A Bag of Moonshine

by Alan Garner

  Of course, lots of young men came courting, but Alice would have none of them. No; her heart was set on one man: Bevil of Stowe; that was his name; and he was a grand figure of a knight, too. But, as often happens, he was the one chap who never came courting young Alice, and she was very put out by this; and so was her mother.

  Well, it got to the time of year when banquets and balls and such were the thing; and Alice’s mother, she thought it would be a good idea to have a ball for Alice and to invite the gentry from all around, and for the top man to be Bevil of Stowe. Alice was delighted. “If he comes,” she said, “I promise you he’ll have eyes only for me.”

  So it was given out that there was to be a ball for Al ice, and the gentry said they’d come, and Bevil of Stowe said he’d be there, too; which was all that Alice and her mother were after.

  The castle was got ready. Floors were scrubbed; walls were whitewashed; windows were cleaned; chimneys were swept; decorations were put up; every sort of food and drink was fetched in; while Alice and her mother were here, there and everywhere, ordering this, and ordering that, till the servants didn’t know whether they were coming or going. Then, when all was natty, Alice went up to her room, shut herself in, and wouldn’t let anybody near her for two days, not even her mother; not even on the night of the ball itself, she wouldn’t.

  The guests were arriving, and still Alice kept herself locked in her room. Her mother went and knocked on the door and asked: “Are you ready, Alice?” she said.

  “No, I’m not,” said Alice.

  “The gentry’s come,” said her mother.

  “Is Bevil of Stowe here yet?” said Alice.

  “No, not yet,” said her mother.

  “Tell me when he is,” said Alice.

  So her mother had to go down and look after the guests, while Alice stayed in her room. They must have wondered what was up.

  Anyway, it wasn’t long before Bevil of Stowe put in his appearance; and he was looking well. Alice’s mother ran upstairs and knocked on her door.

  “He’s here, Alice!” she said. “He’s come!”

  “Then I’m ready,” said Alice; and she opened the door.

  Well, you never saw such a gorgeous sight as Alice when she opened that door. Her mother was thunderstruck; flabbergasted, she was.

  Alice stood there; an amethyst ring on her finger, amethysts in her hair; a brooch of one great amethyst on her breast; and she was in a dress all of black velvet. And ring, amethysts, brooch, black velvet and all, were there to set off the marvel of her blazing blue eyes.

  “Oh, Alice!” said her mother. “I pray that Bevil of Stowe shall bend his soul when he sees you now. I pray that you shall get his love tonight; and the wedding to follow fast; that’s what I’ll pray.”

  “Pray?” says Alice. “What good’s praying? With these eyes, and this dress, what chance has Bevil of Stowe? No, mother. Blue eyes and black velvet: they’re more than any prayer!”

  And as she stood in her highness and spoke those words, there came a sound like a rushing wind, and a flash of fire, a sweet smell, and a wild music. Then nothing. And where was Alice of the Lea? Vanished. Gone. And that for ever.

  Oh, they sought her up and down; north, south, east and west; day and night they sought her. But she wasn’t found. And at last they gave up looking.

  Years passed. Alice’s mother grew feeble, and died heartbroken. The castle fell. People forgot. Only a few old women remembered, and then not clearly. The castle stones were carted off for mending roads; and the land was ploughed up and turned to pasture.

  Then, one day, a farmer, going milking, spotted a little hillock of fresh earth standing out against the green grass. He turned it over with his boot; and he saw something glinting in the earth. He picked it up; and it was a ring; an amethyst ring; her ring! Alice of the Lea’s; the one she was wearing that night! And inside the ring were some words written in the gold; words in the old Cornish twang. They said:

  “Beryan Erde,

  Oyn und Perde.”

  That’s what they said. And it was a while before any could tell what it meant, for all that had been forgotten long since. But they did find one old chap who still spoke the twang; and he read it off for them:

  “Earth must hide

  Both eyes and pride.”

  Well, what were they to make of that? The old chap read it off again:

  “Earth must hide

  Both eyes and pride.”

  And just then, they all heard the sound of sobbing, ever so soft, and tiny, under the ground, and a long way off. And they looked down; and there in the heap of soil they saw something move: a little black thing, it was, all in a velvet skin, like Alice’s gown; and it seemed to have no eyes, and yet be scared of the light, for it burrowed down into the hillock, and they saw it no more.

  And that, old Perrin used to say, was the first mole ever seen in Cornwall. Ay. Alice of the Lea. So remember:

  “Beryan Erde,

  Oyn und Perde.”

  And don’t you forget it.

  Harry-cap and the Three Brothers

  Jack and his two brothers were chopping down trees once, when the oldest brother said, “Cob this for a game” he says. “I’m off to find better days.” And he set down his axe and left the other two to fend for themselves, while he went to seek his fortune.

  He walked and he walked, until he was dead beat, and he sat himself down on a hillside to rest. He was just nodding off to sleep, when a little man, as short as old sticks, came up to him and says, “Here, who are you? What are you doing? Where are you going?”

  “I’m resting,” he says. “And then I’m going looking for better days.”

