Puck of Pooks Hill | Page 7

'If it wasn't men, it was horses, or
cattle, or pigs, or metheglin - that's a sticky, sweet sort of beer. I never
liked it. They were a stiff-necked, extravagant set of idols, the Old
Things. But what was the result? Men don't like being sacrificed at the
best of times; they don't even like sacrificing their farm- horses. After a
while, men simply left the Old Things alone, and the roofs of their
temples fell in, and the Old Things had to scuttle out and pick up a
living as they could. Some of them took to hanging about trees, and
hiding in graves and groaning o' nights. If they groaned loud enough
and long enough they might frighten a poor countryman into sacrificing
a hen, or leaving a pound of butter for them. I remember one Goddess
called Belisama. She became a common wet water-spirit somewhere in
Lancashire. And there were hundreds of other friends of mine. First
they were Gods. Then they were People of the Hills, and then they
flitted to other places because they couldn't get on with the English for
one reason or another. There was only one Old Thing, I remember, who
honestly worked for his living after he came down in the world. He was
called Weland, and he was a smith to some Gods. I've forgotten their
names, but he used to make them swords and spears. I think he claimed
kin with Thor of the Scandinavians.'
'Heroes of Asgard Thor?' said Una. She had been reading the book.
'Perhaps,' answered Puck. 'None the less, when bad times came, he
didn't beg or steal. He worked; and I was lucky enough to be able to do
him a good turn.'
'Tell us about it,' said Dan. 'I think I like hearing of Old Things.'
They rearranged themselves comfortably, each chewing a grass stem.
Puck propped himself on one strong arm and went on:
'Let's think! I met Weland first on a November afternoon in a sleet

storm, on Pevensey Level.'
'Pevensey? Over the hill, you mean?' Dan pointed south.
'Yes; but it was all marsh in those days, right up to Horsebridge and
Hydeneye. I was on Beacon Hill - they called it Brunanburgh then -
when I saw the pale flame that burning thatch makes, and I went down
to look. Some pirates - I think they must have been Peor's men - were
burning a village on the Levels, and Weland's image - a big, black
wooden thing with amber beads round his neck - lay in the bows of a
black thirty-two-oar galley that they had just beached. Bitter cold it was!
There were icicles hanging from her deck and the oars were glazed
over with ice, and there was ice on Weland's lips. When he saw me he
began a long chant in his own tongue, telling me how he was going to
rule England, and how I should smell the smoke of his altars from
Lincolnshire to the Isle of Wight. I didn't care! I'd seen too many Gods
charging into Old England to be upset about it. I let him sing himself
out while his men were burning the village, and then I said (I don't
know what put it into my head), "Smith of the Gods," I said, "the time
comes when I shall meet you plying your trade for hire by the
wayside."'
'What did Weland say?' said Una. 'Was he angry?'
'He called me names and rolled his eyes, and I went away to wake up
the people inland. But the pirates conquered the country, and for
centuries Weland was a most important God. He had temples
everywhere - from Lincolnshire to the Isle of Wight, as he said - and
his sacrifices were simply scandalous. To do him justice, he preferred
horses to men; but men or horses, I knew that presently he'd have to
come down in the world - like the other Old Things. I gave him lots of
time - I gave him about a thousand years - and at the end of 'em I went
into one of his temples near Andover to see how he prospered. There
was his altar, and there was his image, and there were his priests, and
there were the congregation, and everybody seemed quite happy,
except Weland and the priests. In the old days the congregation were
unhappy until the priests had chosen their sacrifices; and so would you
have been. When the service began a priest rushed out, dragged a man

up to the altar, pretended to hit him on the head with a little gilt axe,
and the man fell down and pretended to die. Then everybody shouted:
"A sacrifice to Weland! A sacrifice to Weland!"'
'And the man wasn't really