Celtic Fairy Tales and Legends E-Book

Rosalind Kerven

• Herausgeber: Batsford
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Batsford Fairy Tales
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 253

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

From mermaids to dragons, 16 ancient Celtic fairy tales retold with their histories The Celtic cultures of the British Isles – Ireland, Scotland and Wales – have produced some of the richest traditional tales in Europe. Three words best sum up their themes and flavour: adventure, enchantment and romance.  In this book, Rosalind Kerven has revived the best Celtic fairy tales for a new generation. The stories are sourced from old folk tale collections from all three regions, alongside selected medieval Welsh and Irish texts.  • Visit mysterious Otherworlds inside the hills and below the sea – including a land where only the truth is ever spoken. • Meet iconic characters such as the first great Welsh poet, Taliesin, and the mighty Irish hero, Fionn mac Cumhaill. • Cheer on bold Scots lasses such as Mallie Whuppy, as she outwits a fearsome giant, and Kate Crackernuts, who rescues a prince from bewitchment. • Encounter witches, fairies, a bogle, talking animals and strange underwater beings. Each story is retold from the medieval texts and oral storytelling traditions of Ireland, Scotland and Wales, with fascinating background notes and a long list of sources and further reading included. The background notes feature a list of source material, analyses of themes, and examples of similar legends from all over Europe.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Introduction

The Sorceress and the Poet (Wales)

The Swan Woman (Ireland)

Mally Whuppy and the Giant (Scotland)

The Devil, the Witch and the Faeries (Wales)

Fionn mac Cumhaill and the Magic Drinking Horn (Ireland)

Kate Crackernuts (Scotland)

The Red Dragon (Wales)

The Twelve Wild Geese (Ireland)

The Secret World of the Seals (Scotland)

The Most Ancient Creature in the World (Wales)

King Cormac and the Golden Apples (Ireland)

The Bogle of the Murky Well (Scotland)

The Sleeping King (Wales)

The Merrows’ Song (Ireland)

The Black Bull of Norroway (Scotland)

The Daughter of King Under-Wave (Ireland and Scotland)

Notes to the Stories

Sources and Further Reading

Other books by Rosalind Kerven

Introduction

he stories in this book come from the timeless oral traditions of Ireland, Scotland and Wales.

The oldest and most solemn ones, first written down during the Middle Ages, were once formally recited in the courts of ancient kings by their grandest and most eloquent court poets, as portrayed in a Welsh text of the 14th century:

‘My lord,’ said Gwydion, ‘it is our custom that on the night a visitor arrives at the court of a great man, the chief bard should speak, so I will gladly tell you a tale.’ Gwydion was the best storyteller in the world. And that night he entertained the court with pleasant tales and storytelling until he was praised by everyone there.

In contrast, the more light-hearted ones were not recorded in books until the late 19th century or even later. However, they too are very ancient, having been widely shared for countless generations by humble peasants and travelling storytellers around cottage firesides – as described in the western islands of Scotland in 1896:

The arrival of [a storyteller] in a village was an important event. As soon as it became known, there would be a rush to the house where he was lodged, and every available seat – on bench, table, bed, beam, or the floor – would quickly be appropriated. And then, for hours together … the storyteller would hold his audience spellbound. During his recitals, the emotions of the reciter were occasionally very strongly excited, as were also those of his listeners, who at one time would be on the verge of tears, at another would give way to loud laughter. There were many of these listeners who believed firmly in all the extravagances narrated.

Despite these very different origins, all the stories retold here have much in common. They are peopled by giants, faeries, dragons, witches, magic animals, bold young women and famous heroes. They tell of astonishing adventures, strange enchantments, impossible ordeals, eerie shapeshifting and visits to supernatural ‘otherworlds’. In the words of Irish poet and cultural icon W.B. Yeats, ‘Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.’

So relax, learn to believe in magic – then read on!

Rest for a while! The night is young,Time is short and the road is long.Tell me a story and I’ll sing you a songFor tomorrow the road will be calling us on.– traditional Celtic song

The Sorceress and the Poet

WALES

Where did all the old stories come from? They were gifted to the world long ago by poets. And who was the greatest poet of ancient times? To answer that, we must start with a sorceress, the noble lady Caridwen …

aridwen was a woman of great power, a renowned mistress of magic.

