Where Dragons Soar: And Other Animal Folk Tales of the British Isles

by Castle, Pete;

  ‘Meow!’ said Old Tom again.

  ‘Yes, just like that!’ said the sexton. ‘And as they came nearer and nearer to me I could see them more distinctly, because their eyes shone out with a sort of green light. Well, they all came towards me, eight of them carrying the coffin and the biggest cat of all walking in front for all the world like … but look at our Tom, how he’s looking at me. You’d think he knew all I was saying.’

  ‘Go on, go on,’ said his wife. ‘Never mind Old Tom.’

  ‘Well, as I was saying, they came towards me slowly and solemnly, and at every third step crying all together, “Meow”.’

  ‘Meow!’ said Old Tom again.

  ‘Yes, just like that, till they came and stood right opposite Mr Fordyce’s grave, where I was. Then they all stood still and looked straight at me. I did feel queer, that I did! But look at Old Tom. He’s looking at me just like they did.’

  ‘Go on, go on,’ said his wife. ‘Never mind Old Tom.’

  ‘Where was I? Oh, they all stood still looking at me and the one that wasn’t carrying the coffin came forwards and, staring straight at me, said to me … yes, said to me … with a squeaky voice, “Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Toldrum’s dead”, and that’s why I asked you if you knew who Tom Tildrum is, for how can I tell Tom Tildrum Tim Toldrum’s dead if I don’t know who Tom Tildrum is?’

  ‘Look at Old Tom! Look at Old Tom!’ screamed his wife.

  And well he might look, for Tom was swelling, and Tom was staring, and Tom was bristling, and at last Tom shrieked out, ‘What? Old Tim dead! Then I’m the King o’ the Cats!’ and he rushed up the chimney and was never seen again.

  WHY THE MANX CAT HAS NO TAIL

  A Story of the Great Flood

  You all know the story of how God decided to cleanse the earth by causing a Great Flood, and how he warned Noah about it and instructed him to build an ark and take into it two animals of every kind – male and female. Well, there were a few animals who didn’t make it on to the ark – the unicorn for instance – and a few others who only just managed it by the skin of their teeth – or the tip of their tail in the case of the Manx cat!

  The flood was rising rapidly and the ark was nearly full. Noah was preparing to close the doors. But at that moment the cat decided that she couldn’t possibly go on such a long voyage without a mouse inside her. Once the voyage started she knew she wouldn’t be allowed to eat either of the two mice on board, so she went mousing.

  It was time to sail. Noah knew the cat was still missing, so he called and called. Still no cat. He started to close the door. He couldn’t wait any longer. ‘Oh well,’ he thought, ‘I did my best, but I don’t know how the world will manage without cats …’

  Just as he slammed the door shut, the cat, soaking wet and bedraggled but with a nice full stomach, scurried through the gap. The door slammed shut and sliced off the end of her tail. She didn’t seem to mind, she just settled down to lick her lips and groom her wet fur. As she did so she purred:

  ‘Bee bo, bend it,

  My tail’s ended,

  I’ll go to Man

  Get copper nails

  And mend it.’

  But she never did and that is why, to this day, the Manx cat has no tail.

  THE CHESHIRE CAT

  My mind somehow associates the Manx cat with the Cheshire cat – if I think of one, the other comes to mind as well. They are probably equally well known but they are different categories of beast: a Manx cat is an actual flesh and blood creature, a Cheshire cat is not.

  I thought the Cheshire cat was an invention of Lewis Carroll in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, but that is not the case. True, that is where it makes its best-known appearance, with the iconic image by Sir John Tenniel of the body disappearing, leaving just the grin. But the saying ‘Grinning like a Cheshire cat’ pre-dates Alice by at least a century. A dictionary of 1788 includes the phrase and defines it as describing someone who shows their teeth and gums when they smile. Why? Well the people of Cheshire claim that their cows produce such fine milk that the farmyard cats there are always smiling. Well, that’s their story and they’re sticking to it!

