It was thus in the time of siege and famine: A poor farmer sold his little daughter To the asrais and nixies of the mere So that the harvest might not fail again.
Then the farm prospered and all were fed So no more was thought of the bargain Though the reeds at the water’s edge Sang of the prize that was expected.
And Meggan, growing fair but also strong Took to ploughing with her horse, Coming on her sixteenth birthday To till the rich silty fields by the lake.
It was springtime and fine weather And she and her horse Meadowmane Worked quietly from shore to headland As the gulls followed the turned turf.
On a start, a milk-white charger appeared Its golden mane and tail flashing in the sun Its dappled flanks afire with rainbow flecks Snorting and prancing in courtship and display.
‘I know you Brookenhorse’, said the girl ‘The mount of Jenny Greenteeth Grindlelow Sent from the dark depths of the mere To claim me as a prize for the tarn-hag’.
Then the enchanted stallion came up And nuzzled Meadowmane on the cheek Nipping the old cart horse on the neck At which the Brookenhorse shape-shifted
And took up the plough collar and traces Heaving the ploughshare and coulter With such force that the task was soon done And the meadow seared with perfect furrows.
At which the Brookenhorse bolted for the lake Taking with it both the plough and its mistress - And she trapped by the reins that she had wound To the handles was dragged beneath the water.
‘Welcome my beauty’ said Mother Grindelow ‘You my drowned princess are my catch now Take up your deathly pallor and sleeves of green And sing with us amid the mere of midnight silver’
‘I have my prizes now - my temptress Morgwen Fey - And the sharp steels of the foreshare and coulter With which to forge a sword of endless enmity - The enchanted plough become the stuff of strife’.
But Meggan shunned the hell-bride and her watermaids And dreamed of the bright spring meadow flowers And the warm sun and scent of heaving Meadowmane - Finding at last the Brookenhorse in its watery stall.
At which it flared its nostrils, reared and stamped, Abject in its thrall to the monstrous Borrag Queen, Now become once more an ancient broken steed Mere knucker bones and hide, bleached by the depths.
But Meggan wept that it had lost its rainbow glimmer And placed her arms around its neck in comfort Reaching to her kirtle purse to find a scrap of bread That she had kept to share with Meadowmane.
At which the Brookenhorse glowed fine and white again Lustrous and resplendent in its strength and beauty And she broke down the stall gate and freed the horse Leaping to its back as it bolted for the sunlit sky
Seizing the sword of enmity now become destiny That mystical Cut Steel – Cleft Evil wand Excalibur Until at last they came to safety and the light of day Where she became her maiden self with Meadowmane.
And her father threw his arms around her with joy Lamenting only the loss of his much-loved plough But handling with amazement the magic sword That shone among the peaceful fields of plenty.
So in time a knight came, seeking justice and love And found at last the sword beaten from the share Taking it up reverently from the Lady of the Lake Bringing her and her treasured milk-white foal to Camelot.