She was married to a lord and had three children. Her elder son and her only daughter were both as fair as a spring morning. However, it’s her youngest child who concerns us. This was a boy called Avagddu, who was born under an ill star.

Caridwen loved Avagddu best of all, but feared he was too feeble to make his way in the world. So she decided to brew a Potion of Inspiration to help him. She hoped this would overcome his disadvantage, enabling him to outshine his rivals and perhaps win a place to serve the king.

She filled a cauldron with rare herbs and water, built a fire in a secret corner of her garden, and set the cauldron on top. Then she commissioned two trusty people to keep it simmering. One was Morda, an elderly serving man who she tasked with feeding the fire with logs. The other was a boy called Gwion Bach. His job was to stir the cauldron with an enormous spoon, every hour, all through each day and night.

‘Keep up this work without resting for a whole year,’ she ordered them. ‘At the end of that time, once the brewing is complete, I shall pay you both generously. But listen: Do not taste even a single drop of the potion. If you disobey me, you will die on the spot.’

They diligently obeyed her instructions. For almost twelve months, Morda never let the fire go out and Gwion Bach kept on stirring. Slowly, steadily, the brew became richer and more pungent.

By the last day of the final month, the potion was so thick that Gwion Bach could scarcely move his spoon through it. As he struggled to do so, three drops of the liquid suddenly splashed onto his finger. It was so excruciatingly hot, that he forgot Caridwen’s warning and thrust the scalded finger into his mouth to cool. In this way, he accidentally swallowed some of the potion.

Despite her warning, it did not kill him. However, its effect was overwhelming. Almost at once, his head began to explode with a chaos of dazzling images and words. They gushed through him like a river in spate and filled his whole being with desperate longing. He must string them together! He must shape them into prophesies, weave them into stories, shout them out loud as poems and songs! He must work them into spells …

But old Morda saw what happened and cried, ‘You’re in mortal trouble now, boy. Quickly, run for your life before Caridwen comes!’

So, his head still ablaze, Gwion Bach fled.

The next moment, the cauldron cracked in two, spilling the remains of the brew into an enormous puddle. But Gwion Bach knew nothing of this as he raced through fields, crawled under hedges and hid in ditches, desperate to escape Caridwen’s anger.

She came at dawn the following morning. It should have been the happy day when the potion was finally ready for her son. But instead, she found the cauldron burst, the liquid spilled and the fire reduced to ash. She seized a heavy stake and made to strike the hapless Morda.

However, he stopped her with a roar: ‘Don’t hit me, foolish woman! It’s Gwion Bach who caused this disaster.’

‘Then he’ll not get away with it!’ Caridwen cried.

Power surged through her veins. She sniffed the air, scraped the ground with her naked foot, tested the wind with a raised finger. Thus she quickly divined which way the boy had gone, and started after him.

But thanks to the magic potion, Gwion Bach knew that Caridwen was coming for him. A spell sprang into his mind, he chanted it out loud – and at once transformed into a hare. In this shape he ran on, now three times faster than the wind.

Caridwen saw what he had done. She immediately turned herself into a greyhound, quickly gained on Gwion Bach and drove him to the banks of a rushing river.

Gwion Bach jumped into the water with an eerie cry – and transformed into a fish.

Caridwen turned into an otter, dived in after him and chased him to the surface.

In his fish form, Gwion Bach could not breathe there. So he transformed into a small bird and flew up towards the sky.

Caridwen screeched, turned herself into a peregrine falcon, shot after him like a lightning bolt and harried him hither and thither.

Gwion Bach flew through the open door of a barn, transformed into a grain of wheat and hid amongst thousands of identical grains scattered across the floor.

Caridwen cackled, knowing she had him cornered now. She turned herself into a hen and scratched around the floor. It did not take her long to find the grain that was really Gwion Bach, peck him up and swallow him.

*****

Nine months passed. The lady Caridwen gave birth to her fourth child. It was another boy, conceived from the grain of wheat she had eaten – her enemy Gwion Bach himself, come back to life!

She could not bring herself to harm him. So she gave him a new name, Taliesin. Then she wrapped him in a leather bag and entrusted him to God’s care by casting him out to sea.

What became of Caridwen and her other children after that is not recorded. But of Gwion Bach, now reborn as Taliesin and set adrift, there is much more to tell.

