Dancing with Trees Page 10
This story can be told as an introduction to a planting activity – even better, if you are planting beans!
16
MARGARET MCPHERSON’S GARDEN
(SCOTLAND, TRAVELLERS)
Many years ago, on the Isle of Skye, a woman named Margaret McPherson kept the most beautiful garden on the whole island. From January right through until December there were always flowers in bloom. Delicate white snowdrops were followed by regal daffodils, velvet-leaved tulips, wild primroses, lupins and iris, ox-eye daisies, every colour and shape of rose and poppy, glorious hollyhocks, carnations, pansies and orchids – every kind of flower thrived in her garden. And the strange thing was, Margaret barely lifted a finger to help them grow. She pulled up the occasional dandelion and when it was hot, sprinkled a watering can over the marigolds, but that was all she ever needed to do. It was as if the garden managed to magically look after itself!
Folk came from all over the island to peer over the thick hedge of rhododendrons at Margaret’s garden. They admired the stunning display of flowers, breathed in the wonderful scents and marvelled at the opulent palate of colours. Sometimes, a sneaky neighbour or brazen tourist would nip in when Margaret was out of sight and help themselves to a cutting or two, but even that didn’t spoil the magnificent growth and beauty of her garden.
One year this all changed. And it began with a very peculiar incident. Margaret woke early, as she always did, to the sound of the milkman’s horse clip-clopping down the road. When she had dressed and had put her kettle on the stove, she went to the front doorstep to take in the jug of milk, left there by the milkman. Back then this was the way everyone on the island got their milk. He would come round early, after milking at the farm, with the big, old, metal churns on the back of his cart. He would ladle milk straight into the jugs left for him on people’s doorsteps. They’d leave the money under the jug, and the milkman would put that in his leather satchel and drive on to the next house.
On this particular morning, Margaret had a nasty surprise. The jug was empty, but the money was gone. Margaret grumbled out loud, ‘Well, that’s a fine trick to play on me! Take my money and forget to leave my milk. Now what will I put in my tea today?’
I’ll be up early to speak to that milkman tomorrow and I’ll give him a piece of my mind all right! She thought to herself. She went on with her day, but didn’t forget for one second about the missing milk.
The next morning, Margaret woke early and stood at her window, waiting for the milkman’s arrival. She had put her empty jug and tuppence out on the step the evening before, just as she always did. As she stood waiting, half-hidden behind the curtain, she heard the sound of the horse’s hooves and rumble of the milk-cart coming along the road.
‘If he tries to rob me of my money again, I’ll catch him red-handed.’ Margaret watched as the milkman swung down out of his seat, collected her jug from the step, filled it full to the brim with warm, fresh milk from the churn, placed it back on her step, and put the two-penny piece she had set by the jug into his bag.
‘Mm, so you’ve not robbed me,’ muttered Margaret. ‘But someone did yesterday, perhaps one of my neighbours. I’ll stay and get to the bottom of this, that’s for sure.’
Margaret continued to spy, watching the milk jug on the doorstep. Which is how she came to see the most unusual sight she had ever seen in her life. From out of the thick green foliage of the rhododendrons, came a small man and a little woman carrying an even smaller elfin baby. The tiny family walked cautiously up the garden path. They came right up to the doorstep. The wee man took a grass stem from his pocket, bent it over and dipped it into the jug of milk. He then put the other end of the grass-straw into the child’s mouth. The babe began to suck up the milk. Margaret watched in amazement as the child’s cheeks began to flush with colour. She realised just how pale and sickly the tiny creature had looked, but now that it was drinking the milk, she could see a healthy glow coming back to its little face.
When the fairy family had finished feeding their baby, they hurried back into the hedge, disappearing from sight. Margaret stood up stiffly, contemplating the strange scene. ‘Well then, it’s the fairy-folk who are stealing my milk. I’m sure I’ll think of a way to put a stop to that.’
