Tales from Frewyn: Volume 2 (Variant Cover)

Tales from Frewyn

Volume 2

By: Michelle Franklin

Art by Twisk

Text copyright Michelle Franklin

Art copyright Twisk

All rights reserved. Published by Paper Crane Books.

This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system—except by a reviewer to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web—without permission from the author. For any inquiries, email papercranebooks@gmail.com

First Paper Crane Books Smashwords edition November 2014

Table of Contents

Introduction

Ode to Cluck

New Life on the Farm

Paudrig versus Tuatha

The Secret Life of Mr Craw

The Butterfly

A Legacy Left

A Legacy Left, Part 2

The Rat

The Rat, Part 2

For Ray Bradbury,

Who taught me to love what I do and do what I love

Introduction

There are many animals in the Haanta series who have minds of their own: there is Khaasta, the enormous cat, who is rather more a pony for the various children about the Diras castle keep; Mr Craw the gull, Rautu’s affectionate messenger who conveys the giant’s correspondences across the Dremmwel Sea; the inimitable Mr Cluck, Beryn’s prize cockerel who thinks he is master of all the land he surveys; Aiola, Khantara’s fey wren, who has been his friend and companion for the better part of fifty years; and various other creatures that find their way to the hearts of all the characters in the series. Though animals cannot speak, they have other modes of expression that I have always found excessively interesting: they howl, they bark, they scratch furniture when they want attention, but most importantly, they do everything they can to communicate with us, and in turn we do everything we can to understand them. Animals have forever fascinated me, and though I cannot speak their language, their efforts to communicate with me—particularly the endless endeavours of my two cats to get me to feed them oftener than is good for them—have inspired many stories.

Mr Cluck is Beryn Dunhuram’s prize cockerel, so named because, despite all his efforts, he cannot crow. He struts about the farm like he owns the place, clucks mightily at his ease, and tries to round up everything that comes in his way. The hens tolerate him, Beryn’s old nag Moraig ignores him, but Beryn loves him as a farmer should and lets him have his way oftener than is good for him.

Ode to Cluck

Spring opened on the kingdom, pouring its golden warmth and amber profusions over the knolls and fields of the Frewyn countryside. The green buds uncurling under the ascendancy of the white rays of sun peering out from breaks in the grey clouds drifting across the skies lighted the wolds and meadows, granting the new verdancy a vibrant hue. With the renewed warmth of the early season came the time for sowing the root crop, for foaling, calving, and allowing the newborns out with their mothers along the meadows to pasture, but with the liberty that accompanies the beginning of the thaw came the time for breeding the smaller animals on the farm. Chickens and the eggs they produced were enough for a poulterer to make ducks and drakes with, and before the end of the first month of spring, Lochan gathered up his eager hens from his large range and conveyed them down to Beryn’s farm, where there was one cockerel who seemed to prefer cultivating his flock rather than sowing one.

Lochan arrived early, and after greeting all the chickens and ducks and calves that he had been used to care for, he was invited to enjoy some of the ginger mead that had been fermenting in Beryn’s distillery over the winter.

Think I perfected it, said Beryn, turning the tap and remarking the golden hue pouring out. Added more honey and a bit of lemon. Last time I brought it to Mer’s, it was near undrinkable.

Naw, you’re too hard on yourself. I’m sure I’ll love it, Beryn, Lochan beamed, catching the mellifluous scent of the mead. You’re the best cook out of any of us. Last time Aiden and Adaoire tried to use the range, they near burnt down Ma’s house.

Beryn simpered to himself as he gave Lochan the first glass and filled one of his own.

Ma never let ‘em do that again, said Lochan, looking into his glass. She was real glad when Cabhrin and Breigh started helpin’ her out and all, but she was even happier when Martje was old enough to learn how to cook. Lochan raised the glass to his lips, but paused to say, I liked watchin’ ‘em cook together. Made the house smell nice and all. Apple pie, cherry dumplin’, windberry cobbler—they made it all. I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen after a while. He made a foolish grin. I kept stickin’ my fingers in things and pickin’ out all the fruits.

As a man should, said Beryn, raising his glass to his friend and suggestively raising his brows.

