Tales from the Black Meadow Read online

  Tales from the Black Meadow

  Chris Lambert

  With illustrations by Nigel Wilson

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Exiled Publishing, South Street Arts Centre, 21 South Street, Reading, RG1 4QU

  Copyright © Chris Lambert July 2013

  Illustrations Copyright ©Nigel Wilson July 2013

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN-13: 978-1484171738

  ISBN-10: 148417173X

  lambertthewriter.blogspot.co.uk

  exiledpublications.blogspot.co.uk

  soullesscentral.blogspot.com

  For Roger Mullins and all those others lost in the mists.

  Contents

  List of Illustrations

  Introduction

  Can you tell me Maiden Fair?

  The Rag and Bone Man

  The Shining Apples

  The Horsemen

  In Her Arms of Mist

  Our Fair Land

  Children of the Black Meadow

  Novo Inventus

  The Standing Stone

  The Watcher from the Village

  Fields of Blackberry

  The Land Spheres

  Beyond the Moor

  A Phenomenal Occurrence

  The Fog House

  When the Mist Spreads

  The Devil and the Yoked Man

  The Long Walk to Scarry Wood

  The Scarry Wood Lament

  The Stone Steps

  The Seventh Child

  The Meadow Hag

  The Cry of the Coalman

  The Coalman and the Creature

  The Black Dog

  List of Illustrations

  Map of the Black Meadow

  Can you tell me if or where I shall see my child again?

  It is said there is a man who looks as though he is made of rag and bone.

  He rose up and put his feet together. His toes stretched, bursting out of his worn out shoes and dug themselves into the ground. He thrust his arms above his head, screaming as they stretched and split into branches.

  … and they danced now these Horsemen, they danced and danced wildly; their faces joyous and their eyes bright and full of life …

  The brambles started to grow in thick clumps on the pillars, long straight clumps at each side, two little clumps at the base and a round clump on the top.

  There, silhouetted in the sunlight was the mother and four figures clad in her children’s torn Sunday best …

  There is a standing stone in the centre of Black Meadow.

  On the same day a labourer reported a strange feeling as though someone was with him in the plough shed. Over the following days the vicar felt spied upon through the vestry window, the milkmaid felt watched in the meadow, the butcher’s child in the heather, a skipping girl in her own yard …

  The first sphere diverted from its straight line as it passed the church and floated towards the lantern.

  And the gentleman his eyes they flashed

  As he spied her from his hide …

  The house was white and seemed, at first glance to be an image of a house formed from smoke or mist …

  When the mist spreads

  Like an unspooling ball of wool

  Threading over the land

  And it was this gentleman that the Devil decided to meet one Saturday evening.

  He was shocked to see that where the dwellings of workers once stood that young trees burst through the shattered rooftops.

  His choice of subject remained the same; the standing stone in the centre of the meadow.

  The old woman stood outside, behind the gate, looking at the house.

  … in the distance, by the well, he saw a figure with black oil dripping skin …

  He looked up from where he lay and saw at the window the dark black head with its shining eyes glaring in.

  Roger Mullins

  On the borders of the Black Meadow

  (North Yorkshire Moors – Near RAF Fylingdales)

  October 14th 1969

  Photograph reprinted with the permission of Professor Philip Hull – University of York

  Introduction

  When Professor R. Mullins of the University of York went missing in 1972 in an area of North Yorkshire known as Black Meadow, he left behind an extensive body of work that provided a great insight into the folklore of this mysterious place.

  Mullins, a classics professor, had a great interest in Black Meadow folklore and spent many years documenting the tales that were part of the local oral tradition.

  In his office, his colleagues found over twenty thick notebooks crammed with stories and interviews from the villages around Black Meadow. Some of these stories seemed to be from the legendary disappearing village itself and provided some vital clues as to how the phenomena was interpreted and explained by the local populace.

  These stories, poems and songs have been gathered together to capture the unsettling nature of the Black Meadow.

  Do not read this on your own at night and make sure you shut your windows. Listen for the stamping feet of the horsemen, avoid the gaze of the Watcher in the village and do not walk into the mist.

  Chris Lambert

  Can you tell me if or where I shall see my child again?

  Can you tell me maiden fair?

  Can you tell me, maiden fair

  Can you tell me if or where

  I shall see my child again

  Walk upon the fields of men?

  Will she ever stumble back

  From the meadow all a’black?

  Will she sit upon her chair?

  Will I hear her on the stair?

  Tell me now, my spirits fall

  I cannot hear my daughter call.

