All folk tales are, of course, attached in the telling to a district or a specific town or village, though as explained in the introduction, it is often difficult to prove the exact origin. Etiological tales, on the other hand, are as firmly fixed to one spot as the objects to which they refer, which is why they form a distinct group, in spite of possible overlap with other categories.
This story might also have found its way into the ‘Place Memory’ category, because recent research into paranormal phenomena has indicated that indeed the stones may contain some strange ‘force’ not easily understood in rational or conventionally scientific terms.
At the head of his dwindling army, the king strode on. What his name was, or whence he came, there is now no chance of knowing; but that he was on foot, and that his avowed intention was to subdue the rest of England, is tradition that must not be questioned.
The way had been long, and the travelling hard. Of those who had set out with the king, many had regretted their allegiance, and had sneaked off in the darkness towards their tiny homesteads again. Younger men had deserted along the route, tempted by the warmth and comfort of a cottage hearthstone, or the lure of a pair of rounded thighs in the hay or the heather. Still more had fallen out, sick or wounded from skirmishes among themselves as well as among the unwelcoming inhabitants of the lands they had passed through. Now they were reduced to three score and ten, or thereabouts, seventy-two or seventy-three, or even only seventy-one; the king could not be sure.
Among them, though, were their five captains, the petty lords at whose command they had first left hearth and home to follow the king to fresh and greener pastures. As close as brothers were these five, forever finding excuses for putting their heads together and whispering counsels not meant for the king to hear. He was well aware of their intrigue, but kept himself aloof, sure of his own power and of his own judgment, and confident of success in his purpose. Over the next line of hills lay a stretch of countryside vital to his overall conquest. So up the slope he plodded, while the five knights held close together, a little distance away.
When he was nearly at the top, a figure appeared on the brow, facing him as he strode on. It was the figure of an aged woman, gnarled and twisted but with a commanding presence. She held up her hand in a gesture that stopped him in his tracks, and all his followers with him.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, in a voice of chilling power.
‘Passage across the hill. No one stands in my way.’
‘The hill is mine, and the land all round it,’ she replied. ‘What is your purpose?’
‘To conquer England, and rule it as one kingdom.’
She gave a cackle of mocking laughter, holding out a long finger with which she pointed to the brow of the hill.
‘Ah, so I thought,’ she said.
‘Seven long strides more take thee.
And if Long Compton thou canst see.
King of all England thou shalt be!’
The king measured with his eye the distance to the top of the slope, and saw indeed that it was about seven paces. He was now within a few yards of succeeding in his enterprise, if the old beldame could be believed, and he had no reason to doubt her prophecy. So he turned to face his army, and cried out in exultation,
‘Stick, stock and stone,
As King of England I shall be known!’
Then he turned about again, and began to pace out his seven long strides towards the top of the hill; but to his great chagrin, there rose before him a long mound of earth that completely obscured the view down into the valley. And there he stood, while his five knights drew close together and whispered at his discomfiture, and his men spread out in a loose semi-circle behind him.
Then the witch raised her arm again, and in a loud voice cried,
‘Because Long Compton thou canst not see.
King of England thou shalt not be.
Rise up stick, and stand still stone.
King of England thou shalt be none.
Thee and thy men hoar stone shall be.
And I myself an eldern tree!’
Then the king (and every man with him) felt his feet turn cold as stone, and so heavy on the earth that strength could not raise them an inch; and gradually the freezing numbness crept upwards, till king, knights and men had all been turned to solid blocks of stone.
And there they are to this day, at Little Rollright in the Cotswold country – the Kingstone tall and commanding, a little apart as a king should be; the five knights with their heads together, plotting still, and the men scattered around and about them in a loose, wide circle. Ask not how many men there are, for though the number is thought to be seventy-two, no one is ever able to count them and make the number of them the same on two successive counts.
