As the babies were taken from their mothers, what do you think happened?
They began to cry. Lambs and kids bleated, foals neighed, chicks peeped, calves mooed, ducklings quacked and babies wailed.
High up in the sky, hidden inside the cloud, the dragon heard the growing din. He considered himself to be the most terrifying beast in the world. Yet, in all his long days of murdering and destroying, he had never managed to make anyone sound as miserable as the creatures of this land sounded.
As he listened to the cries, the dragon began to feel afraid. He began to imagine that there must be something larger, more ferocious, and more terrifying than himself down below. He couldn’t think of any other reason why everyone would be making such a fuss. What if that terrifying something came after him? If only he could see what was down there. But he couldn’t see through the cloud to the ground below any better than the people down there could see him.
Slowly, cautiously, the dragon swooped towards the bottom of the cloud. Slowly, cautiously he stuck his head out of the cloud. He couldn’t see anything terrifying, but still the wailing continued. He slipped out a bit further ...
As soon as the dragon’s chest was visible, the warriors hurled their spears and the hunters loosed their arrows. The weapons found their mark and the dragon fell to the ground. As the cloud melted away, people emerged from their houses and began to smile, to sing and to dance again. Their precious forest had been saved.
NOTES: Many cultures have myths about the struggle between a summer god or goddess and a winter one. This particular version comes from Scotland and features two aspects of the Cailleach, a mother-goddess figure found in Scotland and Ireland. Usually Bride (or Brigit) is the maiden version of the Cailleach and Beara her crone aspect. However, in this story, Bride and Beara are sisters competing over who gets to rule the land.
Involve the audience in telling this story by asking them to identify other animals that might have lived in Scotland many hundreds of years ago. Get them to tell you the names we have for the offspring and the mothers of those species. You can also enroll their help in making sound effects. Have everyone in the audience choose an animal to be and then when the baby animals are separated from the mother animals, have audience members make the noise their animal would make when he or she was upset or scared.
This story speaks of seasons out of balance and makes a good introduction to a discussion of climate change. The forest fires can be used to discuss the extreme weather events that are already taking place around the world. That a young girl comes up with the solution relates to the legacy of problems the older generations are leaving to the younger ones, which the world hopes they will solve.
8
ST MUNGO AND THE ROBIN
(SCOTLAND, IRELAND)
Many hundreds of years ago, when Christianity was new to Scotland, there lived a great man, named St Serf. It happened one day that St Serf was out walking along the banks of a wide river when he spied a coracle bobbing on the waves. A young woman, clutching a baby to her chest, struggled to paddle the boat to shore. Seeing the woman’s distress, St Serf waded into the river, grabbed hold of the gunwale of the boat and pulled it safely up onto the pebbly beach.
The woman was the daughter of King Loth. Her father had banished her for having a baby out of wedlock. St Serf took her and her baby in, nicknaming the boy Mungo, which means ‘dear one’.
When he was old enough, Mungo was enrolled at St Serf’s school. Mungo proved to be an excellent student. Whatever task St Serf set for his students, Mungo always did it best. He was the quickest to learn the lessons their master set and he never made an error when he recited them back in class. He excelled at solving problems, untangling every one St Serf gave to them and he sang the clearest in choir, his sweet voice always in perfect pitch. St Serf loved him. His classmates did not.
The other boys were jealous of Mungo and did everything they could to make his life miserable. While he recited lessons, they made faces at him behind St Serf’s back, trying to distract him. But it never seemed to make a difference; he always had the correct answer on the tip of his tongue. So they gave that up.
They teased him, calling him names, playing tricks on him, trying to get him to lose his temper. But he was too calm and good-natured to get mad at them. So they gave that up.
They tried to entice him into making mischief, but he loved St Serf too much to do anything that would upset him. So they gave that up too.
The boys spent all of their spare time trying to figure out how to get Mungo into trouble. Days turned into weeks, they neglected their homework, got into trouble themselves. Until, finally, one of them had an idea. It involved fire.
