The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends

by Peter Berresford Ellis

  Her father laughed good-naturedly.

  “These wages I must see, girl. Show me what you have earned in the half-an-hour you have been gone.”

  Blamey took out the purse which the master had given her and emptied nine gold coins onto her father’s palm.

  Her parents stared at them in bewilderment.

  “What are you doing, girl? Playing tricks with us?”

  Even her mother grew angry and stamped her foot. “Mowes goky!” she rebuked. “Aren’t you the silly girl? Why, there is nothing in your hand at all.”

  Blamey bit her tongue. “Can’t you see this purse and nine pieces of gold?”

  “Would I not know nine pieces of gold if I saw them?” rejoined her father. “There is nothing in your hand, I tell you.”

  “Then it must be the magic ointment,” protested Blamey. “I can see the coins quite plainly.”

  “Magic ointment . . . ?” Her father opened his mouth and closed it like a fish. “Do you take us for fools, girl? You’ve lost half-an-hour on your journey to look for work by returning here. Now be off with you and don’t return again until you have done some decent work in life. Off with you, or we’ll call the parson and report your evil humour to him.”

  Blamey was sent away from Cam Kenidjack.

  She returned up the hill and, at the top of the hill, she stood looking back and the tears were streaming from her eyes. She had been away for years and it was clear that she had been working for none other than the Bukkys themselves. Master Marrack Mayne was nothing more than a changeling and not human at all. She had been punished truly.

  In the middle of her crying, there came a hollow cough.

  Before her stood a tall, handsome, but kindly looking young gentleman. He was peering at her with grave concern. “Why are you weeping, young lady?” he asked.

  Blamey stared at him for a moment and realized that she could never explain the real reason, and so she said, “Why, sir, I have just left home and am on the road looking for a kindly lord’s castle, where I might work and earn my keep.”

  The gentleman smiled broadly. “I am no lord, nor have I a castle, but the manor house in Trewinnard is mine. I am looking for a maid-servant and was on my way to Kenidjack to see if I could find one. I have a young son to be looked after, for I am a widower. The job is yours, if you want it.”

  Blamey was cautious. “And do you have an old aunt?”

  “Not I.”

  “Then I shall accept.”

  So Blamey went to work for the young squire and she worked hard, never showed curiosity – for she had truly been cured of it – and one day the squire asked her to marry him and she did. Oh, and the Bukkys’ purse of gold . . . ? Strange to relate, at the moment the squire proposed to her, it disappeared entirely from her gaze and Blamey thought it just as well that it did, for she had a better reward for her hard work than all those years in the house of the Bukkys.

  29 Jowan Chy-an-Horth

  Everyone knew Jowan who lived at Horth, near Lanlavan in Kernow. Of course, now he lives at “Chy-an-Horth”, which is the big house there. But he was not always so rich nor so respectable. Indeed, there was a time when he and his wife were so poor that they were in dire straits. Jowan could not find any work at all in the vicinity of Lanlavan.

  Faced with starvation, Jowan one day told his wife that he would have to leave Lanlavan and travel eastwards into the land of the Saxons, in search of work. His sister, who was married to a man who did have a job, promised to look after his wife while Jowan was gone, and see that she would not starve nor be put out on the road.

  So Jowan set off, but he did not have to go as far as the River Tamar, which marked the border between Kernow and the land of the Saxons. Near to Bosvenegh, surrounded by its wild, windswept moors, he came upon an old man dressed as a farmer, seated on a log under a great oak tree.

  “Durdadha-why, young man. Good day to you. Where are you off to?”

  “I am off to Pow-Saws, the land of the Saxons, in search of work,” replied Jowan. And he explained to the farmer what dire straits he found himself in.

  “What work can you do?” asked the old man, regarding him carefully.

  “I can turn my hand to most anything,” Jowan replied, without boasting.

  “Lowena re-gas-bo!” exclaimed the old man in satisfaction. “Then work for me. I am a farmer and, at my age, I need someone to help me on the farm.”

