A Bag of Moonshine

by Alan Garner

  “Oh!” shouts Cocky-keeko:

  “Cocky-keeko, Cocky-keeko!

  The fox has got Cocky-keeko!

  He’ll take him through dark woods,

  And over rocky hills,

  And salty water,

  And into foreign parts!

  Cocky-keeko!”

  But the old man was working too far distant for the cat to hear.

  So the fox stopped behind the woodshed. “Quietness is best,” he said, as he bit the head off Cocky-keeko; and he granched him up, bones and all, leaving the tail feathers for the wind to blow.

  “Eh dear,” said the old man. “There’s some just won’t be told.”

  Jack Hannaford and the Gold to Paradise

  There was an old soldier who’d been to the wars; and when he came back he hadn’t a penny to his name. He set off on the tramp, and he went begging up and down, till he came to a farm one day.

  Now at this farm there was living a farmer and his wife; and she’d been a widow before that. This woman, she was born a fool, and she was wearing out her second husband as fast as she’d worn the first with her stupid ways.

  The day we’re talking of, the farmer had gone off to market early, and before he went, he’d said to his wife, “Here’s ten pound in gold. You see as you take good care of it while I get back from market.” Then off he’d gone.

  The wife said to herself, “I know a place for ten pound.” And she wrapped the gold in a piece of rag and shoved it up the chimney. “It’ll be safe there,” she said.

  That was when Jack Hannaford, the old soldier, came knocking at the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Jack Hannaford.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Paradise.”

  “From Paradise? Then maybe you’ve seen my other husband!”

  “Oh, I have.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Pretty fair: not too bad. He’s a cobbler now, you know, and all he’s getting to eat is cabbage.”

  “How’s that?”

  “It’s what he can afford.”

  “Did he not give you a message?”

  “He did, missis. He says can you let him have a few shillings to buy leather with? Leather’s scarce there, you see, and without the leather he’s got no work; and that’s why he’s eating so poorly.”

  “Bless his soul! Of course I can!” And she reached up into the chimney and pulled out the ten pounds. “You give him this,” she said. “And he’s to buy all the leather he needs, tell him, and he can send me back what’s left.”

  “I must love you and leave you, missis,” said Jack Hannaford. “I’m a long way from Paradise, and it gets dark early round here. I’d best be doing.” And off Jack Hannaford went with the money.

  Sooner or later, the farmer came back from the market.

  “Have you got that ten pound safe?” he said.

  “It’s safe enough,” said the woman. “I’ve lent it to my other husband to buy leather with for cobbling shoes in Paradise,” she said. “There was ever such a nice man here just now, and he said he’d take the ten pound to Paradise and give it him.”

  “Give it him? I’ll give it you!” said the farmer. “You blob-tongue! You’ve as much wit as three folk, you have: two fools and a madman!”

  “And if I have,” she said, “more fool you for leaving the money with me, you nazzy crow!”

  The farmer got back on his horse and rode after Jack Hannaford.

  But Jack Hannaford heard the horse coming, and he lay down quick by the hedgeside, on his back, one hand shading his eyes, and pointing at the sky with the other.

  Up galloped the farmer, all of a dither-a-wack, like a new-baked custard; but he was forced to stop when he saw the picture Jack Hannaford was making.

  “What are you playing at down there?”

  “By the cringe, master! But I’ve seen a rare sight!”

  “What have you seen?”

  “A man going straight up into the sky, same as if he was on a road; and he’s carrying something in a bit of rag!”

  “Can you still see him?”

  “I should say so!”

  “Where is he?”

  “You get down here, master, and you’ll see for yourself!”

  The farmer got down from his horse, and he lay on his back in the road, skenning up at the sky.

  “I can’t see him,” he said.

  “Just you keep looking,” said Jack Hannaford, “and before very long you’ll see a man moving away from you as fast as he can go.”

  And he did, too! He saw Jack Hannaford jumping up on the horse’s back and riding off with both horse and gold!

  The farmer, he had to walk home.

  “You great gawpsheet!” said his wife. “What did I tell you? You’re the big fool, not me! I’ve done only one daft thing: and now you’ve gone and done two!”

  And there wasn’t a lot he could say at her, after that.

  Todlowery

  An old man and an old woman lived in an old house. One day, as he was eating his beans, a bean dropped out of the old man’s spoon and rolled into a crack in the floor; and it began to grow. It grew and it grew. It grew till it reached the sky.

  The old man said, “Whatever next?” And he started off up the beanstalk to the sky. When he got to the top, he looked all around him, and he said, “I’ll fetch the old woman up to see this lot. It will suit her a treat.”

  He climbed back down to the ground, and he put the old woman in a bag, and the bag between his teeth, and he climbed up again.

  As he climbed, the old woman said, “Are we there, yet?” But the old man said nothing, and went on climbing. “Are we there, yet?” said the old woman a while later. The old man said nothing, and went on climbing. The old woman waited; and then she said, “Man, are we there, yet?” “Hush,” he said. “You’re an unpatient woman.” But at that the bag slipped between the old man’s teeth and tell all the way down to the ground, and the old woman was killed dead.