There are those who believe that the king still waits, like Arthur and King Redbeard, for the curse to be lifted, when he will march forward again with his men to confound his enemies and take over the realm of England. In the meantime, as he waits while age upon age rolls past, he is surrounded by elder trees, progeny of that tree into which the old crone magicked herself upon that fateful day. It is best not to visit the Rollright Stones on Midsummer Eve, for then, they say, if you stick a knife into one of the elder trees, it will not be sap that runs, but blood; and at the sight of it, the stone that was once a king will bend and bow his head, acknowledging still its power.
The five knights still whisper their treachery to each other as the evening breeze drifts round them; but though many have set out in the moonlight to eavesdrop on their whispering, no one yet has stayed long enough to hear what they have to say.
No doubt it is better that way.
This story could have been equally at home among the collection of those about the struggles of the early Christian saints against the residue of paganism; but as the stones are still there to be seen and wondered at, folk-belief in their origin seems to be the more important point to stress.
High up above the village of St Cleer, among the heather and bracken that grows on Craddock Moor, there stand three circles of ancient stones. Strangers wonder how they came there, and what caused people of old to drag such huge pieces of rock a thousand feet above sea level, and to what use they put them, when they got them there; but the people who live thereabouts know exactly how the stones came to be there, and why. It happened like this.
It was in the days when Christianity was still struggling in Britain to hold its own against the devotion of the people to the Old Gods. The pagan peoples of the West had little time for the new religion, and continued to worship the gods of field and farm, of river and tree, of thunder, frost and storm. These were strong and ferocious gods, good fellows for the main part, though capricious – gods led by Woden and Tiw, and Thor, gods that strong men might look up to, especially in time of war or conflict. The robust nature of the Cornish, in particular, did not take kindly to the meek nature of the Christ who preached nothing but peace and loving-kindness, and offered rewards only in the world to come.
Yet it was these very people the early Christian preachers had set their hearts on turning from their heathen ways, and gathering into the bosom of the Church. Taking their lives in their hands, they ventured into Cornwall, building tiny churches here and there, and by example as well as by precept, gradually gathering little flocks around them. So on Sundays, the pagan hearts of Cornishmen and women were stilled into submission by the pious, courageous saints who carried so boldly the banner of Christ among them. Such a saint was Cleer, who pitched his spiritual tent in the neighbourhood of Liskeard, under Craddock Moor.
In those days, nothing delighted the robust Cornish more than to play the game they called hurling, a sort of primitive ancestor of Rugby football. Village played against village, town against town, with goalposts set up by each on their own home ground, sometimes miles apart; and to and fro between the goalposts the mass of players pushed and tackled, shouted and yelled as the fortunes of the game directed. They played at hurling whenever time and weather permitted, and those too old or too young to take part ran by the side, or stood where they could see the action, and urged their teams to even greater efforts in the fray by the loudness and carrying power of their voices.
Cleer was not against the game in itself, but he did notice that on fine sabbath mornings his little flock dwindled only to a handful of the most ancient old crones and their youngest grandchildren; and it did not require very great powers of deduction to guess where the absentees were, especially when the excited shouts of the hurlers drifted in at the little open door of his church, and disturbed his devotions.
Then he would sorrowfully take the backsliders to task for their sabbath breaking, and chide them so gently that even the most hardened would feel ashamed and penitent, and promise to do better in future. But alas, the vigorous spirit of healthy human beings is hard to subdue, and when yet another village openly challenged them to a match next Sunday morning, it was more than flesh and blood could do to refuse. Then the young men would decide that there was no time like the present for a bit of fun, even if it did mean a lecture from the priest at some future date. So the challenge would be accepted, and everyone hale and healthy enough to stand went to watch the game, and lend vociferous encouragement to the players fighting for the honour of their native village.
Cleer was a man of long patience – but beware the anger of a patient man!
There came a glorious sunny morning when Cleer’s church was almost empty, though sounds of a boisterous hurling match reached him from the top of Craddock Moor. Seizing a stout stick in his hand, he marched in distress and anger from his neglected church, and strode purposefully towards the sound.
