Alan Garner

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

“It’s them who’ve finished with it,” said the cook. “They’ve eaten it!”

  “Eaten my lamb?” said the wicked sparrow. “Who said they could? Give me my lamb! I want my lamb!” And he played heck with the cook and the wedding guests. It was language children should not hear and grown men never use. It made the air blue and the women’s faces red.

  “It’s no use you carrying on like that,” said the bride’s father. “It was a good bit of meat. Here,” he said, “you take the bride, and get off with your bother. You’re spoiling our fun.”

  So the wicked sparrow took the bride, and he went on with his walk.

  But he’d not gone far when he met a man riding a donkey, and playing on a tambourine.

  “Give me that tambourine,” said the wicked sparrow. “I like that tambourine.”

  “No,” said the man. “It’s too dear to give away.” “You give me that tambourine,” said the wicked sparrow, “and I’ll give you this bride.”

  “Fair enough,” said the man. “Swoppery’s no robbery.” And he gave his tambourine to the wicked sparrow and took the bride up behind him on the donkey.

  The wicked sparrow went on with his walk; and he came to a tree by a river. He capered up to the top of the tree, banging the tambourine, pleased as Punch, and giving out how clever he was to have got from thorn to tambourine by way of bread, lamb and bride. He sang:

  “Oh, I am a clever lad, I am and all!

  And I am a clever lad, I am and all!

  I gave the thorn, I took the bread,

  I gave the bread, I took the lamb,

  I gave the lamb, I took the bride,

  I gave the bride, I took the Beautiful tambourine!

  And I am a clever lad, I am and all!”

  But just then he thumped that tambourine a bit too hard, and he missed his footing, and he fell in the river.

  And the funny thing is, no one’s seen him since.

  Billy Bowker’s Mowing Match

  I’m going to tell you about Billy Bowker. He was a hobthrust who went boggart.

  Now your hobthrust, he’s the one as does the chores at night, in the house and around the farm; and all he wants for it is a saucer of milk left for him by the hearth. But your boggart, he’s a great nowt. Let one of them catch hold on you, and you’ll not rest in your bed; and getting rid of him’s a lot easier said than done. But I’ll tell you how one chap managed it.

  Well, there was this hobthrust they called Billy Bowker, and he’d been on the same farm for I don’t know how many years: hundreds, I shouldn’t wonder; and they’d never had any trouble with him, till this summer I’m telling you about, when he starts to get above himself, cracking on that because he’s fetched the hay in, mucked out the pigs and swept the kitchen, the whole blessed farm should belong to him.

  The farmer couldn’t have that; and he tells him; but Billy Bowker turns round and begins scolding like a cut purse! And the farmer tells him what he can do about that, too!

  That puts the cat among the pigeons! Billy Bowker sets to, and he gives the farmer no peace, day and night, with rattling and banging about and smashing pots and things, same as any common or garden boggart might do: it’s a morning’s work, regular, to clean up after him. Then the farmer, he leaves off putting milk out for Billy, to spite him; and so it goes from bad to worse, till Billy Bowker declares that he’s to be master now, and the farmer must go work for him, for a change.

  The farmer and Billy, they chunner and they chunner, calling each other all the names under the sun. At last, Billy says the farmer must do the work himself, but they’ll go shares, half and half, on all they get. By this time, there’s not hardly a cup nor a plate left in one piece, nor a stick of furniture that’s fit to be used; so the farmer gives over arguing and ploughs his field, as he’s been told, and the winter passes quiet as a tater.

  When spring comes, Billy Bowker says, “Time to be doing;” and the farmer goes to his shed, and says, “What shall you have, Billy? Tops or bottoms?”

  “Bottoms,” says Billy.

  So the farmer carries out wheat seed, and plants it. And that summer, at harvest, he keeps the grain for himself, and he gives Billy Bowker the roots and stubble. “There you are, Billy,” he says. “That’s yours.”

  Next year, the farmer says to him, “What shall you have, Billy? Tops or bottoms?”

  “Tops,” says Billy, thinking: I’m not going to be bitten twice by the same dog, me!

