In those days, nothing delighted the robust Cornish more than to play the game they called hurling, a sort of primitive ancestor of Rugby football. Village played against village, town against town, with goalposts set up by each on their own home ground, sometimes miles apart; and to and fro between the goalposts the mass of players pushed and tackled, shouted and yelled as the fortunes of the game directed. They played at hurling whenever time and weather permitted, and those too old or too young to take part ran by the side, or stood where they could see the action, and urged their teams to even greater efforts in the fray by the loudness and carrying power of their voices.
Cleer was not against the game in itself, but he did notice that on fine sabbath mornings his little flock dwindled only to a handful of the most ancient old crones and their youngest grandchildren; and it did not require very great powers of deduction to guess where the absentees were, especially when the excited shouts of the hurlers drifted in at the little open door of his church, and disturbed his devotions.
Then he would sorrowfully take the backsliders to task for their sabbath breaking, and chide them so gently that even the most hardened would feel ashamed and penitent, and promise to do better in future. But alas, the vigorous spirit of healthy human beings is hard to subdue, and when yet another village openly challenged them to a match next Sunday morning, it was more than flesh and blood could do to refuse. Then the young men would decide that there was no time like the present for a bit of fun, even if it did mean a lecture from the priest at some future date. So the challenge would be accepted, and everyone hale and healthy enough to stand went to watch the game, and lend vociferous encouragement to the players fighting for the honour of their native village.
Cleer was a man of long patience – but beware the anger of a patient man!
There came a glorious sunny morning when Cleer’s church was almost empty, though sounds of a boisterous hurling match reached him from the top of Craddock Moor. Seizing a stout stick in his hand, he marched in distress and anger from his neglected church, and strode purposefully towards the sound.
The game was fast and furious, and again and again Cleer raised both his stick and his voice to call them to attention; but they heard him not, and simply played on. Then, in a sudden lull, he tried again, bidding them cease their lawless game and return with him to the church, for surely it was Sunday, the very day God Almighty had set aside for rest and prayer and praise.
When they heard his voice among them, many were ashamed, and left the game to go with their priest, and to ask once more for forgiveness of their worldly backsliding. Not so some of them, who, hot and excited by the game, resented Cleer’s interference.
‘Be off with you, old bald head!’ they shouted. ‘Let you and the womenfolk pray and preach, if you will. We be men, we be, not maidens! We don’t want a baldheaded priest a-spoiling of our sport. Get back to your church, and leave us to our game. We shall stop where we are!’
Then Cleer shook with a terrible anger, and raised his stick like a cross before him. Words fell from his lips like fragments of ice-cold stone, compressed by the passion of his fury into missiles for the hearts of the sinners standing before him.
‘Be it as you say,’ he called. ‘Since you prefer your game on the moor to your duty in the church, you shall indeed stop where you are, this day and every day till the end of time!’ Then he lowered his stick, but the players did not move, nor answer him back in any way; and as they watched, the onlookers saw the defiant hurlers settle for ever into their present attitudes, for they had been turned to stone on the instant.
Many centuries of wind and rain have passed over Craddock Moor since then, and have worn down the extremities of the stone men that still stand where St Cleer cursed them. Some lie with their faces in the heather, and some have been utterly destroyed by time. But some still stand, just lumps of stone remaining where they defied the priest who gave his name to their village, and where the wrath of a patient man fell on them on that dark Sunday morning, twelve centuries or more ago.
The Parson and the Clerk
The Devil is at work again, this time in Devon; but as the Parson and the Clerk still remain a feature of the district, the story seems to fit more naturally here.
In days long past, so the story goes, a bishop of Exeter lay dying; but instead of being on their knees praying for the soul of their father-in-God, there were many priests thereabouts who were concerning themselves with the much more worldly consideration as to which of them might be chosen as his successor.
Among them was one whose anxiety on this score knew no bounds, and whose patience was not of the best. ‘Will not the old man die and be done?’ he asked himself pettishly, as the days passed and the bishop still lingered on between life and death. Fear swept him lest the news should be too late in reaching him, and at last he could no longer contain his impatience. He must, and would, ride to Exeter, and find out for himself what the situation was.
Summoning his clerk to be his guide, the priest ordered him to saddle up the horses, and off they went. Finding to his joy that the bishop was sinking, and that his end could now be no more than a matter of a few days, the priest set off home again, though night was coming on.
He gave no thought to his way, for his head was awhirl with ambitious plans for the future; but in any case he was trusting to his clerk, who was a Devonshire man. The night fell black and wild and stormy, and the clerk lost his bearings in the darkness, so that when they reached the high ridge above Dawlish and Teignmouth, called Haldon, they had lost their way completely, and wandered aimlessly about the trackless country.
Wet through and buffeted by wind and rain, the weary would-be bishop rounded on his hapless clerk in a passion of uncontrolled fury, cursing the man’s stupidity that had brought them to such a miserable plight. He called down curses upon the clerk’s head, ending his tirade with the words, ‘By God, I would rather have the Devil himself as a guide, than you!’
