6
It is important to a teller of tales to pass on these ancient stories, not just to entertain but to share something very old. It gives me a sense of going back in time and also of handing on the tales so that they never die. Another vital factor in storytelling is group-telling. For example, one begins by laying the scene, another puts in a character, one adds another character, and one can introduce a moral which gives meat to the story. The tale soon grows and takes on a life of its own. If young people are serious and apply their imaginations, great creativity emerges. This adds the age-old conyach (heart) that brings the tale alive. In this next story I have done that. It will give you all an idea of how, from a single feather, group-telling grows wings to fly as a mighty eagle.
Many years ago in a secluded handful of crofts in the Highlands of Scotland, the quiet folk waited on a visitor. Winter brought snow and blizzards which blocked roads, making them impassable, but better was in store; ahead warm springtime sun melted ice from the mountains and all waited anxiously for news of neighbouring places.
The visitor they longed to see was the Chapman, who would know who had died, who had given birth to a baby, boy or girl, or who had moved away. He was a fine visitor to any country abode, but it was the younger generation who most keenly appreciated his presence, because this fine fellow was a storyteller. Doors were opened if by magic at his knock. Warm and welcoming food was laid upon a scrubbed table laid with best linen.
The roomiest house was chosen to entertain him in: one big enough to take all the people in the area, old and young alike. And even scruffy cats and flea-ridden dogs were captivated by the Chapman’s stories, such was their depth. When night fell, surrounded by dark corners where imagined devils and goblins danced a ghostly jig to his whisperings, and when he was usually surrounded by excited faces, he told weird and wonderful tales.
I am most fortunate to have been handed down a few of his tales, and would now like to share one or two with you. Are you ready? Good – then let’s go off and meet ...The Chapman.
He was tall, with a long, flowing, dark coat, peaked hat shading a pair of slanted eyes which seemed almost closed. The heavy oak door of young Sandy’s cottage shook as fist met wood; with a loud and sharp thump the visitor heralded his coming. It wasn’t night time, so Sandy was allowed to answer the door. If night had fallen, it was forbidden for one so young to greet a stranger – father or older brothers did that.
‘May God bless this house and all who live in it,’ the Chapman said, before removing his hat. ‘I have travelled many a long mile, and for the telling of a tale I would require only a small meal and a place by your welcome fire.’
Sandy’s father answered, ‘Be at ease, Chapman, a meal and warm seat will not be denied your good self.’
The stranger came in as invited (he’d never set foot inside a home without invitation), removed his hat and laid it on his knee. His coat was unbuttoned as he sat down at the table. While the Chapman ate, Sandy rushed around the village, excitedly spreading the word: the storyteller was in their house, and all were welcome to come and listen.
In under an hour, everyone was hurrying to hear and be enthralled by the Chapman’s tales. The old came for gossip, young women asked shyly after handsome fellows who’d taken their fancy at the hind year’s market.
Without an inch of space to spare, eager children and adults sat in half-circles at his feet. Now fed and adequately warmed, the dark-skinned stranger began to speak.
‘This tale, my friends, is one I heard as I passed round Bratach Castle by Loch Marla’s shore.’
He moved closer to the fire, spreading a pair of stone-hard knees apart, rubbing and fanning long spindly fingers.
‘It was a story like no other, and as you all know of me and my shadow-followers...’ At that he lowered his heavy eyelids and looked to the floor as if waiting for a response. The boy Sandy and everyone in the room knew he meant by this the creepy demonic nightmares which plagued all listeners after a night of his special tale-telling.
His face stiffened, eyes round and protruding, and he stared at dancing flames from red hot coals burning out their hearts within the iron grate. He added, ‘Not in shadows will they be found, my friends, but in careful silence. Do not make haste to steal mushrooms from their stalks – or should I be more specific – toadstools!’ His face softened, as a wry smile crept slowly from ear to ear, breaking at last into a grin more of menace than of joy.
‘This is not my usual kind of tale, though. Oh no, this is a story that will make you think and wonder. It will not just be a case of my words tapping into your imagination. A thread of truth may be left behind when I’m gone from this warm and friendly home. Now can I have another cup of tea?’
The drink he requested was soon grasped in his curled fingers. He gulped half the cupful at once and then began his story.
