Awangar and the Magic


Awangar the Great hefts his mighty weapon! I've reverted to childhood yet again! :-)

Part 1: Mankling the Tatties

Awangar the Great sat by the roadside. His clothes were torn, he had no money and no boots, and his great sword, Wang, lay on the ground beside him showing distinct signs of rust. Things had not gone so well lately.

‘Hey! You there!’

Awangar looked up from his melancholy perusal of the gritty surface of the road, casting his gaze around.

‘You, yes you laddie! Do you want a job?’

A job? Awangar’s hopes were lifted. Rescue a maiden? Slay a dragon? Why not?

‘I’m your man!’ Awangar replied, raising himself to his full four feet and peering around. ‘Where are you?’

‘Here, ye malinky wazzerer.’ A figure emerged from behind a tall stone. ‘Can you mankle tatties?’

Awangar wondered what the hell the person was talking about, and gave a non-committal grunt. Looking closer, he realised that he couldn’t quite focus on whoever or whatever it was. He held his hand up to his brow to shield his eyes from the waning sun and peered harder. Nothing.

‘Sae, whit line are ye normally in?’

‘Dragons, wizards, that kind of stuff.’



‘Nae much of that aboot now.’ The voice sounded resigned.

‘Naw,’ agreed Awangar. ‘There’s the odd vendril and hybore, but they’re not a patch on a dragon.’

‘Particularly unmemorable creatures I’d say.’

Awangar was warming to this … man, whatever ….

‘What are you?’

‘Don’t ye know?’ The speaker laughed. ‘I’m a heylas.’

Awangar drew in his breath. He thought these creatures had all passed on as magic had dwindled. He spoke with respect. ‘I am honoured indeed, Sir Heylas.’

‘Ma name is Hooty. Now, hurry up and follow me, there’s a gae mony tatties waitin’.’

Awangar picked up his sword and followed the figure. From behind it looked like a sack of straw, a tubular black-cloaked creature seven feet tall. Its head was like an outbursting of stalks, bound about with strings of green moss-like growths. He had not seen its face, but that was normal with the heylas.

He followed the creature gingerly up a winding path with his mighty weapon dragging in the soil. They came to a woody grove, where he realised that magic was afoot as they passed through a misty curtain. A shading spell! How long was it since he’d seen this once familiar sight?

‘You’ve got magic then?’ he called to the figure ahead.

‘Aye.’ The words came floating back. ‘Muckle enough to see me oot.’

This was unusual. In most of the rest of the world that Awangar knew, it was fading fast. No dragons, maidens, unicorns, magic giant wolves …. Awangar remembered with a smile the testicles of Throthgar which had earned him the love of his gigantic wife Banane, now sadly retired to Iceland without him.

‘Here we are,’ the heylas said cheerily, indicating a fine stone house with a big barn and various other outbuildings. ‘Follow me.’

Awangar followed the creature to the barn, where the doors were flung open and a black-sheathed arm waved. Inside was a giant heap of potatoes.

What will happen? Can Awangar really mankle all those tatties? Is he up to the job or has he lost his magic, too? Will his mighty weapon ever be unsheathed in anger again? All this and more in Part 2: Muckle Luck

Part 2: 'Muckle Luck'

It had taken Awangar most of the evening, but he’d mankled half the potatoes, and Hooty had given him a good meal and wine and blankets to bed down in the barn. He lay down, holding on to his mighty weapon and thinking of Banane: Why had she left him? She had cried, but said she had to go home, family duty called. She had enveloped him in her all-consuming bosom for one wonderful moment, then picked up her bags and left. Things had gone badly. He'd had money and a dwelling, but a series of bad investments and lack of any hero-work had left him destitute and homeless, and this was how he now found himself, hoping for the best, reduced to mankling tatties. He fell asleep and with his belly full, slept well for the first time in a while.

In the morning, a steaming bowl of oats awoke him and a good mug of fresh milk, both sitting on a small stool next to him. This was the life! There was no sign of Hooty, so he got on with the rest of the potatoes and had finished the pile by noon.