In those days, making a fire was long and tedious work. First you had to spin a stick really quickly against a piece of wood, until the friction created a spark of heat. You had to catch that spark on a piece of tinder – moss or dried grass. Then blow on that tinder, hoping it would be dry enough to catch. When it did catch, the flame had to be coaxed into setting bigger branches alight and then those had to set fire to a log. In the depths of winter, when all was damp, making a fire could take ages.
To avoid all the bother, a fire was kept lit day and night in the school’s great fireplace. The boys had to take turns tending it. If it went out during the night, the next morning there would be no fire to cook their breakfast porridge, to warm the hall where they studied, or to light the candles for the morning service. If a boy let the fire go out, St Serf would be very angry indeed.
It was Mungo’s turn to wake at midnight and feed the fire. As the chapel bell chimed twelve, he got out of his warm bed and padded down to the Great Hall. Before he even entered the room, he knew something was wrong. The air was damp and chill. No glow lit his way. He grabbed a fresh log from the corner and walked towards the fireplace. There was nothing in it but cold white ash and a half-burnt log. The ash had clumped together, as if someone had poured a jug of water on it. The log looked damp too. But Mungo knew he would be the one blamed for being careless, even though he suspected the other boys of playing a trick on him.
Mungo looked at the dry log he held in his hands. If only he could get the fire lit again. He lay the fresh log on the damp ash and blew on it. Nothing happened. He would have to go outside and get some kindling.
Shivering in his nightshirt, Mungo unlocked and opened the huge oak door of the school. Still in his bare feet, he ran across the frost-hardened ground to the nearest tree, which happened to be a hazel. He twisted off a small branch. It burst into flame. Startled, Mungo almost dropped the burning branch, but he managed to hold on tight.
He scurried back inside and dropped the branch in the great hearth. The logs caught fire immediately. Mungo sprang back just in time to avoid being singed. He built up the fire until it was bright and crackling with life, then he tiptoed back to bed.
The next morning, every single boy was out of bed, dressed, face washed, before the morning bell. They had planned their story, practised their lies. They would all pledge that they had left the fire burning when they had gone to bed. Grinning wickedly at each other, anticipating the trouble that Mungo would be in, they pushed and jostled in their hurry to be the first into the Great Hall. When they saw the cheerful fire waiting for them, they stopped and stared. Mungo passed them on his way to the chapel, carrying a lit taper with which to light the candles for morning service.
In that moment, the boys hated Mungo more than ever before.
St Serf loved all of nature’s creatures. He had a little robin that’d been orphaned as a nestling that would eat breadcrumbs out of his hand. The little black-eyed robin went everywhere with him, even perching on his shoulder when St Serf sang in the church, warbling along to the hymns. St Serf loved that robin almost as much as he loved Mungo.
One morning, the boys lured the robin into the courtyard with some crumbs. They made sure no one was looking and then they pounced on the poor bird, killed him and pulled his head off. Wailing a
nd crying, they carried the dead bird to St Serf.
‘Look what Mungo has done,’ they cried. ‘Have you ever met such a cruel boy?’ A couple of the boys swore to St Serf that they had actually seen Mungo kill the bird.
St Serf went in search of Mungo, the boys trailing after him. They found Mungo, with his nose in a book, studying his lessons. He looked up curiously to see St Serf coming towards him, carrying a small bundle, the other boys trailing behind him, smirking.
As St Serf drew nearer, Mungo realised that the bundle in his hands was a dead robin. ‘Oh, no!’ he exclaimed.
‘Oh no, indeed,’ said St Serf. ‘I loved this robin as much as I loved you, and look how you have repaid me. What punishment can possibly match such a cruel, hideous act?’
Mungo’s cheeks grew red. To be accused unfairly of such a horrible deed was too much even for his good nature. ‘I did not touch that robin,’ said Mungo. ‘I loved that bird as much as you did.’
