Jersey Legends E-Book

Erren Michaels

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

With fairies and dragons, witches and werewolves, the picturesque island of Jersey boasts legends as varied and powerful as any within the British Isles. From its golden beaches to its treacherous cliffs, Jersey is alive with mysterious stories as strange and fascinating as the beings that inhabit them. This unique anthology includes the most famous of Jersey's fables, such as the Hougue Bie Dragon, the Witches of Rocqueberg, and the demon of Bonne Nuit. It also contains original tales of ancient monsters such as the Vioge of Crack Ankle Lane, the Prince and Princess of Sorel Point and the Crooked Fairy. These spellbinding stories had almost been lost to the shadows of the past, but are brought to life here once more.

Leseprobe

For my mum

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

There are a handful of people without whom the writing of this book would have been a far more difficult process.

I owe my gratitude first and foremost to my mother, for all her help and support as well as her patient re-readings and timely snack-feedings. A huge thank you to the friends, near and far, who provided critical readings of the text: Lizzie Martin, writer Cody McCloud and novelist Noah Goats for their feedback and encouragement, and Charlotte Le Sauteur for the combination of proofreading and physiotherapy.

My thanks to writer Jeremy Harrison, who as well as providing illustrations for the book gave such helpful notes on the stories, to Naomi Irene Rohatyn, my comedy-writing partner for all her support and enthusiasm, and to Rachelle Mandik for her invaluable advice.

A special tip of the hat to my eagle-eyed draft editor James Hovey for the generosity with which he provided his valuable experience and time.

My thanks as well to all of the wonderful schoolteachers who guided my reading and encouraged my writing, especially Mrs Sheila Jenkins, Mrs Poole, Mrs Heath, Mr Leon Shaw, and the late Mr Herbert.

I am enormously grateful to Nicola Guy at The History Press, not only for her help and guidance, but for taking a chance on a new author, and I am most indebted to my project editor Ruth Boyes for all of her kindness, patience and hard work in refining the text.

CONTENTS

Title

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1    Sir Hambie and the Dragon

2    The Black Dog of Bouley Bay

3    The Vioge

4    Sacred Ground

5    The Five Spanish Ships

6    Witches’ Rock

7    The Water Horse

8    Devil’s Hole

9    The Crooked Fairy

10    Goblin Gold

11    The Prince and the Princess

Notes on the Text

Bibliography

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

Jersey was the land of the fairies

and the race is yet believed to exist.

S.J. Coleman, Treasury of Folklore

Every place has its own unique mythological stories, carved and created as much by the landscape in which they are set as by the people who once inhabited those places.

The island of Jersey is a singular place of great natural beauty which lends itself well to fairy tales. The dramatic cliffs of the north coast are as beautiful in their rugged majesty as the sand dunes of the western shores and the golden beaches that surround the island. Jersey’s patchwork of green farmland is interspersed with rich woodland, and medieval castles are juxtaposed with the bustling hub of the town. Jersey is home to one of the world’s busiest offshore finance centres and has a population of almost 100,000 people.

Like a threadbare tapestry, the whole picture of Jersey’s vibrant mythology is hard to make out. Many tales of the monsters and mysteries of the island have been worn down by time to bare descriptions and the locations in which they took place. Some tales are comical, others are tragic, and a few of the legends chill the blood. Disparate sources make veiled references to the notion that Jersey was the chosen final refuge of the fairy race. There are even dark reports of fairies so distressed by the impact of human colonisation and industrialisation that they hanged themselves from the ancient stone dolmens. Winding through much of the folklore are brief mentions of the mysterious and anonymous White Lady and her association with the many dolmens and standing stones upon the island. There are even allusions to doorways between worlds.

The antics of many supernatural creatures have not been recorded, or perhaps were never told as complete stories. They may only have been constructed as vague warnings designed to keep children away from certain dangerous areas like clifftops and dark woods or out of the savage sea currents. No doubt many tales are irretrievably lost to the passage of time, since the surviving legends are ancient. Most travelled down the centuries by oral tradition, changing through the ages like a complex game of Chinese whispers lasting a thousand years or more.

Often the recorded details of each local legend vary greatly from report to report, evolving drastically or altering thematically depending upon the periods in which they were written. Perhaps it is not surprising then that so many of these rich and varied fairy tales have been lost in translation and forgotten over time.

At only forty-five square miles in size, Jersey is the largest, as well as the most southerly, of the British Channel Isles. The islands are located in the bay of Mont St Michel and on any clear day it is possible to stand on the coast of Jersey and see the beaches of France quite plainly with the naked eye.

