Dewi turned to look around the moonlit moor. He was looking for a tree. A rowan tree, which is the one tree that the fairies dare not touch. But he could not see any trees standing tall among the bracken and heather. He looked around again. This time he saw their pony, standing on the path in the moonlight, with its nose down in the grass and the cart behind it.
The cart! Its wheels were made of rowan. As far as Dewi could see, it was the only rowan for miles around. He led out the pony from between the shafts, before throwing the little cart on its side, glad that it was empty and he did not have to tip out a load of coal.
Dewi only had until dawn to rescue Dylan. The fairies would dance all night, but once the sun rose, they would disappear, and he would never see Dylan again.
It was hard to get the wheel off the cart, but at last it was free. Dewi scrambled back to the edge of the dip.
He knew that what he really needed was a long branch from a rowan tree, and two strong men to help him hold it out into the space where the invisible fairies were dancing.
This would give Dylan a chance to grab the end of the branch, so that the rescuers could pull him out of the circle and break the spell. Then he would be visible once more.
Dewi was only one boy, and all he had was a wheel, not a strong branch. But it would have to do.
He got ready by pressing himself against a stone at the edge of the dip, so that he could not easily be pulled over. Then he leaned over the stone, holding out the wheel as far as his arms would reach.
‘Dylan!’ he shouted. ‘Dylan, brother, catch hold here! I’ll get you out. Trust me!’
A hissing, spitting noise came out of the air in reply. Dewi shivered, but he did not stop. He held out the wheel, and began to move it through the air, calling out his brother’s name.
Suddenly, the wheel bumped against something: something that wasn’t there, or, at least, could not be seen. Dewi almost fell, but recovered himself as he wobbled on the edge of the dip. He planted his feet, clutched the wheel with both hands and began to pull it towards him. He knew that his invisible brother, spinning in the fairies’ dance, had bumped into the wheel and now was holding on to it as tight as he could.
Dewi pulled and pulled. He could feel the fairies dragging Dylan back, trying to keep him, but they could not touch the rowan wood. He knew that, as long as he could pull hard enough, their spell would be broken and Dylan would be free.
Suddenly Dewi fell on his back. The wheel thumped down on his chest and knocked his breath out of him. It was heavy, much heavier than it had been. He wheezed and gasped and puffed and panted. When he managed to open his eyes, he saw Dylan lying on top of the wheel. No wonder it was so heavy!
‘You were right,’ said Dylan. ‘The fairies are dangerous. Oh, but that red-haired girl was lovely …’
‘Never you mind about that,’ said Dewi sharply. ‘Help me get the wheel back on the cart or we’ll never get home. And you make sure you keep well away from the Fair Folk from now on, though what they see in you I really don’t know.’
Dewi and Dylan came safely home.
And so the two brothers came safely home to Minera, just before the sun rose on another lovely summer day.
11
MAKING MUSIC
FOR THE FAIRIES
Siôn Robert played the harp. He loved to make music for people to dance. Everybody said he was the best harper on the wide moor of Hiraethog, and when anyone had a Merry Evening they always asked Siôn to come to play. One night he was asked to make the music for Anwen’s birthday party, down at Cefn Brith. He was looking forward to seeing old friends there, and he wrapped his harp carefully, put it on his shoulder and set out.
He crossed the moor in the sunlit afternoon and reached the hall just before it got dark. Siôn did all the walking, but the harp did all the talking; its music ringing out as it bumped on his back.
‘Siôn, there you are! Welcome!’ called Anwen’s mother, coming over to him, her happy face all smiles. ‘It’s going to be a good night. Come and have a rest. The dancers won’t be here for an hour.’
Siôn knew the time would fly by, and he was happy to sit in a corner and tune his harp while Anwen’s family cleared a space for dancing. Lanterns were lit, tablecloths spread, plates of food put out.
Soon the room was full of people and it got warm. Siôn didn’t mind. He loved to play. And this is why everyone always asked Siôn to make the music for parties. No one played as merrily as he did.
The evening really was a merry one, and the young ones danced late into the night. When at last the dancers went home, Anwen’s mother thanked Siôn and paid him. He picked up his harp, ready for the journey home.
It was a long walk, but his head was full of tunes, and his feet knew the way without much help from his brain, so he was able to dream as he wandered on the moor, past the shining lake, which always reflected the moon.
But tonight the lake was different: it reflected hundreds of lanterns. Siôn stopped. Was he lost? No, he knew where he was, and he knew the lake. But there was a great palace next to it, all lit up. It should not be there. It had never been there before. But it was there! Siôn was confused, but he kept on walking.
As he passed the palace, a man in fine clothes called his name, and ran down the steps towards him.
By now Siôn was frightened, and if he hadn’t been carrying his precious harp he might have run away. But the man spoke politely.
‘Mr Siôn Robert! Sir, we are really glad to see you. Please, will you come in?’
He was so polite that Siôn decided to follow him up the marble steps. They went into a ballroom, full of fine folk enjoying a marvellous evening. The hall was very grand, with soft sofas, and tables covered with gold plates and dishes. The man offered Siôn a golden cup of wine, which he drank gratefully, for he was thirsty after his long walk.