  But now the farmer plants turnips; and in the winter he makes a big clamp of them for himself, and Billy Bowker is left to make what he can of the leaves.

  The next year, Billy Bowker says he’ll have none of it: not tops or bottoms; he will not. “Corn,” he says.

  Billy Bowker’s Mowing Match

  “You’ll plant corn. And when it’s ripe, we’ll put a line down the middle of the field, and we’ll have us a mowing match, me and you; no more of your tops or bottoms; this time, it’s winner keeps all, land and crop.”

  So the farmer plants corn. But July next, he goes and has a word with the blacksmith; and the blacksmith, he makes the farmer ever so many thin iron rods; and the farmer plants them one night all over Billy Bowker’s half of the field.

  Anyway; the corn’s ripe, and Billy Bowker says they must mow. So, in the morning, as soon as it’s coming light, they take their scythes, and they both go to the same end of the field, and they start mowing.

  The farmer marches along his patch, up and down, up and down, as clean as nip. But Billy Bowker’s scythe keeps getting snagged like I don’t know what, and he’s blunging back and to, and doesn’t hardly know which way to turn for the best.

  “Mortal hard docks, these,” says Billy. “Mortal hard docks.”

  But it’s the blacksmith’s iron rods as are doing it, of course. They take the edge off his scythe in no time; and Billy Bowker’s flummoxed.

  Now in a mowing match, the mowers must stop for sharpening up at certain times only, and they must do it both together; that’s the rule. So Billy

  Bowker, wanting to put the edge back on his scythe quick, he calls to the farmer, “When do we wiffle-waffle, mate?”

  And the farmer, he shouts back, “Oh, about noon, mebbe!”

  “Noon!” says Billy Bowker. “Then I’ve lost me land!” And he drops his scythe, and he runs; and he’s not been seen on that farm again.

  And no wonder.

  Horn Bridson

  There was one time a woman called Colloo, and she had a brat of a boy that had fallen sick strangely. Nothing seemed to be wrong with him, yet he grew crosser and crosser, nying-nyanging night and day, till his mother didn’t know rightly where to put herself with him.

  It seems that, about a three-week after he was born, the child - and he was a fine child; as fine as you would see in a day’s walk - he was left sleeping while his mother went to the well for water. Now one thing she had not done: she had not put the fire tongs on the cradle while she was away, to keep the child from harm; for there’s all manner of things that can hurt a new baby, if it’s not made safe with a bit of iron near it. Anyway, when she came back with the water, the child was crying, and there was no quietening him.

  And from that instant minute the flesh seemed to

  melt off his bones, till he grew as ugly and as shrivelled as a nut; and he was that way, his whining howl filling the house, lying in the cradle without a motion on him to put his feet under him. Not a day’s rest nor a night’s sleep was there on the woman these four years with him. She was scourged with him, until there came a fine day in the spring that Horn Bridson, the tailor, was in the house sewing. Horn was wise tremendous, for he was always from house to house with his sewing, and gathering wisdom as he went.

  Well, before that day, Horn had seen lots of wickedness in the child. When his mother would be out feeding the pigs and seeing to the creatures, he would be hoisting his head up out of the cradle and making faces at Horn, winking, and slicking, and shaking his head, as if saying, “What a lad! W
hat a lad I am!”

  That day the woman wanted to go to the shop to sell some eggs that she had, and she says to Horn, “Horn, man, keep your eye on the child and see he won’t fall out of the cradle, while I slip down to the shop.” And when she was gone, Horn began to whistle to himself as he stitched; it was a tune he’d heard the parson singing.

  “Drop that, Horn,” says a voice, little and hard.

  Horn was amazed. He looked to see was it the child that had spoken; and it was!

  “Whush, whush, now; lie quiet,” says Horn; and

  he rocked the cradle with his foot and went on whistling the tune. '

  “Drop that, Horn, I tell you,” says the brat back at him sharp, “and give us something light and handy.” “Anything at all to please you,” says Horn; and he began at whistling a jig.

  “Horn,” says me laddo, “can you dance anything to that?”

  “I can,” says Horn. “Can you?”