It is estimated that Jersey became an island around 8000 BC. During very low tides it is still possible to see the remains of the great forest, now fossilised, upon the land that once joined Jersey to the main body of France. In what is now the bay of St Ouen the hoof prints of a deer remain in the petrified earth where it walked millennia ago.

The ancient history of Jersey is a violent one. The people of the island were beset by pirates and Vikings in the early centuries and then became victims to the continual power struggle between the French and the English for ownership of the Channel Islands. The island’s most beautiful fortifications, the huge castle of Mont Orgueil in the north-east and Elizabeth Castle in the south, are testament to the centuries of war that the island endured.

Conflict came again to the Channel Islands when they fell under Nazi occupation between 1940 and 1945 during the Second World War. The island is scarred with German fortifications from these years. Gun mountings and bunkers litter the high points of the island, grim and incongruous reminders of some of the island’s darkest years, set against the glorious backdrop of the coastline.

Jersey is now an English-speaking island, but until very recent times the people of Jersey were French-speaking and the French that they spoke was the dialectal Jèrraise, now understood only by a dwindling few. From the year 1820 onwards an influx of English speakers began to outweigh those using the island’s native language and it is estimated that currently only 20 per cent of Jersey residents still have any fluency in Jèrraise at all.

With such a turbulent history, and the loss of its native language, it is understandable that the legends of Jersey are relatively unknown by the present generation of islanders.

My own interest in the fairy tales of Jersey began when I started work on a fantasy novel set within the island. I had an idea that I wanted to incorporate some local legends into the story and I began to research the folklore of the island. I was astounded at the depth and complexity of the mythology, as well as the sheer variety of fairy creatures rumoured to have inhabited the island. The north coast in particular is so populated with legends it seems unlikely that any humble resident in ancient Jersey could have expected to leave their home of an evening without encountering at least one supernatural creature.

Bouley Bay’s Black Dog has a certain notoriety, I suspect, due to the beautiful old country tavern of the same name which has stood for centuries by the bay. Certain stories, such as the tale of Sir Hambie’s battle with the dragon, and that of Madelaine’s confrontation with the witches of Rocqueberg, are recorded only in synoptic descriptions.

While the famous kelpie of Bonne Nuit Bay is a staple of Celtic folklore, and is well known compared to the other fairy tales, some of the more obscure local legends, like that of the Vioge and the Crooked Fairy, appear to have no archetypal ancestors in any other national mythology and are unique to Jersey alone.

With such vibrant and intriguing heroes and monsters slowly fading as they are consumed by the past, it is important that these stories be retold. Definitive versions of the tales have been difficult to capture, since they have either altered and evolved through centuries of oral tradition, or been almost forgotten entirely. Some had been presented in so many forms that the essence of the legends were distorted as though by a hall of mirrors. Others were as thin as ghosts, haunting the footnotes of old or academic texts, and remembered only in the localities that are named after them.

This collection of the legends of Jersey is an attempt to carry the rich and complex characters of Jersey’s ancient mythology into the modern day, fully realised in complete stories, so that their place in the history of the island is not forgotten by Jersey’s people and lost to history.

SIR HAMBIEANDTHE DRAGON

The dragon flew into Jersey ahead of a storm, seeking refuge from the driving wind and rain. She intended only to take shelter from the elements, but soon found the richly fatted cattle of the little island to her taste. Finding no resistance from the scattered and terrified rural community, she made her den in the marshes of St Lawrence and decided to stay.

She was a young green dragon, only seven centuries old, with a hide like leather and scales the colour of wet jade. While she was not as immense as the great dragons of old, she was large and powerful enough that she did not need to fear any other living creature upon the island.

She wreaked havoc upon the meagre population, hunting and burning at will. The desperation of the people of Jersey soon began to outstrip their fear of the creature, and a group of men ventured into the marshes intending to slay the dragon. One man had lost his young son to it. Another had seen his wife taken by it. There was a farmer who had watched his herd of dairy cows torn apart by the creature for no more reason than its love of cruelty. They were accompanied by a few young men determined to prove themselves as heroes. Taking what weapons they had, they walked into the misty reaches of the dragon’s lair to do battle.

None of them returned.

News of the dragon spread fast and wide, carried by the fleeing islanders, and soon came to the ears of a young knight in Normandy named Sir Michael of Hambie, who resolved at once to travel to Jersey and destroy the creature.

He had but one task to complete first. With slightly more trepidation than he felt about facing the dragon, Sir Michael sought out his wife to inform her of his decision.

