Lazarus Carpenter
I have lived in Wales for over twenty five years. Born in North Yorkshire, I am now an author, actor, musician and song writer, previously being a therapist, trainer and researcher, specialising in mental health. He was educated in Middlesbrough, Sheffield and Cambridge. With a fascination for Welsh History, I create worlds within worlds; magical, haunting, spirituality permeating sound moral codes of life. I live quietly with Debbie Eve (also my illustrator and our dog, Noodle in a small cottage surrounded by the beauty of the Brecon Beacons in the Valleys of South Wales.
On this day I, Crach Ffinnant, magician, prophet and seer remember many years, decades and centuries long-lost in the mists of time. So many blessings, rituals and celebrations of new life, repeated time after time as the wheel of the sun turns all life on pathways of light. Such light, I know, is found in all life, be it the human, non-human, vegetable or mineral kingdoms. Thus at the Summer Solstice, the two unite, giving power and embracing unconditional love and respect for the earth on which we live, under the sky of whose air we breath, and within the light of the great sun. In this year 2018, I Crach Ffinnant, magician, prophet and seer, give grateful thanks to the sun. Grateful for my rebirth in this year I remind myself, six hundred years is a long time, yet no time at all. It is good to be back and I welcome you all to join me in my new life, recalling the old. This is Crach’o’Magic!
In my first published book, albeit, self published, THE BALLAD OF PENYGRAIG like much of my work, it has a history. It was first written as a song with the same title, then quickly joined by three more, Rachael’s Lament, Poacher on the Rock and The Hawk Cried on the Moor. Then I started to write the book, followed by a stage play script. It all started ten years ago, now the title song has been number one twice in Reverbnation Folk Charts, and came joint first in the Doncaster Folk Festival Song Writing Competition in 2016. It has taken a life on of its own nowadays and I guess when folk do parodies of your work, it has become popular. Certainly in South Wales and parts of the USA it has proved to be so. I thank the spirits of Dai Davies, Morgan and Rachael Lewis (circa 1850) for the story and life changing experiences I shared. It is sad that Penygraig House came down in the Landslip of 2012 and no more does evidence remain on the scarred mountainside. Their headstones still lay in the Chapel graveyard however, future rest is unlikely as the Chapel now has a demolition order, so what will happen to them? Grateful thanks to Stuart Loosemore for the program and the pint in the pub afterwards. Enjoy the story and share with me, ‘On the Trail of the Ballad of Penygraig’.
A member of one of my Facebook page / groups https://www.facebook.com/groups/fansofcrachffinnant/ made a rather derogatory statement about our book receiving so much publicity of late, through social media and in particular, Facebook. There were ‘expletives’ not important to share because you get the drift! ‘You’ve written a book, so f 2=4=7? what.’ This comment was posted on https://www.facebook.com/groups/fansofcrachffinnant/ The group embraces over five hundred fans of Crach Ffinnant, so perhaps with hindsight the writer may have reconsidered, where to post their obvious frustrations at the publicity, Crach Ffinnant – The Prophecy is receiving. He probably has not read the book, due to a distinct lack of interest and that is a matter of choice. My first reaction was to ‘delete and block’, because I was affronted by the comment. But, it is a media site of free speech, so let him have his say, think I.
I refrained from responding as did Debbie Eve, both quite hurt at such a cruel comment. Of course this is the nature of things in the world today, but we write and promote our work with love, not hate. Thus such comments do hurt and no matter how many supportive remarks come through from others, equally insulted, it does seem unreasonable. Well its jealousy, say some, a sad life, say others, but in my mind, why be a fan of something and then try to destroy it? Incongruous, is the word springing to my mind and no matter how I try to rationalise such behaviour, I cannot. I can only forgive ignorance and hope the words of our many supporters, commenting on the stream, rang true for the aggressor. Thank you to all https://www.facebook.com/groups/fansofcrachffinnant/
Hanging on for fear of my life’s imminent demise, I used every drop of strength I could muster, blood pulsing through my muscles, straining with effort in the name of survival. My arms wrapped around Tan-y-Mynedd’s thick muscular neck, thighs and heels digging into a scaly armoured body provided me with some illusion of safety. Allowing myself to be cajoled into flying at such great speed aloft in the heavens, riding a dragon, in itself warranted an examination of my sanity. But I had been given no choice in the matter, none at all. Tan-y-Mynedd’s great wings flapped, glided and flipped this way and that, as we flew on through the night. Our destination, the ‘Great Council of Blue Stone’.
The full moon illuminating a dark night sky gave light to all below and the stars above twinkled. Tan-y-Mynedd the Fire-Dragon glided with ease, trapping draughts of air beneath huge wings, tail swishing left then right and back again. With the dip of an appropriate wing tip, gathering speed, he hurtled on. The great Dragon flew in and out of large fluffy clouds, limiting vision to the end of my nose, reminding me of the many times I had been temporarily blinded by a mountain mist. But as he flew on, the clouds dispersed and I could see for miles around, above and below. Peaks of mountains glistened, seemingly so small, far below. Valleys flashed into sight – there, then gone. Rivers wound their courses from source to sea, crisscrossing, twisting, splitting and turning, giving the appearance of an enormous spider’s web guarding the earth so far below.
