Alan Garner

by A Bag of Moonshine (v0. 9) (epub)

  “Well, then,” said Tom Poker; “wind is stronger.” And the cloud said, “She is, seemingly.”

  Tom Poker said to the wind, “Wind, wind,” said Tom Poker, “are you strong?”

  “I am,” said the wind. “You may depend on it.” “But can you shift hill?” said Tom Poker.

  “I can’t,” said the wind. “That’s very true.”

  “Well, then,” said Tom Poker; “hill is stronger.” And the wind said, “He is, seemingly.”

  Tom Poker said to the hill, “Hill, hill,” said Tom Poker, “are you strong?”

  “I am,” said the hill. “You may depend on it.”

  “But can you stand on tree?” said Tom Poker.

  “I can’t,” said the hill.

  “But tree can stand on you,” said Tom Poker.

  “She can,” said the hill. “That’s very true.”

  “Well, then,” said Tom Poker; “tree is stronger.” And the hill said, “She is, seemingly.”

  Tom Poker said to the tree, “Tree, tree,” said Tom Poker, “are you strong?”

  “I am,” said the tree. “You may depend on it.” Tom Poker swung his axe. “Then have that! and have that! and have that!” said Tom Poker. “Have that! And now who is strong?” said Tom Poker.

  But the tree said never a word; for he’d chopped the tree down.

  “Me, seemingly! Strongest of all!” said Tom Poker. And he gave a hop. But he hopped on the ice, and he slipped; and the ice took his breath away from Tom Poker.

  Jack and the Boggarts

  Jack and his mother kept hens; and one night, thieves came to the house and took twelve pullets and a cockerel, while Jack and his mother slept sound and heard nothing.

  “Well!” said Jack’s mother in the morning. “The cheek and impudence! Jack,” she says, “tonight, you see that you keep an eye on the hencote door.”

  “Yes, mother,” says Jack. “I shall that; never fret.” So, the next night, Jack took the hencote door up to bed with him and had it for his pillow. And the thieves came again, they did, and this time they took all the chickens there were, and left the hencote empty, while Jack and his mother slept sound and heard nothing.

  “Well!” says Jack’s mother in the morning. “The cheek and impudence! Jack,” she says, “I thought I told you to keep an eye on the hencote door last night.”

  Jack and the Boggarts

  “Yes, mother,” says Jack. “And it makes a hard pillow.”

  “Well!” says Jack’s mother. “Sooner than trust you to do the job right, you blunderskull, you big dunce, I’d have you wind rope out of sand!”

  “Yes, mother,” says Jack. “I shall that; never fret.” And Jack went up the road to the sandhole, a big quarry place where people went when they wanted some sand; and he took a load of sand, and he set about winding rope out of it.

  Now in this sandhole there lived a boggart; and when he saw Jack winding rope out of the sand, the boggart says, “Whatever are you doing, Jack?”

  “I’m winding rope out of sand,” says Jack, “to throttle boggarts with who live in our sandhole and won’t pay rent.”

  “Wait on, Jack,” says the boggart. “I must go tell my grandad about this.” And off went the boggart down the hole, while Jack got on with his winding.

  Sooner or later, the boggart came back with a big stick; and he says, “Jack,” he says, “Grandad says we’ll pay rent if you can chuck his stick higher than I can. And if not, we’ll eat you.”

  “Fair do’s,” says Jack.

  So the boggart threw his grandad’s stick into the air, and it went so high that Jack could scarce see it, and when it came down again it went so deep into the

  ground that Jack could scarce catch hold on it.

  “There,” says the boggart. “Now it’s your turn.”

  But the stick was so fast in the ground that Jack could scarce shift it.

  “Buck up!” says the boggart. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m waiting for that cloud yonder to come a bit nearer,” says Jack; “so as I can chuck the stick on top of it.”

  “Oh no you don’t,” says the boggart. “What would grandad do without his stick?” And the boggart pulled the stick out of the ground and went off down the hole, while Jack got on with his winding.

