Hello Friends!
Winter is now upon us (we’ve had our first snow of winter this week) and so this month’s wintry story feels especially appropriate. The story is my own take on an old British folklore tale and is called The Holly King.
Through the writing of the Eagle Rider Saga, in which the magic is based on the ancient Gaelic names for trees, I have become increasingly interested in the folklore of trees. There are so many stories out there, locked away in our landscape! Maybe for future Quest in Progress emails I will write some more - let me know if you think I should!
As usual, read to the end for the Story Behind the Story and if you like this mini Quest please like, comment, and share!
Happy adventuring
Lindsey
THE HOLLY KING
Since the beginning of memory, the great forest has stood at the heart of the land. Strong summer oak. Sweet spring birch. Red autumn rowan. Hardy winter holly. A thousand stories are tangled in their roots, buried in the ground, the foundation of the land. Their branches whisper a thousand songs, filling the skies for any who would listen.
An old man walks through the forest along a beaten earth track, his hands tucked into the folds of his robe. At his side is a girl of fifteen, his granddaughter, his apprentice. Their feet rustle and crunch through a blanket of leaves. A lithe wind tugs at their clothes eager and hungry.
The girl shivers. “There is something in the air today.”
Her grandfather nods. “It’s battle day.”
“Battle day?” she repeats.
“Aye, look, watch.”
The girl turns her eyes to the grand oak trees lining the road. They sway in the wind, leaves falling like rain. She doesn’t see a battle. She also doesn’t see the gnarled root poking up from the path. It trips her, and she stumbles forwards, catching herself with hands in the earth. A spark of enchantment ripples through her from the toe of her boot to the tips of her fingers. She doesn’t know it, but it is a story breaking free of the ground, longing to be told and seen and heard.
The girl stands and brushes leaves from her cloak. Her grandfather gives her a knowing smile. This time, as she turns her eyes back to the forest, she sees.
Leaves swirl in the air, not falling like dead things, but spinning into the shapes of people who make their way defiantly through the woods, fighting the ebb of the season. Birds flit between the branches, a robin here, a sparrow there, and crows caw, heralding the leafy procession. On the ground, fine ice crystals begin to form.
The girl and her grandfather continue along the road, their feet crunching in the newly formed frost. Small animals dart past: a fleet-footed snow hare, a chattering squirrel, a scurrying mouse. Next comes a fox, its russet tail almost invisible amidst the conflagration of leaves. Then a stag with its crown of antlers. All cross the road, travelling north into the deeper depths of the woods.
“Do they go to join the battle?” the girl asks.
“No child,” her grandfather replies. “They go to watch. To see who will be their king victorious for the next season.”
“May we watch?”
Her grandfather nods. “The story has chosen you. It is only right.”
So the girl and her grandfather turn from the road and join the northward current of creatures. As they walk, the air grows colder, the biting wind more bold. The canopy darkens, the light of the sun seeming to pale in the shadow of the evergreens. These trees have no leaves to swirl and dance. Instead they stand resolute, sparkling in their cloaks of frost.
Eventually, the procession reaches a wide clearing ringed with trees as old as time. Here, all the creatures of the forest gather, interspersing themselves amidst the trees to witness the battle. Birds circle above, filling the air with sound, and swooping down to line the overhanging branches. The ground rustles with the feet of mice and shrews and hedgehogs and badgers. The deer and the wolves poke their heads out side by side. And all around leaves swirl through the air.
The girl and her grandfather find a place on the rise of the hill where they too can stop and watch. After a moment, the gathering falls silent. From the south, a bright beam of sunlight breaks through the trees to shine on the clearing. From the north, the wind blows sharply, bringing with it a flurry of snow. Then they appear.
From opposite sides of the clearing, two men approach, their faces so similar they can be nothing less than brothers. The man from the south is clad in all green and wears on his head a crown of oak leaves and acorns, which shines golden in the sunlight. The man from north wears a raiment of berry red. Frost clings to his boots and the swirl of snow at his back ripples like a cloak. Both enter the clearing and come to a stop a few feet apart.
“Who are they?” the girl whispers.
“That is the Oak King and the Holly King,” says her grandfather. “Throughout the summer we have been living under the rule of the Oak King. Now, his brother comes to challenge him for lordship.”
The girl holds her breath as the two brothers stare at each other. If any words are exchanged, they are too quiet for her to hear. Then, without warning, the brothers draw swords, the weapons seeming to grow from their arms with a twist of vines. The Oak King brandishes a sword of green light, its hilt a gnarled branch sprouting leaves. The Holly King wields a blade of blue ice with a handle of carved antler.
The Kings clash, their swords meeting with the sound of cracking wood. They exchange a few a hits, then break apart, circling. The wind gusts, swirling leaves and snow around the battle. Again the brothers meet with a flurry of cuts and parries. And so it continues, the constant cycle, the power ebbing and flowing between the two as the sunlight flashes through tree and shadow.
The girl couldn’t say how long the battle lasts, but when the end comes it is sudden. The sun ducks behind the needled branches of an evergreen, and in the clearing, the Holly King knocks his brother to the ground. The Oak King, who had at first looked resplendent in his cloak of green, now looks pale and weary. With a sigh, he holds out his hands, and his bright sword fades to dust.
The Oak King shifts onto his knees. He raises his hands and lifts the crown of leaves and acorns from his head, holding it out to the Holly King. As he does, the leaves wither from green to yellow to brown, and the acorns fall to the ground with a quiet patter. The Holly King takes the crown, solemn in his victory. He lifts it to his own head, the last of the withered leaves falling as he does so.
The Holly King raises his face to the sky. Sunlight returns, bathing him in golden light. The crown on his head twists and grows, transforming itself into a bright wreath of holly, jewelled with red berries. On the ground, the Oak King bows deeply, and all the watching creatures do likewise.
The girl stands in awe, a shiver of reverence running along her arms. She turns to her grandfather. “Has the Holly King won?”
The old man smiles. “Welcome to winter, my lass.”
Behind the Story
The story of the Holly King and the Oak King is an ancient British legend in which the seasons of summer and winter are personified in the beings of the Holly King and the Oak King. Twice a year, the Kings (who are often thought to be twins or brothers) come together to battle for rulership of the land. There is debate over whether battle day was the solstice or the equinox, but inevitably, the Oak King would rule during summer and the Holly King during winter. These kings in their green and red outfits, may even have added to the legend of Santa - the Holly King is often said to have travelled with eight stags (reindeer?).
You don’t tend to find an ‘official written-down’ version of stories like this one because they are part of an oral tradition that has been handed down for hundreds of years, if not longer. What I love about these myths is their connection to the landscape. Before modern science, stories like these were how people made sense of their world. While science is a wonderful thing, let’s not forget that we live in an enchanted world too. Next time you are out on a walk, watch out for those stories trying to trip you up!