by Thomas Taffy
As luck would have it, a heron stood in the shallows on one leg, the other invisibly curled up under its wing. Jack pointed, telling the king he could now see for himself the bird only had one leg. The king started chuckling, his chuckle became a guffaw and soon he was crying with laughter. He became so animated that he clapped his hands in excitement. Startled, the bird stretched out its other leg and took off, flying around Jack and the king, causing the monarch to clutch his sides and hoot with more laughter. Jack had got away with it, for the only thing that was a greater insult to the king than stealing from him was failure to amuse him.
Didn’t the king now have a story to amuse his guests at banquets for years to come, just as I hope it has amused you!
The Heron and the Fox
Old Daddy Fox invited the heron for dinner. He served his guest a thin soup in a broad shallow dish. Delicious though this may have been, with his long beak the heron could not avail himself of the soup. The frustration and vexation of the heron much amused the fox. At the end of the meal the heron left, hungry.
The heron decided to repay the compliment, inviting the fox to dinner on the following day. The bird served her guest soup in a flagon with a long, narrow neck.
Of course the fox could not get his snout in far enough to reach the food. Indeed the compliment had been returned.
Aesop may not have said this, but ‘what goes around, comes around’!
11
THE SWALLOW
A Riddle
I live in the air and on the land
I make my home, but not by hand
Coal black hood, snow white vest
A pair of scissors make the rest.
What am I?
Why the Swallow Has a Forked Tail
As the proud patron of the East Anglian Storytelling Festival, I was pleased when my friend, storyteller Marion Leeper, told the story of Erkhii Mergen the Archer at the annual 2018 festival. As the true hero of the tale is a small bird, what follows is my much adapted and simplified version of Marion’s story, collected orally at ‘Jimmy’s Farm’ during the festival.
We all make stories our own; that’s how they have lives, and like the swallow fly to distant lands to be enjoyed by other folk.
Bright Phoebus she rises high up in the sky
With her red rosy cheeks and her sparkling eye.
(Trad.)
Today there is just one sun in our sky, providing us with light, warmth and vitamin D.
In times past though there were no less than seven suns in our sky.
This made the earth so hot that the rivers and seas dried up. The earth was so parched that plants and creatures struggled to survive. Something had to be done. The people needed a great hero.
To the East lived Erkhii Mergen, simply the finest archer on Earth. One of his arrows could split a hair on the head of a bald man at a hundred paces! All the people, dry and dying of thirst, tasked Erkhii Mergen with shooting the seven suns from the sky.
Never known to fail, the young archer flexed his thumbs, drawing back his bow string, and effortlessly shot the first sun out of the firmament. After a short pause to receive the acclaim of those watching, he positioned another arrow, drew the string and shot the second sun out of the sky. The third, the fourth, the fifth and the sixth were all picked off in quick succession. As Erkhii Mergen took aim at the seventh and last sun, a small black, white, blue and red bird realised that without any sun in the sky all living things would perish from lack of warmth and light. Bravely this small bird flew into the path of the arrow aimed at the one remaining sun.
Luckily the arrow missed the head and body of this clever and courageous bird, slicing through its tail and cutting a large ‘V’ shape. Ever since then, the swallow has had a forked tail.
As the arrow fell to earth, the Sun was so frightened it hid behind a mountain to the west, something it continues to do for half the day now and ever after. As for the great hero Erkhii Mergen, he was so ashamed at not completing his task that he retreated to the forest and hills to live as a recluse in a hole. But that is another story.
Flying High, Flying Free (Leon Rosselson)
The red sun is sinking and the sky is on fire.
Swallows line up on the telegraph wire.
I think they’ve decided it’s time to be gone.
For the days are now shrinking. The summer’s moved on.
Swallow, swallow I wish I could follow you,
over the deserts, the mountains, the seas.
South to the colours and sunshine of Africa.
Flying high, flying free.
Swallow I don’t understand how you know
how far you will fly to and which way you will go.
Resting at night time and flying by day,
with no map or compass to show you the way.
And I wish you could stay here the whole winter through,
just as the robins and chaffinches do.
But I know that you can’t for when frost grips the year,
the insects you feed on will all disappear.
Butterfly, dragonfly, salmon and seal,
whale and reindeer, cuckoo and eel,
each of them doing the migration dance
and I’d do it too if they’d give me the chance.
Clock in the kitchen and clock in the hall,
clock on the mantle piece and clock on the wall,
tocking and ticking me off when I’m late,
but no clock to tell me it’s time to migrate.
And I’ll miss your forked tails as you swoop through the air.
Your nests will be empty that you built with such care.
But I know you’ll return as you have done before
and your nests will be filled with your young ones once more.
So when winter departs with his mantle of snow
and the plum tree’s in blossom and the days start to grow.
When the summer sun rises and the sky is on fire.
I will see you again on that telegraph wire.
