❄️The Ballad Of Delyth
A Dark Winter Folktale
If Jac Spencer could have stayed in London, he would have gladly done so. It was Yuletide Eve when he arrived in Carmarthen.
Jac hopped down from the one-horse cab. With a crack of a whip from the driver, the animal jolted forward through the ice-crusted path.
The faint chime of bells sounded. He glanced down the foggy lamplit street. But only a mangy stray cat huddled itself near a lone beggar. Jac pulled the missive from his coat pocket. His eyes ticked over the words once more.
Dead. His Grandfather, Alwyn Davies, had been buried for a month. Mr. Griffith, the executor of the will, wrote his condolences, informing Jac he was the sole inheritor of the Davies estate. However, a signature was needed on the deed. His grandfather’s riches were not in gold but in farmland. Jac would sell it off on his return.
The sky smeared over the town in a dingy slab of grey. Cold rain slithered down hillocks, and the toes of his boots were damp from the slush of snow. The beggar drew closer. He was a bent crook of a man with rags wrapped around his limbs. Revulsed, Jac pushed open the door of The Ivy Wren.
Once again, Jac rubbed his ear with a huff from the sound of bells. He had expected all the local villagers to be tucked into their homes. He should have guessed. Large families lined up at tables, spooning mouthfuls of cawl and minced pies into their bellies. Steaming mugs of spiced wassail were passed around the room. He slid past the cram of bodies to check the time on the mantle. Mr. Griffiths was late. And Jac was forced to listen to strangers prattle on.
A gentleman with gapped teeth and a crooked cravat stooped over the fireplace, telling tales of monsters. He spoke in broken English.
“The Grey Mare is a symbol of good luck, true enough, but every so often on this very night she will come hobbling down St. Catherine’s street.”
“By our churchyard?” a woman gasped.
“The very same, to punish the sinners.” It’s why The Father rings the church bells to begin the morning service— scares the demon away.” He tapped his nose. “Mark my words, there will be a killing tonight, perhaps the old beggar himself.” Jac shook his head and grabbed a cold glass of ale from a table. He slouched into a corner with a resting farmer’s plow. The shutter’s rattled,
At least it’s not that damned bell sound.
He longed to escape into a room of cards, smoke, and gin.
The Inn’s door swung open. For a moment, Jac tensed. But it was no skeletal harbinger of doom. Large flakes of ice fell on the shoulders of several dark frock coats. They proceeded to head for the crackling fireplace to warm their hands. A young woman with ribbons in her hair embraced two gentlemen and kissed their cheeks. She surveyed the room with a searching gaze. Jac held his breath, waiting for her eyes to meet his.
A man cleared his throat. Jac looked up to see a short man with greying hair and a shining pocket watch. “My apologies, but are you Mr. Spencer?” Jac started. “Yes, Mr. Griffith?”
The man broke into a grin, offering his hand.” You have something of your grandfather’s look about you, " he clapped Jac on the shoulder. “Come along, let’s see if we can find ourselves a proper desk to do business.”
The night deepened and the candles waned. Many people stumbled up the stairs to their rooms for the early service. Jac finished the flourish on his signature. The bells rang closer this time. He tugged at his cufflinks.
“Did you hear that?”
”Hear what, sir?”
Jac hesitated, “Nothing.”
The snowstorm raged outside the window. Jac hid the deed in his new room. he traveled down the stairs to see if he could catch another glimpse of the girl with ribbons before she slipped away like a ghost.
His heart pounded. She sat at the bottom of the stairs. Her eyes were dark and luminous. He outstretched his hand. “We seemed to have missed our dance?”
She tipped her chin up toward him and smiled. “So we did.”
He bowed offering his hand. “Hello, I’m Jac.” She slid her hand into his.
“Delyth.”
Delyth pulled Jac down the rest of the steps and twirled playfully. They danced in the shadows and candlelight. The bells were constant music offbeat and discordant: the music made him bold enough to murmur in her ear, how lovely she would be swathed in London silk with pearls about her neck. She led him to the threshold of the door, where a bough of mistletoe hung. Breathless, he closed his eyes waiting for her kiss.
It never came. Delyth’s sweet smile melted away. A light of triumph in her eyes. Two shadows with heavy footfalls emerged from the dark. A cold understanding filled Jac’s heart. He caught the glimmer of a silver watch chain before he was hurled into the storm.
Jac was a beggar without a coat. Her name rasped repeatedly from his crusted lips like a broken songbird. “Delyth, Delyth, Delyth.” The night’s winter wind scraped and clawed against his exposed flesh.
If he could outlast the bitter wind a few more hours, perhaps he would be able to beg for mercy from another local family. He prayed to every god he knew to grant him clemency for all the offenses he had committed. He shut his eyes the frost sticking to his lashes and tears frozen to his cheeks. His heart pounded to the tune of regrets gone by.
A man emerged from the swirling snow. Jac sunk to his knees in relief; it was only the beggar on the steps of The Ivy Wren. Perhaps he could help him. The beggar turned to him with panicked eyes.
A ragged finger pointed past his shoulder.
Jac looked into the face of death, a grinning horse of bones. Its eyes made of chiming bells, and died with empty pockets.
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Thank you Emily for the collaboration. If you enjoy this story please check out these other authors as well.
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You painted a lovely scene and setting this story. Felt like I was watching a fantastic scene in a movie.
This is incredible. Beautiful, haunting, and everything I could ask for. Superb writing!