Tan-y-Mynedd the Fire-Dragon twisted a wing, dipped downwards and flipped his long scaled tail. He glided down through the sky slowly from the heavens in ever-decreasing circles, the mountains, valleys, pastures, lakes and rivers getting closer and closer with every twist of his tail. Suddenly, he turned back on himself, shooting off at an angle level with the ground below. Following a river through a shadowy gorge, flying just above the treeline of the forest, Tan-y-Mynedd the Fire-Dragon soared skilfully ever onwards. The ground below rose and then dipped away again into a deep valley, shrouded by mountains on all sides. The darkness of night began to fade, rose-pink and magenta flecks and flashes streaked across the ever-lightening sky. Dawn lingered in wait upon the horizon.
The great Dragon pulled back both wings, thrust out a proud armoured chest, extended four thick, muscular, scaled legs, flexed talons and swished his tail high. Expelling hot air from both nostrils in clouds of steam, he landed rather less than gracefully on a scree covered mountainside. Scree, rocks, dust and debris flew in all directions. As the dust cloud settled, a morning sun was just beginning to rise, shrouded in streaks of multi-coloured cloud – a landscape in the sky, painted by wizards. Scrambling from this ‘steed of the air’, legs shaking like jelly clothing brawn, my feet touching solid ground again, I heaved a sigh of relief. After hanging on to dear life on a dragon’s back for heaven knows how long and also not knowing how far we had come, I had a need to take a deep, deep breath. Standing perched on a rock while looking down the valley at the lake below, Tan-y-Mynedd the Fire-Dragon pointed with one great wing towards a cave set back in the rock-face and quietly spoke in the ancient language.
I walked through street after similar street with the same ramshackle houses and foul gutters, producing an intolerable stench. As sure as a ‘dragon is a dragon’, I was convinced I had been walking round in ever-decreasing circles. Suddenly, through the stench lingering within my very sensitive nostrils, I smelt something familiar. I raised my head as high as it would go (which meant standing on the tips of my toes), flared my nostrils and sniffed deeply. I recognised a warm aroma, that of freshly baked bread. Remembering strongman’s words and in particular those about street names, I pondered. Perhaps I had found Bakers Street?
I followed my nose down the muddy track and round a corner where I came across an old woman plucking a chicken. She discarded the deceased fowl’s feathers, the wind catching each as if a little flurry of snow, depositing them in the gutter, onto passing folks’ clothes, mine included. I picked off the offending feathers, letting them float to the ground from between my fingers.
There was probably around twenty shops and stalls lining both sides of the street, all selling bread. For the first time since I had entered London, there was a sweet aroma to enjoy. Tables full of similar shaped, freshly baked loaves greeted my eyes.
One thing that did strike me as being different here in London was that not one person had yet shied away from my dwarfness, nor indeed had anyone hurled any abuse. Maybe they didn’t see me. Or, if they did, perhaps they had no care, only being concerned with their own existence, as pitiful as many seemed to be. At the show last night, I had seen many people in finery but everyone I had seen today only bore the attire of nothing more than was needed to live from day-to-day.
Suddenly, a commotion at the end of the street brought me back from my dancing thoughts with a flash. Several soldiers on horseback galloped through the street. Old men, children and women, seeking their daily bread, scattered in fear, screaming for mercy. I stood back taking refuge behind a cart which stood above my head. Feeling secure in the fact I could not be seen, my eyes took in the action as it was unfurling.
Folk ran for cover to avoid heavy hooves stamping through the mud. An old lady in ragged clothes once made for a much bigger person, her back bent so much she appeared to be half of her actual height, staggered blindly into the path of the galloping horsemen. Bandy misshapen legs had neither the strength nor fortitude to speed her passage from the path of the oncoming riders. A sturdy mare caught the old lady fully on its powerful broad chest, knocking her sideways into the path of another horse and rider. From a dying mouth, she screamed a final insult at life. It was a pitiful sound. Flinging her through the air as if she was a rag doll, the horses galloped on, encouraged by their riders. The old lady crumpled to the ground, her face scarred with fear, surprised eyes fixed in a horrific death stare. The troupe of soldiers careened past my hiding place, turned the corner at the end of the track and vanished down another street. Not one rider turned their head nor saw the old lady sprawled across the street, her lifeless body seemingly invisible and unimportant to each of them.
Several folk appeared from their temporary havens of safety and saw the old lady lying dead in the gutter. A few walked over to her, staring at the lifeless body. A very thin man bent down on one knee, seeking signs of life but none were present. He turned his head, exclaiming to the onlookers.
Lazarus Carpenter - Author 