Monday 8 February 2016

The Devil's Bridge 2016

For audio click here. 
This is my updated version of an old Welsh folk tale. I've put a 2016 spin on it. 
For the original go to the end of the story, after the adverts for my novels. 
Tumble down rain; all day and all night rain like waterfalls from clouds like black sheep ,and it looked like it would never stop. Marged watched the cars speed along the M4, hissing through the surface water and sending sprays over the central reservations. Marged still remembered the peace and quiet and the starry nights that had pervaded this area before the motorway had been built on her doorstep. The road had brought nothing but noise and clouds; the constant clattering of cars and the persistent drumming of rain. It had also cut her off from all her family and friends. They’d promised to build her a footbridge over that damn road so that she could get to town more easily. But despite a million letters to the council, the footbridge never came. That meant Marged was dependent on her son Carwyn to take her to town. But Carwyn met a girl, and the girl became his wife. His family grew and grew, so despite his good intentions, his visits became less and less frequent.
Back before the road was built Marged’s cows could roam anywhere and everywhere, but they always came back to be milked. These days she only had the one cow, and it had to be kept in the smallest of fields, hemmed in by the road on one side and the new housing estate on the other. But Malen was a fine old beast and despite the poor grass she still seemed to produce the best milk. People came from far and wide to buy Marged’s homemade butter and cheese.
With the rain falling and the electricity meter spinning, Marged decided it was best to retire for the night. She could turn off her heating and hunker down under the three duvets with her dog Pup curling up beside her for extra warmth.
The thunder cracked and the rain lashed. Marged tossed and turned beneath the weight of the quilts. Pup whined and whinnied as the cars splashed by outside. After such a restless night Marged was pleased when natural light shone through her curtains and she could leave the nightmares behind. She patted through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and was surprised to see that the new dawn had brought sunshine and blue sky. She went outside and enjoyed the views of the mountains in the distance. She breathed in the carbon monoxide fumes that counted for fresh air these days. It really was a beautiful day. Pup came and stood at her feet.
“No time to waste, I’ll milk Malen right away and then get us breakfast ay pup.”
Pup barked his approval and Marged looked around. It was a lovely day but something wrong, Malen was missing.
“Oh where is that silly cow,” Marged said to no one in particular.
She checked the gate was closed. It was, there was no way Malen could have walked into the new estate.
Pup started barking.
“What is it Pup?” Marged looked in the direction the dog was looking and saw her cow in the field on the other side of the motorway.
“Duw duw  Malen, how on earth did you get there, and how on earth am I going to get you back.” Marged said, although she knew the cow couldn’t hear her above the roar of the road.
“I can get her back for you,” Marged jumped, she’d not heard anyone approach and didn’t recognise the voice behind her. She turned to look at a strange looking man standing there. He must have crept up under the noise of the road.  He had a big, bushy beard, brown carrot trousers, and hobnail boots. He looked like one of those hipsters.
“Who are you? Marged said.
“I’m a magic bridge builder, and I can build you a bridge in a hour.”
“You’re a fucking nutter,” Marged said shaking her head. “Did you hear that Pup? This man thinks he can build a bridge. I’ve been waiting 40 years for the council to build one and this fella is …”
‘If you don’t want my help, Marged” the stranger interrupted, “I can go, but who else will help you get your cow back. If you let me help, then you will not only get Malen back but have the footbridge you’ve been waiting for.”
Pup was yapping away at their feet.
“But how can I repay you? There’s no such thing as a free lunch in this world.”
“I am a simple man, I just want to possess the first living thing that crosses that bridge.”
“Okay,” Marged said.
“So go and leave me in peace so I can build my bridge.”
Marged went into her cottage and put the kettle back on. She made tea and fed Pup and sat thinking. There was something strange about that man. He had an English accent for one; you didn’t get too many English around here. And how had he known her name? And how did he know she wanted a bridge? Did he work for the government? And why did he only want the first living thing to cross it? She gasped. He was the devil; he wanted her soul.
Now Marged was a clever old thing, and she soon had a plan. She took Pup’s favourite snack out of the cupboard. Pup looked at her excitedly, but instead of feeding the dog she put the Bonio in her pocket and waited.
“Marged,” The English voice called her.
She went outside and saw a beautiful footbridge spanning the road and Malen still grazing happily over on the other side.
“My word.” Marged said. “Duw, Duw, what a bridge?”
The Englishman looked proud.
“But it only took you an hour. How do I know it meets stringent health and safety standards?”
“How can you doubt me, Marged Williams?” The Englishman stamped his foot with indignation.
“Oh don’t get me wrong,” Marged said “but I would hate for you to get someone claiming compensation because your bridge collapsed. You know what these ambulance chasers are like these days? Let’s test it. Do you think it can support the weight of this?” She produced the Bonio from her pocket, Pup yelped.
The Englishman laughed, “Of course it can.” he shrieked.
Marged threw the snack on to the bridge and Pup rushed off to get it.
“So it can, and the weight of a little dog too. Which by the way, is now yours, as she was the first thing to cross your bridge.”
 ‘Damn you,” he said. “Your dog is no good for me. And with that he disappeared in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

