The Giddy Heights V
More Tales I Love to Tell
Every child can remember laying his head in the grass, staring into the infinitesimal forest and seeing it grow populous with fairy armies.
- Robert Louis Stevenson
Stories can be an almighty distraction. Much as with the poor nobleman in the painting above, you can be lured away from more productive, reasonable thought and action by a compelling enough narrative. These are the hooks embedded in a good tale - come for the lesson, stay for the plot twist!
This may sound like a negative comment, but I intend it to be taken neutrally. Sometimes a distraction is unavoidable. Sometimes, perhaps rarely, a distraction is necessary. Helpful, even. Much is made nowadays of various forms of ‘mindfulness’ (and, conversely but somehow concurrently, meditation). I would suggest that an occasional, wilful surrender to non-chemical flights of fancy serves a similar purpose - a mental reset, of sorts.
So, in that spirit, I hope these tales can provide you a (surely) much-needed mental reset!
Sources, Please!
Reviewing documents or books that hold the canon of tales from my culture, Wales, has become a somewhat perfunctory affair for me. This is because I’m usually just double-checking a detail or two just before an engagement where I plan to tell a specific tale.
NB ‘plan’ being the correct term here - I don’t always get around to telling the tales I imagine I will before a performance. Any number of reasons exist as to why I may not - that’s the nature of the art form.
It’s all a rather dour, studious affair, devoid of excitement for the most part.
Except for the older tomes, chronicles, and documents, that is.
I don’t mean ancient sources: these hold a different sort of delight; a foreign, otherworldly sense for a modern reader. No, I mean from the 18th century to the beginning of the 20th. This period is more like another country - fascinating, but familiar enough so as to make sense to the modern reader.
Here is one such tale, found in one such book. I don’t tell the tale like this, but I do find this particular rendition of it fascinating!
(from ‘Welsh Fairy Tales’ by WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS, 1921)
The Gruffyds (sic) were one of the largest of the Welsh tribes. To-day, it is said that in Britain one man in every forty has this, as either his first, middle, or last name. It means "hero" or "brave man," and as far back as the ninth century, the word is found in the Book of Saint Chad.
The monks, who derived nearly every name from the Latin, insisted the word meant Great Faith.
Another of the most common of Welsh personal names was William; which, when that of a father's son, was written Williams and was only the Latin for Gild Helm, or Golden Helmet.
Long ago, when London was a village and Cardiff only a hamlet, there was a boy of this name, who tended sheep on the hill sides. His father was a hard working farmer, who every year tried to coax to grow out of the stony ground some oats, barley, leeks and cabbage. In summer, he worked hard, from the
first croak of the raven to the last hoot of the owl, to provide food for his wife and baby daughter. When his boy was born, he took him to the church to be christened Gruffyd, but every body called him "Gruff." In time several little sisters came to keep the boy company.
His mother always kept her cottage, which was painted pink, very neat and pretty, with vines covering the outside, while flowers bloomed indoors. These were set in pots and on shelves near the latticed windows. They seemed to grow finely, because so good a woman loved them. The copper door-sill was kept bright, and the broad borders on the clay floor, along the walls, were always fresh with whitewash. The pewter dishes on the sideboard shone as if they were moons, and the china cats on the mantle piece, in silvery luster, reflected both sun and candle light. Daddy often declared he could use these polished metal plates for a mirror, when he shaved his face. Puss, the pet, was always happy purring away on the hearth, as the kettle boiled to make the flummery, of sour oat jelly, which, daddy loved so well.
Mother Gruffyd was always so neat, with her black and white striped apron, her high peaked hat, with its scalloped lace and quilled fastening around her chin, her little short shawl, with its pointed, long tips, tied in a bow, and her bright red plaid petticoat folded back from her frock. Her snowy-white, rolling collar and neck cloth knotted at the top, and fringed at the ends, added fine touches to her picturesque costume.
In fact, young Gruffyd was proud of his mother and he loved her dearly. He thought no woman could be quite as sweet as she was.