  They agreed that Jowan would work for a year and be paid three sovereigns for his work. Now three sovereigns in those days was a fair wage. So Jowan worked for a full year. At the end of the year, the old man handed him the three sovereigns. Then he said, “If you give me back those sovereigns, I will tell you something which will be infinitely more valuable.”

  “More valuable than three sovereigns?” demanded Jowan, who was somewhat naive and trusting. “What could that be?”

  “Advice,” smiled the old farmer.

  Jowan thought and came to the conclusion that if advice was worth more than the three gold coins, then he’d better take it. He solemnly handed the old man back the money. “What is this advice?”

  “Never leave the old road for the sake of a new one.”

  Jowan scratched his head and frowned. “I do not understand. How is that more valuable than three sovereigns?”

  “You will see,” assured the old man.

  “But now I have no money to take home to my wife. I will have to find more work.”

  “Work another year for me and you shall have three sovereigns more,” replied the old man.

  So another year passed and, at the end of it, the old man handed him three sovereigns. “Give me them back and I will give you something infinitely more valuable.”

  Jowan was credulous. “More valuable than three sovereigns?”

  “Much more.”

  Jowan obediently handed back the coins. “It is a piece of advice – never lodge where an old man is married to a young women.”

  “How is that more valuable than three sovereigns?” demanded Jowan.

  “You will see,” replied the old man.

  “But now I have no money to take home to my wife. I must find more work.”

  “Work for me for another year and you shall have three more sovereigns,” the old farmer invited.

  So Jowan worked another three years and, at the end of it, the old man gave him three sovereigns.

  “Hand me back the three sovereigns and I will tell you something which will be much more valuable.”

  “More valuable than three sovereigns?”

  “Much more valuable.”

  So Jowan, still trusting, handed back the three sovereigns.

  “Here it is,” said the old man. “Honesty is the best policy.”

  “How is knowing that more valuable than three sovereigns?” demanded Jowan.

  “It will be,” said the old man.

  Now Jowan was artless, but he was not a fool. There was a limit to his trust. “I have spent three years away from home and have no money. I must return to my wife, whether I have money or not, for she will be anxious about me.”

  “Do not start your journey now,” advised the old man, “but start for home tomorrow. Tonight my wife is baking cakes and she shall make you a cake to take home to your wife.”

  Jowan gave a sigh. Yet, after three years, another day would not matter in his starting for home.

  “At least bringing her a cake will be something, rather than turning up empty-handed,” pointed out the old man. So Jowan agreed to stay the night and, in the morning, the old man’s wife handed him a new-baked cake.

  “You must take it on one condition,” the old man said. “You must break it and eat it only when you are feeling most joyous. And you and your wife and no one else must eat it.”

  So Jowan, no richer than he had set out, turned his footsteps back to the west towards Lanlavan. He had journeyed a day when he came across three merchants from his own town who were returning with their goods from the gre
at fair at Dyndajel.

  “Good day, Jowan,” they greeted warmly. “Where have you been, these last three years?”

  “I have been working for an old farmer,” he told them. “Have you news of my wife?”

  “She is well enough and still living with your sister, but is no richer than when you left her. She will be glad to see you home, and we are glad to see you as well. Why not continue your journey with us?”

  Jowan continued his journey with the merchants a while but, when they came to a fork in the road, Jowan saw one road was the old way he knew well while the other was a new road that had recently been built. The merchants said that it was a new short cut home. But as Jowan did not know it, he remembered the old man’s advice and decided to stick to the old road. The merchants thought he was silly and they parted company.

  Barely had they gone a hundred yards along the new road when highway robbers fell on them and they began to cry out: “Help! Thieves!”

  The robbers were heavily armed and the merchants could not defend themselves.

  Jowan, hearing their cries, quickly ran back to the fork and saw what was happening. He ran forward crying, “Help! Thieves!” and waving his blackthorn stick which he had cut to walk with.