  (Traditional)

  It is said there is a man who looks as though he is made of rag and bone.

  The Rag and Bone Man

  It is said there is a man who looks as though he is made of rag and bone.

  It is said that he is seven feet tall, thin and brittle as a dry old stick, with a face so thin that his grey skin looks as though it is stretched over the skull of a giant rat. He wears a dark coat that trails down to the floor wrapped around his skeletal frame. The coat is held closed by a ruby clasp which never opens unless he is given cause to scream.

  Some say he was once a handsome farmer who owned thirty acres at the centre of Black Meadow. He grew grain and kept cows and sheep. He had a beautiful wife and six darling children. He was happy, they were happy, even the cows and sheep were happy.

  That all changed when one day the local squire visited the farm. The Squire coveted the land and the farmer’s wife. He offered to buy it and her for a meagre price. When the farmer refused, the squire ordered four of his strongest men to take the children to the carriage outside. The farmer tried to stop them, but the four men battered him down, beat his skull with stones from the old wall until it was thin, brittle, elongated and misshapen like the skull of a rat. They tied his feet to the old iron boot-scraper that was bolted to the doorstep and his hands to the carriage. With his children’s screams ringing in his ears, they commanded the horses to charge away. And all the time the farmer could hear his lovely wife, inside his house, begging the squire to stop. When the farmer was quiet and stretched and the children were quietly sobbing, the squire dragged the farmer’s wife out of the bedroom whilst his men set fire to the house. The four me
n threw the battered body into the burning building. All that was found were the rags and bones of the poor farmer.

  On the ruins of the farm it is said that the squire built a beautiful village, charged rent for the lovely houses and became extremely rich. It is said that in his mansion was a silent maid who cried whilst she scrubbed the flagstones. It is said that he made a small fortune selling six darling children into servitude.

  But the villagers were not happy. They started happy but did not stay that way. One day, ten years after the village was built, the children were playing in the field when at the end of the lane there appeared a tall figure, thin like an old dry stick, clad in a long black cloak with a ruby clasp. The children had been laughing, school had finished and summer had arrived. But then they heard the scream, the horrible scream of the Rag and Bone man.

  The Rag and Bone Man has a long coat that he only opens when he screams. He only screams when the villagers are happy or when the children are laughing. It is said that within his scream can be heard the crackling of flames, six children crying in terror, a wife being violated and the mutilation of a loving husband. And when he opens his coat, smoke and fog billow out, swallowing the village whole.

  But he is thin and brittle like a dry old stick so he cannot hold the village forever. Now and again he opens his coat, causing its return. When the mist rises the village comes. But no matter how pretty it looks, if the people of the village smile or the children laugh, if you are there, if you walk through that village, you too will hear the cry of the Rag and Bone Man and if you do, we shall not see you again.

  He rose up and put his feet together. His toes stretched, bursting out of his worn out shoes and dug themselves into the ground. He thrust his arms above his head, screaming as they stretched and split into branches.

  The Shining Apples

  Once upon a time there was a young girl. She had bright green eyes and golden hair that grew down past her knees. Her feet were bare and she had no hat upon her head. No one knew her name or where she came from, but one sunny August day she walked into a village just on the outskirts of the Black Meadow.

  She was skinny and wore a tatty cotton dress. On her arm was a large basket filled with shining yellow apples. Each one was perfectly round and unbruised. She called out in a small shrill voice if anyone would like to buy her shining apples. Some children came running; they saw how delicious the apples looked and asked how much they cost. She said that she would give all the apples away for a pair of shoes and a hat. The children ran home. One found an old pair of shoes he didn’t want, whilst another found a straw hat that had belonged to his grandmother before she died. As they returned they saw that the local vagabond was walking towards her. He pushed the little girl to the floor and snatched her basket. The vagabond ran away, sat at the side of the road, eating the apples; cores and all.

  The children helped the little girl with long golden hair to her feet. They were so sorry for her that they gave her the hat and shoes without asking for anything in return. The girl thanked them for their kindness, wiping the tears from her face. She said that for their kindness they could have all the apples that they ever desired, whenever they needed them.