  THE CAT AND THE MOUSE

  The cat and the mouse played in the malt-house.

  The cat bit the mouse’s tail off.

  ‘Pray, puss, give me my tail,’ begged the mouse.

  ‘No,’ said the cat, ‘I’ll not give you your tail; not till you go to the cow, and fetch me some milk.’

  First she leapt, and then she ran,

  Till she came to the cow, and thus began:

  ‘Pray, cow, give me some milk, that I may give the cat milk, that the cat may give me my own tail again.’

  ‘No,’ said the cow, ‘I will give you no milk; not till you go to the farmer and get me some hay.’

  First she leapt, and then she ran.

  Till she came to the farmer, and thus began:

  ‘Pray, farmer, give me some hay, that I may give the cow hay, that the cow may give me milk, that I may give the cat milk, that the cat may give me my own tail again.’

  ‘No,’ says the farmer, ‘I’ll give you no hay; not till you go to the butcher and fetch me some meat.’

  First she leapt, and then she ran.

  Till she came to the butcher, and thus began:

  ‘Pray, butcher, give me some meat, that I may give farmer meat, that the farmer may give me hay, that I may give the cow hay, that the cow may give me milk, that I may give the cat milk, that the cat may give me my own tail again.’

  ‘No,’ says the butcher, ‘I’ll give you no meat; not till you go to the baker and fetch me some bread.’

  First she leapt, and then she ran.

  Till she came to the baker, and thus began:

  ‘Pray, baker, give me some bread, that I may give the butcher bread, that the butcher may give me meat, that I may give the farmer meat, that the farmer may give me hay, that I may give the cow hay, that the cow may give me milk, that I may give the cat milk, that the cat may give me my own tail again.’

  ‘Yes,’ says the baker, ‘I’ll give you some bread; but if you eat my meal, I’ll cut off your head!’

  Then the baker gave the mouse bread,

  The mouse gave the butcher bread,

  The butcher gave the mouse meat,

  The mouse gave the farmer meat,

  The farmer gave the mouse hay,

  The mouse gave the cow hay,

  The cow gave the mouse milk,

  The mouse gave the cat milk,

  and the cat gave the mouse her tail back again.

  THE TALE OF DICK WHITTINGTON’S CAT

  This is not the historical tale of Sir Richard Whittington, merchant; nor is it the folk tale of Dick Whittington and his cat as portrayed in pantomimes. No, this is the tale of a young cat who happened to befriend a poor lad called Dick.

  She was just an ordinary cat. She had been born in a shed, to a mother who wasn’t exactly feral but who wasn’t a house cat either. When she was old enough to fend for herself our cat made herself a living around the alleyways and yards in a part of London near the river. It was a mixed area with a lot of industry and trade and some very poor people, but there were also areas of good houses where prosperous people lived. This mix meant that life was good for an enterprising young cat. There were piles of litter to scavenge in, there were well-to-do people who would take her in and pet her for a while, there were kitchens where the cook would throw her titbits and, above all, there were plenty of rats and mice and she soon became an expert hunter.

  One day, as she was patrolling her territory, she came upon a boy dozing under some steps. She wasn’t hungry and had nothing else to do, so she rubbed round his rather tattered boots and he woke up and petted her. She liked him and stayed around him and they became good friends. The boy talked to her, or possibly to himself, as he fondled her ears and she learned that his name was Dick – Dick Whittington.

  Dick was an orphan from Lancashire. His life there had be
en hard, cold and miserable, and he was unhappy. When he heard that in far-off London the streets were paved with gold and everyone lived a life of luxury, Dick set off to walk there. He reached London after many weeks, but far from being paved with gold, he found it a place of poverty and grime with the streets full of rubbish and running with excrement. The only work he could find was cleaning this mess off rich people’s shoes. This enabled him to buy some poor food, but he still had nowhere to sleep, which is why the cat had found him dozing under the steps. His life was still hard, cold and miserable, and he was still unhappy, but that chance meeting turned out to be Dick’s first piece of luck, and it was good for the cat as well.