12
THE SNIPE
Mother Snipe’s Wisdom
The story that follows is a traditional tale from Yorkshire, and holds a special place in my heart.
A hunter with a gun on his shoulder was walking up a hill. He met a hen snipe, quite a plain brown bird. The bird told the hunter he was a cruel man who was going up the hill to kill her beautiful chicks. The hunter assured the mother bird that he would not kill any beautiful chicks.
However, as he crested the hill, it was BANG! BANG! BANG! He headed back down with a string of tiny brown birds, dead, tied beak to tail. When he met the hen snipe she told him he was a liar as well as a cruel man, as he’d assured her he wouldn’t kill her beautiful chicks. The hunter told her he hadn’t killed any beautiful chicks – he’d just shot some plain brown birds.
The hen snipe told him he was a fool, as well as a cheat and a liar, as every mother thinks her young is beautiful no matter what they look like!
13
THE CURLEW
St Beuno and the Curlew
The legend that follows is important, for before this tale was known, curlews were despised and feared. A group of curlews flying and crying together was called ’the seven whistlers’ and they were thought to foretell death or a terrible storm. The legend of St Beuno and the curlew has turned the idea of the bird from a portent of death into the bringer of life. Particularly apt as at this time, the curlew is on the brink of becoming an endangered species – its numbers in Scotland and Northern England being reduced by about fifty per cent.
In the seventh century Beuno, a Welsh abbot and religious academic, lived in a retreat on the north coast of Wales near Anglesey. Every day after matins he would study his religious writings comprising his sermons and his research. Most days he would retreat with a bundle of irreplaceable papers under his arm to a tiny uninhabited island less than a mile off the rocky shore. This would involve sculling a tiny clinker-built wooden boat with his v
aluable papers under his arm. Sculling involves moving a single oar in a figure of eight pattern through the water, both moving the boat forward and steering it at the same time.
One blustery day, Beuno was making this crossing for a peaceful day’s study in solitude on the island when the papers he was clutching slipped from his arm and fell into the waves. It was enough to make even a priest swear. Beuno was too distressed and devout to do this, so he just prayed. A large-ish brown bird with a long curved beak and a very distinctive cry flew out from the shore, grabbing the soggy papers out of the sea and flying back towards the rocky beach with the papers grasped tightly in its beak. Beuno turned his boat and headed home to the shore. On landing back on the beach, he was amazed to see that the curlew (for that is what this bird was) had placed the priest’s precious papers on a large rock and was standing over them, flapping its wings to dry them. The abbot was so touched he immediately blessed the bird, making it a holy bird that would always live well and in safety. That is why it is very hard to find a curlew’s nest to this day, allowing the eggs to remain undisturbed.
14
THE CUCKOO
The Crewkerne Cuckoo Penners
The idea of a rural community connecting the cuckoo with warmer spring weather, and so thinking that if they could pen it and keep it, they could then keep the seasonal weather too, is a classic example of 2 + 2 not making 4.
The Wise Fools of Gotham have the story. In Lakeland’s Borrowdale and in Marsden in Yorkshire, the cuckoo is penned by a hastily built wall. In Somerset a high hedge achieves the same result. Perhaps this reflects their regional skills, that is of dry stone walling in the north and hedging in the south-west.
In Heathfield in East Sussex, at a Cuckoo Fair, an old woman releases a cuckoo from a basket, allowing the bird to fly up England, bringing warmer days. At Downton, near Salisbury, a gate is opened to release the cuckoo. These festivities normally happen near to St Tibertius Day, 14 April.
The following two tales mirror the cuckoo’s flight, starting in the south and heading north.
In April I open my bill
In May I sing night and day
In June I change my tune
In July far far I fly
In August away I must.
(Trad.)
Down to Somerset, around Crewkerne, near to where my maternal grandfather, Edward Victor French, farmed land at Merriot, farmers worked out that if they planted when they heard the first cuckoo, they got a better harvest. This was usually around 15 April, so that became cuckoo day in Crewkerne.
The wiseacres of Crewkerne worked out that if they could catch and keep a cuckoo they could then have more than one harvest. They caught a cuckoo and placed her on a bunting’s nest in a bush.
They planted a hedge around the bush and by tending the hedge until it grew high, they penned the bird. This allowed them to reap a second harvest. They then thought that if they kept the bird longer, they could maybe reap the benefits of a third harvest.
They tended the hedge well, but just before this third harvest ripened, the cuckoo flew towards the sun, rising above the hedge and heading north.
Perhaps these old wiseacres had become too greedy and were not as wise as they thought!
The Borrowdale Cuckoo
The narrow valley of Borrowdale rises steeply south of Derwent Water towards Great Gable and the Honister slate mine. Statistically, it is the wettest place in England. Knowing this, it is not surprising that this story about capturing the spring and summer has its home there. This tale could be said to prove to all that there is not necessarily any correlation between advancing age and wisdom.
Country folk have long yearned for the sound of the first cuckoo, a sign that after the cold of winter, spring has arrived.
