“Green grows the earth and blue the skies.
Love calleth both the foolish and the wise.
Omnipotent Nature ruleth over all
Ridding us at last of Winter’s frigid pall,
Inspiring swains their troth to plight
And maiden’s thoughts take crazy flight.
No face may frown beneath this shining sun.
All praises sing. The Earth is fresh begun!”
Master Wheldrake pulled a sodden feather or two away from his eyes and read a little more rapidly as the ink began to spread across the parchment and blot lines he had made no effort to memorise.
“Racing blood and beating heart confirm
Every hint that Mithras has returned.
Garlands decorate the shrines and secret bowers:
In comes Great Pan to banish darkling hours.
Now across the land each jolly bell its peal doth ring:
As Albion’s Empress summons golden Spring!”
“Well put as ever, Master Wheldrake!” The May Queen waved her silver sceptre, twined with myrtle, while lackeys rushed to throw green canvas over the litter’s frame and protect Gloriana from the drenching the others must expect before the awnings were around them.
Rain thudded like running feet above her head as she took up the sword which hobbling Lord Ingleborough brought her on a cushion, and dubbed brave sailors “Sir” before, as she put it, they drowned whilst awaiting their reward. A lord or two was made and estates granted in Virginia, in Cathay, in Hibernia, to sober men whom Lord Montfallcon judged trustworthy to enjoy the responsibilities of wealth and, by sharing to a greater degree in the bounty of the State, support the Realm’s interest with that much more resolution. Envoys were sent abroad, taking certificates and letters; foreign envoys were, in turn, received, and their letters read, greetings given. Nine little girls (each one a stage younger than the last, Gloriana’s natural daughters) led lambs across the flooded lawns and, sneezing, lisped their pastoral rhymes until the Queen begged their nurses to hurry them within and dry them before they perished of a chill.
The Quintain was abandoned until the next day (or until the sun should shine). The Sun Chariot, in which posed an embarrassed, sorry Lord Ransley, as Mithras, God of Light, half-naked and damp in collapsed yellow ruff and britches, drawn by youths and maidens, also in yellow, to represent the sun’s beams, came and went, making dark marks across the squelching grass. The musicians, as satyrs and nymphs, were ordered to withdraw to the Great Hall, where the dance would now be held, and the Procession through the Tree Walk was abandoned. It was decided to continue with the ceremony whereby Gloriana would be bound to the May Pole by her courtiers and released by Sir Tancred, who would represent the Chivalry of Albion, unless the rain grew heavier, for the pole itself was now protected by a large square of canvas, rigged like a sail above it. Master Wheldrake was asked to come forward and read another poem.
His feathers shimmering with water, which he scattered everywhere as he gesticulated, Ernest Wheldrake announced his intention to read some recent stanzas from his long epic romance, which he had been writing for the past six years, called Atargatis; or, the Celestrial Virgin. “You’ll recall, Your Majesty, that Sir Felicites, the Shepherd Knight, has but lately left the company of Sir Hemetes, the Hermit Knight, who has set him again upon his true path in his quest for the Court of Queen Atargatis. But before he can reach the Court he must encounter many more adventures, each one of which teaches him a further lesson and so prepares him for his position as the Queen’s Protector, who must encompass Wisdom, Temperance and Justice within him, as well as Courage, Virtue and Charity.” A bead of water rolled along his beak and splashed upon his costumed foot.
“We recall your story Master Wheldrake, and listen with considerable and pleasurable anticipation to its continuation,” graciously replied the May Queen as Master Wheldrake drew a damp-stained volume from his plumage and cleared his throat:
“Now through a forest drear our goodly knight
Did slowly ride in doubtful fear,
Anon, he came upon a sight:
A woodsman tall with axe did shear
Through sturdy oak and noble ash
And elm and rowan tree
With flying blade did trunk and branches gash
So that Felicites cried out to him to cease
While, lowering lance, he signall’d peace.
’Woodsman, what art thou named?’ Quoth he,
’You, who art so strong of loin and thew,
Pray tell me what your fearsome purpose be
To hew so heavily the pine and yew
And threaten this whole wood to slay
And cause the healthy roots to die
So turning all this green to black and grey
When not a trunk’s left standing high.
How art thou named? Say I.’
The woodsman’s hair with radiant silver shone
So that his face could not be seen,
His beard, like burnish’d gold, it fell upon
A mighty chest of iron, both jet and green,
And eyes like two fierce stars stared out of him
While arms and hands were shimmering rose.
And now the knight in awefull woe fell back.
’My name be Chronos, Lord of Time!’ the giant did cry,
’And Leveller, my axe, makes all comply!’
’For, in truth,’ this giant continued in sober voice,
’With Life and Death there must be always Harmony,
And, since Man’s own mind cannot make the choice,
To regulate the spinning globe the Gods entrusted me:
Thus hour shall follow hour and day pass day
And year pursue each rounded year.
’But this be unjust tyranny,’ Felicites did say
’Which causeth foolish folk to grieve and mourn,
To question: An they die then whyfore are they born?’
’Time’s circle turneth,’ said the giant, ’as do the spheres,
And four ages quarter up the mortal span
As Seasons subdivide the steady years.