  She put on the shoes, placed the hat upon her head and walked towards the vagabond who was sat by the side of the road, scoffing his third apple, core and all. The vagabond looked up at the little girl. She pointed a finger at him, a tear dripped from the end of her finger onto the apple he was holding in his hand. He laughed at her cruelly and bit into the apple. As all the children watched, the vagabond appeared to stiffen, his skin cracked and darkened until it looked like wood. He rose up and put his feet together. His toes stretched, bursting out of his worn out shoes and dug themselves into the ground. He thrust his arms above his head, screaming as they stretched and split into branches. Leaves appeared from the top of his head. His clothes transformed into bark, growing and enveloping him, until what was once a man was now a tree. The many new branches sprouted blossom. The blossom fell. Tiny buds appeared growing into shining apples.

  The little girl picked up the basket, walked a short way and left the road before disappearing into the depths of the Black Meadow. No one ever saw her again. The villagers stripped the tree of its beautiful fruit, mixing them into delicious jams and ciders, the like of which had never been tasted before.

  The next morning the tree had vanished, but several years later in a village 15 miles away, it was reported that a tree had suddenly appeared that bore the most incredible apples. And it is still said, that even now when a village is hungry, a tree will appear on the outskirts of the Black Meadow, a tree with shining yellow apples.

  … and they danced now these Horsemen, they danced and danced wildly; their faces joyous and their eyes bright and full of life …

  The Horsemen

  If October is warm in the Black Meadow then the Horsemen will dance.

  It was late October. Everything about the year had been late; the harvest only just brought in, the spring in summer and the summer in autumn – resulting in a balmy October. November was near. Shirtless farmhands still toiled in the dirt, maidens walked without scarves, still wearing sunny cotton caps upon their heads.

  The horses whinnied and snorted in their stuffy stables. They stamped their feet, filling the night with frenzied neighs to be free, to let a breeze cool their hides.

  And where the people should have all been gathered inside, drinking warm mulled cider or eating grandmamma’s apple pie, they eschewed this in favour of ale and water on the steps of their houses. They sang songs into the dark while the horses stamped their feet, snorting to be let out, to let the October night excite their nostrils.

  And the people would say that if a third night of warmth occurred in October without interruption, the Horsemen would come and the Horsemen would dance. It was said that no one should witness this, it was secret. It was for the Horsemen alone. It was not for human eyes.

  But, as is the way in such stories, there was a little boy who was far too curious for his own good. He was eight years old and had never experienced a warm October in his life. Indeed the last one had occurred thirty-five years previously.

  The third night came. The young boy had been told to stay inside, but he was always curious. He had spied the local vagrant stealing eggs, listened to the argument between the butcher and his wife. He had even seen the vicar kissing the milkmaid on the nose.

  His mother had tucked him into bed, just under a single sheet, as the night was so close. She shut the door. Once the boy could hear his mother shouting at his father again he opened the window to climb down the drainpipe.

  His father had told him that the horsemen gathered in the grazing meadow and that to watch them meant oblivion.

  But, as is the way in these stories, the boy would not listen to his father. The boy would not be sensible or good so, on this the third night of the first warm October in thirty-five years, a young boy who ignored old tales and disobeyed the advice of his elders, climbed out of his bedroom window before walking towards the grazing meadow.

  As he passed the stable he stopped, for the noise of the horses was most distracting. The incessant whinnying and the stamping hooves broke through the quiet night.

  As the boy walked closer to the stables, he saw, to his surprise, the chief groom of the village unbolting the stable doors and pulling them slowly open. The horses leapt out, pushing the door back in their eagerness and knocking the smiling groom to the floor. They galloped towards the grazing meadow. The groom staggered to his feet waving, grinning and shouting, “Dance! Dance!”

  The boy crept towards the grazing meadow, where he saw that the horses had slowed to a trot before coming to a stop. In fact, they stood silent, staring, as though waiting. From the village came a series of sounds; windows and doors banging open, sounds of excitement, clapping and shrieking. Slowly the sound died away. Initially there was dead silence. The horses stood still, they hardly seemed to breathe, they did not snort,
their tails didn’t flick, and their ears didn’t flutter.

  From the village there came a low sound. A solid thump, thump, thump on a marching drum. The boy thought that this could be the drum that belonged to the Mayor’s nephew, who always led the village band in the carnival parade at Easter. It was soon joined by the church bell ringing, ringing, ringing in time with the thump, thump, thump.

  Still the horses didn’t move.

  Three guitars started strumming from the windows of different houses. One would have been indistinct but three were quite clear. The church organ joined the sound, the drone escaping through the entrance left open by the milkmaid-kissing priest. All of this was clear but not loud. Other instruments joined the fray; piano keys leaked through open windows, penny whistles and flutes were playing from yards, whilst the barman’s harmonium added a sweep and volume.

  And still the horses didn’t move.