Tales from the Black Meadow Page 4

  As maidens always scream’d,

  And for a maid to simply shrug

  Was more than he had dream’d

  “I shall take your pendant then

  And then I shall take more!”

  “Take it then,” she said and grinn’d

  “For I’ve been Beyond the Moor.”

  Now this gentleman relaxed his grip

  And stood aback and thought;

  Why was this maiden not afear’d?

  Had she not been taught

  That men like him were vile and rough

  And would kill you once they’d won

  Their prize from you upon the road

  And left you all undone?

  He told her this but she smil’d again

  And he cuff’d her on the jaw.

  She laugh’d and said, “Oh cuff away!

  For I’ve been Beyond the Moor.”

  “You’ve been Beyond the Moor,” he said

  “And what is in this place

  That you don’t fear what my sharp blade

  Will do to your sweet face?”

  But the girl she laugh’d again and said,

  “Cut away dear friend

  Flay my skin and sear my flesh

  It will not be my end.

  You cannot harm what is not here

  And was not here before,

  You cannot harm me little man

  For I’ve been Beyond the Moor.”

  “Enough of this!” the villain scream’d

  “Your wits are gone is all,

  The truth that you don’t fear your end

  Don’t mean your end don’t call.

  So you shall feel this blade’s sharp edge

  And you shall feel it yet

  And I will take your treasure dear

  Afore the moon is set.”

  So he thrust his blade into her chest

  And he thrust and twist and tore

  But she smil’d and whisper’d once again

  “I’ve been Beyond the Moor.”

  And he screamed at her and cut again

  And thrust his hand in more

  And as his hand sank further still

  He heard “Beyond the Moor.”

  He went to pull the blade right out

  To make another start

  But found his hand and blade stuck fast

  Inside her beating heart.

  And as it beat, with every pulse

  His arm drew further in

  To his elbow, shoulder too

  Then finally his chin.

  He strain’d his neck and look’d at her

  And she smil’d again once more

  “And when your journey all is done

  We’ll go Beyond the Moor.”

  And with that, his head was pull’d

  Into the gaping scar,

  Then his torso, kicking legs

  Were dragg’d in deep and far.

  And when at last the feet were gone

  She look’d down at her chest

  And where the cut had just now been

  A tear was in her dress.

  She brush’d her clothes and smil’d again

  A sweet smile, soft and pure.

  She tuck’d her pendant safe away

  And walk’d Beyond the Moor.

  A Phenomenal Occurrence

  Was it when the air turned white and you couldn’t see your own feet tramping on the ground?

  Was it when the sky changed shape and the moon went from full to half in an eye’s blink?

  Was it when the seventh child who walked alone never returned?

  Was it the cry of the Rag and Bone Man that turned my spine to ice?

  Was it the taste of the golden apples from the tree that wasn’t there yesterday?

  Was it the dance of the Horsemen on the third night of a warm October?

  Was it when the lights grew and I forgot my place and time?

  Was it when she came from the fog house and her eyes darkened?

  Was it the standing stone that stood still, almost toppled and then took a step?

  Or was it when you noticed me?

  Was it when you turned your bonny head?

  Was it when you flashed your smile and held my hand?

  (Recorded by R. Mullins – Notes VII)

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

  The Fog House

  On the road through Black Meadow there was a patch of land from which nothing would grow. No farmer could till it, labourers broke their tills upon it and not even moss or lichen could find purchase. Travellers would pass this dry patch of wasteland everyday with nary a sideways glance, but in the village it was known to be much more than dead soil.

  When the scream of the Rag and Bone man arose and the fog spread over the meadow, the peculiar was always said to be hot on its heels. One villager spoke of a Fog House that appeared at the side of the road on the patch of barren land. He was walking back towards the village when the mist arose. He knew that he should seek cover swiftly, but the mist came down so fast that he quickly became disorientated. He made sure that he could feel the gravel of the road underneath his feet and moved forward, safe in the knowledge that he remained on the path to the village. He had slowed his pace somewhat, wondering when he would see the lights of the tavern ahead of him, when he noticed a large house looming over him on his right. The house was white. It seemed at first glance, to be an image of a house formed from smoke or mist. But, as the man reached for the fog door handle and he felt the cold metal against his skin, he knew that this was something far more tangible. He thought that his eyes were playing tricks, for although he could feel the hard metal of the handle and the rough wood of the door; to his eyes it still retained the essence of fog or smoke.

