What? We Quarterstafs?      We be not!
We be men of      Tribe of Boxjutes;
Who with Welaf      wiped wide Wundorewen
Tribe unmanly      and not nice;
Who with Facenstafas, noble north tribe,
Ganged up on Ganots.      Much great tribute
From them took      (oft at spearpoint).

Anyway,       the quiet Quarterstafs¹
Had great thane,       Hogrower² named
He would sneak up      pillage village
When the warriors      not at home;
Women and children      killed with courtesy,
Burnt the meadhall,      killed off cattle,
Took he everything      of value;
Smashed he what      he could not steal.
He was good king,      best of men.

So with plunders      from his neighbors
And other junk      that he's stored up,
had him built      finest meadhall
With horny roof,      called it Harlot.
Gold-adorned,      mud-chinked meadhall,
Slightly sloshed      and sort of snookered,
Floor with fallen      bodies a-littered.
Noble retainers      with smiling faces
Lay among      the upturned mead-cups.
Wildly wenched,      the wonderful warriors,
Willfully wanton      and not nice.

Scope rang flat      in horny beerhall;
Sang of elderdays      when all men
Were plagued by giants      and the demons
And large pink elephants      just last night.
Sang he hoarse      and plunked on jawharp
Of many       wild orgies
When great Weregoat,      wenches ninety,
In but one night      he exhausted;
While on the side      he consumed
Fourteen gallons      of weak mead,
Mostly water,      not too potent,
Seven gallons      of stale ale,
And one half      of a roast ox;
And when dawn      with burning sunlight
Showed upon      the great debaucher,
He but belched      and scratched his belly.
Then he thundered      off to breakfast.
Men stood still      to hear the scope
Tell tales off-color      and off-key.
Sighed they for      such mighty prowess;
Worshipped they      the royal stag.

So were moved      the Men of Harlot,
Knew they not      what they awakened.
Woke they Gumbael,      fiend most foul.
Sat in barrow cleaning toenails
With his greatsword,      night and day

Though he was      from such bad singing
Sleepless through      the many nights;
Boisterous Vikings      to all hours
Raising Hell      more then they knew.
Still he did not      make his vengeance
Known to men      in horny Harlot.

He was good fiend,      strong of arm,
Fierce of countenance      ugly of face.
Sent by God,      scourge of God,
Come to clean up      debauched hall;
Wild women,      many maidens,
In the meadhall,      drinking mead;
Beery wenches      on weary benches.

Then one night,      high moon rising,
Burst he in      like Carrie Nation³
Broke the jawharp      and the scope's jaw
(not to mention      the scope's skull).
He one nasty      party pooper.

Crummy neighbor       grumbled away,
Giving again       Harlot to men.
Things were quiet       in that meadhall
(Quiet hours      after ten).
Thus the word       spread over sea,
Over whale road,      dark-deep water,
Where the genot       spreads its wings wide
Over water,       angry-calm,
And the osprey       seizes prey
Where water-worms       dwell in depths

Over water the       word came
To mickle warrior,       mangy thane,
Helpless hairbrain,       Beowabbit named.
Heard of plight       of Men of Harlot
And with courage       of a chipmunk
Asked for fellows      to go with him,
On to Harlot       to win glory
(Thought they not      of getting gory).

There stood shortship      beautiful hand-blisterer,
Up to the gunwales      in lovely sea-silt.
Soggy sterned vessel      wallowed in water
Like great sea-turtle      pregnant slightly.
Wide-beamed ship      with garbage⁴ laden
Plus some heroes      thrown in.
Over sea,      low over swan-road,
Sailed the short-ship,      rocking wrechedly.
Thus spake Beowabbit,       Aetheling idiot,
"Green I feel      up over gunwale,
Though yellow       be my normal streak."
Over salt sea,      steer-board broken,
Sideways sailed      straight to shore
Where horse sat on      coast watcher⁵
And thus spake      to swift crew:

"Greetings of weird⁶ ones      over ocean,
Air-mailed warriors⁷      from afar.
State your mission      from whence to where?
Many years      I've kept coast-watch;
Watched in windstorms,      wild white-caps,
Soaring waves      or searing sun,
That I've seen      my eyes grow aged.
But in all      the years I've guarded,
Seldom has such      an incompetent crew
Come for conquest      or for trading.
State your mission,      long-eared men.⁸"

Alas, we are      but mendicant exterminators,"
Mathelode Beowabbit,       long-eared Aetheling,
"Dashing demons,      helping heroes,
Mashing malevolent      spirits for sport.
We fear not      any on Earth;
Man or demon,      over or under,
That walks land,      swims in water,
Flies through air      on wings of flame.
We have come      to fight fiend Gumbael,
Who made bloody       mess of meadhall."
An with that      he shoved coastwatcher
Over back       of a companion,
Who was kneeling       right behind him,
Looking for       his contact lenses,
Near the cliff ,      high over seashore,
Where an anchor       broke his fall.

