Gloucestershire Folk Tales E-Book

Anthony Nanson

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

Gloucestershire's stories go back to the days of Sabrina, spirit of the Severn, and the Nine Hags of Gloucester. Tales tell of sky-ships over Bristol, the silk-caped wraith of Dover's Hill, snow foresters on the Cotswolds, and Cirencester's dark-age drama of snake and nipple. They uncover the tragic secrets of Berkeley Castle and the Gaunts' Chapel, a lonely ghost haunting an ancient inn, and twenty-first-century beasts in the Forest of Dean. From the intrigue and romance of town and abbey to the faery magic of the wild, here are thirty of the county's most enchanting tales, brought imaginatively to life by a dynamic local storyteller.

Leseprobe

To Kirsty

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Map of the Stories

Introduction

One Mabon, Son of Modron

Two The Devil in Gloucestershire

Three On Downham Hill

Four Maude’s Elm

Five The Bisley Boy

Six The Sky Ship

Seven St Arilda’s Well

Eight The Mower and the Bailiffs

Nine The Discovery of America

Ten Betty’s Grave

Eleven The Flying Pear Trees

Twelve The Secret of the Gaunts’ Chapel

Thirteen The Bogglewort

Fourteen Tegau Golden-Breast

Fifteen The Old Men of Painswick

Sixteen White Lady’s Gate

Seventeen St Kenelm of Mercia

Eighteen The Snow Foresters’ Mist-Gate

Nineteen The Buckstone and the Britannic Palace

Twenty The Deerhurst Dragon

Twenty-one The Lady of the Mist

Twenty-two Poor Jim and Dead Jim

Twenty-three The King’s Revenge

Twenty-four The Price of a Lawyer’s Soul

Twenty-five The Seventh Bride

Twenty-six The Wish Bottle

Twenty-seven The Fairy Horn

Twenty-eight The Unchristened Babe

Twenty-nine Puesdown Inn

Thirty The Beast of Dean

Bibliography

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I wish to acknowledge the sources listed in the Bibliography and the links in the chain by which the stories reached those publications. Where possible I’ve drawn on multiple sources for each story here retold. I thank Mike Rust for telling me ‘The Wish Bottle’ and ‘The Bogglewort’, and Kirsty Hartsiotis for sharing her concept of ‘The Devil in Gloucestershire’. I also acknowledge Kirsty’s telling of ‘Mabon, Son of Modron’, ‘On Downham Hill’ and ‘The Painswick Elders’ (and Robin Williamson’s telling of a similar story), David Lowsley-Williams’s ‘The King’s Revenge’, Kevan Manwaring’s ‘Maude’s Elm’ and David Phelps’s ‘The Flying Pear Trees’. Many thanks also to Maggie Armstrong, Marec Barden, Elizabeth Cowen, Fiona Eadie, Laura Kinnear, Lisa Kopper, Caroline Lowsley-Williams, Kevan Manwaring, Rupert Matthews, David Metcalfe, Gabriel Millar, Simon Nanson, Glenn Smith, John Stevinson, Jess Wilson, Newent Storytellers, Bath Storytelling Circle, Stroud Library, Gloucestershire Archives, Bristol Central Library, and The History Press editors. Special thanks to David Phelps, who commented on the text and initiated this whole book series, and to Kirsty Hartsiotis, who helped me every step of the way and drew the marvellous illustrations.

MAP OF THE STORIES

The numbers in the map refer to the numbering of the stories.

INTRODUCTION

Gloucestershire has good claim to be at the heart of Britain’s history. The county sits at the boundaries between England and Wales and between Mercia and Wessex. The mouth of the Severn was of strategic importance from the Roman conquest to the Civil War and beyond. Rich farmland made this land of the native Dobunni the favoured location of Roman villas, forerunners of the manors and country houses of later centuries. The county was once crowded with vibrant monasteries, but also became a centre of Protestant reform. And the great port cities of Bristol and Gloucester have, throughout history, linked the local communities and landscapes of Forest, Vale and Wold to the wider world.

Although Gloucestershire has fewer well-shaped folk narratives than some counties, it is blessed with very many local legends that offer at least the potential for a good story. I was so spoilt for choice that I agonised over which stories to include. I’ve tried to provide a good spread of location, period and genre, and I’ve given priority to stories with a strong imaginative element as opposed to ones that are essentially a matter of recorded history. That was one reason for omitting the famous ‘Campden Wonder’; it’s also a peculiarly nasty story that I feel disinclined to inflict on a live audience.