Once, at the end of the day, on coming back home, from the hills, the boy met some lovely children. They were dressed in very fine clothes, and had elegant manners. They came up, smiled, and invited him to play with them. He joined in their sports, and was too much interested to take note of time. He kept on playing with them until it was pitch dark.
Among other games, which he enjoyed, had been that of "The King in his counting house, counting out his money," and "The Queen in her kitchen, eating bread and honey," and "The Girl hanging out the clothes," and "The Saucy Blackbird that snipped off her nose." In playing these, the children had aprons full of what seemed to be real coins, the size of crowns, or five-shilling pieces, each worth a dollar. These had "head and tail," beside letters on them and the boy supposed they were real.
But when he showed these to his mother, she saw at once from their lightness, and because they were so easily bent, that they were only paper, and not silver.
She asked her boy where he had got them. He told her what a nice time he had enjoyed. Then she knew that these, his playmates, were fairy children. Fearing that some evil might come of this, she charged him, her only son, never to go out again alone, on the mountain. She mistrusted that no good would come of making such strange children his companions.
But the lad was so fond of play, that one day, tired of seeing nothing but byre and garden, while his sisters liked to play girls' games more than those which boys cared most for, and the hills seeming to beckon him to come to them, he disobeyed, and slipped out and off to the mountains. He was soon missed and search was made for him.
Yet nobody had seen or heard of him. Though inquiries were made on every road, in every village, and at all the fairs and markets in the neighborhood, two whole years passed by, without a trace of the boy.
But early one morning of the twenty-fifth month, before breakfast, his mother, on opening the door, found him sitting on the steps, with a bundle under his arm, but dressed in the same clothes, and not looking a day older or in any way different, from the very hour he disappeared.
"Why my dear boy, where have you been, all these months, which have now run into the third year—so long a time that they have seemed to me like ages?"
"Why, mother dear, how strange you talk. I left here yesterday, to go out and to play with the children, on the hills, and we have had a lovely time. See what pretty clothes they have given me for a present." Then he opened his bundle.
But when she tore open the package, the mother was all the more sure that she was right, and that her fears had been justified. In it she found only a dress of white paper. Examining it carefully, she could see neither seam nor stitches. She threw it in the fire, and again warned her son against fairy children.
But pretty soon, after a great calamity had come upon them, both father and mother changed their minds about fairies.
They had put all their savings into the venture of a ship, which had for a long time made trading voyages from Cardiff. Every year, it came back bringing great profit to the owners and shareholders. In this way, daddy was able to eke out his income, and keep himself, his wife and daughters comfortably clothed, while all the time the table was well supplied with good food. Nor did they ever turn from their door anyone who asked for bread and cheese.
But in the same month of the boy's return, bad news came that the good ship had gone down in a storm. All on board had perished, and the cargo was totally lost, in the deep sea, far from land. In fact, no word except that of dire disaster had come to hand.
Now it was a tradition, as old as the days of King Arthur, that on a certain hill a great boulder could be seen, which was quite different from any other kind of rock to be found within miles. It was partly imbedded in the earth, and beneath it, lay a great, yes, an untold treasure. The grass grew luxuriantly around this stone, and the sheep loved to rest at noon in its shadow. Many men had tried to lift, or pry it up, but in vain. The tradition, unaltered and unbroken for centuries, was to the effect, that none but a very good man could ever budge this stone. Any and all unworthy men might dig, or pull, or pry, until doomsday, but in vain. Till the right one came, the treasure was as safe as if in heaven.
But the boy's father and mother were now very poor and his sisters now grown up wanted pretty clothes so badly, that the lad hoped that he or his father might be the deserving one. He would help him to win the treasure for he felt sure that his parent would share his gains with all his friends.
Though his neighbors were not told of the generous intentions credited to the boy's father, by his loving son, they all came with horses, ropes, crowbars, and tackle, to help in the enterprise. Yet after many a long days' toil, between the sun's rising and setting, their end was failure. Every day, when darkness came on, the stone lay there still, as hard and fast as ever. So they gave up the task.
