Tales of Britain, page 30
Before Black Vaughan could bellow a reply, Brother Bobby went on: ‘… Because, while a great big black bull is certainly quite impressive, I’ve heard tell that the really difficult thing for evil undead spirits to do is appear as smaller critters…’
‘I can do small!’ Black Vaughan cackled, and in a flash of black smoke, there stood the big black slavering hound. ‘GRRRAWOOO!’
‘Call that small?’ squawked Brother Bobby, slightly overbalancing and righting himself with a couple of spins around on one leg. ‘That doggy has to be the biggest one I’ve ever seen! Surely the great Black Vaughan can do better than that?’
‘Oh yeah? Oh yeah? I’ll show you, you stupid little nobody! GRRRAWOOO!’ howled the Hound. He gave a deep guttural growl at Brother Bobby, and in another flash of black smoke, the little black fly was buzzing around just where the dog’s head had been. ‘BZZZ!’
‘Actually, yes, that is pretty impressive. A tiny little fly just like the ones I use for fishing. Well done, Black Vaughan!’
‘Thank you! You nobody! BZZZ!’ squeaked the fly.
‘Mind, this is quite impressive too, if I do say so myself!’ replied Brother Bobby. Now, Bobby may have been a bit keen on the booze, but as everyone in Herefordshire knew, there never was a more skilled fisherman, no matter how many drinks he’d drunk. In one swift move, he pulled the haddock off his fishing hook, and cast his line out into the church, where it skewered the tiny fly right where it buzzed: ‘BZZZ! BOOF!’
‘QUICK!’ yelled Brother Bobby as he reeled in the teeny tiny protesting Lord Black Vaughan. Somebody produced a small silver box, and quickly the buzzing fly was put inside it.
‘Noooo! You cannot treat me like this! I am BLACK VAUGHAN! BZZZ! Noooo!’
And the lid snapped shut.
‘Where will you be laid, little Black Vaughan?’ asked Brother Bobby to the tiny silver box.
‘Anywhere, anywhere, but not in the Red Sea!’ came the tiny muffled reply.
Nobody ever worked out what he meant by this, but the box was quickly tied up with the strongest twine, and then put in the thickest iron safe, and Brother Bobby and the twelve old parsons hurled the safe into the deepest pond they could find, where it plop-plop-plopped to the murky muddy bottom…
And nobody has been even slightly annoyed by Black Vaughan ever since. Which he must find extremely… irritating.
THE END
KINGTON, HEREFORDSHIRE
Nearby Hereford is a historic city whose cathedral contains the Mappa Mundi – the medieval equivalent of Google Maps – and some decent shopping; but those who travel out to Kington itself can enjoy the peace and beauty of a Welsh border market town. What remains of the real Vaughan’s own house is now a private dwelling – indeed, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once stayed there with descendants of Vaughan, and picked up ideas about devil dogs for The Hound of the Baskervilles. However, if you go to the church of St. Mary’s, where you’ll still find poor Thomas Vaughan’s effigy (he surely wasn’t really as bad as everyone claimed after his head was knocked off), we would advise against dredging any nearby ponds to find a tiny silver box with a length of twine tied around it. Let annoying things lie.
kingtontourist.info
57. THE WHIKEY TREE
Dunfermline, Fife
Not many people remember the name of Robert Henryson, sadly – though once he was the greatest storyteller in the isles of Britain. He lived his life and told his tales up in the Scottish kingdom of Fife, at Dunfermline. Writing in rich Scottish accents, he retold animal fables from Aesop, and even had a go at the old story of Tristan and Isolde.
But this was in medieval times, when it was so easy for folk to die of the slightest things – a cough, a cold, or a particularly nasty look. And, unpleasant though it is to report, the great tale-spinner Robert Henryson died of what they called ‘flux’ – which is what you and I would call an upset tummy. In fact, Henryson’s tummy was more than upset, it was inconsolable. The doctors of the day did all they could, but every time the poor man went to the toilet, he would have to be there for hours, and it was little wonder that he grew weaker by the minute.
