Well, let’s call the squire “Squire Bosanko”, and say he had an elderly housekeeper named “Peggy” Tregear. It turned out that the old lady was a fussy kind of soul, who liked to make sure that the squire was well fed. One day, she found that she had run out of certain herbs to cook a meal with, and what could she do but get her basket and her rowan walking stick and set out across the hills to Penzance market? Now, Penzance is a fair walk from Pendeen, and you have to cross the hills from the north to the south side of the Penwith Peninsula.
Now the time and day on which she set off was noon on 31 October. Maybe some of you will recognize the significance of the date. The significance had, in fact, not occurred to the old lady. It was Nos Calan Gwaf, in the old Cornish calendar. That is now called Hallowe’en, when the Otherworld comes into view in this world and when spirits can come forth and wreak their vengeance on the living, and when the pisky folk may lead unguarded souls a merry dance.
Old Peggy Tregear, before she started her journey, went first to the house of Jan Tregher, who was the wife of the tailor over at Portheras Cove, for Peggy liked to walk in company and thought that she would see if Jan might accompany her to Penzance. Jan had the reputation of being a peller, which in Cornwall is a remover of charms or a white witch. Others said that she was not so “white” in her witchcraft and could curse as well as any folk. I heard tell of one man who even said that the Torpen himself, that is to say Lucifer, advised Jan Tregher and her husband when a rich wreck would come floating into Portheras Cove.
Mind you, there were plenty of wrecking places off the shore, like The Mozens or the rocks known as The Wra or Three Stone Oar. That’s why, on certain days, they lit beacon fires on Pendeen Watch and along the coast at Greeb Point. Even so, there were plenty of wrecks, with or without the Devil’s help. It seemed that the Treghers were always there ahead of anyone else, and rich were the pickings they had. But, of course, as is always the way, no one would challenge Jan and her husband Tom to their faces, but went around muttering darkly about the Treghers between themselves.
Now Peggy Tregear was not one to gossip unkindly. She never bothered about sorcery and the like and was always friendly to Jan. In turn, Jan would give her a good bottle of spirits as came off any of the wrecks. Come this Hallowe’en, old Peggy arrived at the Treghers’ door, to find it shut: which was unusual. She heard voices raised within and so bent to the keyhole and peered in to see what she could see.
Tom Tregher was sitting on a stool with Jan rubbing his eyes with something held in a crogen, which is a limpet shell. Then she placed the crogen in the oven. Tom stood up. So Peggy gave a call to announce her presence, lifted the latch and went in. Now neither Jan nor Tom seemed pleased to see her, and Tom left with scarcely a greeting on his lips. This was unusual. He bade her a good day and left the cottage. But Jan was soon all smiles and acted as though she was pleased to see her.
“Glad I am to see you, for I have been thinking of you, Peggy. I have a choice bottle for you to take up to Squire Bosanko.”
True it was that the Treghers liked to keep the squire happy with a bottle or two from the wrecks. The squire was the local justice of the peace and, if he were happy, he would not bother to chase wreckers too strenuously.
Jan went off to get the bottle of spirits and, while she was gone, old Peggy Tregear, out of curiosity, bent to the oven and looked at the crogen of ointment. She bent a finger in it and touched one of her eyes with it, as she had seen Jan placing it in the eyes of her husband. She could only place it in one eye before Jan was back with the bottle.
“Now take a glass for yourself,” Jan invited her and, nothing loath, she did.
When Peggy Tregear told her what she had come for, Jan made an excuse and said she was busy with a meal for her husband that afternoon. She also expected some guests who were interested in buying goods from the wreck.
So Peggy Tregear, after her drink, bade her farewell and set off, basket and rowan stick, towards Penzance. It was curious that she strode out with a firm step and felt she was walking more rapidly than ever she had done before. As she trod the road, she realized how well she suddenly could see and she was tripping down the lane without the need of her stick. Faster went the ground beneath her. Even so, Penzance is a fair distance from Pendeen, and she realized that she would be returning home in the dark. Yet still it did not occur to her what the evening was.