The hapless clerk said nothing; but indeed, he would not have had time to say much, for out of the blackness ahead of them, help had suddenly appeared. A poor peasant, riding on an old nag, had heard the priest’s voice and riding towards them, proffered them his aid, saying that at least he could lead them to shelter from the unkind weather.
The priest accepted his offer at once, and the peasant led them on until at last he brought them to a lonely house from the many windows of which light streamed in mellow welcome, and promised warmth and refreshment at last.
As they drew nearer and nearer to the house, the sounds of revelry reached the ears of the priest; indeed it was revelry of such a wild nature that the chorus of songs roared drunkenly by many voices reached out to them over and above the noises of the storm. It was obviously not the kind of company that a future bishop would have chosen for himself, had he had any choice! But as he had not, and as both master and man were by this time cold, hungry and bone-weary, they were disposed to accept any shelter and company without question. So it was that they found themselves soon at supper with a gathering of people such as at any other time they would have avoided as they would the plague.
The warmth, the food, and above all the wine began to have its cheering effect on them, and they were soon thinking what a jolly company they had fallen in with, so much so that before long they were joining lustily in the singing, and even contributing to the merriment with tales and jests of their own. So the hours passed in roistering, and though the priest was proud of his ability to drink with the best, by the time news of the bishop’s death was brought to him, he was distinctly befuddled. Nevertheless, he understood the import of the whispered message, and that now the time had actually arrived, he had urgent affairs to attend to. Rising hastily, he roused his clerk and called loudly for his horses. When they were brought to the door, the whole boisterous company came out to bid their guests farewell. Priest and clerk bundled themselves up into the saddles, and set their spurs to their mounts – but the horses stood stock
-still. The priest swung his whip, and thrashed his horse, but still it did not move. With whip and spur they urged the beasts towards Exeter, but not one inch did they budge.
For the second time that night, the priest gave vent to his temper, and with it a torrent of cursing poured from his lips.
‘Devil take the horses!’ he cried. ‘The Devil is in them, that’s plain! But Devil or no Devil, to Exeter they shall go!’
Then from the company gathered in the doorway of the house behind them came a roar of unearthly laughter, and with a clap like thunder the whole house vanished in a cloud of fire and brimstone. But the gang who had so recently appeared to be such jolly company became in that instant a horde of devils, horns, hoofs, tails and all.
Then the devils began a fiendish dance of glee around the two anguished riders and their immobile horses, while slowly but surely, with chilling, sinister purpose, the sea began to rise. It rose relentlessly till it was awash round the legs of the terrified animals, till it touched the spurred boots of the parson and his clerk. And there, in the darkness, the two clung to the necks of their mounts while the ruthless sea engulfed them.
When morning came, and the people of Dawlish came out to talk to each other of the worst night of storms in human memory, they found the drowned bodies of the parson and the clerk clinging round two rocks just off the coast, while two horses, absolutely unharmed, wandered peacefully along the sands.
Since that day, the two rocks have been known to all Devon as the Parson and the Clerk; and though time and the sea between them have worn and damaged the two island rocks, while they still stand above the sea, this tale will be remembered.
The Wedding at Stanton Drew
Stanton Drew in Somerset also had a visit from the Evil One – with very similar results to those at St Cleer recounted in ‘The Hurlers’.
At the sweet time of the year when spring slips unnoticed into summer, when the swallows are back and buttercups yellow the fields, when evening dusk merges into mellow moonlight, and the night is almost as warm as the day, it is the right time for weddings – especially in a village where everything keeps tune with the rhythm of the seasons. So it was at Stanton Drew, a tiny village on the banks of the river Chew in Somerset, many, many many years ago. The day was a balmy Saturday, when the bride and the groom and all their family and friends walked to the church for the marriage ceremony and the blessing of the priest upon the young couple’s union. That over, they set about the business of enjoying themselves, and making the most of the chance of jollity, with eating and drinking, and the romping merriment of rustic music and dance.
When early evening came, the local harpist came too; and out into a field close by the church the wedding party went, to form up their sets and take their places for the age-old country dances in which grace and elegance give way to strength and agility, and the figures only stop when dancers and musicians alike run out of breath.
As dance succeeded dance, the party grew merrier and merrier, and the feet of the company more nimble. None was more nimble than the bride, whose sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks grew ever more excited and whose laughter rang ever more loud and abandoned.
The moon was high, the night was calm, and time slipped by as if on magic wings. They were in the very middle of a dance when the harpist suddenly drew his fingers across the strings with a firm chord, and the music drifted into silence. The dancers stood waiting for him to continue, but they could see that he was making preparations to pack up.
The bride left her place in the figure and ran across to him. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Why are you stopping?’
He pointed up to the moon. ‘It is time to stop,’ he said. ‘It is now midnight, and in a few minutes it will be the Sabbath Day.’
‘What does that matter?’ said the excited girl. ‘I shall only be married once, and I shall dance all night if I want to!’
The pious old musician was shocked. ‘Then you will have to find somebody else to play for you,’ he answered, ‘for I will not profane the sabbath.’ And he continued to pack up his harp.
