Journey to Sonora - Old and New Fables - John Luxton

Albion Burning

ALBION BURNING

Deep in the English countryside in the cosy cottage parlour of their home, Gog and Magog were just settling down for a cup of tea, when the unwelcome sound of the doorbell interrupted their musings on the this-and-that-of-things.

    “Ah, it’s young Silverhand,” said Gog. “We were just discussing the this-and-that-of-things. If you would care to join us then I’m sure we could squeeze another cup from the pot.”

    It was indeed a huge teapot. It needed to be, as the twin’s teacups were the size of buckets.

    “Tea would be lovely, and musing on the this-and-that-of-things is my absolutely favourite way to spend just about any day. However, today I am here on business,” answered the visitor.

    “Oh!” said Magog, and put down his cup.

    Gog said nothing as he had just popped a whole chocolate-covered biscuit into his mouth.

    The fact that Gog and Magog were three thousand year old giants was not an issue in the way one might imagine it might be. Yes they were large, but so what? People were disinclined to be sizeist these days, and besides one or other of them had once played rugby for the Barbarians, so it was said; scoring nine tries in one match before being substituted. Not that the folk in their village possessed any interest in such rough team sports.

    So that was their status – quirkily named, large, retired twins. Not the legendary giants whose job it was to protect the ancient lands of Britain.

    “So what is on your mind?” asked Gog who had by now swallowed his biscuit and was ready for another.

    “We have to go to London.”

    “Oh,” said Gog, again.

    “We can do that,” answered Magog.

    Unlike the twins, Silverhand was a little dude. But they respected him for the quickness of his mind and his staunchness in the thick of battle. Not that there had been any battling to be done for many a moon. However, if laurels had been rested on, it could be argued that theirs were vegetative trophies of the highest order.

    For Silverhand was none other than Lud, the chieftain god of the Celtic tribes of ancient Britain, the god of healing, writing, poetry, sorcery, magic, the Sun, childbirth, beauty, youth, oceans, dogs, weapons, and warfare. He also owned an invincible sword: The Sword of Light.

    Unfortunately he had lost his right arm in battle, his arm being replaced by a prosthetic limb made from silver. He was also the Lord of the Underworld but did not like to speak of it. Gog and Magog called him ‘chef’ – as he was the chief tain. He called them ‘Gogamog’ – a collective handle that they never failed to respond to.

    So after finishing their tea, the plan for a trip to London, the city of dreams, was made.

    “Let us go there now,” said Gogamog in perfect unison, after hearing Silverhand’s information.

   Rather grumpily they put on their boots and set off across the snow-covered fields. As they tramped along Gog’s Jack Russell, Sparky, bounced around between them in high excitement with only one thought in his tiny brain: rabbits! But today all the rabbits stayed in their burrows – giants and gods were passing by. Angry giants and gods. The earth shook.

    An unkind observer might conclude that Silverhand was the kingpin of this operation – and that the twins were just big guys with clubs. But then on some occasions it has been proven that big guys with clubs are exactly what is needed.

    “Shall we wake up the sleeping warriors?” asked Gogamog in unison; they had stopped in front of a small hill. The grass covered mound was known in the area as the ‘Giant’s Barrow’. In the summer Silverhand would sometimes sit in the long grass nearby; keeping watch over his warriors.

    When their chief nodded his assent, they rolled away a large rock that was covering the entrance to a cave. Rolled it away easily, such was their strength, from where it had lain for a thousand years.

    Inside the cave there were many bats. A couple of them opened just one eye to check out the source of the disturbance; whilst below them Sparky was going nuts, running in circles and barking hysterically. This was just the start.

    In the centre of the tunnel hung a bell and Gog gave it a good whack with his club. First, all the bats descended and then flew out of the cave, disappearing into the clear blue sky. Then, after much stretching and groaning, the warriors staggered out into the winter sunlight. When they saw Silverhand, they formed a semi-circle around him. But before he could speak the Gogamog twins shouted in unison.

    “Some moron has dug up Bran’s head. Dug up Bran’s head from deep in the dark London clay where it was buried. On the White Hill it was, and now everything is agoing wrong, as was foretold. Evil forces are trying to bring down Albion.” They swung their clubs in a complex and frightening way. “And we are going to London to fix them.”

        “Well you can’t argue with that,” said one warrior, inspecting the blade of his long-sword.

        “Wouldn’t even try,” said another, whilst adjusting his armour.

     They took the coach; it was cheaper than the train and almost as quick. When they arrived, as luck would have it, the annual Lord Mayor’s Show was in full swing. So they joined onto the back of the parade, the Chinese tourists cheering particularly loudly whilst taking photographs of these impressively regaled interlopers.

    The procession paused outside the Guildhall and someone began to make a speech – it was the new Mayor. There was no heckling because all the ‘Occupy the City’ protesters had been cleared away the week before. There was no heckling at first, just a few whispers of dissent. This was because he was the first banker to ever become Lord Mayor and hatred of the bankers and their thieving friends was at an all time high amongst the people of Britain.

    “He used to work for Mega bank,” said someone.

    “He says that he wants to make London a ‘centre for global philanthropy’,” said another.

    “That’s a joke.”

    "Is he for real?” said an American accented voice.

    “They are all in it together. The politicians, the bankers, the authorities, the police, the press, even the royal family,” said a man with a beard.

    Others joined in, the cadence of dissent rising.

    “They stole the gold from the vaults.”

    “They stole my pension.”

    “They have taken our children's future,” shouted a woman wearing a yellow bobble hat.

    At this point the warriors drew their swords and ran amok. They roamed far and wide in search of the wrongdoers; if they had trouble finding them, then there were plenty of helpful members of the public to point them in the right direction. Justice was dispensed on a grand scale.

    Afterwards, clouds of ravens descended from the sky and began to pick at the grisly remains. Wild dogs from the suburbs gorged themselves on the traitors’ entrails, deep into the night. Next morning the people of Albion awoke to a new day – the wild beasts had cleaned all carrion from the streets, and righteous order was restored.

    The warriors went back to their cave to resume their slumbering. Gog and Magog returned home, hung up their clubs, and changed back into their country tweeds. Silverhand made vague plans to take a vacation, but he became so preoccupied with his journal – writing a history of the British Isles – that in the end he stayed home.