She went to the market place to make her purchases.
Who should she see in the market but Tom Tregher? Something curious was abroad. Tom Tregher was going round the market stalls, helping himself to anything which took his fancy, picking it up and never paying a copper penny for it. Yet no one seemed to take any notice of him nor challenge him to pay. He carried a big sack into which he placed the goods which he was picking up.
Old Peggy Tregear grew quite amazed.
“Tom Tregher,” she called, “what does this mean? How are you allowed to pick up such rich purchases and not pay the market-folk for them?”
Tom Tregher whirled round on her with a dark expression on his face, his eyes narrowed. “Do you see me, old dame Tregear?”
“Of course I do.”
“Which eye can you see me from?” he asked.
“Both, I suppose.” But when Peggy Tregear closed the eye that was not anointed, she could not see him at all.
In a trice, Tom Tregher knew what had happened.
He pointed to her anointed eye and cried: “This for poking your nose where you are not wanted. You shall no more pry with that anointed eye!” It seemed as if a needle pierced it and she fell to the ground in such agony, for she couldn’t keep on her legs.
Immediately, he vanished. But she heard his voice saying: “May you be pisky-led this evening and not reach your bed! May the winds of retribution carry me and mine off if the pisky will is not fed!”
Now the market-folk gathered round to see what was amiss with the old woman. Peggy, still sitting on the ground, wailed and cried that Tom Tregher had put her eye out by his black magic and that he had been going round their stalls stealing their goods. Some accused her of drinking and others told her to get back to Pendeen and sober up.
Angered by their refusal to do anything, she decided to take herself off and went up by way of Castle Horneck and came to the high road there. When she reached there, she remembered the bottle Jan Tregher had given her for Squire Bosanko. It would be no harm to have just a wee nip from it. Just to revive her spirits. So she did. Then she started along the road and soon the darkness came down on her, for the sun was now well below the horizon and it was truly the Nos Calan Gwaf.
However, by this time, old Peggy Tregear had taken quite a few nips from the bottle and was not concerned at all. She just wanted to get home and report how Tom Tregher had put her eye out to Squire Bosanko, not to mention what she knew about his thieving at the market.
As she went down the lane, through the little hamlet of Tremayne and beyond, she saw, on the road ahead of her, a man on a large horse silhouetted against the rising moon. Now Squire Bosanko owned such a large horse and, in her drink-befuddled state, old Peggy Tregear immediately thought that this was the squire.
“Dew re-sonno dhys,” she greeted. “Give ’ee a good evening, squire,” she said.
The man sat still and straight in the saddle and did not reply at all, but the old woman did not seem to notice this.
“I’ve had a queer day, your honour,” she went on and proceeded to tell him everything which had happened since she left home. However, when the man still sat there and made no reply, the old woman grew impatient.
“Now I’ve been long on the road today, your honour, and in spite of being footsore and leg-weary and now being blinded in the one eye by Tom Tregher, I have been hurrying back with my purchases from Penzance to cook your dinner. I think it would be a gentlemanly thing to do to take me up on the back of your horse and we can ride back to Pendeen. It would be a kindness and your dinner would be cooked the sooner.”<
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But the man still sat there, quiet as death, without replying.
Old Peggy Tregear stamped her foot in annoyance. “Why don’t you speak to me? Are you asleep? Are you and your horse taking a nap? For you are both standing so quiet there.”
Still there was no reply.
Then the old woman shouted as loud as she could. “You know me, Squire Bosanko, and if you be the gentleman everyone knows you to be, then you will take me up behind you.”
Yet still he did not make a murmur.
“Are you drunk, then?” demanded Peggy Tregear, raising her courage to so address her master. “Is it drunk that what you are, so still and quiet? Is it a drop too much drink that you have taken and fallen asleep there? Shame on you!”
Still there was no movement nor answer.
