Gary Marsden was a finalist in Americana UK’s Twang Factor under his nom de musique of Cold Bones Lullabies. He has sent us a story based on another one of his songs, which you can find at the bottom of the story. He describes his songs as “scratchings on a Post-it note or a brain dump or something like that.” As you’ll see from the great story and song below, he does himself a disservice with that description.
Rialto and Rhiannon
by Gary Marsden
Rialto and Rhiannon were travelling folk
She was smitten by the lilt in his voice when he spoke
Carried by his stories in the velvet night
Tolerate the thieving and the lies and the fights
It’s true, they were travelling folk. Maybe they were on the run, maybe they just liked it. Most likely they were bred for it. Thick as thieves, as the saying goes. When the kids tagged along, they formed a rowdy familial cluster, but there seemed to be a cool remoteness between the adults that a casual observer may not pick up on.
For the normies, however, there was much to envy about their lifestyle. The free way of life that had a complete disregard for convention and society’s rigid rules. It wasn’t that they had no feel for community and history. Anyone with a little curiosity could see that they did nurture and maintain a deeply held respect for that particular ragged tradition of their own.
Many people couldn’t get past their own fear and disgust to see it. So they were looked on with a curious combination of envy and fear. And like most historic transient communities, they held a deep affinity with horses. They had cherished horses from ancient times, and they still featured heavily in the unwritten stories of heroes past. It was how they got around and how they displayed their wealth in the communities and circles that they moved in. Of course, these days they travelled in powerful machines which they also cherished in much the same way as they had their horses in earlier times.
A flamboyant herald and symbol of status. One of the things about them though was that no matter how proud they were of their status as a nomadic people, they often had a permanent place which they could return to when they were weary. Maybe it was set up for a retirement they had planned. They may still have kept horses there as a reminder of that noble past. Probably so.
Rialto was a drinker and a fighting man
Proud of the scars on his face and the callous’ on his hands
His religion would forgive him for his thieving he found
Hid his money ‘neath a statue of the Virgin in a hole in the ground
All of the above. Rialto had absolutely been a drinker since before his teens and had been taught to fight and work hard at his various dubious trades. The definition of knuckling down in fact. His religion was an often visible component of that rich tradition. It wasn’t obvious how much Rialto believed in it or whether it was just a salve for his conscience.
Which never troubled him anyway. Unless in the deepest, most private of moments his thoughts landed on something dark before the narcotic waves of the drink carried him off into a deep assuasive sleep. From which he always awoke thirsty.
Any spare cash he had was indeed stashed beneath a statue of the Virgin Mary, a figure that his tradition so revered. He’d stolen it from a Catholic church somewhere in a small town he was passing through. He was often seen on his knees before the Virgin. It could be mistaken for an act of devotion, but he usually returned home with dirt under his fingernails and a desperate need for a drink.
Rhiannon felt so righteous when she prayed for his soul
Didn’t trouble her too much to spend the money he stole
So many life savings had passed through her hands
From the old and the vulnerable victims of that man
Rhiannon was more in tune with the religion thing and actually did pray. Not just for the soul of Rialto and herself and her kids but also that they might find more easy victims to feed their lifestyle. Of course she would never refer to them with the V word. Funnily enough, she never prayed for them either.
The certainty of the notion of her own sanctity was reinforced and underlined by the fact that although she was fully aware that Rialto regularly raided their stash for drinking money, she said nothing to him. She was content with the saintly feeling she had inside knowing that while she was aware of his activities she never scolded or confronted him for it. In fact, she loved to partake a little (a lot) herself and the best times they had were when their inhibitions were at their lowest, and they could completely slip into a state of forgetting.
They’d stay up all night, drink and fight and howl at the moon
They knew their days were numbered and they’d meet their maker soon
They’d shake hands with the preacher and drop money in his tray
He knew where it came from, but that was just the way
He told them they were kind at heart and that was not the truth
But he had more souls to save, and he had to fix the roof
Yes, they had an honour system. It was built around strength and resilience. Virtues which, due to their lifestyle, were valued above all else. Those who could employ these merits to make money were seen as paragons of their disparate community, and their acts were in fact legendary and much envied by lesser adepts.
The ancient practice of giving religious tithes was well known and understood by them. They often gave freely to the church and regularly topped up the bounty with added generous offerings. Especially after a particularly profitable outing.
After all, it seemed fair exchange for the ready supply of business opportunities brought forth by the combination of their own skills and the grace of the deity. They must be doing something right, mustn’t they?
They travelled from the southern states up to Canada through Maine
Borders don’t mean nothing when everywhere’s the same
All your cares may come tomorrow; stay carefree today
The habits of the father he’ll teach his sons the same way
They loved to wander. In fact, none of them had known any other way of life. Sometimes they were escaping, but often they were just bored or overtaken by their inbred wanderlust. It was the way to evade their cares.
The kids had no choice until they came of age, and then they only had one choice. To carry on. The cherished state of forgetting was tied to the condition of a carefree mentality. Any cares will come tomorrow or the next day or next year. They can be tackled then.
Rhiannon felt so righteous when she prayed for their souls
Didn’t bother her at all to spend the money they stole
All her cares may come tomorrow; she’s carefree today
The habits of the mother she’ll teach her daughters the same way
She loved the warm glow she got when she reflected on her benign influence being passed down to her own daughters who were learning how to behave in their world. There were hard times, of course. Prison was a necessary evil, and although viewed as an occupational hazard, it certainly did have its unwelcome encroachment on their carefree life. Not just for the unfortunate and (disgracefully in their opinion) unjustly confined person (often Rialto, of course, both for his nefarious profession and his boisterous recreational activities) but also for its impact on the family earning potential.
They’d stay up all night, drink and fight and howl at the moon
They knew their days were numbered and they’d meet their maker soon
They’d shake hands with the preacher and drop money in his tray
He knew where it came from, but that was just the way
He told them they were kind at heart and that was not the truth
But he had more souls to save, and he had to fix the roof
And so it continued. Drinking and fighting and howling at the moon. Pursuit of pure pleasure was not easy in the only world they knew and from which they were fully aware they would never escape. Their views on morality were to some degree supported by one of the only institutions they related to outside of their own insular universe. It appears that both parties were content to immerse themselves in the illusions created by their own traditions. Forgive and forget. Ease of conscience freely given. Donations purely voluntary, of course, but gladly received.
After all, they said, it contributed positively to the communities they blessed by passing through. No one speaks of old Rialto any more. At least there don’t seem to be any new stories of his exploits shared and celebrated in the bars and places where the travellers meet.
Probably drank himself to death or met his end in one of his more dangerous exploits. A legendary figure to some and a monstrous villain to others. Those who probably never learned his name, but were just poorer for having made his acquaintance. Rhiannon, it seems, has retired to that secret place that they maintained for all those years. Nobody seems sure. The one thing that seems pretty certain though is that there are now two groups of the old family pursuing the ancient trade. The sons and daughters now are passing through the borders.
Of course, in another indication of their venerable tradition, the oldest son is named Rialto and the oldest daughter Rhiannon. And they are known to the victims, communities and churches of the towns and cities they pass through as travelling folk. And they embrace and uphold the old ways.
