by Alan Garner
“What is this god or wizard?” said Glooskap.
“His name is Wasis,” she said. “And I advise you not to try him.”
“Show me this Wasis,” said Glooskap. “Is he greater than the Medecolin? I had strength of mind in plenty for them. Is he more terrible than the Kewawkque? They woke no fear in me. Is he more dangerous than Pamola of the Night? I carry no scars from that battle. Is he Huron or Tuscarora? Is he Cayuga or Mohawk? Oneida? Onondaga? Is he Susquehannock? Is he Cherokee? Let him be all, and I shall conquer him!”
“He is none of these,” said the woman, “and he sits on the floor of my tent.”
Wasis sucked a piece of maple sugar, and crooned a little to himself. Glooskap stood in front of him, filling the tent with power.
“My visit is peace,” said Glooskap. “Come you to me.”
Wasis smiled at him, and did not move.
“I am not wrathful,” said Glooskap. “Come to me.” And he sang the song of the blackbird. Wasis sucked the maple sugar.
“The world obeys me!” shouted Glooskap. “Come!”
Wasis frowned.
“I fear no threat! Come to me on your knees!” roared Glooskap.
But Wasis did not.
Then Glooskap unleashed his rage, and the winds answered his cry about the tent, but Wasis opened his mouth and gave a scream that pierced the wind as an arrow through a bird in flight.
Glooskap brought all magic to his mind, and chanted spells, and summoned ghosts, and made the knots that raise the dead.
But Wasis closed his eyes, and slept.
Glooskap rushed from the tent and flung himself into the river, and the heat of his fury boiled the river dry.
“Goo,” said Wasis.
And even now babies say this word, each remembering the day he conquered Glooskap, there by the tent floor, with maple sugar on his mouth.
ere’s a good ’un.
It was in the days when there were ever so many folk as were kings and queens and all sorts. And there’s one king chap and he likes nothing better than to ride his horse up and down chasing young women, catching ’em, and doing you know what at ’em and then chopping their heads off with his sword. He’s a right nowt.
Well, of course, no one thinks much of this, but with him being king there isn’t a lot they can do about it, is there? So they send their daughters away to a place where kings are better. But there’s one little lass as can’t go. She lives with her granny, and granny’s too poor to send her, so she keeps the lass hid and earns her bread at spinning.
Now then. Near this cottage where they’re living there’s a Wonderful Wood. Ay. One of them sort. And nobody durst go in it, all on account of a great oak tree as grows there.
Anyway, come market time, granny’s ill, and little lass must go take the wool she’s spun and sell it, else they’ll starve, the pair of ’em. Well, lass is skriking, and granny’s skriking, too, and she kisses and blesses her and says, “You run on your tippy-toes all the way,” she says, “and think on as you don’t go through yon Wonderful Wood, though it’s quickest, whatever you do.”
“Oh, I shan’t, granny,” says little lass, and off she runs on her tippy-toes, carrying the wool, and leaves granny still skriking.
She’s not gone far when what does she see but king riding along a-waving of his sword. She doesn’t run now, but goes instead, all on her tippy-toes, into yon Wonderful Wood.
“She walked through the wood where the oaken tree stood,
“And she curtsied did she to the oaken tree,
“And he let her go down to the town, the town,
“From the wood, the Wonderful Wood.”
So that’s all right.
But king, he sees her going, and that won’t do, will it? He waves his sword and rides after her to catch her. Oh dear. What must she do now?
“He rode through the wood where the oaken tree stood,
“And he cursed did he at the oaken tree,
“And he took his sharp blade for to murder the maid,
“But a bough fell quick, and it broked his neck,
“In the wood, the Wonderful Wood.”
And that’s all right.
But king’s men, they come looking for him, and they see him through the trees. And they charge, clatter, into the wood to cut the oak tree down.
“They rode in the wood where the oaken tree stood,
“To cut down the tree, the oaken tree,
“Then the tree gave a groan and summoned his own,
“And the trees closed about and they never got out
“Of the wood, the Wonderful Wood.”
No. They never got out, king’s men. Trees reckoned them up, they did. They reckoned them up, rump and stump. Rump and stump, and that’s all right, isn’t it?
Wae’s me, wae’s me,
The acorn’s not yet
Fallen from the tree
That’s to grow the wood
That’s to make the cradle
That’s to rock the bairn
That’s to grow the man
That’s to lay me.
Anon
o you’ve heard tell of the boggarts, and all the horrid things of old times? You’ve heard of the voices of dead folks, and hands without arms, that came in the darklins, moaning and crying and beckoning all night through; todloweries dancing on the tussocks, and witches riding on the great black snags, that turned to snakes, and raced about with them in the water?