*****

Further up the coast, there lived a young lord called Elffin.

One evening, he went out riding along the river to the estuary, where a weir had been set up to trap fish. A leather bag was snarled up in one of the poles. Elffin thought it might contain something valuable, so he untangled and then opened it. To his astonishment, he found nothing inside but a tiny boy. It was the strangest child he had ever seen: the size of a newborn baby, but with the physique of a youth.

When Elffin had recovered from the shock, he carefully placed the boy on the ground. There, like yeast dough left in a warm place, he rapidly began to grow.

‘Who are you?’ Elffin cried in astonishment. ‘Where have you come from?’

The boy, now as high as Elffin’s waist, only grinned at him, pointing silently at the horse.

‘Do you wish to come home with me?’ asked Elffin.

The boy had now grown to reach Elffin’s shoulder. A nod was his reply.

Elffin lifted him onto the saddle behind him and they started off at a trot. As they went, the boy suddenly broke his silence and began to chant in a curious, mesmerizing voice:

Greetings, friend! Taliesin’s my nameI drank the potion, fled in shameFrom the sorceress CaridwenDevoured by her then born again.Generous man who set me free –I thank you for my liberty!

Elffin had no idea what he was talking about; yet there was something appealing about the fey boy. When they reached the family home, Elffin’s parents too were charmed and offered to foster the boy. Under their care, he flourished, while a canon of enigmatic poems grew inside his head.

*****

Time went by, as it does, and Taliesin matured into a man. One day, Elffin invited Taliesin to join him at a feast thrown by their ruler, King Maelgwn of Gwynedd.

Halfway through the feast, Maelgwn summoned his bards to step forward and perform. They recited an endless series of praise poems to their king, followed by a tedious history starting with his most distant ancestors, rumbling on and on. All the guests sat there politely, desperately trying to hide their boredom and impatience.

Suddenly, Elffin rose from his seat, pointed at Taliesin and shouted: ‘Enough of these humdrum verses! Your majesty, I have a bard of my own who is far more skilful than yours. His poems will fill you with wonder. You should hear him!’

King Maelgwn was outraged at this audacity. He ordered Elffin to be seized, thrown into the dungeon and confined there in chains. In the commotion, Taliesin tried to dart away and conceal himself; but he was quickly spotted in the shadows, dragged out and forced to stand before the king.

‘So,’ Maelgwn growled. ‘You must be the wretched rhymester who my prisoner dared to claim is superior to my own world-famous bards, eh?

Taliesin stood glaring at Maelgwn brazenly for a long moment. Then he cleared his throat and made his answer in verse:

Indeed, sir! Taliesin’s my name.The whole world soon will know my fame.Lord king, I stand here not for sport.I’d like to entertain your court,But first it falls to prove to youWhat Elffin claimed is really true.Throughout the world, outside or in,The greatest bard is Taliesin.No peace will come till you agree.Restore my brother’s liberty!

‘How dare you tell me what to do!’ cried Maelgwn.

Taliesin’s reply was a grim warning:

Lord king, don’t argue but beware!For danger’s coming from out there:A monster’s rising from the mud,No flesh, no soul, no bones, no blood.Brings teeming rain and glowering skiesThe sea will churn, the wind shall rise.Merciless, it’s sure to bringDark vengeance on you, foolish king!

The next moment, there was a deafening clap of thunder outside, followed by gusts of wind so strong that they rattled the heavy doors and windows in their frames, enveloping the entire hall in an icy chill. Rain and hailstones drummed against the walls and roof slates as if they would batter the whole castle right down.

Above this clamour rose the king’s distraught voice, pleading: ‘Taliesin, call off this spell at once! I submit to you! I agree to free Elffin and will declare you to be the greatest poet in the land. I offer humble apologies for doubting your skills. I beg you to join my court as chief bard. Will you accept?’

‘Certainly!’ Taliesin called back.

‘Then subdue this tempest, I implore you! Save my castle from destruction!’

Taliesin snapped his fingers, muttering a stream of words under his breath in a language that no one recognized. Gradually, the noise outside quietened, the rain ceased and the wind faded away.

‘It is done,’ said Taliesin. ‘Now take me to Elffin, my foster-brother, and let me oversee his release.’