  Their second piece of luck came when Dick was taken in by a gentleman who found him sleeping in the street outside his house. This gentleman was called Mr Fitzwarren and he was a rich merchant. Mr Fitzwarren took pity on the boy and gave him a job running errands and a room to sleep in. The room was a garret in the roof and it was overrun with rats and mice, but Dick insisted on taking his friend the cat with him and within a few weeks there were no more vermin. Dick was able to settle down to a good sleep without being disturbed by their squeaking and without having them running all over his bed. Life improved for the rest of the family too.

  Mr Fitzwarren traded with far-off lands. He bought and sold anything which he felt would raise a profit. He was a fair man and gave his employees a chance to profit in his expeditions too. He encouraged them to invest in the voyage by sending something which could be sold. Dick had nothing to send … except for the cat. He didn’t see how a cat could earn him money and he didn’t want to part from his friend, but he sent it anyway.

  So the cat was forced to leave her friend and make a new life on board ship. She didn’t mind. There were plenty of rats and mice to eat and the crew fussed her and there were all kinds of new things to experience.

  Then, one day, the ship was caught in a storm and driven ashore on the Barbary Coast of North Africa. The local ruler insisted on buying the entire cargo and invited all the crew to a banquet but, as soon as the food was served, before anyone had an opportunity to eat a single mouthful, a hoard of rats descended on it and ate every morsel. The Moors explained that this happened all the time and they had no way of preventing it.

  One of the sailors remembered the cat which had proved itself a good mouser on the voyage and had it brought ashore. It quickly set about the vermin and so impressed the ruler that he insisted on buying it for a lot of money. When he was told that it would soon have kittens he was even more pleased, as he would then have several cats to control the rats, so he paid more for the cat than for the rest of the cargo combined. Because the cat had been Dick’s investment all this money went to him. He became a gentleman and married Fitzwarren’s daughter, Alice.

  The cat lived on in the palace in North Africa and had many more litters of kittens, which thrived on the endless supply of rats and mice. And the rest, as they say, is history. Or, perhaps, just a folk tale.

  Sir Richard Whittington (1354–1423) is a historical character who was three times Lord Mayor of London, a Member of Parliament and Sheriff of London. Although in reality his father was a knight (unlike in the pantomime where Dick is usually an orphan), Richard was a younger son so could not inherit the title and estate. Instead he became a very successful merchant. For some reason, he also became a character of folklore and pantomime.

  Very little of the folk tale is true and even the fact that he had a cat is unproven, although there is a portrait of him with one on his lap (see illustration).

  THE PIED PIPER OF FRANCHVILLE

  This is not the pied piper you all know – the one from the German town of Hamelin which the Brothers Grimm and the poet Browning wrote about so famously. It couldn’t be about him because this is a book of British stories. This is the Pied Piper of Newtown, or Franchville, as it was known in those days.

  Today Newtown is a tiny hamlet, just a cluster of houses, on the north-west coast of the Isle of Wight. It is an important archaeological site, being a well-preserved medieval settlement. Newtown was originally called Franchville, or Freetown. By the fourteenth century it was the most important port on the island, but then something happened and it gradually fell into neglect until it became almost abandoned.

  Historians will probably tell you that the change in the fortunes of Franchville was due to a combination of the plague and the harbour silting up. Because of the plague there were no young people about to maintain the harbour or to protect it when it was later attacked by the French. But was it the plague that removed all the young people? Or was it the Pied Piper?

  Franchville was having trouble with rats. They were everywhere. There had always been some rats – there are in every seaport town – but recently their numbers had been increasing. Now they were out of control. You couldn’t walk down the stairs without a rat tripping you up. Mothers couldn’t go to bed at night but had to stay by their babies’ cradles in case rats came and nibbled them. They didn’t just nibble at the food in the larder, they ate every scrap of it, and it was not unusual for a housewife to stock up one day and then find an empty pantry the next.