He can also be forgiven for the fact that with each passing day leading up to his passing, he grew more tired and had a shorter temper with people who wasted his precious remaining time, when he could have been telling his stories or putting his affairs in order.
It was unfortunate that, on the very last day of his life, Robert Henryson had a most unwelcome visitor.
It was cold and snowy, but the old lady who rapped at his door had travelled far to meet the great storyteller. She fancied herself a bit of a mystical weaver of yarns as well, if she did say so herself.
‘Oh by all the gods, I cannot believe it is really you!’ she gushed, as the famous rhymer struggled to breathe.
‘Believe it, madam, but not for very long!’ he replied as best he could.
‘I’m your biggest fan!’ she cried. ‘I have heard all your tales, and told them myself too, with a few refinements, many a time!’
‘Well that’s… I mean… what can I actually do for you, old dame?’ Henryson sighed, losing all pretence of patience with his visitor.
‘Ah, ’tis more about what I can do for you!’ the old lady returned. ‘You see… I am a wise woman!’
‘Are you entirely sure about that?’ the poorly writer replied.
‘Oh, I know many secrets of the world and the way it works!’ she went on, ‘And if you would like to know the cure for what ails you, I can tell you!’
At this, the exhausted Henryson brightened a little. ‘Well, the physicians say there is nothing that can be done for me, so I am happy to try almost anything! What do you suggest, my dear crone? Special herbs? A potion of your own devising?’
‘Nothing so complex!’ came the reply. ‘There is a tree at the bottom of your orchard – I just passed it. It is an old tree, I see, and its name is The Whikey Tree. All you have to do is rise from your bed, go down to it, and walk around it three times, crying: “Whikey tree! Whikey tree! Take this flux away from me!” And you shall see that all shall come right.’
The sick man lay there agape. He could no longer rise from his bed even to go to the toilet, let alone walk down to the orchard. He cleared his throat, pointed to the oak table next to his bed, which was covered in medicines and treatments, and replied to the old woman:
‘Good dame, I pray tell me, would it not do quite as well for me if I sat on this table and said: “Oaken board, oaken board, let me shit a decent turd!”?’
And despite everything, at this rhyme, good Robert Henryson laughed. The old woman looked deeply offended, what folk in Scotland call ‘black affronted’ – but she had no time to protest any offence at what he had said, as this final laugh was also Robert’s final breath. The great storyteller’s own tale was finally done.
It’s just a shame that few people ever care to repeat his final words.
THE END
DUNFERMLINE, FIFE
The work of Robert Henryson received a boost of popularity thanks to his work being translated by the great Irish poet Seamus Heaney, and turned into a cartoon series! But there isn’t much in the way of a ‘Henryson trail’ to visit if you ever do want to walk in his footsteps. He lived and died in Dunfermline, in the rugged kingdom of Fife – so if you’re a fan (preferably a less annoying one than the old woman), heading there for the Dunfermline Festival in late summer may be the best time!
welcometofife.com
58. THE BISTERNE DRAGON
Burley, New Forest
Dragon slayers were the superheroes of their day – just look around you and see all the monuments, the carvings, the pub names that celebrate a brave soul’s triumph over a bloated reptile of some description, be it a knucker, a cockatrice, a wyrm or one of those great big things with bat wings and fiery breath. Fortunes were demanded by those who vanquished the great beasts, and only when every species of dragon was gone forever did the tradition die out.
The Bisterne Dragon, as he became known, was an absolute textbook example of the animal. He was large, scaly, green, rather lazy, and spent most of his time coiled up at Burley Beacon, a hill a few miles from the villages of Burley and Bisterne, in the heart of what is still known as the New Forest – the King’s hunting grounds down in the middle of the south coast. He had big leathery wings, and breathed billowing balls of fire, and was in all respects a 10/10 dragon.
For a long time, this monster had a nice deal going with the folk of nearby Lower Bisterne Farm, whereby they would bring him buckets of creamy milk every day in return for the dragon not eating any of their cows – or indeed, any of them. True, the dragon could not live on cream alone, and often disappeared into the forest to find something or someone tasty to eat, and had been seen flapping around as far afield as Crow and Winkton. Nonetheless, many of the usual dragon problems – villages being burned to the ground, princesses taken away to gold-filled lairs and so on – were less of a problem.