  “Well,” says the little man, “if you keep on, straight over these hills, you’ll come to a white house. Say to them who are there that Harry-cap sent you; and you’ll not be wasting your time.”

  “I’ll do that,” he says.

  So on he walked, over the hills, and he came to a white house; and them who were there said to him, “What do you want? Where are you from?”

  “Harry-cap told me to come,” he says.

  “Oh, well then; if Harry-cap has sent you, come in and make yourself at home!”

  And they took him in, and gave him his supper, and a good wash, and they wouldn’t hear of him going any further that night, but he must stop with them and sleep in a proper bed.

  He slept well, too, and next morning, as he was for making tracks to be on his way, they gave him a leather purse. “You have this purse,” they said, “and you’ll find you’ll never want for money.”

  He looked in the purse, and there was one gold sovereign lying in it; and that was all.

  “Think on,” they said; “there’ll always be a piece of money in that purse, enough for what you need, neither more nor less.”

  Well, he thanked them, and went his way; but, after a bit, he thought there was not much use in going further. “For I’ve got my fortune here,” he says. “I might as good go home.”

  And he turned round and set off back.

  It was coming on dark long before he reached home, and he thought he’d treat himself that night; so he stopped off at an inn, and had him a good feed last thing, before he went to bed; and he paid for it out of the purse.

  What he didn’t know was that the landlord’s daughter who served him his supper, she was by way of being something of a witch, and she knew what sort of a purse that was when she saw it. And that night, while he slept, she crept into his room, took his purse, and left another one, looking just like it, in its place; and the fause monkey even put the price of his breakfast in this other purse, so as he wouldn’t think anything was wrong in the morning, and he’d be well on his road before he found different.

  Next day, he paid for his breakfast, and by nightfall he was home; and his brothers were still mauling with chopping down trees.

  “Come and see what I’ve got,” he says, “and letch the neighbours.”

  “Now,” he says, w
hen they were all in the house, “you tell me what it is you’d like to have, and I’ll give you the money tor it.”

  “I could do with a new hat,” says Jack.

  “I’d like a new pair of britches,” says the other brother.

  And the neighbours all said what they wanted to have.

  “You shall have it,” he says. “The money’s in here.”

  But when he opened the purse it was empty. And the neighbours, they winked and blinked like ducks in thunder, and went away, laughing.

  “Well,” says the second brother, “I think I’ll go looking for better days, too. I reckon I can’t do worse than him.” And the next morning, he set off to seek his fortune.

  It went the same for him as it had for the oldest. He was on the tramp all day, and sat down to rest on a hillside, and Harry-cap came and asked him what he was doing, and he told him, and Harry-cap sent him to find the white house.

  They took him in, and gave him his tea and a bed for the night, and first thing they sat him down at a little round table, and they said, “What will you have for your breakfast?”

  “Oh,” he says; “ham and eggs.”

  As soon as he spoke, a sizzling hot plate of ham and eggs appeared out of nowhere. It was that sort of a table. Anything he wanted to eat, he had only to say, and there it was before him.

  So he had his breakfast and thanked them, tucked the table under his arm, and went on to seek his fortune.

  Now the table, though it wasn’t heavy, it was awkward, and he soon got tired of carrying it. “And besides,” he says, “it’s as good as a fortune. I’d be best at home, not traipsing round with a table.”

  He turned round and set off back. And with night coming on he arrived at the same inn where the first brother had stayed.

  He told the innkeeper he wasn’t hungry; he just wanted a bed, he said; and he carried the table upstairs to his room, locked the door, sat himself down, and says to the table, “Roast beef and potatoes and Yorkshire pudding.” And there they were, piping hot, and the gravy, too.

  But the innkeeper’s daughter, the one who was a witch, she’d seen the table on the way in, and she knew what it was for. And she’d crept up, after, and was looking through the keyhole when he had his supper.

  That night, while he was asleep, she swopped the table for another like it; it had the same looks, but none of its tricks. And in the morning, he paid his bill, and left, lummoxing the useless table up hill and down dale, and he got back home with the thing just before tea.

  “Come and see what I’ve got,” he says; “and fetch the neighbours.” And he took the table into the house and set it down on the floor. Jack and the oldest brother came in, with the neighbours following, and the second brother says, “What would you like for your teas?”

  “A bacon butty,” says Jack.

  “A plate of black seam,” says the oldest, “with plenty of pepper and vinegar.”

  “Then all you do is ask,” says the second brother. “The table does the rest.”

  So they asked, Jack and the oldest did; and the neighbours put in their bids, too; but, of course, nothing happened. And the neighbours, they winked and blinked like ducks in thunder, and went away, laughing.

  “Now then,” says Jack; “it looks like you’ve flown high and let in a cow-clap at last. I must go see if I can’t do as good.”

  And Jack set off to seek his fortune.

  He sat down on the very same hillside, and along came Harry-cap and sent him to the white house, same as he’d done the others. And them that were there fed him and bedded him and sent him away next morning with a good, stout stick in his hand to help him on his road.