The king himself led the way down steep, dank steps to the dungeon. Behind them came workmen with saws to break the chains binding the captive’s wrists and ankles. But before they could start work, Taliesin spread out his hands to stop them, stepped forward and cried at the top of his voice:

Let me speak my magic art:Chains of bondage – break apart!

At once the chains melted clean away, and Elffin stepped out of them.

The king shook his head in astonishment, then led the way back up the steps, with Taliesin and Elffin walking directly behind him. At the top, they found the royal bards waiting in line to pay homage to their new chief. Taliesin stood quietly to receive their acclaim.

After this, the feast was concluded, heralding the king’s customary time to enjoy some bardic poetry. This time, none dared to speak except for Taliesin himself.

Standing on the dais before the assembled guests, he no longer looked like a reckless youth. Instead, he now had the bearing of a sagacious dignitary; and the words he spoke were profound, complexly crafted in open verse:

Friends: I bring you mysteries to ponder.Why is a stone hard and a thorn sharp?Who is all at once hard as flint, salty like brine and sweet as honey?Whose steed is a gale?Why is a wheel round?

Which is whiter, salt or snow?Why is a tongue gifted with speech?What is lovelier than the sun’s smile?

No one could offer answers to these mysterious questions, and Taliesin did not enlighten them.

In this way, the evening drew to a tranquil end. Then the entire court and the king’s guests all bedded down in the great hall around the fire.

They awoke the next morning to a new era, in which the art of poetry and the stories it shapes had gained equal status to the art of war. So it has been in the Celtic lands ever since; and the name of Taliesin the bard has never been forgotten.

The Swan Woman

IRELAND

nder the white mist lie the green hills. Within the green hills stand the stone doors. Behind the stone doors lie the sídh, castles of the Otherworld. They illuminate the underground realms just as the full moon brightens the night; for within them stand the dazzling courts of the Tuatha Dé Danaan, the gods of ancient Ireland.

*****

In a chamber within one of these sídh, the god Aonghus lay fast asleep.

Music broke into his dreams. He opened his eyes with jolt, and saw to his amazement that a young woman was standing by his bed. How had she come there? Who was she? Her long pale fingers were stroking the strings of a timpán, making a tune so agonizingly sweet that it almost tore his heart in two. Never before had he seen or heard such beauty.

He stretched out a hand to touch her; but she shook her head with a smile and shifted beyond his reach.

On and on her tune rippled, pouring over him like a brimming mountain stream. He was too overcome to reach out to her again, or to utter a single word. Finally, intoxicated by both her face and the music, his eyes flickered shut and he succumbed again to sleep.

They say there is no disease or even pain in the Otherworld. Yet the next morning, Aonghus woke up paralyzed with yearning, too ill to rise from his bed.

He could not tell anyone the cause of it, fearing he would be mocked. For Aonghus was the god of love, charged with helping and supporting both gods and mortals who find themselves hopelessly smitten; he should not succumb to such weak feelings himself. Yet here he now was, laid helpless by a woman whose name he did not know, whose very existence seemed like a dream.

He withdrew from everything. He ceased his habitual travelling through the two worlds, he abandoned hunting and feasting, he no longer gave anyone romantic assistance. Instead, he wasted away in his bed all day, not eating and scarcely drinking. Now he lived only for the nightly blessing of sleep, which always brought back the unknown woman and her exquisite timpán music to delight him.

*****

Aonghus’ father was The Dagdae, a powerful Otherworld king. After his son had idled away a whole year in this way, he summoned doctors to examine him. Eventually, they correctly diagnosed the cause of his affliction. Aonghus was compelled to confess to his father about the young woman who haunted his waking dreams.

The Dagdae said, ‘My son, I well understand your desperation, for I myself once coveted an unobtainable woman in a similar way. She was none other than your own mother! But it only took some simple enchantment to persuade her to love me.’

‘Perhaps the young woman you love acts so clandestinely because she is similarly prohibited from becoming your wife. In that case, I advise you to use the same method which once worked so well for me.’

Aonghus answered, ‘You make it sound like a simple matter, Father; but your advice only increases my wretchedness. For even the strongest spells are bound to fail against a woman whose name, father and dwelling place are all a mystery.’