On the final night, the lad saw that father and mother, who were great lovers, were holding each other's hands, while their tears flowed together, and they were praying for patience.
Seeing this, before he fell asleep, the boy resolved that on the morrow, he would go up to the mountains, and talk to his fairy friends about the matter.
So early in the morning, he hurried to the hill tops, and going into one of the caves, met the fairies and told them his troubles. Then he asked them to give him again some of their money.
"Not this time, but something better. Under the great rock there are treasures waiting for you."
"Oh, don't send me there! For all the men and horses of our parish, after working a week, have been unable to budge the stone."
"We know that," answered the principal fairy, "but do you yourself try to move it. Then you will see what is certain to happen."
Going home, to tell what he had heard, his parents had a hearty laugh at the idea of a boy succeeding where men, with the united strength of many horses and oxen, had failed.
Yet, after brooding awhile, they were so dejected, that anything seemed reasonable. So they said, "Go ahead and try it."
Returning to the mountain, the fairies, in a band, went with him to the great rock.
One touch of his hand, and the mighty boulder trembled, like an aspen leaf in the breeze.
A shove, and the rock rolled down from the hill and crashed in the valley below.
There, underneath, were little heaps of gold and silver, which the boy carried home to his parents, who became the richest people in the country round about.
So many strange turns of phrase, so much added/superfluous context, so far removed from the stylings of any oral tradition! I can’t say I love it, but I do love delving into it, trying to find different angles to add to the story I know so well.
So far, I haven’t found anything compelling enough to change my delivery.
But I’ll keep searching. Maybe ‘til the end of my time here. I’m not sure why, exactly, but I’m quite sure I will.
The Lover's Ghost Experiment
THIS is a poem/song I’ve been waiting to share here for a while!
It falls into the amazing category of “ancient/old motifs that still appear in contemporary urban legends”!
I thought it’d be cool to try this piece as part of a short experiment, the kind of short exercise I set for groups I work with in real life: I will not provide an analysis for this one - read it, leave it a while, read it again. On your second read, picture the story taking place, set in the landscape shown in the image I’ve attached below the song.
(Collected from Richard May by Alfred Williams, Fairford, Gloucestershire, early 20th century.)
It's of a farmer in our town,
His election goes the country round;
He had a daughter, a beauty bright,
In every place was her heart's delight.
Many a young man a-courting came,
But none of them would her favour gain,
Till a young man came, of low degree,
Came underhanded and she fancied he.
Soon as her father came this to hear,
He separated her from her dear,
For four score miles this maid was sent,
To her uncle's home for his discontent.
Nine days after this young man died,
And his ghost appeared at her bedside -
"Rise, rise, my love and come with me,
And break these chains and set me free."
This maid arose and got up behind,
And he drove as swift as the very wind,
And not a word did this young man speak,
But - "My dearest dear, how my head does ache!"
She had a handkerchief of the holland kind,
And around his head she did him bind;
She kissed his pale lips, and thus did say -
"My dearest dear, you're as cold as clay."
He drove her up to her father's door,
And saw her father standing on the floor -
"O father dear, did you send for me
By such a kind messenger, kind sir?" said she.
He wrung his hands and tore his hair,
Much like a man in deep despair;
He tore the hair all from his head,
Crying - "Daughter dear, the young man is dead."
Early next morning this maid arose,
And straightaway to the churchyard goes,
She rose the corpse that was nine day's dead,
And found her handkerchief bound round his head.
O parents, parents, a warning take,
Don't chide your children, for heaven's sake!
Don't chide your children, for heaven's sake,
Or you'll repent when it is too late.
Ghastly Echoes
You may be forgiven for thinking that ‘Screaming Jenny’ of Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia, was some sort of illegal firework. Maybe some kind of illegally distilled alcohol that blinds 50% of imbibers. But no, she’s a wonderful piece of modern folklore. The exact kind of tale I’m obsessed with, and have been since before I entered the field of storytelling.