Came at last      to horny Harlot,
Mighty Beowabbit,      Wigglelac's thane.
Met he Hogrower,      Meadhall's master,
And over mead,      and much more mead,
And a few horns extra,      and ten for the road,
And two for good luck,      and one to grow on,
He told Hogrower,      boarish boozer,
Of his prowess      and his plans.
How he slayed dead      seventy serpents,
Great green garter snakes,      hissing hellishly.

Then spake Uncouth,      who was under
Hogrower's heel, official foot-stool,
"Thay, aren't you      that Beowabbit
Who with Thumper      thwam in contestht,
Thoppily thloshed      in that-thea scum;
and quoth Thumper,      'My gum, you're dumb!'"

Beowabbit spoke      in language limped
Of the story,      as it happened,
How he swam out      with great Thumper.
"Nine days, nine nights,      over salt-sea,
Struggled silent      with sea-serpents,
Who ate Thumper      when I shoved him
Into water      after race."
Twas then that mighty      Wiggleac's thane
Neatly spitted      poor old Uncouth
before he made him      spill more beans.
He spilled Uncouth      with his sword;
Hogrower was       deprived of footstool,
But he had passed out      long ago.
Nor was he      slightly smashed,
Harlot's master      boarman mighty.

Then the thanes      staggered home,
Those who could.      Those who couldn't
Cluttered benches.      As the men,
The harebrain's companions,      went outside
To keep watch      and await Gumbael,
Who came in stealth,      feet of darkness.
As the mist rose,      like grey mountains,
Off the fens      and through the valley,
In damp darkness      feet of hell-fiend
Made no noise      upon the moorlands.
Up to Harlot,      up to doorway.
Taloned fingers      off it's bindings
Ripped the door;       the gaping portal
Stood now open.      Gaping mouth
Of hell-fiend      entered.

Beowabbit then took      mighty weapon,
Finest of axes      shining brightly,
Chopped up meadhall,      touched not Gumbael.
Clumsily staggered      axe-wielding Beowabbit,
Weakling Aetheling,      struck out blindly;
There he cleaved      at all things moving,
Except for Gumbael,      great for Stomper,
Who had skipped out      while he could.

Then quoth Beowabbit,      Aetheling idiot,
"Though I may have      wrecked the meadhall
Splashed retainers      all about it,
Smashed thy benches      crushed thy mead-cups;
Yet I drove out      nasty Gumbael."

Spake then Hogrower,      thegn of Quarterstafs:
"I shall give thee,      Barehare's son,
Much great ring      which you deserve.
Iron slave collar      around thy neck
Is what you get      for messing meadhall,
Not to mention       my retainers
Who thou spreadest      o'er my hall.
Now well I know      why yours elected
To stay on outside      while you're inside.
Now I'll give thee      one more chance.
Go to fenlands,      marsh-hold lovely,
Where the wind blows      not with harshness
And the warm breeze      smells of sea,
Go and find there      strong fiend Gumbael
And his mother      great in meer"...


Here inky cat prints obscure the text


..........................      came to fen.

There stood Beowabbit,      Barehare's son,
Limp of wrist,      knocked of knees,
Clawed at reeds      along the bank,
As retainers      up him lifted,
Tossed him screaming      into meer.
Boldly floundered      Wiggleac's thane;
Fearlessly flailed      in feverish fury.
Fenbirds fled      from foul fiend
As he came      to watch commotion.