  The robbers, hearing his cries and seeing him running forward waving his stick, thought that reinforcements were coming and rapidly dispersed, leaving the merchants still in possession of their goods.

  The merchants welcomed Jowan back with gratitude. “But for you, Jowan, we would have been lost men,” cried the merchants. “We are beholden to you for rescuing us. You were right. We should have stuck to the old road. Come with us there, for there is an inn nearby and you must be our guest. Dine with us and stay the night there.”

  So they continued along the old road together until they came to a new inn, which was curiously sited next to an older one. The new inn seemed to be taking all the business from the old one. The old inn was dilapidated and had the air of decay and abandonment about it.

  At the doorway of the new inn, a very beautiful young girl came forward to greet them. She was the wife of the host of the inn. But, attractive as she was, Jowan saw that she was lascivious and coarse. Her vulgar voluptuousness made Jowan feel uneasy as she bade the happy merchants come inside and furnished them with drink.

  Inside was an old, bleary-eyed man, who was doing all the heavy work while the girl flirted with her guests.

  “Who is that old man?” Jowan asked the girl. “Surely he is too old to be doing all that heavy work?”

  The girl chuckled in good humour. “That old wreck? He is my husband. Don’t worry about him, my handsome.”

  At once, Jowan recalled the old farmer’s advice: never lodge where an old man is married to a young woman. He rose immediately and went to the door.

  “Where are you going?” demanded the merchants.

  “I cannot lodge here,” he replied. “I will find lodgings next door in the old inn.”

  “No, no. Stay and dine with us, first,” insisted the merchants. “We want to repay you for saving us on the road.”

  But he would not. The merchants, who were honest men, said that if he found lodgings in the old inn, they would pay for him.

  That night, while he lay in bed in the old inn, a noise roused Jowan from his slumber. He went to his window and looked down. There were two figures in the shadowy doorway of the new inn opposite. They were engaged in conversation.

  “Are you ready?” asked a female voice.

  Jowan had no trouble recognizing the voice of the voluptuous young hostess of the new inn.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” came a masculine voice.

  “Are you agreed on the plan?”

  “I will stab your husband as he lies in bed tonight and place the bloody dagger in the hands of one of those fat, stupid merchants. When they are blamed and hanged, we shall be together and owners of a fine inn.”

  The figures then went inside the new inn.

  Now Jowan dressed and hurried to the new inn, with the thought of warning his merchant friends. He peered through the open window where he saw a light.

  He was too late to save the host of the inn, for he saw the deed had already been done. Near the window, within arm’s reach, stood the figure of the man, the murderer. It was then that Jowan recognized the man for he was named Lewarne, the Fox, of Chy-an-Horth, who had once refused him a job. He was the factotem, or manager, of the great estate of Lord Gwavas of Castle Gwavas. He was a vain man who wore a very distinctive purse at his belt and Jowan, who was nimble, reached in across the window-sill and managed to lift it from Lewarne’s belt without him noticing it.

  Soon the lecherous hostess raised a cry, claiming her husband had been murdered and that there was no one but the merchants in the house and that they must have done the deed.

  Lord Gwavas, lord of the Castle of Gwavas, came riding to the new inn, for he was the administrator of justice in the area.

  Lord Gwavas had the merchants marched out and told them: “You will all hang, unless one of you confesses your crime.”

  Each merchant cried out that they were innocent, and Lord Gwavas ordered they all be marched off to prison, to await execution.

  “Wait, lord,” cried Jowan. “Why not arrest the real murderer?”

  Lord Gwavas stared down at him in surprise.

  “Who committed the crime,” he demanded, “if not these merchants?”

  Jowan gave the man the purse. “The owner of that purse did the deed.”

  Then Jowan told Lord Gwavas all he knew.

  “Why, this is the purse of my factotem, Lewarne of Chy-an-Horth. Bring him here.”