That evening, before bedtime, Margaret took two big handfuls of salt from a stone jar in the kitchen, and put them into the bottom of her milk jug.
‘That will teach the fairy thieves a lesson they won’t forget.’ She smirked to herself. Then Margaret put the jug out on her doorstep with the tuppence next to it.
Margaret woke up early the next morning and hid behind the curtain, so she could spy out of her window and watch the fairies.
First she heard the milkman’s whistle – he blew it to let the village know he was delivering milk – then the clip-clop of his horse’s hooves and the rumble of the cartwheels. He jumped down, filled Margaret’s jug with milk – he didn’t even notice the salt in the bottom – took the tuppence for his bag and went on his way.
Margaret waited silently, watching the doorstep with steely grey eyes. Sure enough, the fairy family appeared from the rhododendron hedge and came quickly up the garden path to the doorstep. The fairy woman looked tense and worried. The tiny child was very pale and had sad, sunken eyes. The wee man pulled a grass-straw from his pocket, put one end in the milk and the other in his baby’s mouth. As the child began to suck, it screamed in horror at the taste and spat out the salty milk. Then the poor little thing was terribly sick, vomiting the vile liquid back up – salt is a poison to the fairy folk; they can’t be near it without becoming very ill.
The fairy woman hugged her sick child close as they hurried back into the hedge. The fairy man turned to stare right at Margaret’s window, shaking his little fist at her, before disappearing back into the rhododendrons never to be seen again.
‘Let that be a lesson to you,’ sneered Margaret. ‘You won’t be stealing my milk again.’
They never did take her milk again, but not one single flower ever grew in Margaret’s garden from that day forth. All of the summer roses and ox-eye daisies died within a week. The carnations and marigolds wilted and shrivelled up. No autumn berries or nuts appeared on the trees in late August. No winter snowdrops or spring bluebells showed their pretty flower faces ever again. All that grew from that day on were thistles and nettles. Margaret tried all she could to make it flourish once more. She hired men from the village to weed it and plant new bulbs and seeds. She bought cartloads of manure for them to dig into the soil, to feed the plants, but nothing could bring the wonderful flowers back. Till the day she died, Margaret could not get anything to grow there, except for thorns and thistles. And I’m sure you can all guess why?
If you go to the Isle of Skye, you will find a wild patch of thistles and nettles and thorns near Dunvegan, where Margaret McPherson’s garden once grew. No one has ever been able to cultivate this land, because the fairy-folk cursed her garden.
NOTES: The fairy-race being associated with the growth of plants and natural habitats is a familiar theme from the Celtic tradition and permeates so many of the stories from the British Isles.
This is a good story to tell when out in a garden, or if your audience are keen gardeners, or about to begin a planting project.
There are many opportunities for listeners to participate in the telling of this tale – let them suggest the flowers which grow in Margaret’s garden and which months of the year different plants bloom in.
I ask young listeners why they ‘think the flowers stopped growing?’ They love to share their answers.
17
THE SLEEPING KING
(WALES)
Once upon a time, a tramp named Tom was sitting next to a dirt road somewhere in Wales, minding his own business, when an old man stopped to talk to him. The old man was well dressed, so Tom listened to him and answered his questions, hoping that he’d get a coin for his trouble.
The old man was curious about the battered
walking stick that Tom had with him, wanting to know where Tom had got it. So Tom, still hoping for a coin or two, and actually having nothing else to do, took the old man around to the ancient hazel tree, from which he had cut the stick many moons ago.
The tree was growing next to a well on a small, featureless hill. The old man seemed pleased. ‘This is the place,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Now give me that stick.’
Tom had told the man where the stick had come from, then he’d gone out of his way to show him the place and he still hadn’t been given any coin. He wasn’t sure he wanted to part company with his best walking stick and end up with nothing.
The old man must have read his mind, because he took a thick gold coin out of his purse. ‘For your troubles,’ he said with a smile.
That seemed like fair payment, so Tom handed over his walking stick and pocketed the coin. It had a satisfying weight to it. The old man raised the stick above his head and then brought it down, plunging it into the ground. The whole hill shuddered. The stick sprouted branches, and at the ends of those branches, fresh spring-green leaves. In the ground next to it, a small hole, like the entrance to a cave, opened up.
‘That’s not something you see every day,’ Tom said. He had a knack for stating the obvious. ‘Didn’t know my stick could do that.’ He was beginning to wonder if selling his stick for just one gold coin had really been such a good deal after all.
He knelt down and peered into the dark tunnel. He could see the gleam of a bell just inside the entrance. ‘Small hole, that.’
‘It is just the size it needs to be,’ said the old man, getting down onto his hands and knees. ‘I suppose you want to know what is inside this hill.’
Tom shrugged.
‘You can follow me in,’ the old man continued, ‘but make sure you do not ring the bell.’
Tom followed the old man into the tunnel. He was large and the edge of his sleeve did brush against the bell. Tom held his breath as it shivered ever so slightly. But it did not ring.
The tunnel soon widened into a huge cavern, which seemed bigger than the hill. It made Tom’s head hurt to think about it. So he stopped.
Burning torches ranged around the wall, lighting the cavern without producing heat or smoke. In the flickering light he could see a circle of men lying on the ground, their elaborate armour gleaming in the darkness. In the centre, raised up on a dais, lay a man in chain mail, wearing a jewel-encrusted crown.
‘Are they dead?’ whispered Tom.
‘No, just sleeping,’ said the old man.
‘Who is he?’ asked Tom.
‘He is the Once and Future King. For now he and his men sleep, but when the world needs him, the bell will ring to wake them up. They will ride out of this hill and come to our rescue.’ It was only then that Tom noticed the horses sleeping in the shadows at the outer edges of the cavern.
Piles of treasure surrounded the sleeping knights: coins, gemstones, jewellery, pitchers and cups. Seeing the glint in Tom’s eye, the old man said, ‘You may take what you need, but be careful not to wake the sleeping king and his knights. It is not yet their time.’
Tom happily helped himself to the piles of treasure. But he found that the more he took, the more his need grew, until his pockets were bulging, along with his handkerchief, which he had cleverly fashioned into a little bag.
The old man went about whatever business it was that he had come to do. At length he announced to Tom that it was time to leave and gestured towards the tunnel.
Tom had forgotten how narrow the tunnel was and he had increased his girth considerably with all the gold and jewels he’d grabbed. He tried to slip past the bell but one of his pockets hit it and it began to ring, loudly and insistently. There was an almighty clatter behind him as the knights woke up and sprang to their feet.
‘Is it time?’ roared the king.
‘No. It is not yet time,’ shouted the old man. ‘Go back to sleep.’
With a great sigh, the banging and clanging stilled, but Tom did not dare to look back into the cavern. He didn’t dare wait for the old man either. He started running and didn’t stop until night had overtaken him.
He wandered quite far from that hill, until he was sure that no one was going to come after him. He used his treasure to buy a large mansion house. He hired a full household of servants, held many balls, where he served the most expensive wine available and before a year and a day had past, he was all out of money. He took to the roads again, trying in vain to find the place where the sleeping king was buried. Nor did he ever find a walking stick quite as sturdy and fine as the one he had sold to the old man. All he had left to his name was this story that no one believes.
NOTES: The ‘Once and Future King’ is, of course, the legendary King Arthur. This story speaks of the wealth beneath the soil: the tangible wealth of gold and jewels, but also the wealth of the people who have come before us and the stories they have bequeathed to us. Arthur is a heroic figure, a role model at a time when the world needs heroic leadership. While it might be tempting to sit back and wait for the sleeping king and his knights to awaken and save us, it would be wiser to see this story metaphorically. We each have a sleeping hero inside of us, waiting to be woken.
