Most of Jack’s neighbours thought he’d got that about right, because the Devil’s own is what they’d called him many a time when they found something had walked from their cottage or garden into his. But in any case, they knew all about old Piercy Shonkey, for hadn’t they actually seen the place in the wall of Brent Pelham Church, where he was buried? In the north wall it is, an altar tomb with carvings on it. There’s Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, in the forms of an angel, an eagle, a lion and a bull, all with wings so as to be able to carry his soul to heaven, and out of the Devil’s clutches. And there is the dragon too, that he killed, with a cross shoved down its throat like a spear.
This Piers Shonkes, it seems, once lived in a house near the village – a big house, it was, with a moat, such as you might expect a knight to own. A brave man, by all accounts, was Shonkes, ever ready to set out adventuring against any sort of danger, specially from such queer cattle as dragons and wyverns and serpents and the like. A great hunter he was, too, who could often be seen setting out on the chase with his groom and his three favourite hounds behind him.
One day, so the story goes, he set off hunting from his moated grange, but had got no farther away from the village than Great Pepsells field when he heard such a roaring and a growling, and smelt such a nose-stinging smell of fire and brimstone, that he loosened his sword and grabbed his spear and turned round to face whatever danger there might be. And then he saw it. He had disturbed the biggest dragon he’d ever dreamt of from its sleep in its lair under a great big yew tree in the corner of the field.
It was a most ferocious beast, yards long and broad in proportion. It was covered all over with great horny scales as big as saucers, all coloured green like festering scabs, except under its belly where they turned to a sickly yellowish white. Its great lashing tail had a black stripe running all the way down it, and ended in a black horny tip. It had short legs and huge feet with spurs and talons that could rip a bullock in two as easy as you could halve a sprat, and a pair of ribbed wings that could knock you flat with one blow, though it was never actually seen flying with them. As for its head, it was enough to turn your bowels to water just to look at it! Its muzzle was long and raw-boned, under the horrible scales. On the top of its crown were two knobs, like a calf’s when its horns begin to grow, only a lot bigger, and its eyes stood out from its head like chapel hat-pegs, and flared orange and blue like a torch on a frosty night. When it opened its mouth its teeth were fanged and yellow, set far apart and jagged, like those on a rusty old saw. Its noseholes were like little black caves with flames and smoke belching out of them, and its tongue was forked like a snake’s, in and out like a fiddler’s elbow, and spitting poison like a fountain in a circle a yard or more all round it.
Even Piers Shonkes took a step or two backwards, and said his prayers at the sight of it. His groom turned and fled with the three hounds after him, their heads down and their tails between their legs. But Piers gathered his courage together and clutched his lance tight, and faced the beast with his weapons all at the ready. He needed them, too – there’s no doubt about that. The dragon reared on its hind legs and roared so loud that the knight’s head thrummed and tingled with the vibration of it, so that it half-stupefied him; and when he lunged to stab the beast on its soft underbelly, it leaned forward, brushed his lance sideways as if it had been a straw, and spat reeking red hot slime at him. Wherever the poison touched the iron of his mail, it turned a brilliant purple, and dribbled down on his feet in sticky blobs like cooling tar.
Then while Piers was recovering his grip on his lance, the dragon spun round and tried to knock him over with its tail; but he was wary of it this time, and jumped over the tail before the horny spike could touch him. He tried to thrust his spear into the back of the dragon’s neck, but it bounced straight off the leathery scales, and hurt his hand with the force of the jar. Well, the fight went on for hours, according to all accounts, till both of them were covered with blood and filth; but at last Shonkes got the chance he’d been waiting for, and as the dragon reared and roared at him, pawing the air with its front feet while it sat back on its tail, he shoved his spear as far down its throat as ever he could, till he couldn’t pull it out again, try as he might. So he leapt backwards and drew his sword and dagger, one in each hand, in case they were needed. But they weren’t. That old dragon had met its match at last, and it gradually sank down to the ground in a threshing fury, with blood and vitriol pouring out of its mouth, till at last it lay still at his feet.