Ay, they were mischancy, unpleasant sort of bodies to do with, and I’m main glad as they were all gone before my days.
Well, in those times folk must have been unlike to now. Instead of doing their work in the week, and smoking their pipes on Sundays, in peace and comfort, they were always bothering their heads about something or other – or the church was doing it for them. The priests were always at them about their souls; and, what with hell and the boggarts, their minds were never easy.
The bogles were once thought a deal more on, and at darklins every night the folk would bear lights in their hands round their houses, saying words to keep them off; and would smear blood on the door sill to scare away the horrors; and would put bread and salt on the flat stones set up by the lane-side to get a good harvest; and would spill water in the four corners of the fields, when they wanted rain; and they thought a deal on the sun, for they reckoned as it made the earth, and brought the good and ill chances and I don’t know what all. I reckon they made nigh everything as they saw and heard into great bogles; and they were always giving them things, or saying sort of prayers like, to keep them from doing the folk any evil.
Well, that was a long time ago. So there were, so to say, two churches; the one with priests and candles, and all that; the other just a lot of old ways, kept up all unbeknown and hidden-like, mid the folk themselves; and they thought a deal more on the old spells than on the service in the church itself. But as time went on the two got sort of mixed up, and some of the folks couldn’t have told you if it were for one or the other as they done the things.
To Yule, in the churches, there were grand services, with candles and flags and what not; and in the cottages there were candles and cakes and grand doings; but the priests never knowed as many of the folks were only waking the dying year, and that the wine teemed upon the door sill to first cock-crow were to bring good luck in the new year. And I reckon as some of the folks themselves would do the old heathen ways and sing hymns meantime, with never a thought of the strangeness of it.
Still, there were many as kept to the old ways altogether, though they did it hidden like; and I’m going to tell you of one family as my grandfather knowed fine, and how they waked the Spring one year.
As I said before, I can’t, even if I would, tell you all the things as they used to do; but there was one time of the year as they particularly went in for their spells and prayers, and that were the early Spring. They thought as the earth was sleeping all the Winter; and that the bogles – call them what you will – had nobbut
to do but mischief, for they’d nowt to see to in the fields: so they were feared on the long dark winter days and nights, in the middle of all sorts of unseen fearsome things, ready and waiting for a chance to play them evil tricks.
But as the Winter went by, they thought as it were time to wake the earth from its sleeping and set the bogles to work, caring for the growing things, and bringing the harvest.
After that the earth were tired, and were sinking to sleep again; and they used to sing hushieby songs in the fields of the Autumn evens.
But in the Spring they went – the folk did as believed in the old ways – to every field in turn, and lifted a spud of earth from the mools; and they said strange and queer words, as they couldn’t scarce understand themselves, but the same as had been said for hundreds of years. And every morning at the first dawn, they stood on the door sill, with salt and bread in their hands, watching and waiting for the green mist as rose from the fields and told that the earth were awake again; and the life were coming to the trees and the plants, and the seeds were bursting with the beginning of the Spring.
Well, there was one family as had done all that, year after year, for as long as they knowed of, just as their grandfathers had done it before them; and one Winter they were making ready for waking the Spring.
They had had a lot of trouble through the Winter, sickness and what not had been bad in the place; and the daughter, a ramping young maid, was growed white and waffling like a bag of bones, instead of being the prettiest lass in the village, as she had been before.
Day after day she grew whiter and sillier, till she couldn’t stand upon her feet more than a newborn babby, and she could only lay at the window, watching and watching the Winter creep away.
And, “Oh, Mother,” she’d keep saying over and over again, “if I could only wake the Spring with you again, maybe the green mist would make me strong and well, like the trees and the flowers and the corn in the fields.”
And the mother would comfort her like, and promise that she’d come with them again to the waking, and grow as strong and straight as ever. But day after day she got whiter and wanner, till she looked like a snowflake fading in the sun; and day after day the Winter crept by, and the waking of the Spring was almost there.
The poor maid watched and waited for the time for going to the fields, she had got so weak and sick that she knew she couldn’t get there with the rest. But she wouldn’t give up, for all that; and her mother must swear that she would lift the lass to the door sill, at the coming of the green mist, so as she might toss out the bread and salt on the earth her own self and with her own poor thin hands.
And still the days went by, and the folk were going on early morns to lift the spud in the fields; and the coming of the green mist was looked for every dawning.
And one even, the lass, as had been laying with her eyes fixed on the little garden, said to her mother, “If the green mist doesn’t come in the morn’s dawning, I’ll not can wait for it longer. The mools is calling me, and the seeds are bursting as will bloom over my head. I know it well, Mother. And yet, if I could only see the Spring wake once again – Mother – I swear as I’d ask no more than to live as long as one of those cowslips as come every year by the gate, and to die with the first of them when the Summer is in.”