  “I can that,” says me laddo. “Would you like to see?”

  “I would,” says Horn.

  “Take that fiddle down from the wall,” says me laddo, “and put the Tune of the Big Wheel on it.”

  “I’ll do that for you, and welcome,” says Horn.

  So the fiddle quits its hook, and the tailor tunes up. “Horn,” says the brat, “before you begin, just you clear the kitchen for me - chairs and stools and all away. I want room to step out, man.”

  “I’ll do that for you,” says Horn.

  He cleared the kitchen floor, and then he struck up the Tune of the Big Wheel.

  In a crack the brat bounced from his cradle to the floor with a “Chu!” and then he was flying round the kitchen. “Go it, Horn! Face your partner! Heel and toe does it! Well done, Horn! Jog your elbow, man!” and I don’t know what. Horn plays faster and faster,

  till me laddo was jumping as high as the table.

  With a “Chu!” up goes his foot on top of the dresser, and “Chu!” then on top of the chimney piece, and “Chu!” bang against the door; then he was half flying and half footing it round the kitchen, turning and going that quick that it put a reel in Horn’s head to be looking at him. And Horn himself by degrees gets up on the table in the corner and plays wilder and wilder, and the whirling jig grew madder and madder.

  “That’s it!” shouts Horn. “I must run!” And he throws down his fiddle. “You’re not the child that was in the cradle! Are you?”

  “You’re right enough,” says me laddo. “Strike up, Horn! Make haste! Make haste, man!”

  “Whush!” says Horn. “Your ma’s coming!”

  The dancing stopped. The brat gave a hop, skip, and a jump into the cradle.

  “Get on with your sewing, Horn,” he says, “and don’t you say a word.” And he covered himself up in the clothes till there was only his eyes to be seen, and they keeked out like a ferret’s.

  When the mother came in the house, Horn was sitting cross-legged on the table and his specs on his nose, letting on that he was busy sewing; and the child in the cradle was shouting and sweeling as usual. “But it’s queer stitching altogether there’s been

  going on here, and me out,” says the woman. “And how you can see your needle in that dark corner, Horn Bridson, it beats me,” she says, siding the place as she speaks. “Well, well, well, then, well, well! What is it that’s doing on me darling? Did he think Mammy had gone and left him, then? Mammy is going to feed him, though.”

  “Look here, woman,” says Horn. “Give him nothing at all, but go out and get a creelful of good turf for the fire.”

  She brought in the turf, and a big bart of fern on it. Horn gave a leap off the table to the floor, and it wasn’t long till he had a fine glow going.

  “You’ll have the house put on fire for me, Horn Bridson!” she says.

  “No fear, but I’ll fire some of them,” says Horn, and he stepped towards the cradle.

  The brat, with his two eyes going out of his head watching, he was turning his whining howl into a sort of call - to his own sort to come and fetch him, like as not.

  “I’ll send you home,” says Horn. And he stretches out his two hands to take the brat and put him on the big red turf fire. But before he’s able to lay hold on him, me laddo jumps out of the cradle and takes for the door.

  “The back of me hand and the side of me foot to you!” says he. “If I should only have had only another night, I could have shown you a trick or two more than that yet, Horn Bridson!”

  The door flew open with a bang, as if some had thrown it open, and he took off with himself like a shot.

  A great hullaballoo of laughing and making fun went up outside; shrieking, too, and running feet that were bare, by the sound of them.

  Out of the door of the house goes the mother. She saw no one; but she caught sight of a flock of clouds, the shape of gulls, and low-lying, chasing each other; then she heard, as if from far off with the clouds,

  sharp whistles and wicked little laughs, making mock.

  And there, on the stone bench right before her, she sees her own sweet smiling boy. And she took all the joy in the world of the child that he was home again safe and sound. And she gave Horn Bridson a good tea that night.

  Cocky-keeko

  At some time or other, but not long since, there was an old man who kept a cat and a cock; and, one day, he set off to go working in the fields. The cat went with him to carry his bottle of tea, but he left Cocky -keeko behind to watch the house.