He found Elise in the stables feeding slices of apple to his white warhorse, Lexen. The stallion was nibbling them daintily from her open palm. Sir Michael’s grey eyes softened as he watched her. Elise was nearly as tall and fair as he was himself, and the earnest manner in which she was whispering to his horse made him smile.

‘Elise,’ Michael’s crisp voice made his wife spin, with a guilty grin, to face him, ‘you’ll make him fat if you keep spoiling him. I can’t go into battle on a fat warhorse.’

Elise laughed, ‘Oh, you know I can’t help it,’ she shrugged, ‘he’s just so sweet.’

Lexen whickered and nudged Lady Hambie gently, his attention upon the remaining apple in her hands.

‘You should be ashamed of yourself,’ Michael told the stallion with mock severity as he strode forward to scratch the horse’s forelock and help feed him the last of the apple. ‘Stuffing your greedy face when we have important things to do.’

‘Important things?’ The smile slipped from Elise’s lips and her dark eyes searched Michaels’s face carefully. ‘What do you mean?’

Michael slid a hand around Elise’s waist and drew her close as he began, ‘There is a dragon in the island of Jersey and–’

‘No,’ Elise interrupted firmly, placing a hand upon his chest. ‘No. You’re not going.’ She stared at him incredulously, shaking her head. ‘A dragon, Michael? A giant fire-breathing monster the size of a barn? You cannot seriously mean to fight such a thing.’

She tried to remove herself from his embrace, but her stern dignity was compromised slightly by a tangle of hay in her golden hair. Michael smiled as he pulled her against him.

‘Elise,’ he reasoned, ‘what sort of a knight would I be if I did not do my utmost to protect the people of that island? I have sworn oaths to defend the innocent. Besides,’ he tilted his head and added, his eyes sparkling, ‘how many men ever get the chance to slay a dragon?’

‘Michael!’ Elise stamped her foot in annoyance. ‘It would be wiser to raise an army against the thing than fight it alone. Why must you always be the hero?’ She ceased struggling against his embrace and wrapped her arms around him tightly. ‘And what would I do if you were killed?’

Sir Michael tilted Elise’s chin up with one hand, forcing her to meet his gaze, and kissed her with infinite tenderness.

‘It would take more than one little dragon to stop me from coming back to you,’ he said quietly, ‘and there is no time to raise an army.’

‘I hate you,’ Elise said, burying her face against his neck as she clung to him.

‘Yes, I can see that,’ Michael smiled as he picked the hay out of her curls with his slender fingers and let it fall to the floor.

‘I suppose you think that you’ll be taking Lexen on this fool’s errand?’ she demanded.

‘I do, yes,’ Michael said, ‘because he is my horse, and if I have to walk around in full plate armour all day searching for a dragon, I shall simply fall over when I find it.’

‘This isn’t funny, Michael!’ Elise took his face in her hands and looked at him beseechingly. ‘Please don’t go. There must be someone else who can slay the thing?’

‘It’s killing people, Elise,’ Michael’s grey eyes became serious. ‘I have to go. There is no one else.’

The white stallion whickered and flattened his ears.

Michael felt Elise startle in his arms as her eyes focused behind him, and he turned to follow her gaze.

‘Ah, Francis,’ he said in surprise as he spotted his young squire waiting in the shadows, ‘how long have you been there? I shall need you to polish my armour and sharpen my sword. We sail with the next tide for the Isle of Jersey. They have a dragon that needs to be dealt with.’

‘Good God, Francis, why must you always be lurking?’ Elise asked, clearly annoyed. ‘Not that it matters. You won’t have time to break the habit, since my husband has gone insane and you will both be dead by this time tomorrow.’

The squire’s eyes widened and he grimaced as he smoothed his dark hair down nervously.

‘A dragon, my Lord? That sounds very dangerous.’

‘You are the most pigeon-hearted lad I ever knew, Francis,’ the knight said affectionately. ‘This is a chance to fight a dragon. To save lives! Legends are made of such things. Make ready, boy. There is no time to lose.’

‘Yes, my Lord,’ Francis said quietly, ‘if those are your orders, my Lord.’

‘It’s just one dragon, Elise,’ Michael added after the squire had left, ‘and they say it’s just a green. No bigger than a haystack really.’

‘Oh well, as long as it’s only a small dragon,’ Elise said sarcastically, ‘then I shan’t worry at all. Why did I marry a raving lunatic?’

Sir Michael tilted his head thoughtfully, ‘I think you said it was because you loved me so much that you found it hard to breathe.’

‘I had probably had too much wine when I said that,’ Elise responded tartly, but a smile quivered across her lips.