  When the trouble started, all the households in Franchville invested in cats. That worked for a while, but gradually the cats were outnumbered until even the most battle-hardened old fighters gave up and sneaked away. They tried poison, but if you’re not very careful you finish up by poisoning yourself as well, and after that had happened a few times they dropped that idea. It was too dangerous.

  And how about rat-catchers? Well, every rat-catcher from Land’s End to John o’Groats came to Franchville at one time or another. They came with their traps and their poisons and their fierce little dogs and all kinds of fancy and magical ways of ridding the town of rats. But they all left after a while, knowing that this problem was beyond them.

  The town council did not know what to do. They’d tried everything.

  And then, one day, the Pied Piper arrived.

  I don’t know where he came from and no one else did either. He just appeared in the town, walking out of the sea-haze like the unknown rider in a spaghetti western. He pushed his way into the town hall and said softly, ‘I hear you’ve got a problem.’ And he offered to solve it in return for the sum of £50, which was a huge amount of money in those days. And the council agreed to pay it because they were so desperate, and they didn’t think he could do it anyway.

  The Pied Piper was a sight to behold – a very tall, very thin man with a bag on his back. And his clothing wasn’t just pied (two-coloured), it contained just about every colour which had ever been dyed into material!

  As soon as the bargain was struck the Pied Piper walked into the street, put his whistle to his lips and started to play a tune – a piercing, shrill, leaping tune, and from every nook and cranny of the town came a flood of leaping, shrieking rats. A tide of rats. There were so many of them that the streets turned black with a liquid wave of writhing bodies. The piper led the tumbling wave of rats up Silver Street into Gold Street and on towards the harbour. There, he climbed into a boat and, still playing away, sailed into the deep water in the middle of the harbour, where he stopped. The rats followed him into the sea and out to where he moored, and there they swam round and round the boat as the tide gradually went out. As the water disappeared the rats slowly sunk into the ooze, where they were stuck, and when the tide came back in they were all drowned.

  Then the Pied Piper sailed to shore where he was greeted by the cheers of the townsfolk, who clapped and danced and set the church bells ringing. The only people who weren’t delighted were the town council, for they did not have £50 in the town’s coffers. As every politician that has ever lived will do, they tried to get out of the deal; they tried to bargain and beat the Pied Piper down. They said that anyone could have done what he had done so why should they pay him £50 for it?

  The Pied Piper would have none of it. He insisted that he had a contract for £50, so it was �
�50 that they must pay. And he warned the council, ‘That is not the only tune I can play … You would not want me to play the one I have in mind!’

  ‘What? You have the impudence to threaten us, you strolling vagabond?’ the mayor cried. ‘Do your worst. The rats have gone so we don’t need you anymore. Be off. Get out of the town before we throw you into the harbour too.’

  The Pied Piper put his pipe to his mouth and played a new tune, a rollicking, playful, fun tune, and every child in the town ran and skipped and danced out into the street to join the piper, who led them from the harbour up Gold Street into Silver Street and out of the town into the forest. The tune and the sound of laughter and dancing feet gradually faded as they ran through the trees from glade to glade, and eventually it was all swallowed up amidst the old oaks and beeches and the tangled briars and nettles.

  It was in vain that the townsfolk of Franchville waited for their children to return. Neither they nor the Pied Piper were ever seen again. It soon became a town populated only by old people, and an air of melancholy which could not be dispelled hung over it. And so, when the French attacked the Isle of Wight a few years later and they chose to land at Franchville, there was no one there to protect it.

  THE FOUR-EYED CAT

  A Story from the Fishermen of Essex

  Fishermen are very superstitious folk, indeed, all seamen are superstitious. Two of the most widespread beliefs are those against whistling while at sea – it is sure to summon up a storm – and against taking a woman to sea. There are many old ballads in which a girl disguises herself as a boy in order to follow her true love over the sea, or into the navy. They can end in two very different ways: either the captain discovers her identity and keeps her for himself, or she is thrown overboard to drown once her secret comes out. This story combines both ideas.