‘That is no reason for despair, my son,’ said The Dagdae. ‘I shall send messengers to seek her out and discover everything you need to know about her. I promise not to rest until this is achieved. Then you can easily go to her and reward her surreptitious advances by offering your own affection.’

And so it was done.

After many months had passed, a neighbouring king of the sídh called Bodb came to Aonghus’ bedchamber, saying, ‘Rise up, my friend! I have found the woman you love. She is called Cáer Ibormeith, daughter of Ethan Anbúail, and they live in the province of Connachter.’

‘Then they are mortals?’ Aonghus asked.

‘They are indeed,’ said Bodb. ‘Even so, it won’t be easy to overcome the father’s selfish hold on her.’

‘Is he a mighty king?’

‘Not a king,’ said Bodb, ‘but a powerful enchanter.’

‘Is it through her father’s spells that she comes to haunt my dreams?’ asked Aonghus.

Bodb’s answer was ambiguous. ‘It seems she does this in secret opposition to her father’s will. Yet he holds far more sway over her than you can imagine, Aonghus. To overcome his spells, you must first understand them. And to do this, you must come to their realm and see the situation for yourself.’

*****

It was already late in the year. Summer had long ago faded, the leaves had dropped and the nights were drawing in when Aonghus rose from his bed. He joined King Bodb in his chariot and drove with him beyond the boundaries of the Otherworld, all the way to Ethan Anbúail’s kingdom. However, instead of approaching the palace there, they continued their journey through pasture and forest to the shores of a tranquil lake.

There they saw an extraordinary sight. Thrice-fifty young women in pure white dresses were standing knee-deep in the clear water; and each was joined to the one beside her by a gleaming silver chain.

Aonghus gazed at them. He examined the chained women carefully, one by one … and suddenly blenched. When he managed to speak, his voice was barely a groan: ‘There: I see her!’

He pointed to the woman in the very centre of the lake. She was a full head taller than her companions; and the heavy chains that weighed down her shoulders and circled her neck were not silver, but crafted from burnished gold.

Bodb said, ‘Now you can clearly see why it will not be so easy to win her. Besides, come midnight, you may not even want her.’

‘Midnight?’ said Aonghus; and there was fear in his voice.

‘You have slept too long,’ Bodb said sharply. ‘Do you not realize? Tonight is Samhain – the first day of winter, the turn of the year, the time of changes. So tonight the door between this frail human world and our sacred Otherworld will swing wide open. And for a brief time even mortals will have power to spin spells so strong that we gods are helpless before them. Wait here and watch: you will see what her father is capable of.’

Without another word, he returned to his chariot and drove off, leaving Aonghus alone at the water’s edge.

Slowly the sun dipped behind the forest in a blaze of blood-red light. The air grew cold. Stars shone in the dark sky like fragments of silver, lighting the thrice-fifty young women swaying and murmuring in the water. Aonghus watched them, transfixed by the tall one in her chains of gold. As the darkness thickened, her father’s evil magic took hold and she began to change …

… Curved breast to coiled neck. Draped robe to white feathers. Alluring mouth to proud beak. Fingers that once danced across the timpán lost in the fold of wings …

Cáer had become a swan.

The links of her golden chains were broken. She rose into the air surrounded by her flock, thrice-fifty ladies who were now, like her, transformed to the great white birds of air and water. Long necks extended, together they soared and circled above him, then turned to fly away.

‘Cáer!’ he shouted. ‘Wait!’

From high above, her sweet voice tumbled back to him: ‘Who calls me? Who is there?’

‘I am Aonghus of the Tuatha Dé Danaan,’ he answered.

He heard a flutter of wings, saw her turn back from her companions to hover high above him.

‘Aonghus. I thought you did not really care for me. But you found your way here at last.’

‘Every night for a year you haunted my dreams, Cáer,’ he called back to her. ‘Every day for a year after that, people on my behalf have scoured the two worlds in search of you.’

She gave a bitter laugh. ‘And now you see that the search was pointless, Aonghus. It is impossible for you to win me from my father. Indeed, you cannot even want me now, unless you wish to marry a bird. My father has vowed never to let me go, and has thus bewitched me to take this swan shape on alternate years, right to the end of my life.’

‘That is no impediment to my love for you, Cáer! Come to me and I will show you.’

‘If I come, you must understand that until next Samhain my nature is not of a woman, but a swan. I will need neither a soft bed nor treasure, but only sky and water.’