As he stood and looked at his work, he was startled by the booming voice of the heylas coming from behind him. ‘Here, put these on and come over tae the kitchen for a bite.’

He turned to see the black-swathed figure disappearing towards the house, and a fine pair of new boots lying on the ground. He tried them on. They fitted perfectly! Hefting his Wang, he followed the creature to the house.

They sat companionably, picking over some bread, cold meats and fruit and washing it down with ale.

‘You’ve done a guid job with yon tatties,’ Hooty said. Awangar still could not see his face. ‘But I canna pay you with money, I hav’na ony.’

‘What!’ Awangar stood up, mightily affronted. ‘You promised me ….’

‘Whisht, laddie.’ The heylas waved a limb and Awangar found himself sitting again. ‘I’ve given ye the boots, they are fine boots.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘… and magic boots.’

‘Whaa …’

The creature leaned forward, its frondy head rustling. ‘Ye can walk a’ day in them boots and nivver get tired.’

Awangar thought about it. That was pretty good for a day’s work. He was about to agree amiably, when Hooty spoke again.

‘And, I’ll give ye something else, but …’

Awangar waited.

‘… no until ye clean yer bliddy sword – it’s a disgrace. Here!’

The heylas waved its limb again, and a cloth and a bottle of cleaning solution materialised in the air and dropped on the table in front of Awangar.

‘Get tae it, mon!’ With these words, Hooty rose, brushing the ceiling beams, and swept out of the room. Awangar wondered where he’d gone and what he did. Why could he not magic the mankling of the potatoes? It was a mystery, and Awangar never spent much time on such things. He set to cleaning his sword.
Awangar hefted the mighty Wang. It gleamed and glinted, shimmered and sang! It cleaved the air with a whistling sound. He stood proud and tall.

‘Verra guid, laddie. That’s a fine sword. Now for my parting gift.’

Awangar brightened up. Hooty waved a limb and a small cloud of shimmering dust surrounded him. He sneezed.

‘What is it?’

‘Luck, laddie, a wee bit of luck for a change.’

‘How does it work?’

The heylas gave a booming laugh. ‘You’ll find oot, laddie, you’ll find oot.’
Awangar walked along easily in his new boots. Soon he passed through the misty curtain. He stopped and looked back. He could see no path, no way through the woody grove, nor would he without Hooty. With a shrug, he turned again and headed for the road, a spring in his step and his mighty weapon now clean and presentable dragging at his side. He hitched up his belt and strode forward, wondering what his new life held for him.

What does Awangar’s new life hold for him? Do we wonder too? What will he get up to with his mighty Wang? Find out in
Part 3

Part 3: The Meeting

It took Awangar but a few hours to reach the next town. Sure enough, as Hooty had promised, he felt no tiredness in his feet or legs, so as he sat down in the town square, he felt light and relaxed. He drew out the small bundle the heylas had given him and devoured the excellent bread, cheese and fruit he found there. He began to wonder where Hooty’s source of magic had been, and wished he had asked, but it was too late now.  After his meal, he felt thirsty, and looked around for an inn. He had no money, but maybe …
The door of the inn crashed open, and everybody turned to see who had entered. The imposing four-foot figure of Awangar was only matched by the mighty Wang he clutched in front of him. Strong men turned away, and maidens gasped.

‘Good day, fine sir!’ the dossy wench behind the bar proclaimed throatily. ‘And what’ll you be after?’

‘Well, I think both you and I already know that. But first a draught of ale, wench!’ Awangar had decided, money or no, he’d at least get a drink down him.

The wench tittered, and her drawer flew open. Just then, a tall fellow wearing a cloak sidled up to the bar. In a grittily obsequious voice, he asked, ‘Let me have the honour of buying you a drink, sir knight.’