The game was fast and furious, and again and again Cleer raised both his stick and his voice to call them to attention; but they heard him not, and simply played on. Then, in a sudden lull, he tried again, bidding them cease their lawless game and return with him to the church, for surely it was Sunday, the very day God Almighty had set aside for rest and prayer and praise.
When they heard his voice among them, many were ashamed, and left the game to go with their priest, and to ask once more for forgiveness of their worldly backsliding. Not so some of them, who, hot and excited by the game, resented Cleer’s interference.
‘Be off with you, old bald head!’ they shouted. ‘Let you and the womenfolk pray and preach, if you will. We be men, we be, not maidens! We don’t want a baldheaded priest a-spoiling of our sport. Get back to your church, and leave us to our game. We shall stop where we are!’
Then Cleer shook with a terrible anger, and raised his stick like a cross before him. Words fell from his lips like fragments of ice-cold stone, compressed by the passion of his fury into missiles for the hearts of the sinners standing before him.
‘Be it as you say,’ he called. ‘Since you prefer your game on the moor to your duty in the church, you shall indeed stop where you are, this day and every day till the end of time!’ Then he lowered his stick, but the players did not move, nor answer him back in any way; and as they watched, the onlookers saw the defiant hurlers settle for ever into their present attitudes, for they had been turned to stone on the instant.
Many centuries of wind and rain have passed over Craddock Moor since then, and have worn down the extremities of the stone men that still stand where St Cleer cursed them. Some lie with their faces in the heather, and some have been utterly destroyed by time. But some still stand, just lumps of stone remaining where they defied the priest who gave his name to their village, and where the wrath of a patient man fell on them on that dark Sunday morning, twelve centuries or more ago.
The Devil is at work again, this time in Devon; but as the Parson and the Clerk still remain a feature of the district, the story seems to fit more naturally here.
In days long past, so the story goes, a bishop of Exeter lay dying; but instead of being on their knees praying for the soul of their father-in-God, there were many priests thereabouts who were concerning themselves with the much more worldly consideration as to which of them might be chosen as his successor.
Among them was one whose anxiety on this score knew no bounds, and whose patience was not of the best. ‘Will not the old man die and be done?’ he asked himself pettishly, as the days passed and the bishop still lingered on between life and death. Fear swept him lest the news should be too late in reaching him, and at last he could no longer contain his impatience. He must, and would, ride to Exeter, and find out for himself what the situation was.
Summoning his clerk to be his guide, the priest ordered him to saddle up the horses, and off they went. Finding to his joy that the bishop was sinking, and that his end could now be no more than a matter of a few days, the priest set off home again, though night was coming on.
He gave no thought to his way, for his head was awhirl with ambitious plans for the future; but in any case he was trusting to his clerk, who was a Devonshire man. The night fell black and wild and stormy, and the clerk lost his bearings in the darkness, so that when they reached the high ridge above Dawlish and Teignmouth, called Haldon, they had lost their way completely, and wandered aimlessly about the trackless country.
Wet through and buffeted by wind and rain, the weary would-be bishop rounded on his hapless clerk in a passion of uncontrolled fury, cursing the man’s stupidity that had brought them to such a miserable plight. He called down curses upon the clerk’s head, ending his tirade with the words, ‘By God, I would rather have the Devil himself as a guide, than you!’
The hapless clerk said nothing; but indeed, he would not have had time to say much, for out of the blackness ahead of them, help had suddenly appeared. A poor peasant, riding on an old nag, had heard the priest’s voice and riding towards them, proffered them his aid, saying that at least he could lead them to shelter from the unkind weather.
The priest accepted his offer at once, and the peasant led them on until at last he brought them to a lonely house from the many windows of which light streamed in mellow welcome, and promised warmth and refreshment at last.