Laughed then Gumbael,       munching retainer,
As Beowabbit      struggled ashore;
Retainers one fewer      furtively fled.
Beowabbit contemplated      departing dust,
Turned to hell-fiend,      who had back turned,
Drew out brightsword,      struck full blow;
With axe bearded,      clove at neck;
Picked up rock,      three-horse heavy,
Hurled hard on      skull of Gumbael
Yelled at him      four letter Celtic⁹

Around turned Gumbael,      spied he Beowabbit,
Saw in sunlight      loose-leaf scale armor,
Glinting livid      in setting sun.
There stood Beowabbit,       looking stunned,
Crooked of nose,      limpy of leg,
Barehare's son,      Prince of Mincers,
Much of name,       little of frame,
Less of brain      mentally lame.
Gumbael fell       to wild laughing;
Threw himself      unto the ground;
Ripped the fens      with roaring laughter;
Kicked the earth      to muddy morass;
And then died,       giggling fiercely,
At the sight of      noble Beowabbit.

Then spied Beowabbit      Gumbael's mother;
(Gumbael really      gave a dam
one hard time)      and thus was she
Harder than      the harshest sunlight.
Turned then Beowabbit,       leaped away,
Further than      the jumps of thirty
End to end      laid out would measure,
Right into      the deepest meer.
Sank like rock      in heavy war-gear;
Three feet deep      into the muck.

Gumbael's mother      followed after,
Plugging through      like great fen-stomper.
Closer came to      Wigglelac's thane,
Who stuck out      like stick in mud.
Barehare's son      then pick up mud ball,
Into center      put he rock
Fashioned long ago      by giants,
Charmed rock¹⁰      plucked he from mud;
Threw it unto      Gumbael's mother.
Whom it hit      right nice on head.
Fell she face first      into fen-gunk;
Drowned she there      in three-inch water,
Due to Beowabbit's      foot placed neatly
On the back      of her grey head.

Here the text is obscured
for the next thousand lines by cigarette burns and mustard stains

Then a slave      or thane or something¹¹
Found a mead-cup      in a barrow,
Showed it to      the elder Beowabbit
Who snatched it      for his very own,
After laying      last survivor,
The thane or slave      or what-have-you;
Then found out      to his dismay,
That a dragon,      gender-neuter,
Didn't take      to having people
Filch from      barrow       cups most golden,
Nor nothing else      for that matter.
Winistan was       that dragon called;
Glinting scales      of many colors,
Flew he through      the gentle darkness,
Burning here and there      some dwelling.
Winistan smoked well      like feond from hell¹²

Had then Beowabbit,      shield of balsa,
Made to do      the dragon battle,
Nor his advisors      from this course
The headstrong harebrain      wisely sway.
Then he gathered      twelve retainers,
Wiggleac's thane,      for this battle
Out to do      the firedrake battle
On the headlands      near the salt-sea,
So the dragon,      deadly dealer,
Laid by barrow,      treasure-laden,
Grave of eorls      silent now.
As storm clouds      gathered higher,
Winter winds      southward blew.
Dark and dappled, on the headland,
Stood the barrow,      dragon lair.

Then came Beowabbit      from hare-lair,
With his sword      and shield of balsa,
And retainers,      wretches wretching,
Wracked with fears      and flushed with fealty,
Foolishly followed      hopeless harebrain
To the dragon      by the barrow,
Sleeping soundly,      snorting, sniffing,
Snuggled slightly      next to barrow.
Up strode Beowabbit,      Aetheling idiot,
While retainers      stood at distance,
Knowing good thane's      bad track record.
While Wigwrap      Harebrain's haredresser,
Limp of wrist,      with flowered shield,
Skipped along      with hopping Aetheling
Up to the dragon's      heaving hulk,
Who at moment,      in the bad dream
He was having      about snakes
and other nasties,      then rolled over
on hapless harebrain;      mashed him flat
With his retainer;      rumbled off
For new barrow,      as retainers
Who survived him,      scraped him up
With swords      and shovels.

Women with      grey-bounden hair
Mourned the Aetheling.      Barrow ready,
Got his body      in golden garments;
Cut off feet      for good luck charm.
Then his men      his wise retainers,
Built a barrow      high on headland;
Beacon for      the weary seaman,
Set above      the sharpened rocks,
So that sailors      towards the shore
Would sail across      and rip out bottom.
"Well, what the hell,"      said his retainers,
"The fires are      to keep us warm.
Poor dumb sailors      sure are clumsy
Not to know      of rocky headland."
Things look good      for tribe of Boxjutes;
Make jute boxes      and wrecking ships.