Awangar downed the ale the wench had given him, let out an appreciative sigh, slammed the mug down on the counter and looked expectantly at the stranger, who immediately signalled to the wench for a refill. Awangar warmed to this man, especially when the mug was refilled for a second time.

‘Actually, I’m not a knight. I’m a hero.’

The wench gasped, and her eyes widened. ‘You’re not that Wangar are you? Not the one who slew the magical giant wolf Throthgar? The one who went off clutching his balls.’

‘Awangar,’ corrected Awangar. ‘And yes, I am Awangar!’ he struck a pose with his mighty weapon half-raised. The wench’s eyes widened further, and Awangar knew he was OK for somewhere to stay that night.

‘But how do you know of me? Has my fame spread this far?’

‘Actually, Mr Wangar, my cousin told me.’

Awangar looked closely at the girl. Something about the jut of the bosom, the waist, the movement of her body … Yes, he had it. ‘E-sey?’ Then he looked at her face. ‘Of course! I knew your cousin well.’

‘Very well, as I heard it sir. And often.’

‘How is she?’

‘Oh, she’s fine, her and the twins.’

‘Twins?’ A flicker of concern passed across Awangar’s face.

‘Yes, she got married.’

‘Not …’

‘Yes, Posey Jack. She’ll inherit the place when he goes.’

‘Oh, good health to them then.’ Awangar looked pointedly at the stranger.

After more ale, Awangar asked, ‘What’s your name, sir? Here am I accepting your kind hospitality and I don’t even know your name.’

‘’Tis Morgold, sir hero, Bestid Morgold. I have a proposition for you.’

Awangar sized the man up, looking down at his bulging pouch.

‘Then how about we dine together and you tell me about it?’ He clapped his free arm round the man’s waist, meanwhile allowing the tip of his mighty Wang to fall to the floor.

Awangar and Morgold made their way to a table with the screeching metallic sound of the mighty Wang scraping across the stone. The wench tittered and her drawer flew open.

What will happen next? More drinks? Food? What does Morgold want of our hero? What happens when the wench’s drawer flies open for the third time? All will be revealed in Part 4: All is revealed

Part 4: All is revealed! (well, some).

Awangar settled himself comfortably at the table, with a large belch and a small fart. He moved his weapon to a more comfortable position, sipped from his mug and gazed across the round wooden table at his new friend. They dined with companionable talk, interrupted only by occasional farting, belching and supping of ale. Finally, Awangar sat back and gave thanks to his host, then asked what task he had for him.

‘Well,’ Morgold said quietly, ‘my master has asked me to find a suitable hero to rid us of a nuisance.’

Awangar leaned forward. ‘What type of nuisance?’

‘I have heard you are a hero who has slain magical giant beasts, for instance the great wolf Throthgar.’

‘True enough,’ Awangar smirked.

‘We have a giant magical creature who is plaguing us. He’s eating us out of house and home.’

‘He?’ Awangar thought of how Throthgar’s testicles had made him rich, thanks to Banane. Thinking of her made him feel sad again, but his eye lit on the wench, who was signalling slyly to him.

‘I’m suddenly tired,’ Awangar said. ‘Come back here in the morning, and I’ll accept your quest. Usual rates?’

Morgold mentioned a sum that made Awangar silent for a moment. Then he staggered to his feet, gave the man a cheery salute, and walked unsteadily across the room to the sound of screeching metal.

 The next morning, Awangar turned to the wench. ‘What is your name, my sweet?’

‘Tis Dolly, sir.’


‘That’s right, sir.’

‘I suppose I’d better get up.’

‘Oh lawks, sir, you are one for it.’

Much roistering had gone on the preceding night, and Dolly had shown herself to be a dossy wench indeed, testing his metal again and again. So much so that for days after, Awangar could not rid himself of the imagined sound of her drawer flying open, not once, but repeatedly. He would remember this maid, he determined. Eventually, Awangar staggered down to the barroom, where Morgold attended him.

‘Come sir hero, there is no time to lose.’ Awangar was hoisting up his belt and arranging his weapon.