Whereas a folklorist’s job is to record and interpret folk tales as they find them, a storyteller has to make the tales shapely and satisfying to entertain an audience. Some stories in this collection I’ve simply retold in my own words; others I have considerably reshaped and elaborated. In some cases, I’ve linked together a number of related legends or scraps of folklore to make a longer, more structured story. In a few, I’ve drawn on versions of the same story from outside the county to fill out the Gloucestershire tale.

One interesting thing about local legends is that most of them have, at some point in time, been regarded as true history, and many involve real historical characters. They express an intersection between history and imagination, which requires the storyteller to make decisions about historical veracity. My approach is to treat this as a kind of puzzle in which I try to respect those historical facts which are known with conclusive certainty, but give free rein to tradition and imagination where there are gaps or uncertainties of knowledge. I’d add that, in talking to the owners of centuries-old houses and inns about the ghosts that haunt them, and in finding out about the big cats that have recently entered Gloucestershire folklore, I’ve seen that even in the twenty-first century local legends can continue to be persuasive as true history.

I’ve made a point of visiting all the Gloucestershire locations in these stories, in hopes thereby that my retellings will convey some sense of place. Where the sources didn’t give an exact location, I scouted out a spot that seemed to fit. In some places the setting appears little changed since the time the story is set; in others it has changed dramatically. Gloucestershire’s environment is in better shape than some counties’, but even so the beauty and ecology of many localities are subject to pressures from urban development or industrialised agriculture. It’s my belief that knowledge of traditional stories can impart an enchanted sense of significance to the landscapes and townscapes in which they’re set. If the sharing of these Gloucestershire tales may contribute in some way to the appreciation of the county’s specialness and a deeper caring for its communities and landscapes, then I shall be well pleased.

One

MABON, SON OF MODRON

Prince Culhwch was cursed by his stepmother with a tynged, or destiny, that the only woman he could ever marry was Olwen, daughter of the giant Ysbaddaden. Just to hear that name – ‘Olwen’ – was enough: Culhwch fell headlong in love.

‘But Ysbaddaden is fiercely possessive of his daughter,’ said the stepmother, ‘and with good reason. He knows that when she marries it will be his doom to die. He’s hostile indeed to any suitor.’

Culhwch had no idea even where the giant and his daughter lived. But he had to have her! So he took his father’s advice and went to Caerleon to ask a boon of his cousin, King Arthur.

‘What boon do you wish?’ said the High King.

‘A haircut, sire, from your own hands.’

King Arthur called for comb and shears and there in his hall, before all the company of ladies and knights, he trimmed Culhwch’s hair. As he did so, he deduced from the shape of the young man’s skull that he must be his own kinsman.

‘Tell me who you are!’

‘I am Culhwch, son of Cilydd.’

‘My cousin!’ Arthur hugged him like a bear. ‘Now I’ve cut your hair your destiny’s in my care. Tell me your heart’s desire and I shall see it won.’

‘What I desire is the hand in marriage of Olwen, daughter of Ysbaddaden.’

The High King looked in silent entreaty to his henchmen. They rolled their eyes and shrugged.

‘I’ve never heard of her, or her father,’ he said, ‘but if the lass exists, and is willing, I promise she will be yours.’

To undertake this quest Arthur called on his front bench of knights: Cei, who could hold his breath underwater for nine days and night nights; and Bedwyr, who, though he had only one hand, possessed a spear that with each thrust added nine more of its own; and Cynddylig, who could navigate as accurately in unknown lands as in his own; and Gwrhyr, who knew all the tongues of birds and beasts; and Gawain, who never returned from a quest without what he’d gone to seek; and Menw, who had the power to make himself and his companions invisible.

With Culhwch to complete their number, this magnificent seven searched the length and breadth of Britain until at last, on a wild windy plain grazed by an immense flock of sheep guarded by a mastiff as big as a stallion, they came to Ysbaddaden’s castle. A huge hairy brute the giant was, with knotted greasy hair, and a beard crusted with the blood and brains of his daughter’s suitors, and eyelids so wrinkled and heavy that his servants had to prop them up with staffs so he could see the visiting knights. Beside him his daughter was a paragon of proportion and elegance; I wish I had time to describe every detail of her beauty. If Culhwch already loved her from hearing her name, he loved her nine times more now he saw her in the flesh.