Then the bride pleaded, and coaxed, and cajoled to prevail on him to stay; but he shook his head, and prepared to leave. At this the girl flew into a passion, and turned her pleadings to abuse. ‘Go then, you miserable old spoilsport,’ she yelled. ‘We’ll dance without you and your music! I’ll find somebody else to play for one more dance, if I have to go to Hell to get him!’
As the old man shuffled off towards home in the moonlight, the angry shouts of the disappointed revellers followed him into the night; and as they turned dejectedly to follow him, since they could not dance without music, they saw approaching from the opposite way the outline of a stranger. He came upon them out of the night, and they saw that he was old, but most impressive looking, with exceedingly bright eyes and a long venerable beard.
‘Give you greetings!’ he said pleasantly. ‘I heard the sounds of a quarrel as I came towards you. Now what can be wrong with a merry party on such a beautiful night?’
Then the bride, in tears of anger, told the courteous old stranger how the harpist with his religious scruples had taken himself off at midnight, and put an end to all their fun.
‘If that’s all, it can soon be mended,’ said the old man. ‘I will play for you myself.’ And he sat down on a convenient boulder, took a pipe from under his cloak, and began to play.
It seemed at first that his fingers were stiff and out of practice, but he soon caught up the rhythm again, and choosing their partners for a round dance, they began to move to his music. After a minute or two, he began to quicken his tempo, and the dancers felt their feet responding to the urgent music in a way they had never done before with their familiar harpist. Faster and faster the new musician played, and faster and faster they whirled in breathless, mad abandon, till the peace of the holy sabbath was shattered with their wild laughter and cries of merriment. On and on went the music, and on and on went the dance, until all were breathless and exhausted, and longing to sit down and rest.
‘Stop!’ cried the bride, gasping for air. ‘Stop and let us rest.’ But the piper took no notice, so they decided to stop of their own accord and fling themselves down on the grass to recover. It was then they found out that they had no control over their feet at all, and that while the music went on, they had no option but to go on dancing to it. Seeing their predicament, the piper lifted his head, and played louder, and stronger, and faster, faster, ever faster, till the gasps of the dancers turned to moans, and their merry cries to groans, and their laughter to wails as their pleas for mercy died away for lack of breath with which to utter them. And still the relentless music went on, and still their feet rose and fell in time with it, hour after hour as the night wore on, and the moon sank, leaving them still dancing in the darkness.
At last the first streaks of dawn began to show in the eastern sky, and faint hope began to rise in their hearts that with the new day their terrible ordeal must end. So it proved, for as the first rays of the morning sun struck him, their strange musician put down his pipe and stood up. The circle of exhausted dancers immediately stopped in their tracks, and stood as if frozen solid with horror! For protruding from beneath his robe was an unmistakable cloven hoof, from under his hood they spied a pair of unmistakable horns, and behind him they saw the end of an unmistakable forked tail. While they stood as if petrified with terror, still in the strange attitudes of their exhaustion, he put away his pipe, and turned towards them.
‘I’ll come back, and play for you again, one day,’ he chuckled, and walked away into the morning. And as they watched the Devil depart, for it was surely none other than he, so they became petrified in truth, and turned to pillars of stone where they stood.
There they stand to this very day, the inner circle of three sets of standing stones, in a field close by the church at Stanton Drew; and there they will stay, it is supposed, until the Fiend returns to play for them again, as he promised to do all those many centuries ago,
when knowingly they chose to break the sabbath for the sake of one more dance.
Notable Characters
Most districts throw up, every now and again, a character who for some reason is remembered long after his death. Sometimes he is remembered for what he is, sometimes for what he does, and the more extraordinary his personality or exploits when alive, the more likely he is to become a legend afterwards. The link between all five of the characters in this section is that they were, in their own way, somewhat larger than life.
Jack o’ Legs
This man was not a mythical or magic giant – simply ‘a giant of a man’, akin to Tom Hickathrift of Wisbech, or Little John whose grave is still to be seen at Hathersage in Derbyshire (or so it is claimed). He did, however, apparently emulate the more mythical giants in his belief that might was right.
Jack o’ Legs he was called, and no wonder, for he was the very giant of a man. So tall was he that when he walked down the middle of the narrow streets of Baldock, he could peer into the upper storey windows on either side; and when he spied a friend in one of the upper rooms (or a pretty woman going about her toilet, as she believed, in privacy) he would stop, lean his elbows on the window sill, and peer in, either for a chat or to leer and guffaw at the poor woman’s consternation and discomfiture. Some said he was a pleasant enough fellow, and that there was no harm in him, but others had less comfortable tales to tell.
Jack lived in a cave near the village of Weston, for no house was large enough to accommodate him, and his huge frame took a good deal of food to keep it going. But as he did no work, he had no means of supplying his body’s needs. This gave him some very strange and questionable ideas on the subject of property. What he coveted, wanted or needed, he took, and that’s all there was to the matter; and because of his huge strength, that matched his huge size, there was never a man to gainsay him.
The Book of English Folk Tales Page 30