A beautiful lady with a warm smile said, ‘Siôn Robert, we are so pleased to see you here. We know your name and we know about your wonderful music, but we have never heard it. Will you play for us now?’
Siôn bowed to the lady and unwrapped the harp for the second time that night.
This was not the simple kind of Merry Evening that Siôn was used to, but he knew he would feel comfortable as soon as he had the strings of his harp under his fingers. The fine folk looked as bright as birds in their lovely clothes as they moved their heads and hands in time with the tunes. When he finished, they clapped and praised him for a long time. Then a merry man dressed in gold and brown took Siôn’s hat and passed it round. Everyone put some money in, until the hat was full of sparkling gold coins. Siôn’s tired eyes sparkled then too!
Leaving him to pack up his harp and his reward in peace, the guests went to the tables, and a meal was served. The servants made sure that Siôn had plenty to eat too. After the feast, the guests left one by one, until Siôn was alone. He was so tired after his long night that he did not want to think about walking home.
So he lay down on a velvet sofa, took the gold coins out of his hat and put them in his pockets, and made sure his harp was close by. Then he pulled his hat down over his face, and fell fast asleep.
He slept until the sun woke him up, shining through his hat into his eyes. The sun seemed very bright. Then he realised why. He wasn’t indoors any more. He was lying on the ground beside the lake. The palace had gone. All the people in it had gone. Everything in it had gone!
Siôn jumped up in fright, wondering if his harp was still there. It was. He breathed a sigh of relief about that, picked it up and set off for home without looking back. He had the uncomfortable feeling that if he stayed there too long, the fairy magic would begin to work on him again.
He passed the lake many times more after that, but he never saw the wonderful palace again. And though he was always proud to think that the fairies liked his music, he didn’t make any money from his time with them. Halfway home, he looked in his pockets, only to find that the gold coins of the fairies had all turned into brown l
eaves.
The coins had all turned to leaves.
12
SIX AND FOUR
ARE TEN
Dic Spot the Cunning Man was born in 1710. His real name was Richard Morris, and he got his nickname because he had a big spot near his nose. Dic’s Auntie Deborah was a fortune-teller, and she taught him to tell fortunes when he was only a teenager. He was so good that, before long, no-one wanted Auntie Deborah to tell their fortune any more: they all wanted Dic Spot.
Soon he was good enough to be called Dyn Hysbys, a Cunning Man, and he became famous all over North and Mid-Wales. He travelled around telling fortunes and making magic.
One day Dic Spot was on his way to Llanrwst in the Conwy valley. A farmer there wanted Dic to tell his fortune, to help him decide if buying some fields near the river Conwy was a good idea. Dic didn’t have a horse. He was walking there. It was a long walk, and he was getting tired. He stopped at the inn in Henllan for something to eat, because he knew that he still had a long way to go.
Dic ordered beer, bread and cheese and he enjoyed his meal. He was very happy with his food, but when the bill came he was not so happy. The landlord wanted him to pay four pence for the beer and six pence for the bread and cheese! This was much, much more than the proper price, and Dic knew it. The greedy landlord thought it would be easy to cheat Dic because he was a stranger. But he was making a big mistake!
Dic paid the bill without saying a word but, before he left, he scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper, folded it very small and tucked it under the leg of the table. The landlord smiled at Dic as he left. Dic smiled back. He knew what would happen to the next person who went into that room, because the piece of paper had a spell on it.
As it happened, no-one else went into that room for the rest of the day. When it was getting late, the landlord and landlady went upstairs to bed, telling the sleepy maid to clean Dic’s table before she finished for the night. She shuffled wearily into the room with a cloth in her hand, but as soon as her foot touched the floor of the room, Dic’s spell started to work. She didn’t mean to, she didn’t want to, but she couldn’t stop herself. She began to jump and hop around in a mad dance, all the while shouting out a song:
Six and four are ten,
Count it over again!
The landlord and landlady were upstairs in their bedroom. They could hardly believe their ears.
‘What’s got into that girl?’ grumbled the landlord. ‘Singing and dancing when good folk are trying to get some sleep! If she carries on, this is her last day working for us, and I won’t pay her either.’
The landlord stomped downstairs in his nightshirt, ready to box the girl’s ears. But as soon as he stepped into the room where she was dancing, the spell caught him too, and he began to leap about, shouting out the same tuneless tune as the maid:
Six and four are ten,
Count it over again!
His wife sat bolt upright in her bed when she heard the sound of their voices from downstairs. Her husband was dancing with the maid? In his nightshirt too? Her face and ears turned red with anger. She heaved out of bed, and stormed downstairs to give them both big trouble.
She went angrily into the room, but straightaway the spell caught her too, and she began to spin and dance, adding her voice to the song:
Six and four are ten,
Count it over again!
By now the noise could be heard from outside, and soon the neighbours were peeping round the front door wondering what on earth was going on. Seeing the landlord, his wife and their maid all bouncing about and yelling at the tops of their voices, they came in to complain about the noise. But, as soon as they were in the room, they began to whirl and twirl as well, adding their voices to the noisy song:
As the noise grew, so did the number of people being disturbed, and one after another, more and more people came in, only to find themselves bewitched and bounding, till the inn was full to bursting and the noise of the song was ear-splitting:
Six and four are ten,
Count it over again!