‘That’s settled you,’ said Piers with a bit of a prayer of thanks that he’d escaped with his life once again; and he was just debating whether he should bother to cut its head off, when the smell of brimstone grew worse than ever it had been from the living dragon, and looking up, Piers could see why. Standing over that dragon’s corpse was Old Nick his very self, tail, horns, cloven hoofs and all. And was he in a temper! It seems that this dragon had been one of his very own, a special favourite that he treated like a pet, and kept for special jobs of frightening and laying waste bits of country he didn’t like.
Shonkes crossed himself, but he didn’t budge, while the Devil shook his fists and stamped his cloven feet, and growled and wailed and roared vengeance for the death of his favourite dragon.
‘I’ll have your immortal soul for this. Piers Shonkes,’ he yelled. ‘When your time comes, you shan’t cheat me!’ Be your body buried inside or out of a church, it shan’t save your soul, that I swear. Live as long as you may, you’ll find me waiting! And eternal damnation to you for slaying of my pet!’
Then Old Nick took himself off, and Piers Shonkes went home to have a swill down and a meal and a rest. He didn’t care much for what he’d heard from Old Nick, and though he hadn’t given a lot of thought to his latter end, before now, he considered that he’d better make what preparations he could in good time, so as to get the better of the Devil in the end.
But it seems he lived on for quite a while, always busy with adventures of one sort of another, till at last he died at home in his bed of nothing more than old age and too many trips to the ale barrel.
It was then that his family found he’d left careful instructions where he was to be buried.
‘Inside or out of a church, I’ll get you,’ the Devil had said. So Piers had left orders for his body to be laid to rest in the north wall of Pelham Church, half in, and half out of the church. And that way, they say, he saved himself from the bottomless pit and Old Nick’s torments. But his soul, like that of all good Christians, was wafted up to heaven on the wings of angels, while the Devil was left biting his nails and grinding his teeth with temper at being done out of his vengeance after all.
The Laidley Worm of Spindlestone Heugh
A tale best known in its ballad form, from which one or two verses are given in this prose retelling.
King Ida of Northumbria was old and lonely, for his wife was dead and his children growing up into as handsome a youth and as fair a maid as lived in the seven kingdoms. Kings are only human, however, and in his dotage Ida fell under the spell of a woman who was beautiful, but evil. In fact, she was a witch, and the leader of a powerful coven, but this Ida did not know, or even suspect. She worked her womanly wiles upon him, and before long she was his queen, ruling at his side in Bamburgh Castle.
Alas for the children of a wicked, clever, jealous stepmother! Life in the castle soon became unbearable for Ida’s son, Childe Wynd, and sensing danger from his father’s wife, the brave youth slipped secretly away and went over the sea to seek his fortune. Then his sister was left entirely at the mercy of the evil queen, and it was not long before the girl had disappeared completely from the castle.
Time went on, and tales began to go round of the advent of a terrible dragon (or worm) which was laying waste the countryside. It was, so eyewitnesses said, like a huge snake of such bigness that the senses could hardly take it in, so stupefied were they by the horror of it; for apart from its size, its appearance was loathsome in the extreme. It live
d in a cave, in front of which was a natural hollow in the stones, which it used as a drinking bowl; and to keep it from devouring cattle, sheep, children and the odd wayfarer when it set out on its hunting forays, the people of the district filled the hollow twice every day with the new milk drawn from seven milking cows – but all in vain. The dragon still left the cave and sowed the seeds of terror all around, both for life and property.
Word went east, and word went west,
Word is gone over the sea,
That a laidley worm in Spindlestone Heugh
Would ruin the North Countree.
Word had indeed gone over the sea, and in due course it reached the ears of Childe Wynd, who was now a fully grown man toughened by hardship and experience. He had also heard of his lovely sister’s disappearance, and of the many other ills and humiliations his aged father was enduring at the hands of his wicked young wife. Childe Wynd had no doubt at all that the trials and troubles of his homeland were due to his stepmother’s alliance with the Devil, and her power in consequence, as a witch. If he were to return and rid his native countryside of the loathsome dragon, he must somehow combat the witchcraft which would otherwise prevent him.
Childe Wynd was northern born, of course, and as all northern people know, witches lose their power where there is ‘witchwood’, the wood of the beautiful rowan tree. So he made his plans accordingly, and had a ship fitted with new masts made entirely of rowan wood. Then he hoisted sails ‘of fluttering silk so fine’, and bore down upon his native coast with the intention of ridding it of the dragon, and finding his sister.
The queen, skilled in necromancy, was soon aware of his approach. She chose seven of her most experienced witch-wives, and sent them to sea in cockle-shell boats to raise wind and storm of such ferocity that his ship should be wrecked before he could land. Never before had they failed; but do what they might, their spells were futile against the protection of the rowan-tree masts. Childe Wynd’s little ship sailed on and on, until the seven hags had blown themselves breathless and they were forced to return defeated to the queen. She was furious, and dismissed them. Then she decided to use force, and conjured up a vessel full of armed men, who waited to attack when Childe Wynd should begin to come inshore; but again the charm of the rowan wood held, and they were powerless to harm the returning traveller.
He landed safe on Budle Sands, and disembarking his horse, put on his panoply of war and spurred towards Spindlestone Heugh, where he had been told the dragon dwelt.
Into the wild and rugged spot he rode. To the west, in front of him, rose the lordly Cheviot hills, and to the north, on his right hand, lay bare and desolate reaches of sand. To his left was the moor, with a great pillar of whinstone standing solitary upon it – the Spindlestone that gave the place its name, and there, too, was the cave, with the deep hollow in front of it, in which the great worm dwelt.
Leaping from his horse, Childe Wynd tethered it fast by the bridle to the Spindlestone. Then drawing his sword and uttering a prayer, he boldly approached the entrance of the cave, calling and rattling his sword to draw the attention of the beast to his presence.
His blood ran cold with horror as the loathsome head appeared, and the monstrous body, covered in slime and scales, came into sight. More and more and more of it was slowly revealed, and every length seemed more foul and filthy than the last. The horse, tied to the Spindlestone, began to rear and kick and neigh in panic, but Childe Wynd stood his ground, waiting for a chance to strike. When at last the whole vile length of the beast was revealed, he rushed forward to strike with all his might at the huge, ugly head. The worm moved swiftly, and turned its head aside, so that he missed entirely; and understanding his danger, he strove to recover his balance before the dragon itself should attack. Curiously, it showed no signs of attempting to. Instead, it began to retreat with its body into the cave, weaving from side to side, and as huge tears ran from its red-rimmed eyes, it laid its great ugly head down at his feet, as if imploring a boon from him rather than a blow. He had raised his sword arm to strike again when the worm’s strange behaviour made him arrest the blow as the awful truth came to him. The dragon was none other than his beloved sister, put under a spell by their evil stepmother!
He sheathed his sword, unbent his bow
And gave her kisses three.
She crept into the hole, a worm.
And stepped out a ladye.
Great were the rejoicings of brother and sister as they caressed each other and told of all that had happened since they parted long ago. Then he wrapped her in his knightly cloak, and put her on his horse, turning towards King Ida’s castle while making plans as to what they should do when they got there. Passing a holy well, Childe Wynd took from it some water, and went on.
In Bamburgh castle the faithless queen grew pale as she watched their approach. But her power had deserted her, and there was now no spell she could work to prevent them coming. In wrath and contempt the knight strode in, and commanded her presence before him. He warned her to expect no mercy, and as she trembled and shook in fear, he cast upon her three drops of water from the holy well. In the twinkling of an eye, the wicked queen had gone, and on the flags before Wynd and his sister was a huge, scaly toad of enormous size, that hopped away and out of the castle before Childe Wynd and his beautiful sister were reunited with King Ida, and celebrations at such a happy outcome for everybody were put in train. But
The Virgins all of Bamburgh-town
Will swear that they have seen
A spiteful toad of monstrous size.
While walking on the green.
And as for the Spindlestone, to which Childe Wynd tethered his horse, that is there to be seen to this day.
Mathey Trewella
The fact that this collection contains only one mermaid story is no indication that such tales are rare. Several of the best of them come, as does this one, from the legend-land of the West Country, but perhaps no other would have stood up to the test of being placed alongside such a gem of its kind as ‘Mathey Trewella’.
It was on a bright Sunday morning, backalong the ages, that the fisherfolk of Zennor first saw her. She slipped into the church just as the priest began to say the mass, and knelt behind them, but there were few who did not turn and peep and wonder who the beautiful stranger could be. Then they heard her silvery tones as she joined in the responses, and its bell-like purity in the singing shamed their own rough voices almost to a whisper.
When mass came to an end, she stood up to leave, and they almost gasped in admiration at her grace and beauty. While the womenfolk knotted their kerchiefs they eyed the shimmering blue-green of her clothes with wistful longing; but it was yearning of a very different kind that stirred in the breasts of the men. From the oldest to the youngest, it was as though she drew their hearts out of them towards her, and bade them follow their hearts. They stood transfixed gazing after her till she was lost to sight and they had no choice but to look again on the homely comeliness of their own women.
There was much talk as they drifted homewards inquiring of each other who she could be, and in which direction she went from the church.
‘Did ’ee ’ear her voice?’ said young Mathey Trewella, the squire’s son, for the tenth time. ‘Like silver, it was – like a silver bell on a frosty night! Like the tide in the moonlight rippling over the pebbles! Like the holy angels singing, the night that the Lord was born.’
‘Did ’e mark her hair?’ asked John Treganza. ‘Like sunshine on the bracken, it was! Like sand gleaming through a wave running in on the shore. Gold it be, wi’ lights flashing from it, like the cup in parson’s hands when the sun do catch upon it.’
‘Did ’ee see her walk?’ said little Tom Penhalligon. ‘Like a blade o’ grass in the wind on the moors! Like a ripple o’ the sea in a breeze!’ They gazed at each other and sighed, as if bewitched.
It was several weeks before she came again. Young Mathey Trewella sensed her presence behind him, and listened entranced for the
sound of her voice. Of all the singers of Zennor, he was the best, and his heart leapt as if to burst from his throat as in ecstasy he twined his notes with hers, oblivious of the other worshippers all murmuring responses or joining in the singing around them. It was the music of her singing that drew him far more than her beauty, though when he turned to look at her he felt blinded by the glory of her hair and the sea-deep tender blue of her eyes.
When she came for the third time, Mathey could hardly wait for the service to be over, so that he could turn and look full on her; and then he did, still singing, with the last clear note, like a tenor bell, still vibrating in his own throat. It was as if he were sending the music of it across the bowed heads of his neighbours straight towards her where she stood. She looked up to receive it, welcoming, and smiled back in his direction.
Mathey’s heart seemed to stop, and then lift again to beat as it had never done before, sending the hot blood tingling through him from fingertips to toes. She dropped her lovely head with the alluring smile still on her lips, and turning, slowly made towards the door. Mathey felt himself being drawn to follow her, walking dazedly out into the sunshine, then on to the path that led towards the cliffs. In vain his parents and his friends called to him to come back; in vain the priest raised his voice, and commanded him to return. In vain John Treganza and Tom Penhalligon sought courage from within themselves to go with him. There was such strange purpose in his tread that all knew interference would be of no avail. They envied even while they feared for him, and watched in growing wonder as the two figures grew smaller on the path that led up to the cliffs. Then, suddenly, they were gone.
Hours passed into days, and days into weeks, but still Mathey Trewella did not return. His parents died, his friends were married or lost at sea, but Mathey was seen no more. Soon he began to be forgotten, for even his extraordinary disappearance could be no more than a nine days’ wonder among folk who wring their living from the hardhearted sea. Years passed, but neither the beautiful stranger’s voice nor the fisher-lad’s tenor were ever heard in the church again. It was as though they had never been.
The Book of English Folk Tales Page 37