  Well, the old man had to set about burying the old woman then; and the first thing he had to do was to find a mourner for the funeral. So he put three pair of white chickens in the bag the old woman had been in, and he went out to look for a mourner.

  He met a bear. “Bear,” he said, “can you be a mourner for the old woman? I’ll give two white chickens, if you can.”

  “Oh, I can,” said the bear.

  “Let’s hear you.”

  “Oh, granny!” said the bear. “How I mourn for you!”

  “That won’t do,” said the old man; and he went on his way till he met a wolf. “Wolf,” said the old man, “can you be a mourner for the old woman? I’ll give two white chickens, if you can.”

  “Oh, I can,” said the wolf.

  “Let’s hear you.”

  “Oh, granny!” said the wolf. “How I mourn for you!”

  “That won’t do,” said the old man; and he went on his way till he met Todlowery the fox. “Todlowery,” said the old man, “can you be a mourner for the old woman? I’ll give two white chickens, if you can.”

  “Oh, I can,” said Todlowery.

  “Let’s hear you.”

  So Todlowery started to cry, and he rubbed his eyes with his paws, and he sang:

  “Turu, Turu, ma! Turu!

  The old man’s done for you!

  Turu! Turu, ma! Turu!”

  “That’s grand,” said the old man. “Here’s two chickens. Now, for another two, just let me hear the fine words again.”

  So Todlowery wept, and sang again:

  “Turu, Turu, ma! Turu!

  The old man’s done for you!

  Turu! Turu, ma! Turu!

  “Here’s two chickens,” said the old man. “Now let’s hear it again.”

  So Todlowery wept, and sang again, and the old man gave him two chickens, and he asked Todlowery to sing yet again; and Todlowery wept and sang a fourth time. But then the old man saw that he had no more chickens in his bag.

>   “I’ve left the pair at home,” he said. “Will you come with me?”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Todlowery. So they went together to the old man’s house, and the old man took the bag, and put in a pair of dogs, and covered them with six white chickens, and gave the bag to Todlowery.

  Todlowery took the bag and ran off with it. He just came to a tree stump, and he sat down. “I could just eat two white chickens,” he said. So he did. He went on, and he came to another stump, and he sat down and ate two more white chickens. At a third stump, he ate a third pair. And at a fourth stump, he sat down and said, “One more pair will do me fine.” He opened the bag; and out jumped the old man’s dogs, barking.

  Todlowery ran. And he ran. He ran and he ran. He ran till he could run no more. Then he hid under a log; and Todlowery said:

  “Little ears, little ears, what do you do?”

  “We listen, we listen, lest the dogs eat the fox.”

  “Little eyes, little eyes, what do you do?”

  “We watch, we watch, lest the dogs eat the fox.”

  “Little legs, little legs, what do you do?”

  “We run, we run, lest the dogs eat the fox.”

  “Little tail, little tail, what do you do?”

  “I tangle brush, briar and wood, so the dogs catch the fox.”

  “Oh, wicked tail!” said Todlowery. “If that be so, here, dogs! Eat it!

  And Todlowery stuck out his tail from under the log; and the dogs grabbed it, and pulled out the fox, and ate him. And that was the end of Todlowery.

  Johnny Whopstraw and the Hare

  Johnny Whopstraw was out walking one fine day when he spied a hare sitting under a bush on a common. He thought: What luck! Here’s me; and I’ll catch this hare, and I’ll kill him with a whip, and then I’ll sell him for half-a-crown. With that money, I can get a young sow, I reckon; and I’ll feed her up on scraps, and she’ll bring me twelve piglets.

  The piglets, when they’re grown, they’ll have twelve piglets each. And when they’re grown, I’ll slaughter the lot of them; and that’ll bring me a barn-load of pork.

  I’ll sell the pork, and I’ll buy a little house for my mother to live in; and then I can get married myself.

  I’ll marry a farmer’s daughter; and she’ll fetch the farm with her. We’ll have two sons; and I’ll work them hard and pay them little. They’ll be that whacked, they’ll oversleep in the morning, and I’ll have to give them a shout to rouse them. “Get up, you lazy beggars!’ I’ll say. “The cows want milking!”

  But Johnny Whopstraw had fallen so in love with his big ideas that he really did shout, “Get up, you lazy beggars! The cows want milking!”

  And that hare, it took fright at the row he was making, and it ran off across the common; and he never did catch it; and his money, pigs, house, wife, farm and children were lost, all because of that.

  Belenay of the Lake

  Let’s see if I can remember it all as it was told to me.

  Once long ago, in the golden holiness of a night, that will never be again and never will come back, there was, old time, a young man called Hewin, and he lived with his mother on a farm by the side of a lake.

  Young Hewin looked out, this night that I’m telling you, and he saw a woman; she was on the water, sitting, she was, and combing her long yellow hair in the moonlight.