  Curiosity got the better of him. He entered the Fog House. He found himself in a fog hallway. Looking about he saw that the mist walls were adorned with wispy frames in which the white smoke portraits of lords and ladies hung. He saw that there were fog stairs leading up into the darkness and a passage led down from the front door with several misty rooms branching off it.

  If he squinted he could still make out the road through the fog walls, but, when he touched the wall could feel painted plaster under his fingers.

  He walked into the first room on the right, marvelling at the fog fire crackling away in the fog fireplace and at the comfortable armchair with its back to him, from which puffs of tobacco smoke plumed up to the fog candelabra with its misty candles and smoke flames.

  The man cleared his throat. A figure rose from the armchair. An imposing fog man, with a powdered periwig, fat belly and pipe clamped between his teeth. The figure frowned at the stranger; the wisps of fog that were his eyebrows dancing as his expression altered. When he spoke, his voice was clear, in the same way, the villager was sure, that he would be solid to the touch.

  “What is your business in my house, stranger?”

  The villager was taken aback but when he regained his composure managed the reply.

  “Apologies, sir, I was seeking shelter from the …”

  He tried to search for a word other than “fog”, not wishing to draw attention to the fact that he might have found the strange house and its occupant in some way disagreeable or out of the ordinary, so he settled on “weather.”

  The fog man walked over to the fog window, pulling the fog curtains apart. He looked out into the impenetrable cloud.

  “The weather looks fine.”

  “I thought there was a storm brewing,” the man stammered.

  “Are you certain?” The fog man looked concerned. “Then of course you must stay.”

  He clapped his fog hands together. Through the door entered a rotund lady, smiling and jolly. With her was a young maid; beautiful, all smiles and, of course, like her mother and father, composed entirely of fog.

  “The gentleman says there is a storm coming,” the fog father sai
d to his family. “So naturally I said that he must stay here with us.”

  The two women smiled but the villager could not take his eyes off their daughter. Despite being made of sweet white mist, she was a truly magnificent sight.

  “Father, will the gentleman be joining us for dinner?”

  “Of course, my child.”

  The villager said that he didn’t want to be putting this fine family to any trouble. The fog mother tut-tutted saying that she always made too much, pointing at the fat fog belly of her husband to help illustrate the point further.

  While the fog mother and daughter prepared the evening meal, the fog father asked the villager about his occupation and background. He told the villager the history of the house, that it was over two hundred years old and that his family had lived there for many generations. All the time the villager battled against the desire to ask whether this family were ghosts or spirits and was just about to do so when the vision that was the fog daughter called them in to dinner.

  They sat at the smoke table. The villager gave his chair and the table a wary knock and was satisfied as to their robust quality. The fog mother and daughter brought out fog knives and fog forks and laid fog dishes upon the fog table. Piping hot fog pork chops and fog potatoes with fog gravy were placed upon his plate. The villager prodded the food with his finger, breathing in the oven fresh aromas.

  “It must be my eyes,” he thought. “I have been out in the fog for so very long that here in this lovely house all I see is fog.”

  So he tucked into his fog supper, finding it most delicious and filling. The fog man insisted that the villager stay the night and so, after supper was completed, he was shown to his room by the fog daughter. She led the way up the fog stairs holding a fog lantern to light the way. The villager was disconcerted to see the ground so far below his feet as though he were walking across a thin vale of cloud. He could see the fog father sitting once again in his fog armchair, whilst the mother washed the fog dishes in another room.

  The fog daughter opened the door to the guest room, smiling shyly as she let the man inside. He looked at the fog bed and nodded appreciatively, commenting on how comfortable it looked. The fog daughter asked whether the villager had a wife. The villager, who did indeed have a wife and three charming children, was struck by a sudden and uncontrollable urge to lie. Pleased that he was unmarried, the maid asked him if he had ever lain with a woman, and he again, so consumed with lust for this fog creature, told her that he was unshamed. The more he stared at the fog daughter, the more he craved her. As she turned to leave she whispered to him to leave his door unlocked and, as her fog lips brushed against his ear, the villager thought that he could dance for joy.

  That night when the fog house was dark, the fog daughter came to him. They shared a sweet love sullied only by the lie that had allowed it.

  In the morning the man awoke on the cold hard ground of the barren patch of land. There was no sign of the fog daughter who had left his room with a smile, no fat fog father, no jolly fog mother and no fog house. The mist that had led him here had completely disappeared. He could now see the spire of the village church in the distance. He marvelled at the vividness of what he assumed must have been a dream and walked joyfully back home.

  He never told his family of his adventure on the way home, why would they need to know about what was probably just a silly dream? However, he did tell his friends in the tavern of his exploits. They all thought the tale worthy of a drink or two. It was a tale worth repeating. The man found that the story kept him in free ale from friends and strangers for many months to come.

  But gentlemen gossip just like old wives. The villager’s wife soon heard the tale. Though it hurt her deeply she knew it was just a silly dream. It was a hurtful tale of course, but a tale nonetheless.

  The villager knew nothing of her hurt and continued to tell his story. And still people brought him ale and still he laughed about his silly but vivid dream.

  Several months later something occurred that would cause the villager to never tell his tale again. He woke late one morning and looked out of the window to see his wife driving his cart away from the house. Sitting with his wife were his three children sobbing, wailing and looking back at the house with despairing eyes. He flew down the stairs in a panic. Flinging open the door to pursue them, he noticed, there on the doorstep, a little fog basket inside of which, wrapped in mist blankets, was a fog infant mewling and crying for its father.

  When the mist spreads

  Like an unspooling ball of wool

  Threading over the land

  When the mist spreads

  When the mist spreads

  Like an unspooling ball of wool

  Threading over the land

  Can you see the smoke from the chimneys?

  Can you see the roofs above the cloud?

  And if the mist rises

  If the mist rises

  The village will come

  The village has come

  When the mist has risen

  And the clouds fade

  The children smile and play their games

  But if you ask to join them

  If you ask to skip, or hop the scotch

  They shake their heads in dismay

  “Don’t come here

  Listen for the cry of the Rag and Bone man”

  If you want to sup their ale

  Or kiss the pretty maid under the yellow apple tree

  They shake their heads in dismay

  “Don’t come here

  Listen for the cry of the Rag and Bone man”

  (Recorded by R. Mullins – Notes IX)

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

  The Devil and the Yoked Man

  Many of the tales of the Black Meadow try to explain how the world disappears from its borders, how, when the mist comes, the world fades from around the village. Of course, to the world it is the village that vanishes but this is of course a simple matter of perspective.

  There was a labourer who enjoyed working the fields. Where others toiled for hours and moaned, he did so with nary a complaint. Where others could not wait to run from the field to the tavern at the end of a long day, he had to be pulled from the field, so determined he was to finish the job for the good of the village. The village was his passion; he loved every corner, every flower pot, and every person. Though others thought his behaviour peculiar, they did not shun him, knowing that his passion was for them and their well-being.

  And it was this gentleman that the Devil decided to meet one Saturday evening. All the others had left the field, but the man was still tilling the soil alone having attached the yoke to his shoulders as his ponies had long since retired and gone in to their stables to rest.

  “You are working hard,” said the Devil who was dressed in a long scarlet robe with a golden clasp. It is said that his face was the most handsome you would ever see, with a smooth shaved chin and tidy locks framing his beautiful visage. But for all his beauty his eyes were hard, cold, black and dead.

  The yoked man smiled, grunting in reply, but did not stop. The Devil walked alongside while the yoked man toiled and tried to engage him further in conversation but with no success.

  “You work here while others rest and drink in the tavern?”

  The Devil searched the yoked man’s face but got no response, just that continuing smile.

  “Even the horses rest and you are expected to pull the tiller yourself.”

  Again there was no response, just the smile.

  “Surely you want some respite from this ceaseless toil?”

  But the yoked man just grinned and pulled harder. The Devil followed, puzzled by the man’s keenness for servitude.

  “Good sir, will you stop and speak with me a while?”

  The yoked man continued to pull, ignoring the devil whose tone was slowly becoming more impatient.

  “Good sir, I beg your indulgence for a while, if
you will but stop I can give you your heart’s desire.”

  But the yoked man continued to pull. Finally the Devil commanded in a voice that echoed like thunder across the meadow:

  “I command you to stop. You will stop and you will listen.”

  The yoked man tried to pull at the tiller. He attempted to move his feet but found that he could not; he sighed and looked hard at the Devil.

  “I want nothing from you,” he said. “I need nothing, for honest work is its own reward.”

  “You are a fool,” said the Devil. “You are blind to the delights of the world. I can show you such things that you will scream for joy and beg me to give them to you.”

  So the Devil brought him a chest larger than a fat giant’s coffin. He opened it, revealing jewels and gold beyond the nation’s wealth.

  “I shall give you this,” he smiled.

  The yoked man shook his head saying,

  “Go away and let me pull.”

  The Devil frowned and waved his hand. A maid appeared, clad in flowing white, more beautiful than the morning and sweeter than fresh honey dripping from its comb. The yoked man shook his head, saying for the second time,