‘Don’t be angry at me, my love.’ The knight took her hands gently, ‘You know I have to help those people. It is who I am.’

Elise realised then that his resolve would not be swayed and begged, ‘At least take Brion and his men with you. Francis is worse than useless.’

Michael shook his head firmly, ‘The Captain of the Guard stays here at Castle Hambie with you. Your safety is more important to me than anything else, you know that. Just let me go now, Elise, and I will return to you as soon as I can.’

Elise clenched her fists and choked back bitter words, then nodded and allowed her husband to prepare.

He departed the next day with her grudging blessing. She waved his ship away from the harbour tearfully, standing upon the dock until he was entirely lost to view in the morning mist.

Sir Michael’s squire was violently ill on the passage to Jersey and the knight could not help but be slightly amused as he carefully moved his white cloak away from his wretched servant.

‘Poor Francis,’ he said, ‘I’m not entirely sure you should have been a squire. You don’t seem all that suited to a life of adventure.’

‘Never really had the stomach for adventure,’ the squire responded weakly.

‘I can see that,’ said Sir Michael with a grin.

The squire regarded the slender, blonde Lord of Hambie resentfully for a long moment before leaning back over the rail and retching loudly.

Even before the ship was fully ashore Sir Michael mounted his horse and urged Lexen into the sea. The powerful white charger leapt into the shallows and churned surf as horse and rider galloped up the beach. Once Francis was ashore and awkwardly mounted onto his own horse, the two men made their way inland and north towards the marsh of St Lawrence where the dragon was rumoured to dwell.

They rode on late into the night, searching the marshland, wet and exhausted, calling out to anyone they saw, but nobody had seen the beast. Though it grew late and they grew weary, Sir Michael would not waiver.

Deep into the night they spotted a glow to the east.

‘That isn’t the dawn,’ Michael mused aloud, ‘that’s fire. Maybe even dragon fire. Whether it is or not, there may still be people who need help.’

The flames were distant, however. By the time they reached the source, which was a barn aflame, there was little left save for a burned-out shell. The dying embers illuminated two young children huddled together, a girl and boy soot-stained and pale with horror.

‘It killed my father,’ the young boy told Sir Michael. His face was dotted with blood, ‘It killed him right in front of me. Then it dragged our mule into the woods. I hid,’ he admitted on a sob, ‘I just hid with my sister and I didn’t even try to stop it.’

The knight dismounted and knelt before the boy to lay a hand on his shoulder.

‘You did right to hide,’ Michael told him. ‘You survived, and there is no shame in that. Your father would want you to protect your family and grow into a man. I will avenge him, if I can. Which way did it go, boy?’

The boy pointed a shaking finger toward the dark woods and Michael swiftly remounted and swung Lexen around.

‘Let us wait for daylight,’ Francis said, ‘it could be anywhere in there.’

‘No,’ Michael fitted his helmet onto his head, the visor raised, ‘the damned thing might be gone if we wait, and I’ll not have another death on my conscience if it kills again while we sit here like children afraid of the dark. Besides, every minute we wait is another minute for Elise to fret. We ride now.’

‘You ride on if you wish,’ Francis said quietly, ‘I’ll not go into those woods.’

Sir Michael regarded his squire with something like pity for a long moment, then turned away. He urged Lexen on with his heels and rode alone into the darkness.

He picked his way with care, stopping often, listening intently. Even in the weak moonlight the dragon was not hard to track. It left a trail of broken branches hanging from the trees. There was a sulphurous scent, and gouges in the earth where its claws had torn the ground. Lexen snorted at the dragon’s smell but did not hesitate or falter, his iron-shod hooves quiet on the soft ground.

Dawn had touched the trees with a cold glow by the time Sir Michael entered a clearing and found the creature. The dragon was sleeping next to the remains of a torn animal carcass. The hapless mule taken from the farm, Michael presumed.

The knight looked on in awe as the dragon’s chest rose and fell with each breath. A fine haze of smoke rose from her nostrils.

Michael took a moment to admit to himself that the creature was somewhat larger than he had been expecting. She was curled like a giant cat; her tail wrapped around her body and resting over her muzzle. He could feel Lexen trembling as the warhorse’s training and nature battled within him. Instinct told the horse to flee, but Michael knew his steed would stand with him to the death. He dismounted as quietly as he could and removed his silver-inlaid sword and shield from the saddle, wincing at every clink of his armour and glancing repeatedly at the sleeping dragon. He then patted the stallion’s neck.

‘Go on with you now, boy,’ he whispered to the horse, ‘I won’t see you be a meal for this monster. Elise would never forgive me. Go on!’ he repeated giving the stallion a soft slap on the rump.