  “And if you should meet any trouble,” they said, “from vagabonds and such, what you do is to say to the stick, ‘Stick! Thump ’em!’ and your worries will be over.”

  So Jack set off, and when it was fetching night, he came to the inn where his brothers had stayed. He had his supper, and went to bed, leaving the stick where he could see it, on the windowsill.

  He blew the candle out, and lay there on his bed, plundering in his mind what he should do to find himself better days, and he was just about to drop off to sleep, when he saw a hand come in at the window and take hold of the stick. It was the innkeeper’s daughter, and she was keen to get that stick.

  “Eh up!” says Jack. “Stick! Thump ’em!”

  And the stick wriggled like a snig in a bottle and began at the innkeeper’s daughter, and it thrashed her in through the window and round the room, and gave her the hiding of her life. And Jack wouldn’t tell it to leave off till she said she’d fetch him a table and a purse that were magic, if only he’d stop the stick from giving her such a hiding.

  So Jack told the stick to stop, and the innkeeper’s daughter went and got the table and the purse and handed them over; and Jack told her what he’d do if he ever saw her and her hanky-panky again. Then, in the morning, he set off home, stick in his hand, purse in his pocket, and table on his shoulder.

  When he got home, Jack told his brothers to go and invite the neighbours round for a bite to eat. The neighbours came, and Jack sat them down at the table and fed them all big cream teas, with cakes and all the trimmings. Then he took out the purse and gave each of them a golden guinea.

  “There,” says Jack. “You’ve had a portion of what my brothers got; would you like to have some of what I found on my travels, now, for being such good neighbours and all?”

  “Oh yes!” they said, winking and blinking like ducks in thunder. “Oh, we would! We’d like that very much!”

  “Right you are,” says Jack. “Then you shall have it. Stick! Thump ’em!”

  The stick set about those neighbours and gave them what for. And then it drove them out of the house, down the road and over the bridge; that’s what it did: out of the house, down the road and over the bridge; till the bridge bended and my tale’s ended.

  A Bag of Moonshine

  “Come here, lad, and I’ll tell thee a tale:

  I’ll tell thee a tale

  About a weasel and a snail,

  A monkey and a merry abbot:

  Seven good sons for winding.

  They rambled and they romped,

  And they come to a quickthorn hedge.

  E’en the millstones we’re going to jump in!

  What must I do to save my shins?

  O’er Rinley-Minley Common,

  Up starts a red hare

  With a good sort of a salmon feather in its tail.

  Having a good broadsword by my side,

  I shot at it.

  No matter o’that, but I missed it.

  Up comes Peter Pilkison

  Mowing oat cakes in the field of Robert Tellison.

  Hearing this news, he come;

  Tumbled o’er th’turfcote,

  O’er th’ backerlash,

  O’er Winwick church steeple;

  Drowned in a bag of moonshine

  Beghind Robert Chent’s door,

  Chowbent.”

  Loppy Lankin

  They say that, once upon a time, in such and such a place, not near and not far, not high and not low, there lived an old man and an old woman by the side of a lake. And they had no children; but they did want a child; especially the old woman; she did want one. She was carrying on no end, until one day her husband lost patience with her, and he went into the wood, and he broke off a whippy green branch from an oak tree, and he took it home, and he wrapped it in a cloth, and he put it in a cradle and he said, “There,” he says, “that’s your baby for you. Get on with rearing that!” And off he went to work.

  Well, the old woman, she sang hushieby songs to this whippy branch, and washed it, and cuddled it, and talked to it, and I don’t know what. And this went on for some time, until the old man wished he’d never had anything to do with it; for his supper wasn’t ready when he came in at night, and his clothes wanted mending; but all his wife would do was nurse this oak branch. She did love it so. She loved
it, and she loved it – and she loved it into life, she did! It began to grow. And it grew into a young youth. He was talking at three months old, and walking at four; and they called him Loppy Lankin, for him being so long, and grown from the wood and all.

  The old man made him a boat, and Loppy liked nothing so much as to go fishing every day in his boat on the lake. And his mother used to take him his milk, and call to him:

  “Loppy, Loppy, little lad!

  Come to your mammy,

  She’s fetched your milk!”

  And Loppy used to sail to the shore, drink his milk, and get on with his fishing.

  Now there was a witch in those parts, and she saw Loppy fishing every day, and she thought she would have him for her dinner. So she went down to the lake, and she called, in her horrid voice:

  “Loppy, Loppy, little lad!

  Come to your mammy,

  She’s fetched your milk!”

  But Loppy said:

  “Sail further, further, little boat!

  That’s no mammy,

  But a wicked witch!”

  And the boat sailed further out on the lake, and the witch smacked her chops, and she went off to the blacksmith, and, “Blacksmith,” she says, “make me a voice like Loppy Lankin’s mother’s.”

  “Right,” says the blacksmith. “Let’s be having your neck on my anvil, and then.”

  So the witch put her neck on the blacksmith’s anvil, and the blacksmith hammered her a new voice, straight off, just like Loppy Lankin’s mother’s. And when he’d done that, the witch went back to the lake with her new voice, and called, this time ever so nicely: