Collected Folk Tales. Alan Garner

she said, pressing her wet face to his, “I am going now. My body is breaking. Such a love cannot be cut down. Heitaro. Heitaro. My hair is falling through the sky!”

      The willow tree lay green and tangled on the ground.

      

      Maggoty’s Wood is old.

      Nothing grows.

      Nobody knows.

      Nothing goes.

      Grandfathers wouldn’t dare

      At midnight. Fathers told

      Of giggling; children scared

      Silent to the centre, whooping out,

      Could do it once, learning rain

      And leaves, badgers, and to walk

      Lanes after.

      Maggoty’s Wood is old,

      And when the lanes are sold

      And the houses ponder through,

      It becomes an Unspoilt View.

      Where grandfathers wouldn’t,

      And where fathers told,

      And children could do once,

      Is Woodend Close.

      And nothing grows.

      Beneath the playpen and

      Beneath the bed,

      Beneath the arrogant garden,

      Nothing goes.

      Nobody knows.

      Alan Garner

      

      s Edward Frank was coming home one night, he heard something walking towards him, but at first could see nothing. Suddenly his way was barred by a tall, dismal object which stood in the path before him.

      It was a marvellous-thin man, whose head was so high that Edward nearly fell over backwards in his efforts to gaze at it. His knees knocked together, and his heart sank. With great difficulty he gasped forth: “In the name of God, what is here? Turn out of my way, or I will strike thee!”

      The giant then disappeared, and the frightened Edward, seeing a cow not far off, went towards her to lean on her, which the cow stood still and permitted him to do.

      

      This story, and “The Green Mist”, were told by the old people and the young children who lived in Lincolnshire before the fenlands were drained. I think that “Yallery Brown” is the most powerful of all English fairy tales.

      ’ve heard tell as how the bogles and boggarts were main bad in the old times, but I can’t rightly say as I ever saw any of them myself; not rightly bogles, that is, but I’ll tell you about Yallery Brown. If he wasn’t a boggart, he was main near it, and I knew him myself. So it’s all true – strange and true I tell you.

      I was working on the High Farm to then, and nobbut a lad of sixteen or maybe eighteen years; and my mother and folks dwelt down by the pond yonder, at the far end of the village.

      I had the stables and such to see to, and the horses to help with, and odd jobs to do, and the work was hard, but the pay good. I reckon I was an idle scamp, for I couldn’t abide hard work, and I looked forward all the week to Sundays, when I’d walk down home, and not go back till darklins.

      By the green lane I could get to the farm in a matter of twenty minutes, but there used to be a path across the west field yonder, by the side of the spinney, and on past the fox cover and so to the ramper, and I used to go that way. It was longer for one thing, and I wasn’t never in a hurry to get back to the work, and it was still and pleasant like of Summer nights, out in the broad silent fields, mid the smell of the growing things.

      Folk said as the spinney was haunted, and for sure I have seen lots of fairy stones and rings and that, along the grass edge; but I never saw nowt in the way of horrors and boggarts, let alone Yallery Brown, as I said before.

      One Sunday, I was walking across the west field. It was a beautiful July night, warm and still, and the air was full of little sounds, as if the trees and grass were chattering to their selves. And all to once there came a bit ahead of me the pitifullest greetin I’ve ever heard, sob, sobbing, like a bairn spent with fear, and near heart-broken; breaking off into a moan, and then rising again in a long, whimpering wailing that made me feel sick nobbut to hark to it. I was always fond of babbies, too, and I began to look everywhere for the poor creature.

      “Must be Sally Bratton’s,” I thought to myself. “She was always a flighty thing, and never looked after it. Like as not, she’s flaunting about the lanes, and has clean forgot the babby.”

      But though I looked and looked I could find nowt. Nonetheless the sobbing was at my very ear, so tired like and sorrowful that I kept crying out, “Whisht, bairn, whisht! I’ll take you back to your mother if you’ll only hush your greetin.”

      But for all my looking I could find nowt. I keekit under the hedge by the spinney side, and I clumb over it, and I sought up and down by, and mid the trees, and through the long grass and weeds, but I only frightened some sleeping birds, and stinged my own hands with the nettles. I found nowt, and I fair gave up to last; so I stood there, scratching my head, and clean beat with it all. And presently the whimpering got louder and stronger in the quietness, and I thought I could make out words of some sort.

      I harkened with all my ears, and the sorry thing was saying all mixed up with sobbing:

      “O, oh! The stone, the great big stone! O, oh! The stone on top!”

      Naturally I wondered where the stone might be, and I looked again, and there by the hedge bottom was a great flat stone, near buried in the mools, and hid in the cotted grass and weeds. One of those stones as were used to call the Strangers’ Tables. The Strangers danced on them at moonlight nights, and so they were never meddled with. It’s ill luck, you know, to cross the Tiddy People.

      However, down I fell on my knee-bones by the stone, and harkened again. Clearer nor ever, but tired and spent with greetin came the little sobbing voice.

      “Ooh! Ooh! The stone, the stone on top.”

      I was misliking to meddle with the thing, but I couldn’t stand the whimpering babby, and I tore like mad at the stone, till I felt it lifting from the mools, and all to once it came with a sigh, out of the damp earth and the tangled grass and growing things. And there, in the hole, lay a tiddy thing on its back, blinking up at the moon and at me.

      It was no bigger than a year-old brat, but it had long cotted hair and beard, twisted round and round its body, so as I couldn’t see its clouts. And the hair was all yaller and shining and silky, like a bairn’s; but the face of it was old, and as if it were hundreds of years since it was young and smooth. Just a heap of wrinkles, and two bright black eyes in the mid, set in a lot of shining yaller hair; and the skin was the colour of the fresh turned earth in the Spring – brown as brown could be, and its bare hands and feet were brown like the face of it.

      The greetin had stopped, but the tears were standing on its cheek, and the tiddy thing looked mazed like in the moonshine and the night air. It was wondering what I’d do, but by and by it scrambled out of the hole, and stood looking about it, and at myself. It wasn’t up to my knee, but it was the queerest creature I ever set eyes on. Brown and yaller all