember this great favour. I am always looking for a winter party!’ The priest looked up, astonished. ‘I promise that we will keep your feast and hold you in our hearts for all time! May the burdens of life weigh heavy on our shoulders if we fail to pour your libations–and of your granddaughter, too!’ In a fit of religious gratitude he kneeled and kissed Frau Holda’s hand, and swore once again to keep her winter feast each year before the New Year came around. ‘Very good,’ she said finally, ‘then let us go.’ She took the priest by the hand, and they walked back through the corridor, past the stairs, through the kitchen and into the back garden of the cottage.
Though the garden itself had much to behold–a beautiful assortment of berry bushes, elder trees, and ice sculptures depicting great battles and foreign gods–the priest could pay attention to only one thing: giant white goose, the size of an elephant, swimming a vast, icy pond filled with silver fish. Frau Holda brought up to the water, and leaped onto the goose’s feathers. As they climbed into a saddle on the goose’s back, Frau Holda turned round and called out to the priest: ‘Hold on tight!’ The priest barely had time to adjust himself before the goddess cried out in a strange tongue and the bird lifted its wings, jolting him around in the cold, windy sky. He looked back at the cottage, and could see little Bertha in the top floor window, laughing and jumping with her sisters at this marvelous sight. She seemed overjoyed, and a smile came upon the priest, until he saw the little girl start to disappear right in front of his eyes. She stopped jumping and noticed her hand begin to fade into nothingness. She looked afraid. So did her sisters. He called out to Frau Holda, but she ignored him. They came to a sphere of cloud, and the fog grew thicker, until nothing could be seen of the land below.
As they rose over the cloud, and the fog dispersed, the priest looked back down. The sky had grown dark, but the goose’s feathers and Frau Holda’s hair beamed bright on the ground below. They had left the strange land behind, and were flying over somewhere more familiar. ‘That’s my lord’s manor down below! We’re flying over Grenwic!’ he shouted. ‘We are indeed,’ Frau Holda replied, and they soon came over the banks of the river. The water shimmered, reflecting the light of the goose’s feathers, and the priest’s joy turned into sorrow. ‘And that was my village,’ he said, a tear falling from his cheek.
From the fields of Grenwic, the people looked up, and marveled at the bright light soaring across the sky. ‘Behold, Frau Holda has heard our prayers!’ the people cheered, and the smiling gaze of all these Albioneans shone right back at Holda’s goose. Then, the sky boomed. The ground shook. A loud, deep voice spoke. ‘Which god now has thus disturbed my lands? What bright light accompanies you? Have you no respect for my ancient rights, my mighty tides?’ A maternal, commanding voice responded. ‘Old Father Thames, you jealous god, have you no cheer in your wintry heart? Why have you ruined the feast of my people, and rejected their libations? Have you no shame?’ ‘Shame?!’ the deeper voice echoed across the hills, ‘Shame? What need have I for shame, alone in the dark and in the cold? What need have I for shame as a god of the waters, a father of chaos? Depart from here with your shame, and leave me in peace.’ The goddess shouted back. ‘You complain of darkness and cold, and yet you shirk from the light! You shall not ruin this feast, and steal from me my lands. Shrink into your legal banks before I am forced to strike!’ The river made no reply, but grew in his violence and tumult, his waves creeping up to Grenwic.
‘He will flood the manor!’ cried the priest. Frau Holda cried back: ‘Pass me my bow and arrow!’ From the satchel hanging by the side of the saddle protruded an elegant, golden bow with a single, shining white hair for a string. Next to it, a single arrow, quilled with bright white goose feathers. A distinctive dark groove in the wood ran up the side of the arrow that seemed familiar to the priest, but he shook the thought, and handed this weapon to the goddess. She pulled back the hair with the arrow, aimed at the former site of the village hall. She fired. The arrow, with tremendous speed, struck at the heart of the sunken village, shooting through the water, and exploding into a flash of bright light, as the cry of Father Thames could be heard all across the land. The light was so bright that it was to the people as though the sun had arisen, lighting every nook and cranny. Then, as quickly as it came, it faded, and all that remained of the flood was a glistening, blue stream. ‘The river has been pushed back!’ the priest exclaimed. Frau Holda turned her attention back to the Thames. ‘From this day forth, this shining tributary shall mark the border between your lands and mine! For as long as I am held in esteem by this river, no harm shall come to them, and none of your jealous energies shall trouble them!’ Father Thames was too wounded to reply, but Frau Holda acknowledgement by the Neks, who shone in the tributary, bringing forth seaweed from the ice-scorched land. With that goddess’ work was done. She flew back to Grenwic, and landed on the hill by the manor and her well, allowing the priest to disembark, much to the astonishment of the Albioneans.
They cheered and cried, hailing Holda and pouring libations of mulled cider and spiced milk into her well. The priest turned to Frau Holda. ‘Thank you, grandmother. Really, our people cannot thank you enough. You will send young Bertha our thanks, too?’ Without saying a word, Holda and her shining goose returned to the sky, raining bright feathers down onto the land, which turned to snowflakes as they fell, decking all Grenwic in a brilliant, sparkling white. There were tears and shouts and laughs and prayers, and the womenfolk danced and the children played, as the goose headed for a distant hilltop. The priest could just make out the goddess dismount the goose, and head in to a small house up there–but in an instant, the goose and the house had disappeared.
The next day, on sledges provided by their lord, the villagers made their way back to their homeland. Where once their village had stood was now just a deep ford, either side of the new tributary river that ran quickly over icy rocks, already full with fish. It was youthful and charming, a fair river that one might drink from freely, for the water was as clear as glass–but many of the villagers could not handle the sight of their former home so ruined, and were brought to tears. Wistfulness was about the cool air, still flickering with the embers of new, blue Neks, that protected the fertile banks. The priest spoke clearly and confidently, so that all his people could hear. ‘We have much work to do. We have a new world to build, and old memories to keep. But with the help of our goddess Holda, and by the graces of our will, we shall thrive once more in this, deep ford, for centuries to come. There is a time for tears, and there is time for action. When our work is done we shall dedicate a feast to our grandmother Holda with mulled cider; our young patron Bertha with spiced milk; and to our Old Father Thames with warm ale, around our village hearth, so that none shall go hungry, and all shall smile kindly, and be received warmly, into our gracious, loving homes. Let us not forget the sacrifices made, and the forces that brought us here, on the day that we find our cheeks plenty dry. Let us always remember the ford.’ So the noble Albioneans wiped away their tears as they went, and put themselves to work. Amongst the startling white, crystalline snow, they, together, gave life to a proud new village, that would come, one day, to be known to us as Deptford, and all while they worked they sang together the priest’s silly song.