As they drew nearer and nearer to the house, the sounds of revelry reached the ears of the priest; indeed it was revelry of such a wild nature that the chorus of songs roared drunkenly by many voices reached out to them over and above the noises of the storm. It was obviously not the kind of company that a future bishop would have chosen for himself, had he had any choice! But as he had not, and as both master and man were by this time cold, hungry and bone-weary, they were disposed to accept any shelter and company without question. So it was that they found themselves soon at supper with a gathering of people such as at any other time they would have avoided as they would the plague.
The warmth, the food, and above all the wine began to have its cheering effect on them, and they were soon thinking what a jolly company they had fallen in with, so much so that before long they were joining lustily in the singing, and even contributing to the merriment with tales and jests of their own. So the hours passed in roistering, and though the priest was proud of his ability to drink with the best, by the time news of the bishop’s death was brought to him, he was distinctly befuddled. Nevertheless, he understood the import of the whispered message, and that now the time had actually arrived, he had urgent affairs to attend to. Rising hastily, he roused his clerk and called loudly for his horses. When they were brought to the door, the whole boisterous company came out to bid their guests farewell. Priest and clerk bundled themselves up into the saddles, and set their spurs to their mounts – but the horses stood stock-still. The priest swung his whip, and thrashed his horse, but still it did not move. With whip and spur they urged the beasts towards Exeter, but not one inch did they budge.
For the second time that night, the priest gave vent to his temper, and with it a torrent of cursing poured from his lips.
‘Devil take the horses!’ he cried. ‘The Devil is in them, that’s plain! But Devil or no Devil, to Exeter they shall go!’
Then from the company gathered in the doorway of the house behind them came a roar of unearthly laughter, and with a clap like thunder the whole house vanished in a cloud of fire and brimstone. But the gang who had so recently appeared to be such jolly company became in that instant a horde of devils, horns, hoofs, tails and all.
Then the devils began a fiendish dance of glee around the two anguished riders and their immobile horses, while slowly but surely, with chilling, sinister purpose, the sea began to rise. It rose relentlessly till it was awash round the legs of the terrified animals, till it touched the spurred boots of the parson and his clerk. And there, in the darkness, the two clung to the necks of their mounts while the ruthless sea engulfed them.
When morning came, and the people of Dawlish came out to talk to each other of the worst night of storms in human memory, they found the drowned bodies of the parson and the clerk clinging round two rocks just off the coast, while two horses, absolutely unharmed, wandered peacefully along the sands.
Since that day, the two rocks have been known to all Devon as the Parson and the Clerk; and though time and the sea between them have worn and damaged the two island rocks, while they still stand above the sea, this tale will be remembered.
Stanton Drew in Somerset also had a visit from the Evil One – with very similar results to those at St Cleer recounted in ‘The Hurlers’.
At the sweet time of the year when spring slips unnoticed into summer, when the swallows are back and buttercups yellow the fields, when evening dusk merges into mellow moonlight, and the night is almost as warm as the day, it is the right time for weddings – especially in a village where everything keeps tune with the rhythm of the seasons. So it was at Stanton Drew, a tiny village on the banks of the river Chew in Somerset, many, many many years ago. The day was a balmy Saturday, when the bride and the groom and all their family and friends walked to the church for the marriage ceremony and the blessing of the priest upon the young couple’s union. That over, they set about the business of enjoying themselves, and making the most of the chance of jollity, with eating and drinking, and the romping merriment of rustic music and dance.
When early evening came, the local harpist came too; and out into a field close by the church the wedding party went, to form up their sets and take their places for the age-old country dances in which grace and elegance give way to strength and agility, and the figures only stop when dancers and musicians alike run out of breath.
As dance succeeded dance, the party grew merrier and merrier, and the feet of the company more nimble. None was more nimble than the bride, whose sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks grew ever more excited and whose laughter rang ever more loud and abandoned.
The moon was high, the night was calm, and time slipped by as if on magic wings. They were in the very middle of a dance when the harpist suddenly drew his fingers across the strings with a firm chord, and the music drifted into silence. The dancers stood waiting for him to continue, but they could see that he was making preparations to pack up.
