Among comments received about The Unfoldlings previous post, Letter to a Soldier, Prince Able Pleasure said of Atropos, one of the Moirae:
Whuaat! ... that aud trollope. She turned up yer way back ontarmuv sum flash ferneeshun blowk,
borrud me gert gert gert .......gramfeez spankin new iron shears,thame only jus bin invent id, made sheerin a joy by all counts,beasts luvdum n awl. anyways,she took off, never gived un baak.....bloody good tool,proper job,ope er put un t sum use
And now, to this, J. Hamartia, makes His response:
I feel that sometimes Mr. Pleasure resides, a prince, in his own Zanadunal dream. His atavistic anecdotes are legion, a pastiche of fantasy, Chinese whispers and neo-druidic oral tradition. That said, Able's perfunctory account is based on a deeper truth.
My Great Grandfather cubed was a Phoenician Merchant, a diligent and honest family man. He was a Venturer whose trading took him to places beyond the voyages of others. His ship's log was scrupulously maintained, and remains to this day in our family vault.
He would sail the Mediteranean and the seas of Atlantis, cargoing spice, gold, perfume, all the glories of the East to the shores of Albion and on to Kernow. There he loaded tin. Then on, to Cymry, for copper, and the new fine tools fashioned by those ancient Celtic smiths, all kinds, for cutting. Then return. First by Zommerzet, where the Mendipi yielded lead for working, and the sweetest lamb, and softest wool, and zider. Exotica for His Homelands.
It was here he conversed and dined and traded with a local parder of sheep. An Old Stone ager, who said he prefered his flints to the new bronze amalgams.
The Merchant, with respect and fondness for his host, and being a practitioner of diplomacy, on one departure left a present. A pair of the finest shears. Shears forgered with the perfect measures, tin to copper, not too soft, not too brittle, they held an edge.
When the old Brython Herder finally first put his gift to use, he declared at the Autumnal shearing, this is surely wizardry!
Some years later, on the Merchant's return, He had with him his niece, one Atropos. A fine young woman, finishing her education, as was custom, with travel. And as ever, in the eternal way, she found love on her journey.
The Herder's son.
He tended his father's flocks and he loved Atropos.
There was a feast, and a trader from the North, a goth of some stature, drunk on the apple, publicly slandered Atropos. The Herder's Son, all chivalry and fortitude, stepped up. They fought. The Goth, sword drawn, lunged. The Herder's Son, weaponless, grabbed for his Father's magical shears. They were above the hearth, floating, displayed. A shrine to transformation, a moving on from stone.
He grabbed the cutters and struck, as he took the sword in his belly. The shears cut jugular.
There was no victor.
For the Herder, the meloncholy lasted long. The Merchant and his charge left for home. And with her, Atropos took the shears.
Wedded to this wand of destiny, from then on, in her grew hardness, honed by her sisters, morphing into myth, crystalising into awful responsibility, relentless, perpetual.
I know this to be true. It is written. The Merchant's Log attests.
Records kept by subsequent descendents show that, many generations on, stange things transpired concerning one Jeshua and Holy Glastonbury, but that's another story.
You have my wired.....