The Last Pharaoh
On the night of the summer solstice, I sat by a tumbledown building, which many hundreds of years ago had housed dozens of soldiers of some monarch, I cannot say for sure which one. Anyway, with good heart to my campfire and a billycan to boil, I saw by the flitting moonlight a beehive-shaped gypsy wagon. It was being pulled by an overweight horse and led by a bent-backed old man. They rolled up the old winding drove road to where I sat, minding my own business, and stopped.
He was a small old man, whose days of youthful charm were long past. As he tied the leather reins to an ancient yew tree that had been twisted by sea winds, he called over, ‘Hello to you, sir.’
‘Same to yourself. I haven’t seen you in these parts before, where do you come from?’
‘I’ll partake of your companionship when I gets me gry unhitched.’
I watched with wonder at the speed the grey mare was unharnessed, and in no time tethered to graze peacefully by the wagon.
‘Me name is Bendigo Shadrach Jeremiah Brazil, what’s your handle?’
I laughed out loud and said, ‘Folks call me Chapman. Now, which of those regal-sounding handles do you want me to address you with?’
A small battered and blackened kettle was placed on my open fire before he answered. ‘I call myself Bendy, and I’m from anywhere. Now does that name of yours come from the womb, or has it been given to you?’
‘Your kettle’s on the boil,’ I said, refusing to share my birth name with a total stranger. ‘Let me put a handful of tea-leaves in it for you.’
‘Friend, there’s nothing I’d like better.’ Bendigo opened a toothless mouth, and didn’t close it until it held a walnut pipe bellowing white smoke from its pot. ‘I been on road most part of three days without stop, me legs are stiff and swollen, and like hamsters’ cheeks are these two buttocks of mine.’ He shuffled from side to side on his seat, and asked, ‘You’re a tale-teller?’
‘Yes, I share stories with all ears about everything.’
Bendigo leaned his elbow on one knee, took a last gulp of tea and sat his cup on a flat rock. He stuffed a little more tobacco into his pipe and said, ‘I have a tale for you, do you want my offering?’
How I’d longed to listen to another storyteller. There was no hesitation as I lay back on a bed of crushed bracken and beckoned my companion to tell all.
However, first there was something I had to warn him about from long experience. ‘Take the floor, my fine friend. But before you begin, best I tell you of the stealthy creatures who dwell nearby. The walls of this broken keep have fissures and cracks filled with bats, and if the light from the fire is too bright, they don’t half swarm about the ears.’
‘That’s alright, Chapman, because I’m warmed up enough now – and as for those cloth-winged mice, they don’t scare me one bit.’
I removed his hissing kettle from the flames with a stout stick, watched his gaze scan the unearthly horizon of pitch black, and wondered how far travelled this old man had been, and what sights, both of wonder and fear, he had encountered in his lifetime. His face gave away no secrets as the pipe was removed and emptied in the fire. A funnel of grey smoke sent the last puff of tobacco to journey on the loch breezes and mist.
He lowered his voice, and for a moment I thought he was trying not to disturb the bats, but there was another explanation. ‘I don’t want to cause stirring among the ghosts of the castle,’ he said.
‘No fear of that, Bendy. In all my days I never have come across any spectres or ghostly apparitions, here or anywhere.’
‘There is a first time for all things,’ he warned me, lowering his eyes towards the now dying embers of the fire.
As if to back up his words a fresh breeze rolled across the loch and whistled through the ruins. I felt uneasy. For a teller of tales of shadow and darkness, it throws my craft into disrepute to admit to such feelings. Nevertheless, I did shiver. He began his story.
A long time ago in ancient Egypt, a sad and weak Pharaoh, no more than twenty years of age, gathered his friends and companions around him. His lungs were sore with the effort of breathing; fluid was accumulating dangerously, blocking his airways; time for him was running out.
‘My dear friends,’ he said, his speech slow as every breath was another sharp pain. ‘Tonight I will leave this world to take a long journey. My days are over. I called you here, not just to say goodbye, but to thank you for making my short life enjoyable. My cooks, bathers, doctors, maids, horsemen, in fact to each and every one of you, I give gratitude.’
He lay back exhausted upon his featherdown pillow. Everyone, with tear-filled eyes, cast themselves down on the floor of his bed chamber and sobbed.
‘Please don’t be sad,’ he told them. ‘This night I shall meet my parents again, and all my relatives who have gone before me. There is no need for sadness; rejoice that my pain will be gone.’
A tall muscular man stood up and said, through deep sobs, ‘Sire, we are with you now, and have been every waking moment of your life. Without you, our days are not worth living. I want to come with you to the other world.’
Deeply touched by this gesture of love from his horseman, the young Pharaoh reached out and touched the sad figure gently on the cheek. Then all the others gathered around, vowing to kill themselves and find their pharaoh on the other side. It was a terrible outpouring of grief.
‘Hush now, my friends. Is not the rising and setting of the desert sun a joy to behold? What of the clear waters of the great river Nile, your nourishment of goats’ milk and fresh fruit, surely you cannot give these things up? Can you give up such a gift as life itself?’
One small girl, his ointment-applier, said, ‘Master, we have all spoken of this day when we would lose you.’ She gestured with a thin hand to the others; they gathered around her. ‘Master, we wish to come with you. See –’ she held out her hand to display a small vial filled with green-coloured liquid. The rest did the same.
There was no hesitation among his dearest companions. The moment that he met death, it would not be alone. The Pharaoh was far too weak to argue, and the moment that Father Time touched his heart, all of his earthly companions swallowed their vials of poison. The whole of Egypt fell silent as each of the deceased was carried behind their master on earth, to be with their king in eternity.
Once they were on the other side of death, their pain and fear was gone. They danced and laughed in the knowledge that no more would they worry about the young Pharaoh’s health; he would never know pain again, and on his journey in the other world they would be with him, as they wished.
The road they travelled seemed endless, but in that place time did not exist, so how long they’d been on their journey was anyone’s guess. Every way has an ending, though, and when they saw dancing yellow lights far ahead, they rejoiced in the knowledge that they were soon to be at their destination.
On and on they went, until the light became so bright it almost closed their eyes. When the young Pharaoh saw his parents and grandparents, and his companions were reunited with their dead relatives, there was a time of merriment and wonder. Questions were asked and answered, and comparisons between the vibrant living world and the elusive other one ran off their tongues like morning dewdrops under a hot sun.
For a short time, all was peaceful, then one day a stranger came into their midst. He was a man of great height, with long, white, flowing hair and wings of an eagle. He came with news from the Almighty Spirit. ‘Friends, the Great One has instructed me to put you all to sleep. A time of change is coming. His instructions must be obeyed.’
When the young Pharaoh heard this news, he called out in anger and frustration. ‘I have spent all my life on earth in a state of pain and half sleep. Surely it is unjust to rob me of this new life. Here I am with all my loved ones, and now I have to sleep again.’
He felt a surge of sadness overwhelm him. His friends all rushed around to comfort and shield him.
‘Can we not go and speak with the Great Spirit?’ one asked the winged man.
‘Yes. It is a time and yet again a time to reach his home without walls, but he is just, and will give you an audience. I have to go now, so if you are all of one mind, then please follow me.’
Without hesitation the Egyptians were once more embarked on a long journey. This time they went with uncertainty. What would the Great Spirit decide?
If there were days and nights in that world, then hundreds must have passed before they came to a place of such colour and beauty that they all thought they were in a dream. There were greens of sun-kissed forests, blues of ocean and sky, red of perfect sunsets, yellow of springtime blossoms. ‘Is this heaven?’ asked the young Pharaoh.
‘It is the place of perfection and peace,’ answered the winged man.
‘Does the Great Spirit whom we seek live here?’
Suddenly every colour came together and began circling around them. Winged ladies dressed in flowing silks and satins danced to unheard of music, all keeping perfect time. It was a scene like no other; there were hundreds of them. It was the most beautiful, amazing sight.
‘Who has come to my place?’
There was no person to be seen, but the voice carried into every ear. Shaking in anticipation of being in the presence of the Great Spirit, the young Pharaoh whispered nervously, ‘I have come, oh One of all things living and dead. My life on earth was a time of pain and worry. To soothe aching muscles and bones my physicians fed me sleeping potions. Oh Greatest One, why do I have to sleep here in this other world, when I did nothing but slumber in the old one?’ His companions gathered round, saying nothing, but nodded in unison.