Many years ago, a pair of white-bearded builders from Borrowdale, a spot not renowned for dry, balmy weather, observed that when the cuckoo sang in the dale it was always a warm, dry spring day. Applying the logic that has come to typify the Cumbrian character, they reasoned that if they could keep the cuckoo in the dale it would always be spring!
They observed a particularly fine and vocal cuckoo high up on a Borrowdale yew tree. Being handy men, they set to work fashioning a cylindrical wall in the style of a factory chimney around both the tree and the bird. When their construction equalled the not inconsiderable height of the yew tree, the pair stepped back to admire their work.
The men clapped each other on the back triumphantly. The contrary cuckoo spread its wings and, still singing, flew high above the constraining wall heading over the tops towards the Vale of Grasmere.
The two sages cursed roundly, commenting, ‘It was nobbut [nothing but] a course too low!’
15
THE PIGEON
The Brave Pigeon
Working men in the heavily industrial parts of England, entrapped by the noise and filth of factory and mill, have long found freedom in releasing their pet racing pigeons. These homing pigeons were capable of flying long distances in the worst of conditions. The tale that follows is of one particularly brave bird recruited into army service. You probably know the story of War Horse – now hear the story of War Pigeon!
In July 1916, hell broke out on the France/Belgium border in the shape of the Battle of the Somme. My maternal grandfather Edward Victor French served throughout this war and survived – otherwise I wouldn’t be here. However, in the many battles of the Great War, millions of other soldiers were not so fortunate. The tale that follows is true.
An American regiment of almost four hundred was in a tight spot. In the chaos and confusion of battle, a hundred and ninety-eight poor souls had perished under friendly fire. Word had to be sent to the front line for a ceasefire, but how to do this? A messenger sent ‘over the bags’ would almost certainly be cut down by a hail of bullets or a shell in no man’s land. The soldiers had a secret weapon – three carrier pigeons sent from England.
A plea for aid in a tiny tube was attached to the leg of one of the birds. It was two hundred yards to the firing line. The tiny feathered ball was cast into the sky over the barbed wire, mud and dereliction of no man’s land. After the bird had flown a mere fifty yards through acrid smoke, there was a sharp CRACK as the poor creature exploded in a flush of blood, bone, feather and beak, the corpse dropping onto the mud.
Determinedly, the soldiers attached another tube with a message to the leg of the second pigeon. A large, fearsome rifleman tenderly kissed the tiny creature and tossed it optimistically into the sky. This bird made it a full hundred yards before once again, an ear-splitting CRACK was followed by an explosion of blood, bone, feather and beak as the corpse dropped into a shell hole – its ready-prepared grave.
Just one more hope as the third and last bird with a message tube attached received a cuddle, a prayer and the wishes of every soldier there as it cleared the barbed wire. It made it a hundred and fifty yards before a bullet, slicing through the smoke, winged the bird. It fell to the ground with one of its legs now only attached to its body by a tendon; even so, this valiant bird somehow found the strength to launch itself back into the air and fly the last fifty yards, delivering its message, halting the firing, and saving the lives of a hundred and ninety-four men.
The thankful soldiers nursed this tiny hero back to health, giving it the name of Cher Ami – Dear Friend. At the end of the war it went to live in America – together with the medal for bravery it had received.
16
THE SWAN
The Mute Swans of Grasmere
This story was gifted to me by renowned Scottish Traveller and storyteller, Duncan Williamson. Once, when he visited my Lakeland home, he said couldn’t recall his source of the story, but believed it to be a North Country tale that may have belonged here. He explained that the swans that wintered in his native Scotland were not mute swans, but were whooper swans, whereas on Cumbrian lakes you would usually find mute swans.
Often, when telling this tale on the lake shore, a pair of mute
swans will fly in or swim up to us as if to listen. I usually tell folk that they have simply arrived to hear their story.
On the fell side near the lake in Grasmere is a little thatched cottage. Many years ago in that cottage lived a hunchback – an old man with a hump on his back, an old man so ugly that the people in the village would have nothing to do with him. Furthermore, the hunchback was completely mute. His only friends were the animals of the forest. So sometimes, when he went collecting sticks, he was followed by a line of animals – the weasel, the rabbit, the badger, the fox and, flying overhead, the robin and the wren. The hunchback also had one very special friend – a swan who lived down on the lake. He so loved that swan that he called her his ‘lady of the lake’. Sometimes the swan waddled after him and he’d half turn and stroke her beautiful curved neck.
Now, one winter the hunchback disappeared. Was he alive or was he dead? The people in the village didn’t care, but the animals cared because they weren’t getting their breadcrumbs and their saucers of milk. So the animals went to find out.
Off went the line of animals – the weasel, the rabbit, the badger, the fox and, flying over head, the robin and the wren – off up the lane towards the hunchback’s cottage. They made a circle around the cottage as the robin fluttered up to the window to peep in.