But then, swaggering into town came Sir Maurice de Berkley, a knight who had come all the way from Gloucestershire in his best armour to do battle with the dragon, and make himself famous in the process.
‘Fear ye not, simple folk of Bisterne!’ he boomed as he rattled along. ‘At last, you have a real shining knight here to save your cream! That dragon won’t know what’s hit it! But!’ – and here he lowered his voice to just a rather loud volume – ‘It will be me, Sir Maurice de Berkley! HOORAY!’
The farmers tried to explain that the dragon had already eaten enough knights to wage war against all of France, but Sir Maurice wasn’t to be dissuaded, and without further ado – further ado being one of his least favourite things – he took his two biggest fighting bull mastiffs by the lead, and marched off to Burley Beacon.
‘Come out, come out, wherever you be, you big green slavering worm, you!’ cried Sir Maurice as he approached the hill. But he didn’t have to search far – the dragon was coiled around the summit of the hill just waiting for someone to come along and fill its belly.
‘Haha, your time has come, dragon features!’ boomed Sir Maurice, and he let go of the mastiffs’ leads. The two big dogs had been straining and snarling ever since they caught scent of the dragon, and they streaked off, teeth bared and snapping, ready to tear the scaly monster apart.
The dragon opened its gigantic mouth, and the dogs were swallowed up in one big greedy bite. Well, not exactly swallowed – the dragon pushed them around in its mouth a fair bit, but decided that frankly, they tasted far too much of dog, so he spat both mutts right out, sending them limping and whining all the way home.
As if that wasn’t enough, the dragon then flicked his tail in anger, and sent Sir Maurice hurtling down the hill and right into a huge expanse of holly bushes, prickly with dark green leaves and studded with poisonous red berries. His armour smashed into the trunks, and was soon coated with the very sticky sap which spills from the holly tree. He was also, of course, covered in prickly holly leaves from head to foot.
Sir Maurice heaved himself up onto his feet, and, single-minded to the last, he stampeded up the hill as fast as he possibly could, sword drawn, determined to end the dragon’s reign of terror, and make a name for himself.
‘Nobody chews on my dogs and lives to tell the tale! Have at ye, dragon!’ the brave fool roared, and charged all the way into the dragon’s yawning mouth, down his gullet, and into his enormous tummy!
The dragon looked distinctly uncomfortable. He gave a cough. All those prickly holly leaves were sticking into his insides, and he did not like the feeling one bit. Suddenly the mighty dragon began to heave, and wretch, determined to cough up the nasty prickly man who was so keen to be eaten.
He couldn’t breathe! The dragon’s face was turning from bright green into red, into black and – with a squealing roar, he collapsed. The Bisterne Dragon was finally dead, choked to death on the prickliest knight in England.
Sad to say, the dragon slayer followed his prey in no time at all. The daring knight quickly cut himself out of the dragon’s tummy and chopped off its head, but a single scale pinged off the gigantic body, straight down Sir Maurice’s throat, and he collapsed, choking, in just the same way as the dragon. And so dragon and slayer were both snuffed out at once, and nobody cheered ‘HOORAY’.
Nonetheless, Sir Maurice did at least get to have grand heraldic dragon-slaying carvings all over his headstone, and had indeed made a name for himself with the lasting fame of a dragon slayer. Which is why I’ve just told you all about him now.