For a time no word came, until once more the winged ladies danced around in their rainbow silks, as if heralding their master’s voice.
‘What kind of love is this I see?’ the voice asked.
‘We are simply friends, one for all and all for one,’ came the answer.
‘I cannot send you back, surely you are aware of this. Once the cord of life is cut, it cannot be remade. But I have not met such overwhelming gratitude to a ruler from his slaves.’
‘Oh no, my Lord, we are friends. I am a Pharaoh by birth, nothing more than that. Together we lived, as one we died.’
A crescendo of trumpets, harps and singing filled the air; once more the winged ladies danced and flew through a heaven of wonder. And when they had finished, they folded their wings, hung down their heads and the music quietened to a whisper.
‘I shall grant your request,’ said the Great Spirit, ‘But to do so, I have to change a few things.’
They all gasped, and turned to the Pharaoh in anticipation of what proposals were to be made.
‘I shall create another world, one between here and the earth. Together you shall live there, and once a year, at the midnight hour of the summer solstice, I will allow you a minute to go onto the earth, to taste berries, to smell flowers and to drink water from a river’s source. One last thing, I have to reduce your normal size. In this new world, I am sending you as tiny people; no taller than a mouse. Will you accept this?’
There was no question or protest. Each one lined up with eyes closed, and together they waited.
When at last their eyes opened again, the colours and silks of the winged ladies were gone.
A brand new world, with all it contained, was now theirs; to play in, laugh, sing, tell tales and live in harmony forever. As promised, from their small world, at the exact hour of the solstice, they flooded back to the earth they had left behind to smell flowers, jump upon the heath, hold hands and dance beneath rings of toadstools. Just sixty seconds, that’s all the time they had. But that was enough for them, because in their world time was of no consequence.
Bendy finished his tale with a smile.
‘That is the best tale I have heard in many a day,’ I told him with a gentle pat on his shoulder.
Old Bendy looked behind and said, ‘Was that a fluttering of cloth-wings that brushed my cheek a minute ago? Best get to bed before we are annoyed to death by those pesky bats.’
I didn’t think we’d get much bother from them, because the fire had died down to a blink, and Loch Marla’s breezes had been replaced by a ghostly mist which was already rolling around our ankles.
As I moved closer to the fire, my boot caught the old billycan, spilling its dregs over the embers. Whoosh! Up and into the quiet night went a spiral of hissing steam. All around, from every broken wall of the ruined castle, came dozens of maddened bats diving head first into our bodies. We each punched the darkness, fighting with our fists the eerie menacing crowd that had encircled us. Bendy screamed, and before I knew what was happening, the poor old fellow keeled over, clutching his chest.
Hitting out at the bats, one of which had bitten a tiny chunk from my chin, I quickly bundled old Bendy up the steps of his caravan and into his beehive-shaped home. The poor old fellow’s cheeks were turning from apple-red to a grey hue.
Inside the wagon and to the left was a bolted-down table, a single chair and a small stove. A neat bed was positioned at the back, and it was there I laid him down. On the right was a large kist covered with a brocade cushion, which from its dowdy appearance had seen better days. I sat on it and asked Bendy if a cup of tea would be welcome.
His lips quivered as he shook his head. It took him a few moments to find a sense of composure before he spoke. ‘I’m glad I have company on this night, Chapman. There’s not much breath left in this old body. Do you think it is midnight?’
I searched for a candle, and found one stuck by blobs of melted wax onto a brass lid, partly hidden behind a small pot-bellied vase containing three wooden flowers.
Bendy began to seem agitated; he stretched his neck upwards like a strangled hen reaching for its last breath.
‘What time is it?’ he asked.
I knew by the moon’s position in the night sky that the solstice was less than ten minutes away, and told him so. He pointed to the chest, touched my hand and whispered, ‘There’s a metal cup and shaving brush in that kist on which you sit. Put a little hot water in it. Me shaving soap is in the cup too. I need to look me best, Chapman. He’ll soon be here.’
Now, I’m not usually so obedient to anyone, never mind an old stranger who’d just happened to come my way. But there was a gasping, gurgling sound coming from his chest. Living all my life under the star-strewn sky, I knew when death waited in the shadows. In minutes the shaving was finished, and Bendy lay silently waiting.