‘You did kill it,’ said one of the boys. ‘I saw you.’
‘I saw you too,’ piped another one.
Mungo turned to St Serf. ‘I swear, I did not hurt your robin. How can you believe these lies?’
St Serf wanted to believe Mungo, but with all the other boys telling a different story, he couldn’t. ‘Mungo, if you are innocent, you must prove it,’ he said.
Mungo took the robin gently from his teacher’s hands. With tears in his eyes, he placed the bird’s head back on his shoulders. A fat tear rolled down his face and landed on the bird’s severed neck. This was followed by another and another. As Mungo wept and his tears fell on the dead bird, its head became one with its body once more. The feathers on his breast ruffled, as if touched by an unseen wind. He opened his shiny black eyes and gazed up at Mungo, opened his beak and chirped. Mungo gasped in joy, carefully setting the bird back on his feet. The robin fluttered his wings and flew over to land on St Serf’s shoulder, where he immediately began to sing.
The other boys slapped their hands over their ears, crying out in pain. But to Mungo the song sounded more beautiful than any music he had ever heard. This time he wept for joy.
St Serf never doubted Mungo’s word again and the lying boys were severely punished. With St Serf’s help, Mungo went on to do many more brave and fantastic things, becoming himself a saint later in life. But he never forgot the robin, and to the end of his wee life, the robin never forgot Mungo, saving his most beautiful songs for him.
NOTES: St Mungo and his exploits are still celebrated today on the coat of arms for the City of Glasgow, which is accompanied by the following rhyme: ‘There’s the tree that never grew; There’s the bird that never flew; There’s the fish that never swam; There’s the bell than never rang.’
One pathway to coming to care for a species as a whole or even an entire ecosystem is through coming to care for an individual of that species, such as St Serf’s robin. This story can introduce a discussion about caring for wildlife and what to do if you find an injured bird locally.
The other element in this story is fire and heating. We tend to take indoor warmth for granted these days. All we have to do is switch on the central heating. However, as this story demonstrates, lighting a fire and keeping it going used to be much more difficult. This story can introduce a discussion of heating sources, renewables and the importance of insulation. How can we keep the fires burning without hurting the other creatures that dwell on the earth with us?
WATER
9
THE SELKIE BRIDE
(SCOTLAND)
Near the Ayrshire village of Ballantrae, a young fisherman lived in a whitewashed cottage, on the Carrick coast. He took his little boat out every day and brought home a catch of fish to sell at the local pier. It was a good business. Fish merchants bought them and took them to Ayr town where they were sold at the harbour to all the fancy hotels and restaurants.
One evening, as he moored his boat, he spotted a seal lying further out in the bay, on the rocks. The creature was singing its haunting sea song. Fascinated by the seal’s gentle sounds, the lad walked quietly over to get a better look. To his surprise, as he came closer he could see this was no ordinary seal. It was a seal-woman washing her hair in a rock pool, her sealskin lying next to her. The amber glow of the setting sun made her skin shimmer with rose and bronze radiance. Her long brown hair caught golden sunbeams, sparkling around her like a halo. The fisherman was entranced by her beauty.
He knew from the tales of selkies and sea-witches told amongst the old fisher-folk, that if he wanted to meet and get a chance to speak with her, then he must take her sealskin away first, or she would disappear under the water forever.
He waded soundlessly through the last stretch of water up to the rock she was sitting on and grabbed up her furry coat. With this hidden under his arm, he touched her shoulder. The seal woman turned and squealed in fright. She looked desperately for her skin, but the young man kept it out of her view. As he gazed into her soft brown eyes, he gasped, stunned by her beauty.
Quite simply, it was love at first sight. With a trembling voice, he declared his love and asked her to marry him. The seal-woman saw how handsome he was, his eyes shone with honesty and love, and what could she do without her sealskin anyway? She blushed and agreed to be his wife.