(from an article by McKenzie Bragg, The Eagle Dispatch - the paper for Woodrow Wilson High School, WV - written in 2022… I really do like that one of the best references, and concise telling, of this tale is to be found in a student paper! That’s very in-keeping with how urban legends move.)
It begins with a young woman who was given the name Jenny. She was said to be a kind-hearted woman, helping anyone who needed it. Her background was very vacant. She had no family and was said to be alone most of her life. In the small town, alongside the B&O Railroad, there were storage sheds that the homeless would live in, and Jenny owned one of these sheds in 1833.
Jenny was sitting by the fire during a cold evening, eating some broth she had cooked for the night, when a spark flew onto her skirt and set her on fire. Alarmed by this sudden happening, Jenny ran to the train station hoping there was someone to help her, but there was no one in sight. She let out blood-curdling screams as she walked around slowly due to her loss of energy. Jenny then stumbled onto the tracks blindly. She couldn’t see the glowing lights of the train coming towards her or hear the sound of the rumbling engine. The engineer saw “the ball of fire” on the train tracks and tried to stop, but it was too late. Jenny was sucked under the train and the screaming finally stopped…for the time being. The crew found her body and gave her a burial with an unmarked grave near the local churchyard.
Not long after, a family moved into her shed and Jenny was soon forgotten by the people in Harper’s Ferry. About a month after, a conductor was riding the train down the tracks when he allegedly saw, what appeared to be, a person on fire. The conductor was shocked and stopped the train to see that there was nobody there. He was frightened and reported the incident to the stationmaster. Soon after, the conductor remembered the tragic tale of “Screaming Jenny.”
Every year, on the day that Jenny passed, people could see a burning lady by the train tracks, screaming in agony hoping someone could save her. People have their doubts about this legend, but everyone can agree that this horrifying story will haunt you forever.
Maybe I should have explained just how horrific the imagery in this tale was in the intro…
Oh well.
Cool though, right? America is brimming with tales such as this one, a veritable tapestry of folklore. I really wish more was made of these traditions, and not merely using as reference for the shinier (gaudier), bigger (leviathan-esque) art forms.
One can only hope, and one does often pray.
(***BONUS TALE***)
How can a writer fit in a tale he absolutely must share due to how wonderfully nutty it is without adequately finding a segue good enough to place it thematically within the wider piece? A tale that can be referred to during a performance, but not ‘performed’ as with a myth or a folktale? One that may need shoehorning in just because it’s so cool? How can one do this?
By just doing it, like I did with the song/poem:
Enjoy!
(From an article by Connor Martin, History is Now magazine)
Here’s how the story goes: in 1788, Austria was at war with Turkey, fighting for control of the Danube River. About 100,000 Austrian troops had set up camp near Karansebes, a village that is now located in present-day Romania. Some scouts were sent ahead to see if they could find any Turks. Rather than find evidence of the opposing army, they found gypsies who had a lot of alcohol to sell, and they bought it.
The scouts brought the alcohol back to camp and started drinking - since the best thing to do the night before a big battle is get very, very drunk. As their little party became louder and more obnoxious, it attracted the attention of several foot soldiers who wanted to join in. The scouts were not open to sharing their find, and being drunk, they didn’t express this with a lot of tact.
An argument broke out, which soon escalated. The alcohol was confiscated, more people joined in, punches were thrown, and a shot rang out. Amidst the mayhem, someone shouted that the Turks had arrived.
Caught unawares and unprepared, most soldiers fled the scene immediately. Others got into formation and charged at the supposed enemy. Shots were fired, cavalry was assembled, and the defecting soldiers were killing every man they saw without thinking.
Needless to say, the Turkish army had not arrived. They wandered into Karansebes two days later and found 10,000 dead or wounded Austrian soldiers. A little confused by this turn of events, they were nonetheless delighted to take Karansebes without any effort at all.