‘Your weapon seems even more impressive in the daylight.’ Morgold said admiringly as they walked swiftly away from the inn.

‘I practice with it every night and morning, put it to the test and use it fearsomely!’ Awangar proclaimed.

‘I’ll bet.’ Mordred looked back and saw Dolly waving from an upstairs window. ‘I hope she doesn’t fall out,’ he said.

Awangar gave a glance back. ‘Oh, I think she’s used to it, I wouldn’t worry.’

Having trudged up a long, winding lane through thick woods, they reached a fine old house.

‘Nice place,’ said Awangar.

‘My master is a famous writer. He has written many stories. You may have heard of them.’

‘Name me one.’

Morgold pondered for a moment, then said, ‘His most famous was “The Lamp of Iophiolades”’

Awangar stopped in his tracks. ‘That’s one of my favourite stories.’

Morgold hesitated, then said, ‘Some people say they are little difficult for the reader.’

‘Made perfect sense to me, almost as if I was listening to my own thinking.’ Awangar began to recite the beginning,

Galibor, once having returned from the quest which was to be called his ‘first’ just as soon as he committed to another, was intent. He decided he would set out again from his home town of Kaaarn on an errand, a fearless quest, in which on an eventual occasion, the suitable time having passed, he would be seen to succeed.

Thus, having been strictly minded to his persuasion, his recumbent form levitated itself to the vertical position, and his limbs propelled him towards the entrance, which also served as the exit to his small chamber as there was no other door or opening, save a window too small to squeeze through.

‘I will hie me to Flantasticore, an elder with sage engagements, that he might reveal the nature of a suitable quest to my heroic urgency,’ Galibor declaimed to none but himself as he strode in muscular bounds to another place where his destination had been identified by himself in his decision-making process prior to this action and subsequent modification of location.

What clarity the man has! I look forward to meeting him.’

Morgold looked at the hero with new admiration. Here indeed was a man who was out of the ordinary, a man with taste and learning. But that would have to wait.

‘Come, sir hero. We have work to do.’

Will there be more delicious quotes? Who is the ‘Author’? What is the ‘creature’? See all in
Part 5: Eek!

Part 5: Eek!

‘What is it?’ Awangar pressed his ear against the stout door. Inside, he could hear scuffling noises – something large was moving around. Occasionally, there was a strange noise, something between the growl of a tiger, the roar of a lion and something else …

A strange expression crossed on Awangar’s face. Morgold smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s a …’

‘A magical giant …mouse!’ Awangar looked disgusted. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Why?’ Morgold tried to look innocent.

‘I am Awangar the Great! The giant magical wolf Throthgar submitted to my mighty Wang in a two-hour struggle, thrust and parry, parry and thrust. He was a fearsome foe, and his testicles …’

‘But sir hero, this too is a giant magical creature.’

‘But it’s a mouse! A mouse! ‘

‘A giant magical mouse.’ Morgold insisted. ‘And you did accept the task.’

‘How I regret my haste,’ Awangar shook his head. ‘I don’t know where my brains were.’

Morgold gave a small smile, as if he knew.

Awangar was ready. He was kitted and girded, his mighty weapon had been frotted and oiled until it shone like silver.

‘Watch out for his teeth.’ Morgold whispered.

‘What do you mean, teeth? Throthgar had mighty teeth, sharp and pointed, they could rip a man to shreds. This … this is but a … mouse.’

‘Ah, but imagine the sharpness and size of a giant magical rodent’s teeth, imagine! This creature has a deadly nibble!’ Morgold shuddered. ‘You should have seen the last …’

Awangar stared at Morgold. ‘Go on.’

Morgold looked amiably at him, if somewhat palely, but said nothing.

Awangar’s thrust his weapon into Morgold’s face. His mouth opened.

‘Another hero tried, sir hero. He died of his nibbles, poor unfortunate.’

‘What was his name?’ Awangar lowered his weapon slowly.