‘I understand, Cáer!’ he cried, ‘and I promise to respect you.’

She descended to the starlit lake and glided towards him. He stood very still, waiting. When she reached the bank, he waded out and put his arms about her.

And as they embraced, he too began to change, just as she had done only moments before, shimmering and dissolving into a storm of snow-white feathers, until he became a swan.

The thrice-fifty swan-maidens once set to guard Cáer had already vanished.

Aonghus spread his new-fledged wings and rose into the sky. Soon he was soaring beside Cáer, high above the darkness and the Samhain fires. Then Cáer and Aonghus together began to sing. Their voices carried right across the world so that all who heard them were lulled into an enchanted sleep for three long days and nights.

Thus unseen, Aonghus in his swan shape flew home to the green hills with Cáer beside him. He led her through a great stone door, beyond the darkness, into the splendour of his sídh. There, safe inside the Otherworld, her father’s enchantment lost all its power, and Cáer returned to her true shape. Aonghus too transformed, back to a lusty god. In this way, the pair were now free to love each other for ever.

Mally Whuppy and the Giant

SCOTLAND

here was once a poor woman and her husband who had far more children than they could possibly feed. So, in desperation, they took three of their daughters deep into the forest and used trickery and deceit to leave them there.

By the time the girls realized they were abandoned, night was falling. There were no other people around, the owls were screeching, the wolves were howling and they had no idea where they were. The two elder girls sank to the spot and started to weep bitterly.

But the youngest one – Mally Whuppy they called her – was a shrewd and plucky lass. ‘What’s the point in mewling?’ she said. ‘Look, the moon’s shining and there’s a path through the trees. It must lead somewhere, so let’s follow it until we reach a house. We can ask there for help.’

So hand in hand, they started along the path. Before they had gone very far, they saw lamplight ahead and soon reached a high-walled cottage. Mally Whuppy knocked hard on the door, which was opened at once by a timid-looking woman.

‘What do you want?’ said she.

‘Please, ma’am, we’re lost,’ said Mally Whuppy. ‘May we come in to sleep by your fire tonight?’

‘Och, you poor bairns,’ said the woman. ‘I’ve got three daughters of my own and I’d help you if I could – but I was forced to marry a wicked giant – and he’ll kill you when he comes home!’

Mally Whuppy peered past her and saw a table set with huge loaves of bread and jugs of milk. Her empty stomach rumbled. ‘We’re starving,’ she said. ‘Could you at least spare us something to eat?’

‘I’ll have to be quick,’ said the woman nervously. ‘I suppose you can come in and get warm for a few moments while I fetch something.’

She beckoned them in to kneel by the fire. The woman’s own sullen-looking daughters – who looked as big and brutish as their father sounded – sat on stools opposite them, scowling. The woman bustled off and quickly returned with a bundle of food wrapped in a cloth.

But before she could hand it to Mally Whuppy, they heard heavy footsteps outside. Then the door burst wide open – and the giant himself came stooping through it. Huge as a bear, he was, wearing a thick leather belt studded with metal spurs; and his breath stank of sour beer and blood.

At once, he spotted Mally Whuppy and her sisters. ‘Why are these mortals soiling my home?’ he roared at his wife.

‘Och, they’re just three poor cold and hungry lassies who stopped by,’ she said soothingly. ‘Don’t worry, they’re going now.’

The giant bent down to peer at them closely. A dangerous gleam came into his eye. ‘Going? Hmm, there’s no need for that. It will do us good to have company, heh, heh, heh! You’re welcome – very welcome! – to sup with us, dear girls, and fatten yourselves up. Then I’ll be glad – very glad, heh, heh, heh! – to have you stay the night. You can sleep in the same bed as my own three, there’s plenty of room.’

So Mally Whuppy and her sisters joined the giant and his family around the table, and they had never eaten so well in all their short lives. Once they had finished, it was bedtime. The giant’s daughters climbed a ladder up to the loft and got into one side of a large bed covered in crisp white linen. Then, with sly grins, they invited Mally Whuppy and her sisters to lie on the other side. Soon after that, the giant came up to bid them ‘good night’ and placed a chain of gold around each of his daughters’ necks. Then, chuckling under his breath, he adorned Mally Whuppy and her sisters with necklaces of straw.