With the pigs helping him roll rocks down the hill and the crows and the bees feeding him, the walls grew quickly under Baglan’s hands. That night, he slept inside the half-built church, under the sheltering branches of the oak tree.
When he woke the next morning, he cautiously opened his eyes. His heart lifted to see the walls still standing strong. It took him three days to finish the church and when it was done, it looked a little odd, but Baglan was pleased with his work.
He had left the doorframe empty so the pigs could come and go as they pleased. He’d left the window frame open as well, so the bees and the crows could fly in and out. And the only roof on Baglan’s church was the wide, sheltering branches of the old oak tree.
For many hundreds of years, Baglan’s church stood on that hillside in Wales, a welcoming place for all God’s creatures.
NOTES: Celtic forms of Christianity are known for their respect for nature, as this story demonstrates. This story comes to us from the seventh century CE, when Christianity had only recently arrived in the British Isles and there were very few churches around. Many chapels and churches in Britain were built on pre-existing sacred Celtic sites. This would usually be near a well. People used to visit the wells to drink the water because they believed that the water would cure them of various illnesses, such as asthma, skin problems or kidney stones. When they arrived at the healing well, it was customary to leave an offering to the spirit of the well. The most common offering was a piece of cloth, rag or thread. This was tied in the branches of the nearby trees and bushes. Sometimes the name of a person that needed the cure and their illness was written on the cloth. The rags were called cloots, and the wells and trees were called clootie wells and clootie trees.
During the Middle Ages, after the Protestant Reformation, the Church in Scotland tried to stop people from visiting the holy wells. They said it was superstitious nonsense, but people kept on making their pilgrimages right through the sixteenth, seventeenth and even eighteenth centuries. There are still many clootie trees around Britain, even today.
The wild boar in this story were eventually hunted to extinction in Britain hundreds of years ago. There have been many attempts to reintroduce them since then, including contemporary efforts.
Finally, Baglan’s church offers an inspiring model for building in a way that includes the needs of all species, not just humans.
19
THE HEDGEHOG AND THE FOX
(IRELAND)
The leaves were turning golden in the trees and Fox felt the wind blowing through his fur. He shivered in the woodlands; summer was fading.
‘Time to find a tasty snack,’ he said to himself and he began to sniff amongst the bracken and the tree roots. A couple of shiny black beetles ran for cover and a field mouse scurried quickly down her hole, as Fox’s nose sniffed and snuffled through the undergrowth.
Suddenly, Fox caught the scent of something warm and furry. His eyes followed his nose to a small round creature, which was scuttling across the woodland carpet of twigs and leaves.
‘Ah-ha!’ exclaimed the hungry fox. ‘Just what I was looking for – a warm-blooded, lunch-sized meal.’
Fox arched his back up into the air and pounced down with all four paws onto the odd creature. The surprised animal squealed in fright and curled its body into a tight ball. Fox let out a howl of pain, as his paws felt the sharp prickles on the animal’s curved back. Fox jumped sideways and shook his sore paws. He glared at the ball of spikes and complained, ‘What did you stick into my paws, you nasty pincushion? Ouch, look my pads are bleeding!’ Fox eyed the strange, spiky thing indignantly and began licking his hurt paws.
A small, muffled voice came from within the ball of spines, ‘Serves you right, you horrid beast! Why did you jump on my back like that?’
‘Well, I’m hungry,’ replied the upset fox, ‘and you look just the right size for a midday snack. I didn’t know you were covered in jaggy prickles.’
‘Of course, I’m covered in prickles. Don’t you know who I am?’ asked the surprised creature.
Fox peered hard at the talking ball and sniffed the air. ‘No, never smelled or seen anything like you before. What are you, an armour-plated rabbit, a spikey-coated squirrel?’
The rolled up beast began to shake with laughter. ‘Ha-ha, no, I’m not any of those. I’m a hedgehog, you silly old stinker.’
Fox was none-the-wiser. ‘But what’s a hedge frog?’
The ball of prickles vibrated with giggles. ‘The cleverest, fastest, most beautiful animal in the whole woodland,’ he declared proudly.