Marged went to get Malen and Pup and felt very pleased that she had a sparkling new bridge and had lost nothing.

The Folk story. 
One day in the olden time, old Megan of Llandunach stood by the side of the river Mynach feeling very sorry for herself. The Mynach was in flood, and roared down the wooded dingle in five successive falls, tumbling over three hundred feet in less than no time. Just below the place where Megan was standing, there was a great cauldron in which the water whirled, boiled, and hissed as if troubled by some evil spirit. From the cauldron the river rushed and swirled down a narrow, deep ravine, and if the old woman had had an eye for the beauties of nature, the sight of the seething pot and the long shadowy cleft would have made her feel joyous rather than sorrowful. But Megan at this time cared for none of these things, because her one and only cow was on the wrong side of the ravine, and her thoughts were centered on the horned beast which was cropping the green grass carelessly just as if it made no difference what side of the river it was on. How the wrong-headed animal had got there Megan could not guess, and still less did she know how to get it back. As there was no one else to talk to, she talked to herself. "Oh dear, what shall I do?" she said. "What is the matter, Megan?" said a voice behind her. She turned round and saw a man cowled like a monk and with a rosary at his belt. She had not heard anyone coming, but the noise of the waters boiling over and through the rocks, she reflected, might easily have drowned the sound of any footsteps. And in any case, she was so troubled about her cow that she could not stop to wonder how the stranger had come up. "I am ruined," said Megan. "There is my one and only cow, the sole support of my old age, on the other side of the river, and I don't know how to get her back again. Oh dear, oh dear, I am ruined." "Don't you worry about that," said the monk. "I'll get her back for you." "How can you?" asked Megan, greatly surprised. "I'll tell you," answered the stranger. "It is one of my amusements to build bridges, and if you like, I'll throw a bridge across this chasm for you." "Well, indeed," said the old woman, "nothing would please me better. But how am I to pay you? I am sure you will want a great deal for a job like this, and I am so poor that I have no money to spare, look you, no indeed." "I am very easily satisfied," said the monk. "Just let me have the first living thing that crosses the bridge after I have finished it, and I shall be content." Megan agreed to this, and the monk told her to go back to her cottage and wait there until he should call for her. Now, Megan was not half such a fool as she looked, and she had noticed, while talking to the kind and obliging stranger, that there was something rather peculiar about his foot. She had a suspicion, too, that his knees were behind instead of being in front, and while she was waiting for the summons, she thought so hard that it made her head ache. By the time she was halloed for, she had hit upon a plan. She threw some crusts to her little dog to make him follow her, and took a loaf of bread under her shawl to the riverside. "There's a bridge for you," said the monk, pointing proudly to a fine span bestriding the yawning chasm. And it really was something to be proud of. "H'm, yes," said Megan, looking doubtfully at it. "Yes, it is a bridge. But is it strong?" "Strong?" said the builder, indignantly. "Of course it is strong." "Will it hold the weight of this loaf?" asked Megan, bringing the bread out for underneath her shawl. The monk laughed scornfully. "Hold the weight of this loaf? Throw it on and see. Ha, ha!" So Megan rolled the loaf right across the bridge, and the little black cur scampered after it. "Yes, it will do," said Megan. "And, kind sir, my little dog is the first live thing to cross the bridge. You are welcome to him, and I thank you very much for all the trouble you have taken." "Tut, the silly dog is no good to me," said the stranger, very crossly, and with that he vanished into space. From the smell of brimstone which he had left behind him, Megan knew that, as she had suspected, it was the devil whom she had outwitted. And this is how the Devil’s Bridge came to be built. Source: W. Jenkyn Thomas, The Welsh Fairy Book (London: T. Fisher Unwin, Ltd., [1908], pp. 286-290.

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