Then the people,      mighty Boxjutes,
Lost the body      of noble Beowabbit.
The boat went out      as tide went in,
And Beowabbit      upwent or downwent soul,
Whither bound,      no one knew,
Least of all,      Aetheling idiot.
But the thanes      were sorrowful most,
For they lost      one fine funeral;
Feasting, fiddling,      with wondrous wenched,
Far into night,      fiendish loss.
So they took      the empty barrow,
Put they racetrack      round the bottom,
And well prospered      noble Boxjutes;
And remembered      noble Beowabbit,
Thane unmanly      and not nice;
Who, by losing      his dead body
Got they racetrack      over it.
He was good king,       best of men.

0. Noted as a cousin tribe Halfstreps.
1. The origin of the name possibly comes from the practice of swine farming, but there is some evidence that before he became a chieftain, he served on a pigboat.
2. A nationalistic tribe of southern shippers.
3. A bag to keep broken spears in.
4. Ablative over a genitive with a few pejoratives thrown in.
5. Possibly 'fated' but considering the bunch of loonies involved...
6. Now 33 cents U.S., but then lightly armed and therefore easy to flap.
7. The result of listening too long to coast-watchers.
8. Possibly 'crag.'
9. Some authorities say she was stoned, but drugs were in common use at this time.
10. Does it matter?
11. A popular jingle of the time.
     

Pohl Anderson

(Sir Bela of Eastmarch)

It was the ranger Arvid

Rode homeward through the hills

Among the shadowy shiverleafs

Along the chiming Rills

The Dance weaves under the Firethorn

The night wind whispered ‘round him

With scent of brock and rue

Both moons rose high above high

And hills awash with dew

The Dance weaves under the Firethorn

And dreaming of that woman

Who waited ’neath the sun,

He stopped, amazed by starlight

And so he was undone

For there beneath a barrow

That bulked athwart a moon,

The Outling folk were dancing

In glass and golden shoon

The Outling folk were dancing

Like water, wind and fire

To ghostly ringing harpsong

And never did they tire.

The Dance weaves under the Firethorn

To Arvid she came striding

From where she watched the dance

The Queen of Air and Darkness

With starlight in her glance.

With starlight, love, and terror

In her immortal eye

The Queen of Air and Darkness

Cried softly under sky.

“Light down, you ranger Arvid

And join the Outling folk.

You need no more be human

Which is a heavy yoke.”

The Dance weaves under the Firethorn

He dared to give her answer

"I may do naught but run.

A maiden waits me, dreaming

In lands beneath the sun

And likewise wait me comrades

And tasks I would not shirk

For what is ranger Arvid

If he lays down his work?

So cast your spells, you Outling

And wreak your wrath on me.

Though maybe you can slay me

You'll not make me unfree."

The Dance weaves under the Firethorn

The Queen of Air and Darkness

Stood wrapped about with fear

And northlight-flares and beauty

He dared not look too near.

Until she laughed like harpsong

And said to him in scorn

"I do not need a magic

To make you always mourn.

I send you home with nothing

Except your memory

Of moonlight, Outling music,

Night breezes, dew, and me.

And that will run behind you

A shadow on the sun,

And that will lie beside you

When every day is done.

In work and play and friendship

Your grief will strike you dumb

For thinking what you are and

What you might have become

Your dull and foolish woman

Treat kindly as you can.

Go home now ranger Arvid

Set free to be a man!"
 

The Dance weaves under the Firethorn

In flickering and laughterThe Outling folk were gone.

He stood alone by moonlight

And wept until the dawn.      

The Dance weaves under the Firethorn

There's this book called The Cornbread Gospels by (I kid you not) Crescent Dragonwagon.  If you like lots of different kinds of cornbread, I highly recommend this book.  We love it.

If you just like good, southern-style cornbread unadulturated with any sugar, then I suggest you try this recipe:

1/4 cup butter or bacon drippings melted in a large cast iron skillet in a 450 degree (F) oven.

Mix 2 cups fine corn meal (white or yellow or one day I may try blue) with 1 teaspoon salt, 1/2 teaspoon baking soda and 1/2 teaspoon baking powder in a large bowl.

In a smaller bowl, thoroughly mix 1 egg and 1 & 1/2 cups buttermilk.

When the butter is melted, take the pan out of the oven and swirl it around until the whole pan is coated.  Then mix the wet ingredients and melted butter with the dry ingredients and stir just enough to get everything wet.

Pour the batter into the frying pan and bake it in the oven for 20 or 25 minutes until the top is a golden brown and a knife comes out clean.

This is just the best bread.  And no wheat!