  Sooner or later, the boggart came back with a horse, and he says, “Jack,” he says, “Grandad says we’ll pay rent if you can carry this horse round this here sandhole one more time than I can. And if not, we’ll eat you.”

  “Fair do’s,” says Jack.

  So the boggart picked up the horse, hutched it on his shoulders and set off with it round the sandhole. He carried that horse round that sandhole ten times before he was forced to put it down.

  “There,” says the boggart. “Now it’s your go.”

  “How must I carry it?” says Jack. “On my shoulder, or between my legs?”

  “Between your legs,” says the boggart, and he thought: That’s done him!

  But Jack jumped up on the horse’s back, and he rode it round the sandhole; and he rode it and he rode it until that horse was blowing and it couldn’t go another step; twenty times round, he went.

  The boggart was amazed; and he calls down to his grandad, “He’s carried it between his legs!” And the boggart’s grandad says, “Best pay him, then!”

  “I’m to pay you,” says the boggart to Jack. “How much is rent?”

  “Oh,” says Jack, “I reckon my cap filled with gold will do.”

  So the boggart went off down the hole to fetch the gold, and, while he was gone, Jack dug a pit, cut the crown from his cap, held his cap over the pit and waited for the boggart.

  Sooner or later, the boggart came back with the gold and began at pouring it into Jack’s cap; but Jack’s cap wasn’t filled, and the boggart had to go and fetch more. And he had to fetch more again; but still it wasn’t filled.

  “Grandad!” says the boggart. “We want more gold for rent!”

  “There is none!” says the boggart’s grandad. “We’ve run out!”

  “What must we do?” says the boggart.

  “Best be flitting!” says the boggart’s grandad.

  So the boggarts had to flit; and Jack was left with a hole full of sand and a pit full of gold; and Jack’s mother, she was very pleased.

  Mollyndroat

  There was a woman once in the Isle of Man, and she was scandalous lazy. She was that lazy she would do nothing but sit in the corner of the hearth, warming her shinbones red. And one day, her man gives her some wool to spin for him; and he was not what you would call bright. No; he was slow on the uptaking. But even he could see that he was badly off for clothes to wear, for she was letting them get all ragged on him. Now he’d told her to mend them; told her till he was tired; but all he got out of her was: “Time enough. There’s time enough.”

  So, this day, he says to her, “Here’s some wool for you to spin,” says he. “And if it’s not done a month from now, I’ll throw you out on the road side, so I will. You and your ‘time enough’ have left me nearly bare!”

  Well, the wife was too lazy to spin, even so, but she pretended to be working hard when the man was in the house; and she put the wheel out on the floor every night before the man came in from the field, to be letting on to him that she’d been spinning.

  After a while of seeing the wheel so much, and with a week to go to the reckoning, the man says to the wife, “Have you enough thread spun at you now for me to take to the weaver next week, do you think?”

  “I don’t know at all,” says the wife. “I’ve not had chance to count the balls, I’ve been that busy. I put them all in the loft as I spin them.”

  “Well, let’s count them now,” says he.

  “Very well,” says she.

  Now she had only the one ball spun, and that was knotted, and rough as gorse; but she took it - and then the play began!

  “Keep the count yourself,” says she, “and throw them back to me, so the
y don’t get rolling all over the floor.”

  “I will,” says he.

  She threw the ball down to him.

  “That’s one,” says he; and he threw it back up to her.

  “Here’s another,” says she; and she threw the ball back down to him.

  “That’s two,” says he.

  “It is,” says she; and he threw it back up to her.

  And when they had done that between them maybe two score times, the wife’s arms were aching, and she says, “That’s all that’s in it.”

  “Oh, indeed you’ve spun well, woman,” says he, “there’s plenty done for the weaver. I shall get enough for a suit of clothes in the week.”

  Well, then she was in a fix, and didn’t know in her senses what to do to save herself from being thrown on the road side. She knew she would sup sorrow if she was found out.

  At last, she thought there was nothing for it but to go back to ask help of the Foawr that lived up the mountain, on the other side of the dark wood. And in those days there were Foawrs to be found, if you knew how to look, but they were great goblin things that it didn’t do to meddle with; so people left them alone. They’re all gone now; or let’s hope they are.

