1. arthur was welsh
Jul. 6th, 2006 12:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
changelingA piece of userinfo interests flash fiction, as inspired by mattador.
Gerald looked around the countryside and sighed. This was as far as he wanted to go today. And how far had it got him? He was on a small hill in the middle of bloody Wales, his girlfriend had left him, and he wouldn't even reach the proposed end of their journey (in Glastonbury) for ages. He pulled off his knapsack and sat on an exposed rock. It was hard, and poked him in uncomfortable places.
An old man crested the hill. He must have been right behind Gerald on the track, but he’d never seen the man before. He was half a foot shorter than Gerald, and heavily built, but just going to fat. He had a bushy white beard like a Santa Claus, or like a train engineer in a Victorian picture book.
“Naice day for a walk, ay?” he said, in the ludicrous lilting Welsh brogue that Gerald had come to loathe over the last week and a half.
“Not really,” said Gerald. The sun was high in the blue sky, and the glare was beginning to hurt his eyes. He pulled his sandwiches out (carefully wrapped in clingfilm) and discovered that they had been bent out of shape and squished in the middle. He peered at them. They were ham and cheese. Bloody wonderful.
The old man sat down next to him companionably and began to unpack his lunch. “So whair are you going? Not a town for some way.”
Gerald let loose a little bark of laughter. “Glastonbury. My girlfriend wanted to visit King Arthur’s grave.”
“Your girlfriend?” The man looked at him over his flask of hot tomato soup. “She the blonde girl I passed some time back? Knapsack shaped like a caterpillar?”
“Yes,” Gerald said shortly. He took a vicious bite of his sandwich. They were just as awful as he’d expected – far too much margarine and someone had thought it a bright idea to season the ham with ketchup.
“Interesting story, King Arthur,” said the old man, packing up his soup and tactfully changing the subject. “He never was King of Britain, you know. Not the way they say now. He wasn’t British at all. Tha’s what you don’t find out.” He slung his knapsack on and stood up. At least he, Gerald, wouldn’t have to try to make pointless conversation now.
“What they never tell you,” the old man continued, “is that Arthur was Welsh.”
It may have been a trick of the light, but as Gerald watched the old man continue down the track and out of sight, the sun lit his white hair so that it glowed, like a corona. Or a crown.
Gerald looked around the countryside and sighed. This was as far as he wanted to go today. And how far had it got him? He was on a small hill in the middle of bloody Wales, his girlfriend had left him, and he wouldn't even reach the proposed end of their journey (in Glastonbury) for ages. He pulled off his knapsack and sat on an exposed rock. It was hard, and poked him in uncomfortable places.
An old man crested the hill. He must have been right behind Gerald on the track, but he’d never seen the man before. He was half a foot shorter than Gerald, and heavily built, but just going to fat. He had a bushy white beard like a Santa Claus, or like a train engineer in a Victorian picture book.
“Naice day for a walk, ay?” he said, in the ludicrous lilting Welsh brogue that Gerald had come to loathe over the last week and a half.
“Not really,” said Gerald. The sun was high in the blue sky, and the glare was beginning to hurt his eyes. He pulled his sandwiches out (carefully wrapped in clingfilm) and discovered that they had been bent out of shape and squished in the middle. He peered at them. They were ham and cheese. Bloody wonderful.
The old man sat down next to him companionably and began to unpack his lunch. “So whair are you going? Not a town for some way.”
Gerald let loose a little bark of laughter. “Glastonbury. My girlfriend wanted to visit King Arthur’s grave.”
“Your girlfriend?” The man looked at him over his flask of hot tomato soup. “She the blonde girl I passed some time back? Knapsack shaped like a caterpillar?”
“Yes,” Gerald said shortly. He took a vicious bite of his sandwich. They were just as awful as he’d expected – far too much margarine and someone had thought it a bright idea to season the ham with ketchup.
“Interesting story, King Arthur,” said the old man, packing up his soup and tactfully changing the subject. “He never was King of Britain, you know. Not the way they say now. He wasn’t British at all. Tha’s what you don’t find out.” He slung his knapsack on and stood up. At least he, Gerald, wouldn’t have to try to make pointless conversation now.
“What they never tell you,” the old man continued, “is that Arthur was Welsh.”
It may have been a trick of the light, but as Gerald watched the old man continue down the track and out of sight, the sun lit his white hair so that it glowed, like a corona. Or a crown.