Hands on hips, the old woman sneered at the man. “A fine thing! Squire Bosanko drunk, and his horse as well. Well, I am as fine a lady as any Bosanko and will not be treated thus. Time was when we Tregears were first among the people of the parish and buried with the other gentry of Pendeen, when the Bosankos had never been heard of.”
If she had hoped her scorn would move the horse and rider, it had no effect at all. They were still silent and immovable.
Angered beyond endurance, the old woman moved forward and gave the animal a mighty smack on the rump.
You can imagine her surprise when her hand met nothing but air, and such was the force of her weight behind the blow that she lost her balance and fell on the road. When she sat up, blinking, she saw that the horse and rider were vanished.
“A curse on Tom Tregher,” she said, scrambling to her feet. “He must be bewitching me.”
She gave a cautious look around in the shadowy moon-lit lane, but could make nothing out. Then she was on her feet and the soles of her shoes were slapping down the lane as fast as she could put one foot before the other. So intent was she on reaching Pendeen that, when she went over the stream at Newbridge, except there was no bridge at all at that place in those days, she did not wait to balance on the crossing stones but went splashing through the stream, so she had water up to her knees and above.
Along the road she went, drenched and sorry for herself as well as exhausted. She kept the stream to her right, for she planned to go through the hills and across the road that led by the old Standing Stone which would take her across Wood Gumpus Common.
She suddenly saw a light on her right hand and recalled that the Tregerest dwelling was there; she thought the light must be shining from the window of the dwelling. Here she could ask if she could dry her clothes and rest for a while. So off she set. She did not know how far she walked because the curious thing was that, the more she hurried towards it, the light always seemed just the same distance away. Then the light went out and left her in darkness.
She was across the hills and knew she must have been hurrying across Boswens Common and away from the main road. There she was, floundering along in boggy land. She was almost in despair. Then the moon came peeking out from behind the dark clouds and before her she saw a pig pen with a little shed for the shelter of the animals. She was so exhausted that she would have welcomed any shelter at all, to sit down and rest and be dry for a while.
Into the little shed she crawled, that she might take an hour’s rest from the cold and damp of the evening. There was some straw inside and she did not take heed of the smell of the pigs. Onto the straw she went and was soon asleep.
Now the pig pen contained a dozen young suckling pigs and these came into the shed and mistook old Peggy Tregear for their dam. They crowded round, pushing her with their snouts, so that there was no way she could rest nor lay nor sit in comfort.
Tired, angry and confused, the old woman crawled out of the pig pen and then paused in surprise.
Not far away she could see a light and it seemed to come from a big barn. She heard the sound of a fust, a flail, being used against wheat. Now she knew that there was only one farm in that area, and that was Boslow’s farm. She wondered what the farmer was doing so late in the evening, threshing corn, but she was more concerned that there was somewhere warm where she might dry and rest herself.
She made for the barn and peered in.
There was a lamp lit there, sure enough. There was the slash-staff, the beating part of the flail, going up and down, beating the wheat. But, heaven preserve her, there was no one holding it. It seemed to be doing it on its own.
She swallowed hard and blinked. Was she going mad? Being of a curious mind, she moved cautiously into the barn. So intent was she, on looking at the flail in action, that she tripped over a sack and measured her length on the ground. She felt that she had landed against something soft.
There was a cry of pain.
The next moment, she found herself looking at a little man, no higher than two feet. His face was long, the eyes great round owl’s eyes, shaded by shaggy eyebrows. His mouth stretched from ear to ear and they were sharp and pointed. His teeth were long and jagged and his skin was a strange green colour.
Now Peggy Tregear was not stupid when it came to knowing the pisky lore.
“This is luck, indeed, for whoever espies a pisky threshing is sure to have a wish granted.”
She sat up and was about to address the little man when she became aware that there were a number of other little people all around her. They were all engaged in threshing the wheat. She could not help but admire how professionally the wheat was cut, stacked and ready for the collection.