  Anyway, this woman took the road early next morning, as soon as the man was in the field, and carried the wool with her. She walked up hills, and down gills, till at last she came to the Foawr’s house. “What are you wanting here?” says the Foawr.

  “I’m wanting you to help me,” says she; and she up and told him about the ball of thread and all.

  “I’ll spin the wool for you,” says the Foawr, “if you’ll tell me my name a week from this day. Or I keep the wool; and maybe eat you. Will that do?”

  Mollyndroat

  “Why should it not?” says the wife, and thinks: It’s a queer thing if I can’t find out a name in a week. So she left the wool with the Foawr, and went home.

  Well, she was wrong. The woman tried every way, but nobody knew the Foawr’s name, had ever heard of it, or ever thought that he had one. And time was getting over fast, and she was no nearer an answer.

  And then it was the last evening. She sat in the hearth, and wondered whether she was to be eaten, or be thrown in a ditch. It came on dark, and the man was late; but when he tramped in, he was laughing.

  “Where have you been?” says she. “Did you hear anything new?”

  “Oh,” says he, “you think you’re good to spin, but I think there’s one better than you, for all.”

  “And who’s that?” says she.

  “Never in all my born days,” says he, “did I see such spinning! Thread as fine as cobweb; and such singing!”

  “And where was this?” says she.

  “Why,” says he, “where but in the Foawr’s house tonight! I saw it up on the mountain, all in a blaze of light. And such whirling and whistling coming to my ears! And the singing and laughing and shouting! So I made my way there, and I drew near the window, and there’s the big ugsome Foawr inside, sitting at a wheel, spinning like the wind, and his hand flying

  like the lightning, and he shouting to the whistling wheel!”

  “Shouting what?” says the wife.

  “It was the burden of this,” says the man:

  “‘Spin, wheel, spin! Sing, wheel, sing!

  Every beam on the house, spin overhead!

  The wool is hers, the thread is mine!

  How little knows the lazy wife It’s Mollyndroat that spins it fine!’”

  Well, well, the joy the woman took when she heard her man sing the Foawr’s song!

  “Ah, sweet music!” says she. “Sing it again, man!” And he sang it again, till she knew it by heart.

  Next morning early, she’s away to the Foawr’s house. And as she went through the wood, she sang:

  “Spin, wheel, spin; spin, wheel, spin.

  Every branch on the tree, spin overhead.

  The wool is my man’s; the thread is my own;

  And old Mollyndroat may whistle for his bone!”

  When she got to the house, the door was open before her, so in she went.

  “I’ve come again for the thread,” says she.

  “Easy, easy, woman,” says the Foawr. “If you don’t tell my name, you don’t get the thread; that was the bargain.” And, says he, “Now, what is my name?”

  “Is it Mollyrea?” says she.

  “It is not,” says he.

  “Are you a Mollyrui?” says she.

  “They’re not my lot,” says he.

  “Are they calling you Mollyvridey?” says she.

  “They are not,” says he.

  “I’ll warrant your name is Mollychreest,” says she.

  “You are wrong,” says he.

  “Are you going by the name of Mollyvoirrey?” says she.

  “Indeed I am not,” says he.

  “Maybe your name is Mollyvarten,” says she.

  “And maybe it’s not, at all,” says he.

  “Well,” says she, “there was only seven families living here in the old time, and their names were all ‘Molly’ at the front. And so,” says she, “if you’re not

  Mollyndroat

  a Mollycharaine - ”

  “I am not,” says he.

  “Then,” says she, “you’re not one of the real, old, proper families, at all.”

  “I am not,” says he. “And now,” says he, “be careful, woman. I’m tired of the playing. Your next guess is your last.”

  But she pointed her finger at him, the woman did, and says, slowly:

  “The wool is my man’s. The thread is my own.

  Old Mollyndroat may whistle for his bone!”