‘Plon-Quar. He was from the oriental lands.’

The name was unfamiliar to Awangar.

‘Are you are going to continue, sir?’

Awangar’s face filled with fury. His weapon raised again. Without a word, he pushed open the door and entered the room.

Morgold stood before his master.

‘You mean that you, for some time, and in a deliberate and conscious way, without having regard to my instructions, did not inform and instruct this poor hero, who by name you have called “Awangar” on the sad and distressing history of the event that led to the demise of Plon-Quar, a hero of similar profession but whom we had hoped was not of similar talent, but which may be the case given the current situation that we appear to be encountering at this time?’

Morgold looked ashamed. ‘I did eventually, sir.’

‘Well, this is a sorry tale indeed, as I must surmise from the representations you have so seriously accounted to me concerning the exact and specific nature of the historical progression of this current matter, as might be assumed from your words, just spoken.’

By the brevity of his master’s words, Morgold knew he was angry. Suddenly the door burst open, and there stood Awangar! What a sight he was! Four feet of throbbing muscle, his mighty weapon upright and held firmly in his grasp, his body naked and covered in a series of strange wounds. In his left hand, held aloft, a pair of rather shrunken testicles.

Wow! How seriously has he been nibbled? Will he get a good price for the giant magical mouse’s testicles? Will the Author’s brevity last? AND where is this 'luck' that Hooty gave him? Part 6: Brevity is the soul of what?

Part 6: Hooty’s luck

Awangar the Great strode along the high road, his feet light, his pace springy, thanks to the magic boots Hooty the heylas had given him. The Author, after regaling him with a long peroration on the topic of his boldness, good character and a paean of praise to his mighty Wang, had provided him with fine new clothes and filled his pockets with coin as promised. He had also provided Awangar with a copy of his book, ‘The Chronicles of Galibor’, which was handy when sitting on stone surfaces.

He felt happy, he felt relaxed, content. The sun was up, a nice breeze blowing. In his left hand he held the spoils of his encounter with the giant magical mouse. He headed for the nearest town, clutching his mighty weapon in his right hand and his testicles in the other.

Awangar had wandered long and aimlessly, and it was with both pleasure and sadness that he began to recognise the town where he had lived with Banane for a brief, paradisical interlewd. Out of curiosity, he passed the establishment where he had first met Banane. It had a ‘for sale’ sign on the door. Apparently his creditors had still not sold it. Perhaps they would let it go for a good price. He stood outside, gazing at the door and remembered …
Awangar approached the small doorway. It was decorated with stars, moons and budgerigars. He knocked tentatively.

A dark-brown voice curled round his ears. ‘Enter.’

The room was dark. As Awangar’s eyes grew used to it, he made out the figure of a woman standing next to a silver birdcage. She was gigantic, and also absolutely gorgeous! This woman was of the African race, he could see, with black skin and a lovely face. Her teeth shone pure white, and her knowing eyes twinkled mischievously. She wore a thin, silk robe wrapped around her bountiful body.

‘God you’ve got big tits!’ Awangar blurted out admiringly.

‘Why thank you, kind sir.’ She gave a mock curtsey and lowered her eyes in a deliciously tempting way.

The woman was nearly six feet tall. Awangar gazed up at her adoringly. She wore a strange hat with fruit stuck all over it. Awangar felt a pang, then another. He checked his mighty weapon, but all was in order. It wasn’t lust, so it must be … love! Awangar mooned up at the woman, who smiled back, strangely interested.

‘I am Awangar!’ he called boldly, straightening his four-foot frame, pulling his shirt down and aligning his mighty Wang.

‘Oh!’ Her voice was like chocolate honey. ‘Never mind, dearie. Now, what did you want?’

Awangar pulled them out triumphally, holding them in front of him. ‘What do you think of them?’ he asked her.

‘Bollocks!’ she breathed.

‘You don’t like them?’ Awangar was crestfallen. He’d hoped to woo and win this object of desire, this woman who had captured his heart.