‘I have come,’ he said, when Gawain nudged him in the ribs, ‘to ask for the hand in marriage of your daughter Olwen.’

From the way the girl’s eyes shone, Culhwch could see she was willing. But Ysbaddaden knew that it was his doom to die when his daughter married. That was the way of things, harsh but true, only he wasn’t ready to die yet.

‘If you would marry my daughter, you must first bring me these things I ask’ – and the giant enumerated a list of thirty-nine awesome tasks. To explain how marvellous was each thing he demanded, and how impossible to accomplish, would take hours. Only Gawain was still fully awake, making notes, when Ysbaddaden reached the thirty-ninth task: ‘Finally you must give me a haircut. But my hair can only be shorn with the comb and shears that are lodged between the ears of Twrch Trwyth, greatest of all boars, and you’ll never bring him to bay unless you have the hound Drudwyn, and Drudwyn can only be controlled with the leash of Cors Hundred-Claws, and that leash can only be held by the collar of Canhastyr Hundred-Hands, and that collar and that leash can only be linked by the chain of Cilydd Hundred-Holds. But even then no one can master Drudwyn in the chase except only Mabon, son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when he was three nights old and hasn’t been seen since.’

When Culhwch was sure the giant had finished, he said, ‘Not hard. I can do that,’ and with a last glance at the beauteous Olwen he and his companions returned to Caerleon to devise a plan.

‘Which task should we do first?’ said Cei.

‘Find Mabon,’ said Gawain. ‘If we can do that, we can do the rest.’

‘Where shall we seek him?’ asked Cynddylig, who was keen to start navigating.

The knights all looked at each other.

King Arthur said, ‘Ask the Blackbird of Cilgwri. She’s immensely old. If she doesn’t know, I don’t know who will.’

So the seven knights rode north to the Wirral to find this Blackbird. Gwrhyr, who knew all the tongues of beasts and birds, asked her, ‘Can you tell us where to find Mabon, son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when he was three nights old and hasn’t been seen since?’

The Blackbird indicated a nodule of iron on the ground, no bigger than a hazelnut. ‘You see that? When I first came here, that was a great anvil. Once each day I wiped my beak on it and now this nodule is all that’s left. That’s how long I’ve been here, and I’ve never heard of Mabon. But there’s one creature I know who’s older than me. Ask the Stag of Rhedynfre. If he doesn’t know, I don’t know who will.’

The knights rode south to find the Stag on his ferny hill, and Gwrhyr asked him, ‘Have you seen Mabon, son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when he was three nights old and hasn’t been seen since?’

The Stag showed them a rotting stump of enormous girth. ‘Since I came here I’ve seen an acorn grow into an oak with a thousand branches, and then wither away till all that remains is this stump. That’s how long I’ve been here, and I’ve never heard of Mabon. But there is one I know who’s older than me. Ask the Owl of Cwm Cawlwyd. If she doesn’t know, I don’t know who will.’

The knights rode west into Snowdonia and an oak-filled valley where they found the Owl.

‘Can you tell us where to find Mabon, son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when he was three nights old and hasn’t been seen since?’

The Owl stiffly stretched her wings. ‘Since I came here I’ve seen bare heathland grow into a great forest and then, as the climate got dry, diminish into heath again, and then, as the climate became wet once more, I saw the forest regrow, and then once again I saw it disappear and a third time regrow. That’s how long I’ve been here, and I’ve never heard of Mabon. But there’s one creature I know who’s older than me. Ask the Eagle of Gwernabwy. If he doesn’t know, I don’t know who will.’

The knights rode on into the mountains till they found the Eagle.

‘Have you seen Mabon, son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when he was three nights old and hasn’t been seen since?’

‘You see that low bare knoll?’ said the Eagle. ‘When I first came here, that was a mountain, from whose summit I pecked at the stars. Grain by grain the wind and rain wore away that mountain till only this little knoll remains. That’s how long I’ve been here, and I’ve never heard of Mabon.’

The knights looked at each other in despair. Even Gawain, who’d never returned from a quest without what he’d sought, was ready to call it a day.