  Lewarne came in fear and they brought the hostess with him. Lord Gwavas saw the truth of the situation in their eyes. He ordered the merchants to be set at liberty and the hostess and Lewarne taken to prison to be hanged for the crime.

  So they all journeyed on together, the merchants and Jowan, and at the foot of the hill, the hill on which Jowan’s sister and her husband lived, they parted company. But not before the merchants gave Jowan a fine horse and loaded on it all manner of presents, in return for his services in saving them not once but twice. Jowan went home with wealth enough to compensate him for his three years without wages.

  His wife was waiting at the gate of the cottage. After they had had their reunion and celebration, his wife said: “Jowan, you have returned in the nick of time. I have a problem. You see, Lord Gwavas passed here yesterday and, when I was going along the same path that he had been on, I came across this purse of gold. But the purse has no name on it, only a crest, so I am fairly sure that it belongs to him. Yet I have been living on your sister’s charity these last three years, and the gold is such a great temptation.”

  Now Jowan remembered the third piece of advice which the old farmer had given him. Honesty was the best policy.

  “No. We will take the purse to Lord Gwavas in his castle and return it to him.”

  So Jowan and his wife went up to the castle and demanded to see the great Lord Gwavas.

  Lord Gwavas was delighted when his eyes fell on Jowan.

  “You went off too soon, before I could reward you for revealing the crime of my factotem.”

  “Well, I came with my wife, who found something of yours on the path this morning.”

  They gave Lord Gwavas his purse of gold. He was amazed and quite delighted. “Such honesty needs reward,” he said. “Now that Lewarne is no longer my factotem, will you come and work for me in his place? I will pay you five golden sovereigns each year, and you will have the big house at Horth as your own.”

  Jowan was ecstatic.

  “Here, then,” said Lord Gwavas, when Jowan had agreed, “in token of my respect, is the purse of gold to set you up in your new home.”

  They thanked Lord Gwavas, but the great lord dismissed their thanks by saying that he owed them much, for he had finally found trustworthy friends to help him run his estates.

  So Jowan and his w
ife returned to Jowan’s sister’s cottage and there was a great celebration. Jowan ensured that his sister and her husband did not go short, on account of the years they had looked after his wife. He paid them in gold coin from Lord Gwavas’ purse. Jowan’s sister and his wife prepared a big home-coming feast.

  Jowan felt the most joyous that he had ever felt in his life.

  It was then he remembered the cake that the old farmer had given him. He took it out and placed it on the table.

  “I promised my old master that I would break and eat this when I felt most joyous. I do now and so I shall be true to my word and break it open to eat it.”

  His wife, his sister and brother-in-law, laughed at the humble-looking cake but Jowan broke open the cake. Then he stared in amazement, for inside the cake were nine golden sovereigns, his wages for the three years he had worked for the old farmer.

  30 Nos Calan Gwaf

  Pendeen, north of St Just in Penwith, in the western extremity of Cornwall, is an ancient mining village and there are many stories associated with it. Its history goes back into the time before time began, and it is regarded as the most primordial part of the country with many old sites nearby – places like Chun Quoit and Chun Castle, that date from when man first walked the land; strange underground tunnels, such as the one which is shaped like a “Y” and stretches fifty-six feet in length and is four and a half feet high, called a fogou, and no one knows what it is used for.

  Pendeen has long been associated with the piskies – the mischievous supernatural creatures who haunt the remoter areas of Cornwall. Many are the people who have been pisky-led and have disappeared from this world or, if they have returned, been out of their mind until their dying days. Locals will tell you to avoid the nearby Wood Gumpus Common, especially at night.

  Time was, down at Pendeen House, which stands out towards Pendeen Watch on the cliffs, and where the great antiquarian William Borlase was born, there was another family who were squires there. I can’t vouch for their name but I have heard tell that it was Bosanko, which some say comes from the old Cornish bosancow – meaning the dwelling place of death! And if it were so, they dwelt at Pendeen so long ago that no one will now vouch that they were ever there.