THE WEB OF LIFE
18
THE TREE WITH THREE FRUITS
(WALES)
Once upon a time in Wales, there lived a boy named Baglan. Baglan took care of an old monk whose knees and elbows creaked and who needed help with everyday things, especially on cold, damp days. One chilly morning, the monk asked Baglan to fetch coals from the cooking fire outside to warm their one-room house.
Baglan went outside and looked down at his empty hands. He’d forgotten to bring the pottery fire-pot! Not wanting to return with nothing, he used his wool cloak to grab the coals. When the monk saw Baglan carrying glowing coals in an undamaged cloak, he realised the boy was destined for more important work than serving an old man.
‘Baglan,’ he said. ‘I have a special task for you. Take my crook. It will lead you to a tree that bears three different types of fruit. There you will build a church.’
He held out a long staff with a brass hook on the end. Baglan looked at it. He knew nothing about building a church, but he didn’t want to disappoint his master, so he took it. As soon as the crook was in his hand, it began to tug. It pulled him across the room and straight out the door. The old monk hobbled after him, pressing a parcel of bread and cheese under Baglan’s elbow and waving him off on his journey.
The crook tugged Baglan down roads. It pulled him over fields, across streams and through woods. It led him for a day and a night, and another day and another night, and then it stopped.
Baglan found himself standing on a hillside in a wood that looked much the same as all the other woods he had walked through. The trees looked like ordinary trees. Not one of them had apples or pears or cherries growing on it. Had the staff stopped working? Baglan shook it. Nothing happened. Baglan tapped it on the ground. Still nothing.
With a sigh, he sat down under the nearest tree and opened his bundle of food. He was tired and hungry, but all he had left was a thin sliver of bread and a mouthful of cheese. Feeling sad because he’d failed his task, Baglan munched absent-mindedly on his food. As he chewed, he watched a family of wild pigs rooting around under the tree, eating the fallen acorns. A crow cawed above his head. Several youngsters called back to her from a nest perched high in the tree’s branches. A bee buzzed by, disappearing into a hive set deep in a hole in the trunk. Baglan sprang to his feet, scattering the last crumbs of his food. This oak tree was growing nuts, baby crows and honey. This must be the tree that the old monk had told him about, the tree that bears three kinds of fruit!
There was a flat clearing at the bottom of the hill. It looked perfect for building on. There, Baglan dug a trench for the foundation. Then he collected all the big rocks he could find and began to build the walls. He worked quickly and carefully. Building a church was not
so different from building a wall on his father’s farm. When it was too dark to work anymore, he walked back up the hill to the large oak tree, curled up in his cloak beneath it and went to sleep.
When he woke the next morning, his heart sank. The walls he had so carefully built had tumbled down and the trench had filled with water. The clearing at the bottom of the hill was not a good place to build. He would have to start again somewhere else.
Baglan headed to the top of the hill, which was bare of trees, it looked perfect for building on. Baglan dug a trench in the thin soil. Then he carried the rocks up the hill and began to build the walls. When it grew too dark for working, he went down to the oak, curled up beneath it and went to sleep.
When he woke the next morning, his stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten for two days. His legs wobbled as he climbed up the hill and his heart sank when he reached the top. The edges of the trench had crumbled away and the wind had blown the walls over. The top of the hill was not a good place to build. He would have to start building again, but where?
Baglan thought back to what the old monk had told him. He had said to find the tree that bore three fruit and to build the church there. Baglan looked at the oak tree. There was just enough space between it and its neighbours for a wall.
When the pig family saw him digging a trench around the tree, they joined in, using their snouts to help him clear away the earth. As Baglan began building the walls, something soft bounced off the top of his head. He caught it. It was a piece of bread. He looked up. The crow was sitting on a branch above him. She cawed and a swarm of bees buzzed out of the trunk, flying over Baglan’s bread and drizzling honey all over it.