Fox snorted. ‘How could a bundle of spikes be the most beautiful animal? I mean just look at me – I am slender, with sleek red fur, and long, strong legs like a dog. In fact, I am by far the fastest animal around. You could never outrun me hedge-pig, you are too small!’
The hedgehog made a low, grumbling sound from within the tight orb of spikes. ‘How dare you insult me, you chicken thief. I could beat you in a race any day!’
Fox rolled over onto his back and waggled his paws in the air. He barked a long, hysterical laugh, ‘Ha-ha, ho-ho, tee-hee! You are so funny – let me see your legs, pig-hedge – I bet they aren’t even half as long and fast as mine.’
‘I will let you see my legs stink-fox and I will beat you in a race with them, but first you must promise not to eat me.’
Fox grinned, flashing his sharp, white teeth. ‘Okay ground pig, show your face. I promise not to eat you.’
The hedgehog uncurled her soft furry tummy, stretched her pointy black nose forward, and pushed out her strong little paws.
Fox sniffed curiously at the brave little beast in front of him. Then he noticed the hedgehog’s stout legs and he collapsed in a fit of giggles.
‘Oh my, look at your tiny legs! Ha-ha, your feet are like a mouse’s. You only have short, stumpy little things. You could never win a race against me!’
The furious hedgehog spluttered with anger. ‘Oh yes I could, you big-headed fox – I challenge you to a woodland race!’
When Fox had stopped howling with laughter and had dried the tears of mirth from his eyes, he finally managed to speak. ‘Right, you are on shorty. Let’s go – down to the pond, over the hill, around the woods and back to this big ash tree – first one back is the winner.’
‘Just a minute fox-face,’ replied the hedgehog. ‘I don’t want to take advantage of a hungry animal, who hasn’t had his lunch. You go and find something to eat and have a good rest, to get your strength up. You’ll be needing it if you’re going to race me, the cleverest, fastest, prettiest animal in the entire woodland. I’ll meet you back here before sunset, when you are fed and rested, then we can race fairly.’
The fox yelped and laughed at the confident hedgehog. ‘Okay stumpy-legs, but it’s you who needs all the help you can get. You don’t have any chance of beating me!’
As the determined hedgehog set off into the trees to find some food for lunch and a pile of dry leaves for an afternoon nap, Fox collapsed in a fit of giggles.
At sunset, Fox skulked back across the clearing in the woods to the big old ash tree. He was fed and fresh and ready for the race.
Hedgehog ambled through the clumps of grass and wildflowers and sat on a tree root. ‘Are you ready then Fox?’
Fox grinned his pointy-toothed smile. ‘Of course I am, foolish hog – ready to prove my speed and prowess amongst all of the animals who live in theses woods.’ Fox stretched his paws and legs and got ready to run.
Birds had gathered in the trees, ready for bedtime. The owl looked down at the hedgehog and the fox in amusement. In a hooty voice she said, ‘Are you ready runners?’
Each of the two animals nodded and Owl announced, ‘On your marks ... get set ... GO!’
Fox sprang forward onto the path, which led down to the pond. He galloped as fast as his paws would carry him. Hedgehog trotted along behind, chuckling to herself.
Fox sprinted quickly towards the duckweed pond. The long-legge
d heron looked up from her fishing as he skidded to a stop in front of the water.
‘I’ll just have a quick drink here,’ thought the fox. ‘Must stay hydrated when running.’ He smiled to himself and sneaked a look over his shoulder to make sure that Hedgehog was well behind him. ‘Ha, I can’t even see that sad little slowcoach!’ He laughed out loud.
‘But I’m right here fox!’ Hedgehog said, emerging from behind a clump of reeds growing next to the pond. Fox nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw her. Hedgehog continued, ‘I’ve been here for ages, waiting for you to catch up!’
‘But how ... I mean, how could ... goodness me, how did you get here first?’ Fox sat down in shock.
‘Ah well, I told you I was fast didn’t I?’ Hedgehog grinned at Fox and began to trot away towards Standing Stone Hill. ‘Must crack on Foxy, I’ve got a race to win!’