The warhorse circled him once uncertainly, like a white ghost in the shadows, and then cantered away into the trees.

Sir Michael turned back to the sleeping dragon and approached slowly, drawing his sword. He hesitated, the blade inches from the giant lizard’s face. Like a statue carved from emerald, she was beautiful, yet she was terrifying to behold. In this moment she was also utterly defenceless.

The knight poised to strike, and then lowered his sword.

Michael swore under his breath.

‘I’m a fool,’ he whispered, then took a breath.

‘Wake up!’ he shouted into the dragon’s face, ‘I won’t kill a sleeping enemy, not even one as vile as you, so wake up!’

Green eyes the size of saucers snapped open as Michael slammed the hilt of his sword hard into the bridge of the dragon’s nose. The emerald eyes narrowed. The dragon’s tail uncurled like a whip, sweeping Michael off of his feet with its barbed tip and hurling him into a bush. The dragon moved towards him without hesitation, lunging at his left leg as Michael kicked out. She roared in fury as his steel-clad heel snapped off one of her fangs. She bit down upon Michael’s shin, crushing the armour and causing the knight to yell in pain, but then she hesitated and tilted her head in confusion over the fact that her prey was clad in an iron hide.

Michael smashed his shield into the dragon’s face and it reared back with a snarl and opened its jaws wide. Anticipating her attack, Michael struggled into a crouch and held his shield in front of him as an explosion of flame jetted from between the dragon’s jaws and roared around him. The heat was blistering. He had to tear his cloak from his back as the fabric caught fire. He threw the burning cloth into the dragon’s face, and she shook her head like a wet dog to cast it away.

Michael stood, took two swift steps forward and swung his sword. The dragon flinched away and the blade opened a shallow wound across her chest. She screamed in pain and fury. The knight swung again but the dragon turned and his blade glanced harmlessly off of the hard scales of her shoulder. An instant later her tail struck him again like a flail as she spun, clubbing him down into the dirt with a force that knocked his helmet rattling into the trees and made his head swim.

Before Michael could begin to get up, a great gust of wind blew dust into his eyes, tossing debris and leaves everywhere. Another gust followed. The dragon was taking to the air, her beating wings bending the branches of trees with their force.

‘No you don’t,’ Michael gasped, struggling to his feet.

As he stood, the dragon’s great claws clamped onto his shoulders and he felt his feet leave the ground. Every beat of her wings lifted them a little higher, but the dragon was straining and Michael realised that, with his plate armour, he was heavy prey for his opponent to lift. Still, however slowly, they were beginning to rise and Sir Michael had no wish to be dropped and smashed open like an egg.

He jabbed upwards with his sword and managed to strike a glancing blow off of one of the dragon’s legs. They were above the height of a tall man and rising. The knight threw off his shield so that he could grip his sword two-handed and swing it with more force above his head. He caught a lucky slash on the dragon’s stomach. Shallow, he judged, but probably painful. He repeated the action and was rewarded for his efforts by a roar as he was dropped from fifteen feet in the air. He landed with a sound like cookware being hurled at a wall.

The impact knocked the air from his lungs and he was barely able to turn onto his back before he was doused in a gout of flame. Michael threw his arms across his face and rolled as best he could under cover, wrinkling his nose at the smell of his burnt hair. Another intense burst of flame erupted and ignited the bushes around him. He could feel his armour starting to heat up. Spying his shield, he turned over to crawl towards it. The dragon pounced, slamming her full weight down upon him with a ringing clang, driving his face into the dirt. Without his armour Michael would have been crushed in an instant. He could not move or breathe. The dragon stamped and Michael groaned as he felt a rib snap. Despite the hollow bones that made her light enough to fly, the dragon’s weight still felt immense.

The dragon slowly curved her sinuous neck low to the ground so that she was looking into Michael’s eyes. The cold intelligence in her rich green gaze chilled him to the bone. She had won and she knew it.

She flexed her claws against his armoured backplate curiously and the metal shrieked as she ran an exploratory claw to where his breastplate met his shoulder guard. Finding the gap between them she reached her claw inside and pushed it into the flesh under his arm.

Michael heard himself trying to cry out without air in his lungs. The pain was overwhelming, terrifying, he couldn’t breathe, his body convulsed. His vision began to blur and the ringing in his ears almost prevented him from hearing a sound like thunder, drawing nearer, drumming, like the sound of galloping, like …

Lexen reared and slammed his front hooves, iron-shod and sharpened for battle, into the face of the dragon.