At last, the night before Montol
And ancient uncle Aaron is sat in the corner, bent close by the fire cradling a small tankard of warm mahogany in gnarled hands, humming a vaguely familiar tune – (not unaware that he’s playing a part)
Would you like to hear a story of old midwinter?
Draw near … settle yourself …
I shall tell you of Old Ned – the Raven King of Montol.
So …
My friends the rooks of Penzance, tell it like this …
Old Ned — the elusive Raven of Penwith — roosts behind the black clock face of The Market House, huddled among ticking gears and the shiny trinkets his friends the rooks bring, hidden from Winter’s dreaded bell.
One bitter night, music drifts through the glistening streets of the old town — wild, ancient, irresistible.
Montol has begun.
Drawn from his perch, Ned stumbles into a whirl of masked revellers, blazing lanterns and the glowing Montol Sun.
Mocked and bewildered, he’s about to flee when a woman crowned in holly and ivy dances forward and with her gentle steps, the Venerable Raven rediscovers his own.
Together they lead the procession up to Lescudjack Castle, the Herald of Winter tolling behind.
And as the fire roars, the sun burns, Old Ned dances into legend
vanishing into Montol’s magic …
And each year he returns as the Raven King of Montol, with his Queen, to still winter’s bell and guide the Sun to its apotheosis and renewal.
You can read the full story the rooks told me here
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