Mabon Story
By Jo Dunster
Sit make yourself comfortable, close your eyes and hear a tale that was prophesised long ago. A tale that takes place in a land that lies drifting between the worlds. A story that starts in a pre-dawn field nestled in a shallow but fertile valley. 
The air is cool in the muted darkness and a soft glow is visible in the eastern sky. The wheat of the field is high and a gentle rustling can be heard as the wind moves softly over it. A man stands at the bottom of a hill at the eastern edge of the field. He is strong of bearing but past his prime. Grey is present in his hair and beard and lines sculpt his face with past glories and worries. 
He stands with one arm looped lightly around a spear. He is diligently working something between his hands. One hand drops to grasp a stalk of wheat, he is forming a ring of grain. Looping, plaiting and weaving the stalks together to form a simple circlet. As he works the sun begins to rise and though the orb of the sun can not yet be seen over the hill the first rays of it's light stab skyward. 
The man looks up and turns his head, he is listening for something but all that can be heard is the whispering of the grain. The sun breaks over the hill, a tiny blinding sliver and seeming to recognise the thing he was waiting for the man places the crown of wheat upon his head and takes a firm grasp of his spear. He looks intently to the east and as he waits a change comes over him. He does not move but it seems that his bearing is more upright and visible in him is an echo of his former glory. 
The sun breaks free of the hill and rises gently into the sky. The breeze picks up and carries with it not the sound of the grain but a lower trembling sound. The sound of hoofbeats, the sound of the distant thunder of war. 
The crowned man lifts his spear slowly, almost imperceptibly and behind him from the wheat rise silently rank upon rank of soldiers armed with spears and armoured lightly for speed. They form into a perfect square covering the field, spears bristling waiting for the onslaught. 
In the east chasing the sun is a bank of clouds dark and roiling they cover all beneath them in a blanket of shadow. The noise of the approaching army grows ever louder as the wind whips around the waiting grain. 

Over the hill the first horse comes carrying his rider. A man dressed in full armour soot blackened and dull. He holds aloft a sword that from this distance looks pitted and worn and for all the world like it is made of solid stone. His army breaks the hill and flows around him streaming down towards the waiting spears. 
The front lines of the army of wheat crouch down and angle their spears ready to unhorse the oncoming riders. For a moment time stands still, a brief silence before the two armies crash together with a terrifying scream of horses and the war cries of sun and shadow. 
The sun is moving unstopably across the sky as waves of horses break around the army of wheat and wheel back for another attack. The army of wheat is tightly packed and the stone cavalry can find no holes in its enemies defences. They slash and run and return and slash again but each time a spearman falls another takes his place. Disciplined soldiers quickly shoring any gaps. The beset army is forced as a group across the field as the mounted men try to find away to break the square that the lighter armed men have formed. This should not be, such men should not be able to hold back the might of the army of stone. 
The Stone King can see from his vantage point upon the hill his rival with his men fighting with furious precision but tiring and marked with several small wounds. He knows they cannot hold forever but he is running short of time. He looks up through his dark visor and sees the sun crawling towards its zenith and the shadow chasing close behind. He raises his sword once more and from behind him is launched a massive boulder. It flies with impossible grace through the air and once more time stands still as the flung stone seems to hover for a moment beneath the midday sun, and then crashes down into the centre of the Corn king's troops crushing many and breaking their lines allowing the mounted men access. At the sight of this the Stone King begins his charge, flying down the hill, sword upraised, screaming his battle cry. The Sun flees before him and his stone army parts to let him through. 
The Army of wheat's spirit is broken and they begin to retreat ever further back across the field, losing ground with men falling all around them. Their numbers are few in the waning light as they reach the base of a hill on the western side of the field. The Corn King and a few of his men are all that remains of a once mighty army. The Stone King's charge reaches the base of the western hill and he leaps from his horse fresh and ready to fight. He has saved himself for this battle. The Corn king is weary and is now bearing many wounds. He is grossly outmatched. The Corn king smiles even as his Stone rival forces him backward up the hill and the last of his spearmen are cut down around him. 
The sun at his back the corn king fights on drawing on reserves of strength he will never replace. The king of stone seems to tower above him, bearing down like a weight. They struggle ever upward as the Sun sinks unseen behind the corn king. They reach the top of the hill and for a moment the corn king's attention wavers as he sees, accross the now devastated and blood soaked field, on the opposite hill stands a figure, a woman veiled in black. His Queen is mourning him already. She knows as he has known all along what must happen. He lowers his guard and closes his eyes. He cannot see it behind him but he knows the sun has also lost its battle and has nearly sunk below the western horizon. The wheat crowned king does not hear the stone kings triumphant shout as the final blow lands nor does he feel the pain. His thoughts are of his land his people and his Queen. 
As his lifeless body rolls down the hill. The last light of the sun shimmers and fades into darkness. The clouds that follwed the army of stone now cover the land with a chill shadow. The harvest is in and the winter approaches.