Devon Folk Tales for Children E-Book

Leonie Jane-Grey

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 113

Beschreibung

Folk Tales and lore are woven into the ancient landscape of Devon: swimming in the rivers, soaring with the buzzards over farms and moors and making soft tracks across the sands of a wild coastline. In Devon Folk Tales for Children you'll find goblins tinkering in the old ore mines, a changeling hare-woman who runs by the light of the moon, and pixies playing on the old pack routes trodden by the hooves of Dartmoor ponies. This beautifully illustrated collection of tales from storyteller and artist Leonie Jane-Grey will take you on a wild and magical adventure through the ancient lands of Devon.

Leseprobe

First published 2019

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Leonie Jane-Grey, 2019

The right of Leonie Jane-Grey to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7509 9102 5

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ International Ltd.

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

Foreword by Clare Barker

1 Devon: Land of the ‘Deep Valley Dwellers’

2 The Fall of a Giant: Brutus of Troy

3 Old Grandmother Silver, Hare Witch

4 The Tulip Pixies

5 Old Crockern Dreaming

6 The Man from Manchester

7 Cutty Dyer

8 Vixiana

9 Bowerman the Hunter

10 The Fairy Ointment

11 The Waggoner’s Wise Horses

12 The Dragon of O Brook

13 Jack O Lantern

14 The Tin Mine Goblin

15 Vickytoad

16 Fox and the Pixies

17 The Witch’s Imp

18 The Golden Maze

19 Flight of the Imagination

Bibliography

FOREWORD

When I was a little girl, I used to lie down daily at the foot of a local oak tree. Mighty, old and welcoming, it was the theatre of my first storytellings. Here I studied the clouds for messages and listened to the birds’ secrets. I gathered acorn cups and raindrops and prepared invisible feasts for the little folk that lived amongst its roots. Every day after school, this sacred place sprang to life before my eyes; the site of daily battles, dramas and mysteries.

So entranced was I by this special place, that no well-meaning adult would have been able to convince me my fairy imaginings were not real. Of course, I wasn’t the first child to do this and shall certainly not be the last. This is a scene that has been playing out beneath the leafy trees of Britain forever.

I suppose my question is: why do we take to the wonders of story so young and so passionately? I suspect the answer is that folklore is in our blood, that it lives in the very marrow of our bones. In the way that swallows feel the call of the African plains or wolves howl in unison, human beings have a need to share stories. Long may it continue.

However, amidst the clamour and glamour of the digital age, the old stories are at risk of being lost. We are tremendously fortunate that Devon has some of the last truly wild places in England and a storytelling tradition to match. In this fascinating and beautifully illustrated collection, Leonie Jane-Grey turns the volume back up on the old songs, bright and loud.

Ask yourself: do you know why the South Devon soil is so red? Have you ever seen a mysterious dark creature lurking in the tangled river weed? Has the shadow of a silver hare racing across a moonlit hill ever caught your eye? Have you ever heard a fairy prince speak with a voice of a skylark?

You haven’t? Well then, I would suggest it’s high time you changed that. Lie down, pick up this book and lose yourself in the timeless rhythm and wonder of story.

Claire BarkerChildren’s author

1

DEVON

Land of the Deep Valley Dwellers

Long ago, so long ago it was a time before time, a small patch of ground nestled within the palm of the largest supercontinent the Earth has ever known – it was the small piece of Earth which was to become Devon. Over eons, the continents slid and groaned and heaved apart. Those already-ancient rocks that were to form Devon continued on their slow journey. Eventually, perhaps for a brief flicker in deep time, the ever-changing land would be divided up by humans into the world map we know today.

The land on which we stand is ancient. Devon hums with a thousand primordial songs. If we put our ear to the ground, down really low, perhaps we will hear stories of ice ages and forests, tundra and cave lions, deep in the black and red soil. Imagine the first amphibians that crawled out from the sea, their web-toes slapping over slick mud. The ooze over which they slithered has been squeezed and shaped by the great movements of the Earth to become shale and mudstone beneath our own bare feet. The rocks along the Devon coastlines contain the fossilized memories of waters once teeming with ancient sea life. Sheltering hillside hollows and Devon caves remember the songs of great lizards, mammoth, hippo, blackbird, mole, dragonfly, beetle and bee.

The Devon hills ring with the echoes of blows from flint axes made by our ancestors. Wild humans followed bands of wild horses over the land-bridge called Doggerland, when the seas were still lower than they are today and Britain had not yet become an island. Perhaps when we rest in our gardens we may sense their sharp stories of dark caves, glowing fire, fierce hunting, and how they imagined the world must have been created.

Wave after wave of people have arrived to this green island. Sometimes people arrived here peacefully, but often with violent battle. Our story-soaked fields shudder with the sounds of clashing Viking, Saxon and Roman swords.

Today, Buzzard throws a broad sickle shape against the clouds as he soars high over the land. As he sweeps by catch hold of his tail feathers. Buzzard is powerful enough to carry us all – his wings are broad enough, beaten strong by storms, bronzed by the sun and burnished by the wind, to lift us high over the land. From here we can see hedgerows, fields, farms, villages and towns rolling beneath us. Many rivers thread their way through the deep valleys, and the land is edged along two sides with the wild and sparkling sea. There are many white horses leaping in the waves along these ancient Jurassic coastlines.

Down on the ground, in some distant time, our ancestors are drumming. We gather around their ancient fire. Pixies are dancing in the dusk half-light – the Devon dimpsey time. A giant takes measured strides towards the cliff edge of his fate, and the light of the moon shines in the eyes of a silvered hare witch.