Who knows how long this might have gone on, or what would have happened next, if there had not been one bright spark among so many silly billies?
One young lad, a village boy called Aled, stood beside the open door and watched for a while. Seeing where and when his friends and neighbours started to dance, he understood that there must be a spell on the floor of the room. The landlord was too puffed out from dancing to tell him what had been happening there but, luckily, Aled had spent the evening leaning on a wall to watch people coming and going round the village, the way teenagers still like to do. He had seen Dic Spot leave the inn. He knew that Dic could cast spells.
‘So that’s what’s going on,’ thought Aled.
Without wasting any time, he took a horse from the stables and rode out of the village on the path to the west, up onto the moor. The inn was at a crossroad but, by luck, he chose the way that Dic Spot had taken. Soon enough his horse caught up with Dic, because he was only walking. Aled jumped down from his horse’s back and began to tell Dic what was going on in Henllan. As he listened to the tale, a great big grin spread across Dic’s face.
‘Please, sir,’ said Aled politely, ‘please undo your spell. Please think of the danger all those people will be in if they keep dancing for days, with no food and no drink and no rest.’
Dic Spot thought for a moment, then slowly nodded his head. ‘That landlord is greedy, and he needs to learn a lesson. But you are right: there are plenty of innocent people there. And you speak very politely. So I will listen to you. I will tell you how to undo my spell. Go back to the inn and find a piece of paper under the leg of one of the tables. I put it there, and it has my dancing spell written on it. Throw that paper into the fire. When it is gone, the spell will be too.’
Aled thanked him, and mounted his horse again.
‘Wait!’ called out Dic. ‘Unless I put a spell on you to protect you, you will start dancing the minute you go into the room, and you won’t be able to stop. Come here, young man.’
Dic whispered a spell into Aled’s ear to protect him. Then he watched as the lad rode back to Henllan. Aled went as quickly as he could, eager to break the spell and save the tired villagers.
Sure enough, as soon he threw the tiny piece of paper into the fire, all those kicking legs and stamping feet were freed from the magic, and the song being shouted from all those sore throats was silent at last.
Six and four are ten,
Count it over again!
Aled was praised by everyone for saving them all. But nobody forgot Dic Spot the Cunning Man, and what he could do with his magic. And the greedy landlord treated strangers much better from that time on … which is what Dic Spot really wanted!
13
BELLA FAWR
Bella Fawr was the Witch of Denbigh. She was not the only witch in the town, and maybe she wasn’t the biggest, in spite of her nickname, which means Big Bella, but she was the most popular!
Bella could undo bad spells that other witches had made. She helped people from near and far, though, of course, they did have to pay her. This is the story of how she helped John and Beti Griffiths.
John Griffiths had a farm called Ty Mawr. Not far away was the home of an old woman who made her living by begging from door to door. One day she came, as she often did, to the back door of Ty Mawr. Beti Griffiths opened it.
‘Good morning to you, neighbour,’ said the old woman, holding out a battered tin. ‘Can you give me some milk to fill my little pot, please? I’m sure with fine cows like yours you can spare some milk for an old lady like me.’
But Beti was not having a good day. She had already hurt her thumb, broken a jug and had a row with John about the kitchen floor, because he had walked all over it with mud on his boots. She frowned at the old woman.
‘No, I’ve none for you today, so off you go.’
The old woman stared at Beti, as if she couldn’t believe her ears. She held out the
tin again and shook it.
‘You can see that it’s empty,’ she said. ‘Are you going to send me away with nothing?’
‘Yes, I am,’ replied Beti crossly. ‘I’ve told you, I’ve no milk to give you today, and too much to do. There’s milk waiting to be turned into butter while you keep me here on the doorstep. Be off now.’
The old woman turned away, muttering. These were her words, too low for Beti to hear, but loud enough to make a spell: ‘Then the milk can wait for you and you for it.’
She churned the milk.
Beti shut the door on her and went down to the dairy. There she got busy, ready to make butter from the bowls of milk on the stone shelf. She poured the milk into the churn. Then she put in the churn dash to turn the milk round and round until it changed into butter.
She churned the milk. And churned. And churned. It did not change into butter. She kept going. Some days it took time to get the rhythm right. Some days the weather made things slow. But today it just did not happen at all. She worked until she was too tired to carry on. She rested a while, then started again. But the butter still would not come and the milk began to smell bad.
When John came in from the yard there was no cloth on the table, no food set out, no sign of Beti. He called her name, and when he got no reply he went from the kitchen down to the dairy. There sat Beti, red in the face, the churn dash in her hand and the dairy full of the bad smell of the milk.
‘The butter won’t come and the milk has turned bad, and I’m still angry with that old woman who came this morning,’ she told him, nearly in tears.
At first John couldn’t work out what she was talking about. But then he began to understand. Their neighbour, like many old women down the ages, did have a reputation as a witch.
North Wales Folk Tales for Children Page 5