  Well, the Foawr, he was done, and he was in a red rage, and he cries, “Bad luck to you! You never would have come on my name if you’re not a witch!” “Bad luck to you, my boy,” says she, “for trying to steal a decent woman’s wool!”

  “You and your witchings!” shouts he, and he flung the balls of thread at her and ran out, howling.

  And away home with her, and her balls of thread. And if she didn’t spin her own wool for ever after, that’s nothing to do with you and me.

  The Three Gowks

  Once upon a time, when I was young and handsome, and that hasn’t been so very long ago, as you can see, there was an old couple lived on a nice bit of land of their own; and they had a daughter called Matilda, and she was waiting to be wedded to a youth called Tom.

  Now there was a garden to the back of the house where they lived, with a well in it; and one day, the old man was walking in the garden when he sees the well, and “Oh!” he says. “If Tom should take our Tilda, and Tilda should have a child, and the child should go tittle-tottle by the well, and fall in, what a thing that would be!” And he sat himself down, and he began to weep.

  Up comes the old woman, and sees him, and she says, “What’s upsetting you?” And he says, “I was thinking. If Tom should take Tilda, and Tilda should have a child, and the child should go tittle-tottle by

  the well, and fall in, what a thing that would be!” “Oh, it would and all!” says the old woman. “Oh, the little mite, bless him!” So she sat down; and she began to weep, too.

  Up comes Matilda next, and sees the pair of them, and she says, “What’s all the skriking about?”

  Her mother and father put their arms round her, and they say, “We were thinking! If Tom should take Tilda, and Tilda should have a child, and the child should go tittle-tottle by the well, and fall in, what a thing that would be!”

  And Matilda, she bursts into tears, and she says, “Oh, my poor baby!” And there the three of them sat, skriking their eyes out.

  Just then, Tom comes by. “Hello,” he says.

  “Oh!” says Matilda. “We’ve been thinking!”

  “Have you?” says Tom. “What about?”

  “If Tom should take Tilda!” says the old man.

  “And Tilda should have a child!” says the old woman.

  “And the child should go ti
ttle-tottle by the well, and fall in !” says Matilda.

  “What a thing that would be!” they all say; and off they go again.

  “Well,” says Tom, “I know what to do to save the child’s life.”

  “Oh, tell us!” they say, all three of them.

  “I’m going to put on a new pair of shoes,” says Tom, “and I’m going to set off walking; and if, by the time those shoes are worn out, I’ve not met three gowks as big as you, I’ll save the child’s life.”

  The Three Gowks

  “How?” says Matilda.

  “By not marrying you!” says Tom to her.

  So he put on a new pair of shoes, Tom did, and he took his stick, and he set off walking.

  It was a nice day, and he’d not gone very far, when he came to a barn with its two doors wide open, and a man there shovelling with a big shovel; but what he was shovelling, Tom couldn’t see, for there was nothing there to shovel.

  “What are you doing, master?” says Tom.

  “I’m shovelling sunshine over my sheaves,” says the man. “Yesterday it rained, and we were forced to get them in the wet.”

  “Would you not do better,” says Tom, “to carry your wheat out and lay it in the sun?”

  “I wish you’d come this way sooner,” says the man. “You’d have saved me hours of my time.” “That’s one gowk,” says Tom to himself; and he cut a notch in his stick.

  He went a bit further, and he saw a man by the road side, hunched up, hacking at pebbles with a knife.

  “And what are you doing, master?” says Tom.

  “I’m cutting pebbles,” says the man, “to get at the kernels.”

  “Would you not do better,” says Tom, “to take a mason’s hammer to them, first, and split them, and then see whether they’ve kernels or no?”

  “I wish you’d come sooner,” says the man. “Many a good knife you’d have saved me, if you’d come this way before.”

  “That’s two gowks,” says Tom to himself; and he cut another notch in his stick.

  He left the man by the road side, but, round the next bend, he saw another; and this one was pulling on a rope. The rope went over the roof of a house and down the other side, and the end was tied to a cow’s neck. The cow was on its hind legs up the wall and blahting fit to bring a sick man sorrow and a dead man woe.