Together, they lived in his cottage by the sea, happily enjoying each other’s company. His love for her grew stronger every day and she appreciated her husband’s kindness and thoughtfulness. Sometimes she heard her seal-kin and saw their round, dark heads in the sea, and she longed to know how they all were, but she was contented with her new life, and loved her human well enough.
Until, one morning, she woke from a dream that had disturbed her; she’d dreamed that her sealskin was above the boards, in the roof rafters. All day long, she kept busy with the household chores, trying her best to ignore the thought of her seal-fur being up in the roof. The following night and the next, the same dream of her hidden skin came back to her. By the third morning she was desperate to find out if the dream was true.
As soon as her man went out in his boat, she stood on a stool and felt about in the rafters. Her hand touched soft fur and a shudder of recognition went through her. Fetching it down, she couldn’t resist pulling the thick warm, familiar coat over her shoulders. She was overcome with the urge to go to the sea.
As if the tidal pull was drawing her also, she found herself running to the waters’ edge, wrapped tightly in her old sealskin. The cries of gulls and the sound of waves rhythmically breaking onto rocks filled her ears. Her toes touched the cold salt water and the smell of seaweed engulfed her senses. She slipped effortlessly into the waves. On she swam to find her seal family, deeper and deeper into the dark green sea she plunged, her seal body racing through the water.
The fisherman arrived home that night to an empty cottage. He saw the stool under the open ceiling boards, and knew instantly that he’d lost his beautiful selkie wife back to the sea and the seals. All night he walked up and down the coast, calling her name and listening to the sound of seals singing a song of joy far out at sea.
For a month the heartbroken husband walked day and night, calling out to his lost wife along the beaches of the Carrick shore. On the last Sunday of the month, he stumbled upon an empty seal-fur draped over a rock. Putting it on, he felt an unstoppable urge to swim in the clear green water. Down he plunged into the depths, to the land where his wife and her seal-kin lived.
The gentle seals accepted their new son-in-law with kindness. When he and his sweetheart were reunited, she felt the overwhelming love he had for her and agreed to come back up onto land and live as a human again.
They enjoyed life together above the sea, and as the years rolled on, their house was filled with their bonnie children. Bringing up the family kept them busy and the selkie-woman had little time to think of her other family below the waves. But one night the dream of her sealskin came back to her. Three nights in a row, she dreamed of swimming in her seal-coat
, deep beneath the waters. This time she found her fur in the thatch. The same compelling need to be in the water pulled her back to the sea. She knew that her love for her man and children was the greatest in her life, but she could not deny the overwhelming longing of her soul to be with the seals. She swam again, back into the sea as her real self, a seal.
Her husband searched for her each day and night. He was rewarded. Every Sunday for six weeks, he found a new empty sealskin left on the rocks: one for him and each of their five children.
When the fisherman and four of his bairns could wait no longer to be reunited with their seal-mother, they put on their skins and joined her in the mer-country of the seals. The oldest son, however, had left home some time before to look for work on the land. He had never wanted to be a fisherman. Instead, he had found a job on a farm in the hills behind Ballantrae. Here was his heart’s desire: ploughing and sowing the dark, earthy soil, waiting to reap the rich golden harvest of corn from the land. From this farm, he could see the sealskin left on the rocks for him. He watched the tides come up and wash over it, the sun bleach it, and the wind tatter it, until one day it floated away in ragged pieces. Only then did he feel free of his ties to his family and the sea. Now, his own independent life as a farmer could truly begin.
Soon enough he married his sweetheart, a dairymaid, and together they had a family of their own. Often he would tell them stories of their seal grandparents and aunts and uncles. Of course they never believed his stories and laughed merrily at the idea of having seal relations. But he kept a special eye on all of his children whenever they played on the beach close to the rocks, where their seal-cousins frolicked in the salty foam.
Dancing with Trees Page 6
