You never know with Beltane, which goes by the name “Walpurgis Night” in our house—it could be like summer, it could be like winter. Walpurgis Night is preceded by a season of nine nights during which the folkloric figure of Walburga is in flight, which is why I thought it an appropriate time for playing Nine Men’s Morris. If the weather is bad, you can play it indoors on a board with a cup of tea at your elbow while the rain pours in sheets down the windows. If the weather is fair, you can play it outside with people in place of tokens. (I’ve been nurturing a fantasy of playing it with giant kokeshi dolls—you know, the brightly painted Japanese souvenir dolls shaped like old-fashioned clothespins?—but that’s just me.)
You might know Nine Men’s Morris by its alternate name, the Mill Game. A “morris” is a kind of English folkdance performed principally by men, while the term “mill” can refer to a folkdance position. I am not a folk dancer, but recently I did learn to play The Mill Game—as it is called on the box—having been taught by my nine-year-old daughter. I really have no excuse for not having learned how to play it earlier. The game has been in the family ever since someone or other picked it up at Siegel’s Stationers for the price of $3.00. Inside the box, Wm. F. Drueke & Sons assure me that if we lose any of the pegs, we can purchase additional ones by sending “25c in coin for 9 pegs” to the address indicated, adding, “Mention color wanted.” We’ve somehow managed not to lose any of the pegs over the years, but still I’m tempted to send away to Wm. F. Drueke & Sons to see what happens.
Nine Men’s Morris, at its simplest, is Three Men’s Morris, a glorified form of Tic-Tac-Toe: you draw a square and divide it into quarters which gives you nine intersections or points. Each player gets four tokens, which can be four of anything, really: bottle caps, chess pawns, or those little china animals that come inside boxes of tea bags. The two players take turns placing their counters on the points with the object of placing three of his own in a straight line: a mill. Now you’re ready to graduate to Six Men’s Morris. On the board are two concentric squares connected by lines. I’m sure there are diagrams on the Internet that can explain much better than I can here. Offline, my favorite reference is Board and Table Games from Many Civilizations by R. C. Bell. You start out with the same object: to place your “men,” of which you have six this time, in a mill or straight line of three. Once you do, you’re allowed to help yourself to one of your opponent’s men, though not one that’s already in a mill; mills are safe.
They’re also magical. I’m talking about the mill to which you bring your grain to be ground into flour, where you pour an apparently inedible substance in and, by the miraculous actions of the millstones, something powdery and fine and potentially delicious comes out. To us, it’s physics, but in the old days, unless you actually worked in the mill, it must have looked like magic. Those prone to deep thoughts began to think of the mill as the universe in miniature, a symbol encompassing all of time and space. One stone is the heavens, the other the underworld. And the grain in the middle? That’s us. The millrace is the River of Time which sets the worlds in motion, grinding us all to dust.
The number three is magical also. Set your three men in a row and you have a representation of past, present, and future. Just ask the three Norns of Norse mythology, Urd, Verdandi, and Skuld, who dwell at the center of the square, spinning the threads of fate.
Let’s see what they’re up to. They’ve put aside their spindles for the moment, taken a cool drink from the Well of Wyrd and are now relaxing in the shade of the World Tree Yggdrasil, playing a game of Nine Men’s Morris. Look through the branches: you can see them moving their pins around in the gravel. Only two can play at once, so Skuld sits dozing, waiting to play the winner.
For Nine Men’s Morris, each player gets—you guessed it—nine men. To make the board, all you have to do is add a third concentric square. How do you win? You must reduce your opponent’s army to only two men. Three’s the thing; two just doesn’t cut it.
If, when April 30 rolls around, the sun is shining brightly through the cherry blossoms, you can take the game outside. Depending on how many people you have at your disposal, you can play Three, Six or Nine Men’s Morris, chalking the lines on the grass or drawing them on blacktop. Two people can start out as the opposing the players, directing the action from the sidelines, while the rest of the participants serve as the “men,” obediently moving where they are told. Once taken from the board, men do not return, so it’s up to you how the vanquished should behave: departing the field quietly and with dignity or after thrashing about in dramatic death throes. If it’s a hot day, you may want to designate someone to move between the lines, offering lemonade to those who have been standing in a mill for a long time. If you’ll be playing after dark, the men can hold colored pillar candles. To claim one of your opponent’s men, simply step up and snuff out his candle.
Have fun out there, and may you have better luck than I have. So far, I have yet to beat my nine-year-old.