THE END
BURLEY, NEW FOREST
This tale is one of many dragon-slaying legends from this area, but there are real places which are believed to be the scene of the crime. Sadly, the Lower Bisterne Farm where the dragon’s main victims lived, and the field they call ‘Dragon Field’, purportedly the site of the dragon’s death, are private land. The same is true of Bisterne Manor House, once the home of Sir Maurice de Berkley, with its grand coat of arms depicting the dragon, and two stone mastiffs at the entrance. Some claim that the story probably involved the late Sir Maurice and a wild boar, not a dragon, but although there are a few in the New Forest Wildlife Park, you needn’t worry about wild boars wandering freely these days – the New Forest is all pretty woodland and furry wild ponies.
newforest-online.co.uk
59. TOM THUMB
Tattershall, Lincolnshire
It was a proud day for the Lincolnshire village of Tattershall when Tom Thumb was born, although it was a happy event his poor parents never dared to dream about. For years Old Thomas of the Mountain and his loving wife Lily tried, but could not have children. As they wept together one night, the poor husband admitted to his love:
‘For us to have a little son would be so welcome, my darling, I would not care even if he were no bigger than my thumb.’
It was a good job Lily agreed with this strange suggestion, because only three months later, she discovered that what she thought was a slightly upset tummy was actually a baby ready to be born; and without any pain or trouble, one day out popped a little child about the size of a broad bean.
This teeny-tiny baby never grew any larger than his father’s thumb, but they did not care one bit. The loving couple called their magical son Tom Thumb, and always adored him every bit as much as if he had been ten feet tall.
When he was old enough to go to school, Tom was honoured by a visit from the tiny Queen of the Faeries, who kissed the young lad and presented him a new set of clothes as she sang:
‘An oak leaf hat made for his crown;
A cobweb shirt by spiders spun;
With jacket wove of thistledown;
And trousers of small feathers done.
Plus socks, of apple-rind, within,
His shoes, both made of mouse’s skin.’
When she had finished singing, Her Wee Majesty turned to Tom and said, ‘Tom Thumb, you must never be ashamed of how little you are. Look at me! A few inches tall is a very handsome size indeed!’ And she gave the lad a kiss and a hug, and disappeared in a glittery puff of smoke.
Tom looked a treat in his new clothes, and his parents sent him off to his lessons proudly.
But sadly Tom did not have as good a time at school as he hoped. The other boys all laughed at his size, mocked him for his squeaky shoes and silly hat, and did everything they could to give the poor little fellow a miserable time, short of actually stepping on him!
He became so angry one day that he tried to steal one bully’s marbles by creeping into his felt marble bag. However, the bully caught him in the act, and shook the bag up so badly that Tom was bombarded with marbles, bruised to bits, and never went to school ever again! Poor Tom Thumb!
It seemed nobody knew what to do with a boisterous fellow as big as a thumb, and poor Tom always seemed to be getting into trouble because of his tiny stature.
One rather unpleasant day a cow gobbled him up, and he had to squelch his way out of a big smelly cowpat. He smelled very bad for weeks on end after that. Poor Tom Thumb!
It was no better than the time when Tom fell into his Mum’s pudding batter and got cooked inside a plum duff! Poor Tom Thumb!
Not only that, but when a starving tinker knocked at the door, the kindly Lily gave him the pudding to eat! Tom was fast asleep inside, and was only saved from being eaten when the Tinker, while climbing over a stile, let out a loud and violent fart. Tom was immediately awoken by the noise and the smell, and cried out ‘POO, WHAT’S THAT PONG?’ The startled Tinker dropped the half of the pudding Tom was in and ran away, leaving Tom miles from home and covered in raisins and crumbs. Poor Tom Thumb!
Then there was the occasion when Tom had the cunning plan of driving his parents’ cart by crouching in the horse’s ear and whispering directions. This rather clever scheme backfired when the cart and horse were stolen by a couple of ne’er-do-wells, who thought they had found an unoccupied horse and cart just waiting to be stolen.
‘Here’s a bit of luck, Alf!’ one crowed to the other. ‘Gee up, neddy!’
Tom was incensed! Nobody was going to steal him or his horse! Thankfully, when the two thieves tried to race away across the fields, Tom had yet another smart plan – in this case, shouting ‘Oi, you naughty gits, you can’t nick me, I’m a talking horse!’
This terrified the ne’er-do-wells so much they ran all the way to the nearest church in panic. But Tom was still shaken up by the ordeal, and was told never to try anything like it again. Poor Tom Thumb!