The bride left her place in the figure and ran across to him. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Why are you stopping?’
He pointed up to the moon. ‘It is time to stop,’ he said. ‘It is now midnight, and in a few minutes it will be the Sabbath Day.’
‘What does that matter?’ said the excited girl. ‘I shall only be married once, and I shall dance all night if I want to!’
The pious old musician was shocked. ‘Then you will have to find somebody else to play for you,’ he answered, ‘for I will not profane the sabbath.’ And he continued to pack up his harp.
Then the bride pleaded, and coaxed, and cajoled to prevail on him to stay; but he shook his head, and prepared to leave. At this the girl flew into a passion, and turned her pleadings to abuse. ‘Go then, you miserable old spoilsport,’ she yelled. ‘We’ll dance without you and your music! I’ll find somebody else to play for one more dance, if I have to go to Hell to get him!’
As the old man shuffled off towards home in the moonlight, the angry shouts of the disappointed revellers followed him into the night; and as they turned dejectedly to follow him, since they could not dance without music, they saw approaching from the opposite way the outline of a stranger. He came upon them out of the night, and they saw that he was old, but most impressive looking, with exceedingly bright eyes and a long venerable beard.
‘Give you greetings!’ he said pleasantly. ‘I heard the sounds of a quarrel as I came towards you. Now what can be wrong with a merry party on such a beautiful night?’
Then the bride, in tears of anger, told the courteous old stranger how the harpist with his religious scruples had taken himself off at midnight, and put an end to all their fun.
‘If that’s all, it can soon be mended,’ said the old man. ‘I will play for you myself.’ And he sat down on a convenient boulder, took a pipe from under his cloak, and began to play.
It seemed at first that his fingers were stiff and out of practice, but he soon caught up the rhythm again, and choosing their partners for a round dance, they began to move to his music. After a minute or two, he began to quicken his tempo, and the dancers felt their feet responding to the urgent music in a way they had never done before with their familiar harpist. Faster and faster the new musician played, and faster and faster they whirled in breathless, mad abandon, till the peace of the holy sabbath was shattered with their wild laughter and cries of merriment. On and on went the music, and on and on went the dance, until all were breathless and exhausted, and longing to sit down and rest.
‘Stop!’ cried the bride, gasping for air. ‘Stop and let us rest.’ But the piper took no notice, so they decided to stop of their own accord and fling themselves down on the grass to recover. It was then they found out that they had no control over their feet at all, and that while the music went on, they had no option but to go on dancing to it. Seeing their predicament, the piper lifted his head, and played louder, and stronger, and faster, faster, ever faster, till the gasps of the dancers turned to moans, and their merry cries to groans, and their laughter to wails as their pleas for mercy died away for lack of breath with which to utter them. And still the relentless music went on, and still their feet rose and fell in time with it, hour after hour as the night wore on, and the moon sank, leaving them still dancing in the darkness.
At last the first streaks of dawn began to show in the eastern sky, and faint hope began to rise in their hearts that with the new day their terrible ordeal must end. So it proved, for as the first rays of the morning sun struck him, their strange musician put down his pipe and stood up. The circle of exhausted dancers immediately stopped in their tracks, and stood as if frozen solid with horror! For protruding from beneath his robe was an unmistakable cloven hoof, from under his hood they spied a pair of unmistakable horns, and behind him they saw the end of an unmistakable forked tail. While they stood as if petrified with terror, still in the strange attitudes of their exhaustion, he put away his pipe, and turned towards them.
‘I’ll come back, and play for you again, one day,’ he chuckled, and walked away into the morning. And as they watched the Devil depart, for it was surely none other than he, so they became petrified in truth, and turned to pillars of stone where they stood.
There they stand to this very day, the inner circle of three sets of standing stones, in a field close by the church at Stanton Drew; and there they will stay, it is supposed, until the Fiend returns to play for them again, as he promised to do all those many centuries ago, when knowingly they chose to break the sabbath for the sake of one more dance.