The mother whisht the maid in fear; for the bogles and things as they believed in were always gainhand, and could hear owt as was said. They were never safe, never alone, the poor folk to then, with the things as they couldn’t see, and couldn’t hear, all round them.
But the dawn of the next day brought the green mist. It came from the mools, and happed itself round everything, green as the grass in Summer sunshine, and sweet-smelling as the herbs of the Spring. And the lass was carried to the door sill, where she crumbled the bread and salt on to the earth with her own hands, and said the strange old words of welcoming to the new Spring.
And she looked to the gate, where the cowslips grew, and then she was taken back to her bed by the window, when she slept like a babby, and dreamt of Summer and flowers and happiness.
Whether it was the green mist as done it, I can’t tell you, but from that day she grew stronger and prettier than ever, and by the time the cowslips were budding she was running about and laughing like a very sunbeam in the old cottage. But she was always so white and wan, while she looked like a will-o-the-wyke flitting about; and on the cold days she’d sit shaking over the fire and look nigh dead, but when the sun came out, she’d dance and sing in the light, and stretch out her arms to it, as if she only lived by the warmness of it.
And by and by the cowslips burst their buds, and came in flower, and the maid was grown so strange and beautiful that they were nigh feared on her – and every morning she would kneel by the cowslips and water and tend them and dance to them in the sunshine, while the mother would stand begging her to leave them, and cried that she would have them pulled up by the roots and throwed away. But the lass only looked strange at her, and said – soft and low like:
“If you aren’t tired of me, Mother – never pick one of them flowers; they’ll fade of their selves soon enough; ay, soon enough, you know.”
And the mother would go back to the cottage and greet over the work. But she never said nowt of her trouble to the neighbours – not till afterwards.
But one day a lad of the village stopped at the gate to chat with them, and by and by, whiles he was gossiping, he picked a cowslip and played with it. The lass didn’t see what he had done; but as he said goodbye he gave it to her, smiling like, and thinking what a pretty maid she was.
She looked at the flower and at the lad, and all round about her; at the green trees, and the sprouting grass, and the yellow blossoms; and up at the golden shining sun itself; and all to once, shrinking as if the light she had loved so much were burning her, she ran into the house, without a spoken word, only a sort of cry, like a dumb beast in pain, and the cowslip catched close against her breast.
And then she never spoke again; but lay on the bed, staring at the flower in her hand and fading as it faded all through the day. And at the dawning there was only lying on the bed a wrinkled, white, shrunken dead thing, with in its hand a shrivelled cowslip. And the mother covered it over with the clothes, and thought of the beautiful joyful maid dancing like a bird in the sunshine by the golden nodding blossoms, only the day gone by.
The bogles had heard her and given her the wish. She had bloomed with the cowslips, and had faded with the first of them. It’s as true as death.
Other books by Alan Garner
The Weirdstone of Brisingamen
The Moon of Gomrath
Elidor
The Owl Service
Red Shift
The Stone Book Quartet
Strandloper
Thursbitch
Copyright
This collection first published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2011
Prayer; Gobbleknoll; Vukub-Cakix; Tops or Bottoms; The Voyage of Maelduin; The Fort of Rathangan; Willow; Edward Frank and the Friendly Cow; Yallery Brown; Moowis; The Lady of the Wood; A Voice Speaks from the Well; Bash Tchelik; The Goblin Spider; To the Tengu Goblins; The Secret Commonwealth; The Piper of Shacklow; The Adventures of Nera; A Letter; Halloween; Great Head and the Ten Brothers; The Trade that No One Knows; A Charm against Witches; Tarn Wethelan; Hoichi the Earless; Ramayana; The Smoker; Wild Worms and Swooning Shadows; Loki; Baldur the Bright; Glooskap; and The Green Mist, first published in Great Britain by Hamish Hamilton under the title The Hamish Hamilton Book of Goblins, 1969
Introduction; Shick-Shack; Maggoty’s Wood; Iram; Biram; The Green Mound; Faithful John; Jack and his Golden Snuff Box; Mist; Asrai; The Breadhorse; The Island of the Strong Door; R.I.P.; Assipattle and the Mester Stoorworm; The Barguest of Nidderdale; The Flying Childer; Father; Wait for Me; The Wonderful Wood; and Wae’s Me, first published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers, in this collection, 2011
HarperCollins Children’s
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COLLECTED FOLK TALES. Text © Alan Garner, 1969, 2011. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Alan Garner asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
ISBN 978 0 00 744597 4
EPub Edition © OCTOBER 2011 ISBN: 978-0-00-744610-0
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