  Just then who should come along but a fox; and he sat himself under the window and he sang a little song:

  “Cocky-keeko, Cocky-keeko?

  Gold-nob!

  Look out of the window,

  And I’ll give you a bean!”

  Cocky-keeko opened the window, and he stuck his head out to see who it was singing. The fox grabbed hold of him, and he carried him off.

  “Oh!” shouts Cocky-keeko:

  “Cocky-keeko! Cocky-keeko!

  The fox has got Cocky-keeko!

  He’ll take him through dark woods

  And into foreign parts!

  Cocky-keeko!”

  The cat heard the racket, and she came rushing back and gave the fox such a clout that he dropped Cocky-keeko and ran away.

  “My word, Cocky-keeko!” said the cat. “Don’t you look out of the window again, do you hear? All that fox wants is to granch you up, bones and all.” Next day, the old man set off for work, and the cat went with him to carry his bottle of tea.

  “Now be told,” said the cat to Cocky-keeko. “And no looking out of windows.”

  “I shan’t,” said Cocky-keeko.

  But no sooner had they gone than the fox came and sat himself under the window, and he sang his little song:

  “Cocky-keeko, Cocky-keeko?

  Gold-nob!

  Look out of the window,

  And I’ll give you a bean;

  And I’ll give you some corn!”

  But Cocky-keeko didn’t answer. He walked up and down. So the fox sang his little song again, and he flirted a bean in through the window. Cocky-keeko ate the bean, and he said, “You don’t fool me! All you want is to granch me up, bones and all!”

  “How can you say such a thing?” said the fox. “I wouldn’t dream of eating you, Cocky-keeko! I’ve

  given you the bean; do you not want any corn?”

  “Oh, I do!” said Cocky-keeko; and he stuck his head out of the window. The fox grabbed hold of him, and he carried him off.

  “Oh!” shouts Cocky-keeko:

  “Cocky-keeko! Cocky-keeko!

  The fox has got Cocky-keeko!

  He’ll take him through dark woods,

  And over rocky hills,

  And into foreign parts!

  Cocky-keeko!”

  The cat heard the racket, and she came rushing back and gave the fox such a clout that he dropped Cocky-keeko and ran away.

  “My word, Cocky-keeko!” said the cat. “What are we to do with you? Don’t you look out of the win
dow again, do you hear? All that fox wants is to granch you up, bones and all.”

  Next day, the old man set off for work, and the cat went with him to carry his bottle of tea.

  “Now be told,” said the cat to Cocky-keeko. “And no looking out of windows.”

  “I shan’t,” said Cocky-keeko.

  But no sooner had they gone than the fox came and sat himself under the window, and he sang his little song:

  “Cocky-keeko, Cocky-keeko?

  Gold-nob! '

  Butter-head!

  Look out of the window!

  I’ll give you a sack of beans!

  I’ll give you a sack of corn!”

  But Cocky-keeko didn’t answer. He walked up and down. The fox sang his little song three times; but still Cocky-keeko didn’t answer; and he didn’t look out of the window, neither.

  “I’ve fetched something to show you, Cocky-keeko,” said the fox.

  “Oh no you haven’t,” said Cocky-keeko. “You’ll not fool me! All you want to do is granch me up, bones and all!”

  “How can you say such a thing?” said the fox. “I wouldn’t dream of eating you, Cocky-keeko! I just want to show you this whim-wham from Yocketon.” “And what’s that?” said Cocky-keeko.

  “Do you not know?” said the fox. “I thought everybody knew! Do you really not want to see my whim-wham from Yocketon?”

  “I might,” said Cocky-keeko.

  “Here it is, then,” said the fox. “Mind you don’t hurt the thrutching-piece.”

  “Where’s that?” said Cocky-keeko; and he stuck his head out of the window to see. The fox grabbed hold of him, and he carried him off.

  “Oh!” shouts Cocky-keeko:

  “Cocky-keeko! Cocky-keeko!

  The fox has got Cocky-keeko!

  He’ll take him through dark woods,

  And over rocky hills,

  And salty water,

  And into foreign parts!

  Cocky-keeko!”

  But the old man was working too far distant for the cat to hear.