Fox is here to guide us. She is a sharp-eyed hunter with a keen ear for a good story. Her thick coat shows white, red and black against moss green ground. Fox can see far down the road and smell a discarded chicken bone from a whole score mile away. It is time to follow her neat tracks over bog, tor, clitter, riverbank, and through the streets of small towns. The stories are waiting, weaving silvered pathways above and below and over the land. As we gaze out from our own familiar homes, our schools, our workplaces, a vision emerges. We are in an earlier time. Raven is calling. Turn your coat inside-out lest the pixies lead you astray. May a magpie jump in your path as you travel, to bring you luck.

2

THE FALL OF A GIANT: BRUTUS OF TROY

Goddess kissed and dream driven,Son of Troy, King of Britain.Here you stand and here you rest,Exiled to rule in old Totnes.Once, a long time ago ...

Goddess Diana gazed down upon the blue and green jewel that was the earth. Far below, a wooden ship sailed over a vast ocean. The goddess came close, her breath the sea breeze, her gossamer tresses shrouding the ship in sea mists, to see what human adventure was unfolding. Brutus of Troy, exiled from Italy after his own stray hunting arrow had killed his father, had set out over the seas, trusting his fate to the winds and the gods. Diana watched him and his Trojan men over weeks and months until they came upon a small deserted island. The adventurers landed ashore desperate to find clean water and food, and keen to explore the island’s golden beaches, sun-warmed coves and shaded forest.

Brutus made his way into the interior of the island, seeking deer in the deepest part of the forest, when he happened upon the ruins of an ancient building. Crumbling stone walls enclosed an ancient sanctuary. An exquisite white statue of a goddess stood by the remains of an altar. Brutus thought it wise to bring gifts and make offerings to this beautiful goddess, so she might bless their journey. He returned to the ship and chose a pure white deer from amongst those which had been hunted by his men that day. His took the heart, the skin, and a goblet of dark red blood. He carried his rich offerings to the temple, laid out the white deer hide on the ground and carefully placed the heart and the goblet upon the altar. Brutus lay down upon the hide and eventually slipped into a deep and dreamless sleep. As dawn broke softly, Goddess Diana came to him.

Diana gave Brutus a dream – the shimmering image of a great dragon-green island, rich with life, running with pure, clean rivers – the promise of a new home. As dawn broke Brutus awoke, dazed and enchanted by his vision. A fire for adventure burned in his heart anew. Swiftly he returned to his men and his ship. Without delay, they set sail over the wide curve of the ocean. Keen, unfailing winds pushed them through swell and rain, the ship moved swiftly, even on still days, until Brutus saw the thin green line of new land ahead. As they approached he saw wild beaches and magnificent hills rising before them. Brutus was certain this was the land of his vision – promised to him by Diana, the goddess of his dreams.

GOEMAGOG

Tree Stride, Boulder Bones,Chew the world with teeth of stones.Raven’s Rock, your heart so hale,Still Diana’s dream prevails.

Goemagog cut a mighty figure. A behemoth. A giant. Great cloths woven from roots, reeds and sinew covered his ox frame. His shirt had been sewn with a lion-bone needle, and fastened at the breast with an antler pin. A wealth of fox, red deer and bear skins, skulls and teeth had become his cloak. Ravens had given glossy feathers to adorn the tangle of his hair. His grief-twisted state betrayed the rough beauty of his looks – flint eyes, crag brow, cliff jaw. Cast-iron rage boiled in the pot of his gut.

Goemagog had watched a proud wooden ship make its way slowly up into the great mouth of the River Dart. Many men had climbed out and set about taking stones, wood, water, fish, birds, deer. They spoke a language from far away, and carried sharp weapons which shone wickedly in the sun. The leader of the vessel and his followers had lit fires, made noisy celebrations long into dark nights.

The giant families, a rugged bunch of towering earth-movers and cave-dwellers, retreated fearfully to Dartmoor. Amongst them was Goemagog, their strongest and most magnificent champion. After many nights of watching with reddened eyes and gritted teeth, Goemagog and a ragged group of his kindred had moved off the hill. They crashed into a Trojan party intent on ending the ransacking of their treasured hills and valleys. But the educated invaders were trained fighters, quick and sharp in skill and wit. By the night’s hard finish, they had taken the giants down, all but one – Goemagog. He had fought with the strength of a mountain. Now he was held captive, a mighty land-master brought down low, feet and hands tied with rough rope, his brothers gone.

CAPTAIN CORINEUS

Hunter thief, slayer of hoards,Axe wielding warrior, murderous sport.

Corineus eyed the dark, bearded heap of the captive giant.

‘Let me fight him, Brutus,’ he said, savagely.

‘Corineus, you are truly mighty, and a great warrior,’ replied Brutus, ‘but he’s one heck of a beast to take down on your own!’

‘Size is no matter; my skill will prevail!’ Corineus boasted. He threw his shoulders back and squared up to where Goemagog sat, tied in ropes on the floor. The giant leaned heavily over like a broken tree. Inside, a storm raged.

‘He has no sword, no fast weapon to match yours – he has only that great staff, a stone axe, a bear’s claw. Hardly fair.’

‘No weapons then – I’ll wrestle him! Everyone will see that my skill is superior to his size. When I win, reward me with all of the lands to the west of here – I will rid the hills of these overgrown cave-cattle and govern the region for you. Do me the honour of allowing me to name the place after myself – ‘Cornwall!’

Brutus laughed – he knew his ferocious and ambitious Captain Corineus well.

‘Very well. You will fight him in the morning. We’ll see how strong you are: perhaps you will win your patch, your “Cornwall”. It is only a small part of my great island after all, which will be named “Britain” after me!’

THE FIGHT