There was a tinge of jealousy in her.
How come farmer Boslow had this special treatment from the pisky folk, that they would thresh his corn for him while he stretched in front of his fire and ate his meal in comfort, without having to worry about work? Maybe she could get the piskies to do work for her?
So she climbed to her feet.
“A good evening to you, little folk,” she said.
Suddenly all the lights went out and they vanished. But a handful of chaff dust was thrown into her eyes so that she was nearly blinded. She blinked and rubbed hard. She had forgotten the rule that, in order to speak to the fairy folk, she had to first take one by the hand and hold him, or her, fast.
Then she heard a voice hissing in her ear.
“Ill becomes she who would spy on the pisky at their work.”
She felt suddenly afraid when she remembered that piskies were known to take revenge on any who stumbled across them and had no hold on them.
So she turned and went stumbling from the barn and from Boslow to the roadway, which was now lit with the moonlight. Quick she ran along the lane that led over Wood Gumpus Common. Even today it is a haunted place, with its stone circles, earns and strange earth mounds. Folk still dread to take that haunted lane. Locals will tell you that on such nights, with the full of the moon, the Torpen, which is their name for the Devil himself, rode across those grim moors with his hounds in search of restless spirits that might have strayed from the stone-walled churchyards. The hounds from hell would hunt them down and drag them off to eternal suffering. And, further, they will tell you that the Torpen was not so particular as to wait until your body was dead but would hunt out the souls of the living and drag them off as well.
Old Peggy Tregear was full of fear now as she went slapping her leather-soled way along the lane and hoping to see sight of Higher Boscaswell and the crossroads there, which would bring her down towards Pendeen Watch and the safety of Pendeen House. Ah, Pendeen House! Her mind was full of thoughts of a nice warm fire in her kitchen, of warmth and a comfortable chair and a good bottle of spirits in her hand.
But she seemed to be running for hours. Surely Higher Boscaswell was not so far from Boslow’s farm?
Now she was hurrying along the lane when a curious thing began to happen. She began to hear music, fiddles scraping a merry jig and she felt she had to stop and try a few steps. The music seemed to come from behind some tall trees and there seemed to be a light there and the sound of people laughing, danci
ng and making music. She thought that perhaps there was an encampment of tinkers there. She would see if she could warm herself by their fire for a moment or two before continuing her journey.
She left the road and came behind the trees and what did she see? Among the trees and the rocks was a fair. But such a fair that she had never seen before. It was a pisky fair. Hundreds of small people were crowding around, buying, selling, drinking and dancing and eating. They were all clad in splendid little costumes and most were bedecked with silver and gold and precious jewels. They were dressed like gentry, all very smart. None of them was taller than two feet in height.
She stood quiet as she watched them, especially the dancers as they gathered round the bonfire. There were fiddlers and pipers and drummers and old Peggy never felt more inclined to get up and dance in all her life. The music seemed to have a strange hypnotic effect on her.
Then her eye fell on the stalls of the fair and she realized how beautiful were the objects being bought and sold. She determined that she must have something to take away. She saw a stall with some beautiful jewels which made her feel that she had to have them at any cost. She took a step forward towards the stall and bent down to speak with the stall holder.
As she did so, the little people began to call out in rage and point to her. As she bent to speak with them, half-a-dozen leapt onto her back. They dug their heels in and some prodded her with tiny swords, like pins. Others tripped her so that she fell flat on the ground. They began to leap all over her and she tried to bundle herself up into a ball. They pulled off her shoes, and dug their little swords into the soles of her feet and she went almost mad with their torment.
Fighting them, she rolled and rolled, and cursed them and hit out with her rowan stick. Now the rowan, as we know, has many properties, and it so happened that as she struck out, it hit the head of the king of these piskies. Now piskies are allergic to the rowan and the king screamed and went leaping away. In a moment, the others followed, the fair disappeared and all was deserted.
The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends Page 49