The fox jumped up and bounded over the hedgehog, over the clumps of grass and tangled tree roots, towards the steep, grassy slope of the hill.
Hedgehog smiled.
Fox’s heart was pounding and his tongue lolled out the side of his mouth as he charged as fast as he could to the top of the hill. When he reached the old standing stone on the hill’s summit, he paused, gasping for breath. He turned and peered down the hillside. Surely the hedgehog was down at the bottom of the hill, no way could she have sprinted up the steep slope as fast as he had. He saw no sign of the bundle of prickles and spikes.
‘Phew ...’ panted Fox, ‘at last I’m in the lead.’
‘That’s what you think!’ snorted the hedgehog from the ancient, upright stone. ‘I’ve been sitting here for at least five minutes, admiring the beautiful sunset. Look, isn’t it pretty?’
Fox was flabbergasted.
‘How on earth did you get here first?’ He spluttered.
‘Oh, just my natural speed and stamina, young whippersnapper!’ Hedgehog laughed.
Fox didn’t have time to get his breath back. He staggered onto his paws and tripped and stumbled all the way back down the hill and into the woods. He didn’t look over his shoulder, in case he saw the super-speedy hedgehog behind him. Fox was slowing down; he hardly had any energy left. His legs felt like jelly and he was panting so hard, he felt as if his heart would burst.
‘Must run ... must beat the hedgehog...’ was all the silly fox could think about. At last, he saw the clearing with the ash tree in front of him.
‘Nearly there.’ He gasped for air. ‘I can do it...’
Fox tripped over a fallen branch and skidded face-first into the tree. He lay, panting, on the ground, unable to speak, heart beating like a drum. A small black nose and two beady eyes poked out of the ash tree’s roots,
‘Hi fox, what kept you?’ It was a calm and collected hedgehog!
Fox couldn’t speak, he just gawped, open-mouthed at the super-sonic, fastest hedgehog in the woodland – on the planet!
Finally Fox managed to stutter, ‘ You won! You ... y’you ... ARE the fastest creature alive!’
Hedgehog smiled and winked at the exhausted fox. ‘Yes, that’s right. And let that be a lesson to you Fox – never annoy a hedgehog again. You never know how they might beat you next time.’
Eventually, the fox dragged himself away to his den, to recover from the race and his humiliation. When Fox was gone, the hedgehog and all her friends and hedgehog family –sisters, brothers, aunties, uncles and cousins – came out of their hiding places. The hedgehogs enjoyed their celebration well into the night – after all, it wasn’t everyday they got to outwit, or outrun a fox!
NOTES: This story works equally well, indoors and outdoors, with prop animals or without props. You can use the natural features of the local area/landscape the story is being told in, as features in the race. The story can even be told as an actual running race with your audience if you are in the right location. Hide toy hedgehogs, or pictures, along the route for the audience to find. You can describe each animal before showing your toy/puppets, or naming the creatures in the story, allowing your audience to guess who they are first. It’s a great tale to tell to an audience of mixed age groups.
20
THE BEEKEEPER AND THE HARE
(SCOTLAND)
Once upon a time, there was a young beekeeper who lived in a small, flower-covered, stone cottage on the outskirts of a bonnie wee village. Everyone liked him; he was a kind and generous man. Everyone liked his bees; they kept the trees in fruit, the bushes covered in berries and they helped the vegetables grow on the vine. The honey from the beekeeper’s hives sweetened the villagers’ morning tea and the beeswax formed the candles that lit their long winter nights.
Some of the young lasses of the village liked the beekeeper so well, they held onto the hope of one day becoming mistress of that small flower-covered cottage. But when these lasses came to visit, the beekeeper would send them away with a hunk of honeycomb and a kind word, but a firm word. He was happy living on his own, with his bees, at the edge of the village.
The beekeeper loved his bees. He talked to them, and they listened. If he told them to go and pollinate the apple trees, then off they would fly to the orchard. If he told them to go and pollinate the beans, then off they would fly to that garden. When he cleaned the hive or harvested the honey, he never used a smoker, nor did he wear a netted hat, and never once did they sting him.