‘However …’ said the Eagle, ‘there is one I know who’s even older than me. Ask the Salmon of Llyn Llyw. If he doesn’t know where Mabon is, I’m sure that no one will.’

The knights returned south to Gwent and through the Forest of Dean to the river Lyd. In a deep pool fringed with trees of many kinds, not far from the Severn, they found that huge old Salmon.

‘Can you tell us, O Salmon, where to find Mabon, son of Modron, who was taken from his mother when he was three nights old and hasn’t been seen since?’

The Salmon pondered the question. ‘I’ve been swimming between the ocean and the rivers since before the land was covered with ice and the sea froze, and I’ve never heard of Mabon … But I’ll tell you something I do know. Each day I swim with the tide to Gloucester. Such things I’ve witnessed there as you’d never believe! From an island in the Severn stream I’ve heard a wailing woeful beyond imagining. If you have the courage to ride me I’ll take you there to hear it.’

So the seven knights mounted the Salmon’s scaly back and clung to his fins as he swam on the Severn’s strong tide to the Roman walls of Gloucester. On an isle in the river’s East Channel ancient stones lurked among the willows, and a woeful wailing shuddered through the earth as if to give vent to sorrows beyond sharing. Guarding the island’s muddy shores were nine hideous women, in robes of black, with manes of grey hair straggling wild and knotted to their knees – the Nine Hags of Gloucester.

Culhwch’s young voice called out clear as a bell, ‘Who is that who wails?’

The answer came as if from a great distance and at the same time like a whisper in the ear: ‘It is I, Mabon, son of Modron, and here I’ve been imprisoned a very long time.’

‘How can you be freed?’

‘By fighting.’

The seven knights drew their swords and leapt ashore. The Nine Hags lifted gnarled staffs to meet them. Fierce beyond belief were those hags in battle, testing the knights’ courage, strength and skill to the utmost – till at last, when the knights thought they could fight no more, the women lowered their staffs and vanished like puffs of smoke. Amidst the dark willow stems, in the gap between two ancient stones, was a space like an eye upon its end, like the opening of a womb, rimmed with silver stars. Culhwch stepped as near as he dared and saw within those lips another world, with woods and streams and hills and sky, more brilliantly coloured than such things seem on this side. Encircled by nine women of unearthly beauty stood a young man whose features shone bright as the sun. When he stepped across the threshold between that world and this, everything around him became radiant and it seemed to Culhwch and his companions that all their hearts’ deepest desires were possible.

With Mabon, son of Modron, they returned to Caerleon and set about the other tasks Ysbaddaden had set. If I were to tell you how they accomplished them all we’d be here for days. But at last thirty-eight tasks were done, and they’d won too the hound Drudwyn and the leash, collar and chain to control him. With King Arthur and all his knights and hounds, Culhwch sailed to Ireland on the one remaining quest – to win the comb and shears from between the ears of Twrch Trwyth.

A long chase the boar led them, through Ireland and across the sea and through Wales. If I were to name every place they nearly caught him you could draw a map of those countries. At last they drove him into the corner of land where the Wye meets the Severn. Yet again the boar eluded them and plunged into the broad brown Severn, the hounds led by Drudwyn snapping at his tail. Mabon spurred his steed into the water after him, close enough to snatch the shears from his brow, but before he could grab the comb too the beast was galloping up the muddy southern shore. Into Cornwall they pursued him, all the way to Land’s End, where they cornered him again and at last Mabon whipped the comb from between his ears.

Bedwyr raised his nine-fold-thrusting spear. ‘Let’s make an end of the brute!’

‘No, let him live!’ cried Mabon.

And Twrch Trwyth leapt from the cliffs into the sea and the pack of hounds after him. Away they swam through the Atlantic waves, never to be seen again.

With the comb, shears and the other treasures they’d won, Culhwch returned with his companions to Ysbaddaden’s castle on its wild windy plain. The servants propped up the giant’s eyelids so he could take the inventory of his demands. When he saw that everything was there, he surrendered to the comb and shears that Culhwch plied to hack the knotted greasy hair from his scalp.

‘Is your daughter now mine?’ Culhwch said when it was done.

‘She is. But don’t thank me. Thank King Arthur because you’d never have won her without the help he gave you. Now do to me what you must!’