  He went to the shore of the lake, Hewin, and he said to her, “Beautiful girl, come here! Oh, you beauty!” He felt in his pocket for something to give her, but all he’d got was an old crust of bread. That will have to do, he thought; so he held it out to her.

  But she went on combing her yellow hair, and she said to him:

  “Hard is your bread,

  And not easy to win me.”

  Then she went; she vanished; she was gone.

  Well, Hewin went back to the house and told his mother. “Mam,” he says, “the crust was too hard. If I don’t get her, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  “You take her a batch of dough tomorrow,” says his mother; “and then we’ll see about too hard.”

  Next night, the woman was sitting on the water, combing her hair, and Hewin went down with his batch of dough. He held it out to her, and he said, “Beauty girl, come here, do!”

  But she went on combing her hair, and she said:

  “Unbaked is your bread,

  And won’t win me.”

  And again she was gone; just like that.

  Hewin told his mother. “I don’t know what to do, Mam,” he says.

  “Never you mind,” she says. “Third time pays for all.”

  That same night, his mother baked him a loaf; and in the morning, at sunrise, Hewin went down and held out the new loaf of bread. “Beauty girl,” he says, “come here! Come here, do!

  Then she rose up in the water, the young woman, and came towards him; and she said:

  “Well is your bread,

  And you shall win me.”

  Hewin was glad, I can tell you!

  She came out of the water. “Belenay shall be a wife to you,” she says, “until the day you hit her with a piece of iron; and on that day she shall leave you.”

  “I’ll not hit you at all,” says Hewin; “with iron, or without. I shall never!”

  She said nothing to that, and they went up to the house to see his mother. And behind them, out from the lake, ten cows followed; and four oxen; and a white bull! They came from under the water, for a dowry, like, for Belenay; Hewin’s mother said it was quite the thing!

  So Hewin and Belenay were married that night, and were very happy.

  By and by, they had three sons, one after the other. The farm was going well, too, with the cows keeping their promise with the milk and the butter, and the oxen ploughing the fields so that the land did seven times better than it had ever done before. It was a good time.

  Well, the years passed. The children were growing. Then one morning in spring, Hewin saw a wild horse beside the lake. Well! He wasn’t the man to let a chance go!

  “Here, quick!” he says to Belenay. “You catch him, while I get the bridle!”

  So he dashed into the house, for the bridle, and she ran along the shore after the horse; the horse galloped off, but she caught him and she twisted her fingers into his mane.

  Hewin came out with the bridle, and, “Here you are!” he says; and he threw the bridle, meaning to land it over the horse’s head. But he missed, and the iron of the bridle hit Belenay on her hand.

  She gave a queer bit of a cry, and let go of the mane. “Hewin, love!” she says, “That was the blow! That was the blow of iron!”

  “No!” says Hewin. “Don’t leave me!”

  “I can’t stay!” she says.

  “What about the children?” he says.

  “I must go!” she says. “I must!”

  She was walking down to the lake, looking back over her shoulder, and into the water; and then she started to sing, in her high, clear voice that she used to call the cattle in, and oh, it was a strange song!

  “Mulican, Molican, Malen, Mair,

  Come you home to my word!

  Brindled cow, white speckled,

  Spotted cow, broad freckled,

  Hornless Dodin, Yellow Anvil,

  Stray Horns, and the Grey Geingen,

  With the white bull

  From the court of the king,

  And the oxen on the field,

  And the black calf on the hook.

  All come home to my word!”

  And the cattle answered her, lowing and bellowing, and they did come to her; even the freshly killed calf from the hook, he came; and the bull that was tethered by the nose, he pulled out the ring stake and followed; and the oxen that were ploughing, they came, dragging the plough after them—and there’s still the mark of the furrow to be seen, from the field to the water, if you’ll look. All in one line they followed her.

  That’s how it was. Belenay took back with her under the water all that she’d brought from i
t. And at the spot where she went into the water, where the lake had filled her very last footprint, a single white lily grew.

  Hewin never saw Belenay again. He called, and he called, and he walked by the lakeside day and night, till he grew old and he died; but he never saw her. The blow of iron had parted them.

  But the boys, that was different. The three of them, they would often go down on the bright nights of the moon and stand at the white lily and call to their mother. And she would answer them from the water. They used to talk together all four, and Belenay would teach them what there was to be known of healing and of herbs, so that they grew to be wise men and doctors.

  It was hard for Hewin. But that’s how it was, old time.

  Alice of the Lea

  Now this is an old tale the Cornishmen brought out of Cornwall with them, when they came getting copper in the mine holes hereabouts. I recollect old Perrin used to tell it.

  Anyway, it seems there was this girl: Alice of the Lea, she was called. Her father was dead, and her mother had only her; there were no brothers or sisters; just Alice. Oh, but she was bonny! She was tall and fair skinned, yet with black, raven hair; a perfect picture; but it was her eyes that struck you, so that, once you’d seen them, you’d never forget them: big, and blue, they were, like the sea. And she lived in a big castle; just her and her mother, and the servants to look after them both.