Something tore at my imagination, maybe the storyteller in me, I don’t know, but Bendy’s staring eyes, and his calmness as he waited for his lungs to give their last breath, didn’t seem right. I’d seen death on many an occasion, and never was it welcome. Even dogs fight for that one last suck of air. I leaned over and whispered, ‘Who is coming for you?’
‘You’ll see in a moment!’
An old mantel clock lay hidden under a crumpled towel which muffled its ticking. I took the towel away. As if by magic my eyes were drawn to the minute hand as it moved stealthily to touch the number twelve. Twang, the hour struck midnight – the summer solstice had come!
I heard a creaking sound and tore my eyes from the face of the clock to see, skipping and dancing in the wagon door, a line of the tiniest people I had ever seen, each one no bigger than my thumb. I rubbed my eyes. Was this real? Was Bendigo a magician? Was I about to wake up and find myself sitting at the fire, sipping tea and listening to snoring bats?
Transfixed I watched as the throng of little people formed into two lines. Running as fast as he could, a man wearing gold cuffs and a large necklace filled with every precious gem there is, leapt from my foot onto my knee, and from this vantage point skipped across my shoulder to land gently on Bendy’s chest. It was easy to see that this was the regal Pharaoh my companion had told me about. I was definitely in the company of a wonderful illusionist, who was not only faking death, but had conjured up a vision of tiny people. It was easy to see that his story contained hidden hypnotic words, and I was being hypnotised.
‘Come now, Bendigo, we’ve only a few seconds!’ The supposed once great king of Egypt summoned my friend to rise from his bed, and of course he did. I sat back without a word, and watched this mystical magician, who thought he was still in control of my mind, shrink from normal to miniature size. He waved goodbye, and went off with his tricksters out of the caravan door and into the night.
I followed him out there into the darkness, but there was no sign of anyone. I laughed loudly, and called to him, ‘The best storyteller in the world, that’s what you are Bendy, me old pal. You can come back now. I was well and truly fooled there for a moment. Whoever heard of a Chapman wool-eyed?’
I waited, but apart from the ever-growing mist and one lone bat fluttering above my head there was nothing to be seen, my old friend stayed hidden. ‘He’ll let me simmer a while before his shaky legs come wandering back,’ I told myself, yawning at the same time. Hour followed hour until sleep rendered me unconscious. I woke early to the swooping, not of bats, but of sand martins eagerly feeding on the clouds of midges who in turn were happily feeding off me.
‘Bendy,’ I called, stepping into the wagon, ‘why did you let me sleep on the cold ground without a cover?’ Everything was exactly the same as I’d left it. Where had he gone?
Down at the loch side, as I refilled my billycan, I scanned every corner from tree-lined shore to high hills, and searched inside and outside the castle ruins. I even saddled up the old grey mare and searched for miles. All day and on into the night I searched, but Bendy had completely disappeared.
More and more puzzled by events, I built a fire and cooked some small trout which I’d guddled in the shallow water. Then, after I had eaten, a thought came to mind that I hadn’t checked underneath the wagon. Dropping onto my knees, I crawled between the wheels, and what I found there convinced me for the rest of my life of one thing – Bendigo was no illusionist! In soft sand, a perfect line of tiny footprints went from below the steps, under the wagon and ended at its edge!
What had been to me a fine piece of trickery was in essence the point blank truth. There are indeed little people, and how Bendy knew of them is a secret he never divulged. But as you ponder my story, think on this – who else knows of them, where have they come from, and is the word as we know it, FAIRY, really PHARAOH?
‘Well, my friends, thank you for the hospitality, most welcome as always.’
Young Sandy stood up, wide-eyed and breathless at having heard such a wondrous tale, and said, ‘Chapman, what did you do with the old man’s caravan?’
‘Now, that’s the strangest thing, because next day, before I packed my things to take to the road, I woke to a pile of smouldering ashes where the caravan had been. The beehive wagon had mysteriously burned as I slept. On my travels I have heard that gypsies burn all that is left by their dead. I did bring one thing to show you though.’ Everyone followed the Chapman outside to see, happily grazing on the hillside, an old grey mare with plenty of good ploughing left in her shanks.