Gawain handed Culhwch the axe and the young prince chopped off the giant’s head. Olwen pressed her hand in his and everyone cheered, and when that night the prince and the giant’s daughter became one flesh, it was as if two halves of the world that had been sundered had at last been rejoined.

Two

THE DEVIL IN GLOUCESTERSHIRE

‘As sure as God’s in Gloucestershire’; that’s what they kept saying. It’s true, there was an awful lot of God in Gloucestershire: all those churches and abbeys and saints. The Devil really wasn’t happy about that. As he saw it, there needed to be a bit more Devil in Gloucestershire. It was a question of balance.

So out he shot from the hot place down below and landed in a corner of Gloucestershire – in Tidenham Chase. No sooner did he arrive, steaming in the cool damp woods, than who should appear but his old mate Jacky Kent? Thick in the thigh and thick in the arm, with curly hair and a cheerful grin, Jacky had his home in Herefordshire – but some say the Forest of Dean was once part of Herefordshire, so maybe he thought the Devil was trespassing on his patch.

The two of them had a pact from years ago that they could challenge each other to contests. So Jacky says, ‘Let’s have a stone-throwing contest.’

‘You’re on,’ says the Devil, who was pretty good at throwing stones.

They found a spot at the edge of the trees where they could see down over the Severn. It all looked so peaceful and the Devil thinks, ‘What they need right there by the beach is a nice big nuclear reactor. That will spice things up. Even better, maybe two.’

Then he lifted a great stone and hurled it, sailing end over end through the air, to land – smack! – in a field near the riverbank; a good mile and a half.

‘Not bad,’ says Jacky.

Now, Jacky’s a bit cleverer than he looks. He chose a stone quite a bit smaller than the Devil’s – there’d been no stipulation about size – and whizzed it in a high arc clear across the river, to land by a village they today call Stone in honour of this feat. He’d beaten the Devil by a good three miles; his stone was so far away – and so small – that you couldn’t see it. Not like the Devil’s quoit, jutting up proudly from the field. You can see it there still, right next to the railway.

The Devil was pretty irked that Jacky had got the better of him again. He stamped off through the woods in search of something to cheer him up. He didn’t have to go far. From the steep scarp along the Wye he could see down through a gap in the trees to Tintern Abbey – a dreary-looking place where the monks were going about their tedious little lives like ants. The Devil built himself a fine rocky pulpit on which he could easily be seen, and set about waving his arms and howling at the top of his voice to distract the monks from their devotions.

After a time he got bored with that, and Tintern wasn’t in Gloucestershire anyway, so he left the Devil’s Pulpit where it stands to this day, and wandered on to see what other mischief he could do. Right across the Forest he went. ‘Dreadful place! Too many trees everywhere! I ought to get the place sold off to someone who’ll chop them all down.’

What annoyed him as well was the way his toenails, which he’d neglected to trim and had grown into claws, kept catching on the undergrowth. When he reached the Severn, he sat down with his back against Hock Cliff and hacked off the ends of his toenails with a stone. He left the parings scattered at the foot of the cliff. It entertained him in later years when earnest fellows came to collect these Devil’s toenails, believing them to be the remains of a prehistoric oyster, and displayed them in cabinets for public scrutiny.

The Devil traipsed on to Westbury-on-Severn. He was still vexed about Jacky Kent having beaten him so badly, and bothered that he hadn’t achieved much yet. So when he saw the spire of Westbury Church reaching up towards heaven and heard the people inside singing praises to God, he yelled in anger, ‘I’ll teach them!’ and grabbed the spire in both hands, and with a sharp twisting motion pulled the whole tower away from the rest of the church and planted it on the ground a short distance away. It looks a bit odd, and if you stare up from the bottom you can still see the twist in the spire, but it didn’t stop the people praying.

‘What would be fun,’ thinks the Devil, ‘would be a civil war, with soldiers from one side holed up in the tower and those of the other side shooting at them from the church.’ He rubbed his hands in glee. And on he went.

He steered clear of Gloucester and its great abbey. There was a scary lot of God in there. Gloucester had potential, though. ‘What it needs is some big roads, where people will try to drive fast, and some confusing bits where there’s more chance they’ll crash or get enraged.’ Some day he’d get round to it.