On the day that this particular story begins, the beekeeper was out tending his hives, when he heard a commotion in the field across the road. He looked over just in time to see a large hare bounding towards him, chased by two slavering hounds. He flung open his gate. The hare dashed through and leapt into his arms. He could feel her heartbeat drumming against his own chest. Snarling, the hounds jumped at her heels. In a panic, the beekeeper called to his bees. They swarmed out of their hives and flew buzzing at the hounds. The hounds, stung and terrified, turned tail, running back across the road and disappearing into the distance.
The hare shivered. The beekeeper stroked her long silky brown ears and murmured soothingly. She gazed up at him with piercing blue eyes.
Blue eyes? Hares were not uncommon in those parts and the beekeeper had seen many before, but never had he seen or even heard of a hare with blue eyes.
He carried her over to his hives. ‘Have you ever seen a blue-eyed hare?’ he asked the bees.
They buzzed gently around her head. She regarded them placidly.
‘I agree,’ replied the beekeeper, ‘this hare is special.’
The hare wriggled in his arms, so he put her down. She hopped over to the door of his cottage and looked back at him. Laughing, he opened the door for her. She hopped right in and onto the chair next to the table.
‘You’re hungry, are you?’ he asked.
He found her some carrots and lettuce in the pantry, and as it was teatime, he set about preparing his own meal. After dinner, he sat in his favourite armchair next to the fireplace and she clambered up onto his lap. She leaned her head against his chest, her soft ears coming to rest against his cheek. He sighed with a contentment he’d never felt before.
Some days later, the beekeeper was out in the garden with the hare tucked under his arm, as had become his habit, when an old woman came to the gate.
‘What can I get you?’ he asked, thinking she wanted to purchase some honey.
‘How much for that hare?’ she barked, stretching out a twisted, bony finger.
‘The hare is not for sale,’ said the beekeeper.
‘Nonsense,’ said the old woman, ‘everything is for sale. It’s just a matter of price.’ She pulled a large gold coin out of her purse. ‘This is more money than you’ll see in a year,’ she said, smiling a twisted smile. ‘Hand over that hare and it’s yours.’
‘As I told you, this hare is not for sale,’ said the beekeeper.
The bees, sensing his anger, flew buzzing out of the hive. They swarmed towards the old woman, forcing her to take one step back and then another and another.
‘That hare belongs to
me. Next time I come for her, I’ll not be so generous,’ she said, turning on her heel and marching back down the road as fast as her feet would carry her.
At the market that week, the beekeeper asked the apple farmer and the bean farmer if they knew anything about the angry old woman. Neither of them had seen the woman, but from his description they worried that she might be a witch, someone who uses magic for their own personal gain. They warned the beekeeper that a witch’s powers would be at their height on Hallowe’en and that he’d better take care. But Hallowe’en was a long way off and the beekeeper was busy enjoying his new life with his beautiful, blue-eyed hare. He didn’t want to waste his time worrying about the old woman, so he put her out of his mind, at least for a while.
All too soon, the days began to draw in and the cold winds returned. With the flowers gone, the bees retreated into their hives, using their bodies to keep it warm and conserving their stores of honey. On a cold, bleak, October morning, the beekeeper woke up in a sweat, remembering his friends’ warning. Hallowe’en was just a few days away.
At the market that day, he asked his friends what he should do. He’d grown very fond of the hare and the thought of the old woman getting her crooked hands on her filled him with dread.
‘If you do not want to lose her, you must take hold of her and not let her go, no matter what happens,’ said one.
‘No matter what,’ agreed the other.
As dusk fell on Hallowe’en, the young beekeeper brought the hare inside the cottage and closed and barred the door. He lit a candle, placed it on the table and sat down in front of it. The hare did what she did every night, she leapt into his lap, laid her head against his chest and gazed up at him with her deep blue eyes. He stroked her long ears and waited as night descended.
The hare began to twitch. He tightened his grip on her. She wriggled and kicked, her eyes wide with some unseen fright. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close.
Dancing with Trees Page 11