‘They are magnificent, mighty, the biggest I’ve ever seen.’

Awangar preened, almost bursting with pride.

‘Whose are they?’

‘Oh, I got them off Throthgar the Mighty Wolf.’

‘You defeated Throthgar?’ Her tone spoke admiration.

‘Er, yes, But what’s your name and where are you from?’

‘Well, my name’s “Banane” and I hail from Iceland.’ She waited. ‘Hail? Iceland? – okay, never mind.’ She shrugged. Then, noticing the amazement on Awangar’s face, she added, ‘Well, originally anyway. You know there was a big settlement of Icelanders in Jamaica? That song Harry Bellafonte sang ….’

‘Banana boat song?’

‘No. Island in the Sun.’

Awangar was puzzled. He ran through the words in his head. ‘What’s it got to do with Icelanders?’

Banane smiled gently, causing Awangar to ‘pang’ several times in quick succession. He shifted his weapon, uncomfortable. Then she began to sing, soft and low, dripping the words into his hungry ears.

‘Icy woman on bended knee, cuttin’ cane for the family …’

Awangar treasured every minute and burst into applause when she finished.

‘Lovely, lovely!’ he cried out, hardly able to contain himself.

Banane smiled shyly, then gestured him to a small chair.

‘Now, to business.’

Awangar came back to the present. Those days were gone now, he thought sadly, gazing at the door. The old budgerigars were looking faded. He could soon touch them up. He headed for the notary’s.

‘I would love to accede to your request, sir,’ the notary stuttered, eying Awangar’s mighty weapon nervously, ‘but I am afraid that this very morning another has placed a bid for the premises which I am now honour bound to accept.’

‘Who is this person?

‘Well, you know Icelanders always have surnames that describe whose son or daughter they are?’

Awangar’s heart leapt. Could it be? No, he decided that would be too much luck.

‘I do indeed, but what is his name.’

‘Her name, sir.’

‘Well?’ Awangar’s excitement was visible as his mighty weapon raised.

‘Well. The lady’s name is Banane Bigtitsfatbummedafricanwomansdottir.’

Awangar could not conceal his feelings. His mighty weapon swung this way and that in excitement.

Just then, the lady herself burst into the office. She stood in astonishment, recognising the mighty Wang and the figure behind it. Then she noticed his testicles.

‘What are they?’ she breathed, staring at them.

Awangar was taken aback. He had hoped for something friendlier than an enquiry about his testicles from his long-absent wife. But he was a hero. He struck a pose, holding his testicles on high, and stared up at Banane’s fulsome bosom, seeing her face peeping over the top of it.

‘The testicles of a giant magic mouse,’ he said apologetically. ‘I know they can’t be worth much, but ….’

‘Much? They are worth a King’s ransom. Come to me, my hero.’

Awangar buried himself in Banane’s bounty.

‘Watch where you put that mighty weapon!’ she cautioned.

Will there be more? Will we meet Hooty again? If ever they had children, what the hell would they look like? All this and more … possibly


Awangar lay back contentedly. He was home again, rich again, and he and Banane were together again – and they would be even richer once Banane got rid of his testicles. He was leafing through The Chronicles of Galibor, which he thought was really a very good book, when Banane’s dark brown voice came floating from the next room. ‘Tiddles, did you ever meet a girl called “Dolly?”’


‘That’s the one.’

‘Why?’ Awangar was less relaxed now, and perhaps more tense. He hefted his mighty weapon and decided to change the subject. ‘Did I tell you I found a heylas who still had some magic?’

Banane was in the room like a shot, filling it with her powerful presence and bountiful body.

Awangar scrambled to his feet, his Wang swinging below his knees.

‘What? Where? We must go and see him!’ She ran upstairs and Awangar could hear the unmistakeable sound of drawers flying open. He smiled in reminiscence.

Off to find Hooty again, eh? That lovable Welsh creature? Who knows what will happen?

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