A guttural guffaw, and Lochan’s round cheeks coloured. He spied Beryn with furtive looks as they clinked their glasses together, drinking to man’s wanton habits and professing their admiration for their salacious tendencies; both of them remained respectful when speaking of women, but they could not deny themselves their secretive pleasures, be they plucking steaming fruits from pies or enjoying their ripe women. They held their caps to their heads and leaned back as they drained their glasses, and once their glasses were dry, they inspected the mulled spices swirling amidst the remnants of the mead.

Well, said Beryn, half bewildered, half impressed, Wasn’t too bad, was it?

Aye, Lochan exclaimed, Never had a mead that smooth. I know Aiden and Adaoire don’t like mead ‘cause it’s sweet and all, but sure enjoy it. Sure, you should sell this, Beryn.

Beryn deemed his endeavour a success, but after a few moments spent in consideration over the abundance of cinnamon and the want of aniseed, he decided, It ain’t good enough to sell. He sighed and looked disappointed. Well, it ain’t the best mead there is, but it’s good enough to have another. I’ll filled you up and then get Cluck so’s we can watch him try to round up these hens you brought.

With Lochan’s hardy concurrence did Beryn pour him another drink, and once both of their glasses were filled, Beryn went over to the coop and unlocked the hinge on the cockerel’s enclosure.

C’mon out, Cluck, said Beryn. Got a few hens here who are after meetin’ you.

After a preparatory preening, the cockerel made his grand appearance: he poked his head out to make certain that the hens on the nearby grazing sward were watching, and after a few solemn coos, he leapt down from his enclosure, flapping his large wings, flourishing his brown feathers, extending his black talons, and once gracefully landed, raised his red comb, turned up his golden beak, and resumed his usual strut, taking his long marching strides with chest out and head high.

He sure wants to impress ‘em, Lochan chuckled, nearly spilling his mead.

Aye, Beryn smiled, he does a whole show for ‘em, showin’ his nice big feathers and flashin’ that golden beak of his. Gotta impress ‘em, you know.

Lochan chuffed. I’m sure impressed.

Don’t mind him too much, Loch. You know how he is: once you give him attention, he’s gonna try and round you up.

Even as Beryn made his warning, it was already too late: the cockerel was glaring at Lochan, he was marching toward him, he was beginning to race in circles around his feet when Beryn turned him around and pointed him toward the sward.

Not Lochan, Cluck, Beryn asserted, The hens.

Looking rather offended, the cockerel made a heated cluck and then nestled against the leg of his newfound hen.

Beryn sighed into his drink. Lochan ain’t a hen, Cluck.

Sure, I’m the biggest hen there is, Lochan proudly proclaimed.

It ain’t nice to make Lochan your hen without sayin’ hello to the girls.

Beryn pointed to the grazing sward, where a dozen well-groomed hens stood about, pecking at the short grass and scratching at the ground. The first bloom of interest that may have been was over: the hens seemed indifferent to the cockerel’s presence now that they had been thoroughly ignored. They had been slighted by his taking their caretaker as an object and were now obliged to give no further attention to the cockerel. They turned away, huddling together and lifting their tails, and fanning their feathers dismissively, they were inclined to pretend that they had never seen him at all.

Now you’ve offended them, Cluck, said Beryn. Lochan was nice in bringin’ over a whole flock for you and you looked the other way. He shook his head and gave the cockerel a dissatisfied look. Better apologize, Cluck, or they won’t let you near enough to mate with ‘em.

He gently drove the cockerel toward the hens, who were too interested in the bromegrass, the fescue, and the foxtail to give their attention to an errant and disobliging admirer.

Oh, they ain’t gonna forgive him, Lochan said laughingly. He’s gotta do somethin’ special if he’s gonna impress ‘em now. He looked down at the cockerel. You’re gonna have to crow real loud, Cluck. Give ‘em a nice one. Go ahead, but the cockerel only clucked and looked confused. Lochan hummed and scratched his head. Did he ever start crowin’, Beryn?

Never, Beryn replied. "Clucks mornin’, noon, and night. Talks my ear off whilst