The stories we are told as children shape our world view. They help us prepare for the big, wide world and what we can expect from humanity. These Disney films teach us that there is evil out there but, if we have courage and are true of heart, we will win the day and find our happily ever after. We then grow up and life hits us like a run-away mine cart filled with seven vertically challenged miners. We begin to realise that life is hard, but, unlike those Disney stories, we can’t always get over our troubles. Sometimes life sucks and there is nothing we can do about it. Sure, there are times of enormous happiness, such as marriages and births, but these are very much balanced out with those times of great sadness, such as the certainties of life which are death and taxes. Life is not a simple happily ever after. The House of Mouse hid us from the truth and maybe we aren’t quite as prepared for adult life as we thought.

So, let’s start and the beginning as that’s always a good place to start. In 1938 Walt Disney released the groundbreaking animated feature film, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Whilst revolutionary for the time and for animation in general, it didn’t really break any new ground in storytelling, choosing simply to retell the story of the titular character, as recounted by the brothers Grimm in the seminal collection of European folk tales in the early 19th century. However, Walt found these stories a bit too gruesome for family audiences, as did the general public upon the publication of the first book, Children’s and Household Tales in 1812. The Grimms changed certain aspects of the tales for their second edition, such as making the evil mothers into step-mothers, but this was not far enough for Disney. In the original version of the folk tale, the wicked queen wanted to eat the heart of her rival in beauty, Snow white. The huntsman is sent to carve Snow’s heart from her chest which, upon seeing the young woman’s beauty and innocence, the huntsman fails to do, feeding, instead, the heart of a pig to the queen. This causes the huntsman to meet a sticky end. She then attempts to kill her two other times. Of course, the version we got in celluloid was, although still terrifying (that scene in the dark forest still haunts my dreams even to this day), somewhat less gruesome.

Fast forwarding to the 1990s, during Disney’s renaissance, after a decade of darker storytelling with now cult classics such as Basil, The Great Mouse Detective, The Rescuers, and The Black Cauldron which was based on Celtic mythology and actually really good, we get a return to more family friendly storytelling. One of the seminal films that kicked this all off was the 1989 Disney version of The Little Mermaid. This colourful, song filled retelling of the Hans Christian Anderson classic tale was an instant hit and continues to be so, however, once again, the story has been tinkered with. In the film, the sea witch is defeated and Ariel finds her happy ever after with Prince Eric upon the land, showing us all that if we are brave enough to make sacrifices in life, we can find our one true love and happiness. Of course, Anderson did not write it like that. In his version, when the mermaid gets her legs, she feels a pain like needles stabbing her legs when she walks upon them. Her sisters give her a dagger which she needs to stab Eric with and cause his blood to drip onto her legs giving her back her tail. Ariel cannot go through with this and, instead, flings herself and the dagger into the sea, becoming sea foam. Definitely not a happily ever after!

My final example for this article comes, once more, during this 90s revival period, with the classic retelling of the Greek myth, Hercules (don’t you mean hunk-ules!) In this Disney version, Hercules finds true love and becomes a god after overcoming many trials. He loves happily ever after with his loving father, Zeus, and mother, Hera. But of course, anyone who knows their Greek mythology knows, Hera was not his mother, but his step-mother. But Disney didn’t really want to depict Zeus’s true nature in a family film. Zeus often wondered among the mortals, having his wicked way with the women, and, well, Hercules came from one of these unions. Hera, understandably, was not happy with her husband, but took it out on Hercules instead. Among many terrible things she did to the constant reminder of her husband’s infidelity, by far the worst was to make him temporarily mad, causing him to murder his wife and child in cold blood. Funnily enough, this plot point never made it into the Disney film.

Life is hard and the stories we have told for centuries, our folk tales, fairy tales, myths, and legends, reflect that. Yes, many end on happy notes with the hero winning the day, but that isn’t the point of them. They are a vital way of passing on knowledge of our world and of the lives we live, helping others understand what hurdles they may encounter on their journey through life. And whilst they are told in metaphor, we can still relate to them and the main characters struggles but, sometimes, we need the stories we hear or read to not have that happily ever after. Life is messy and so our stories need to reflect that and they do. Sometimes the best stories are the ones in which the main character doesn’t get what they want but what they deserve. Sometimes the bad guy gets everything whilst the good guy fails. Sometimes, they deserve it, sometimes they don’t, but hey, that’s life, and our traditional tales reflect that. We still need to hear and read these stories, the stories that don’t end so well, that hang around with us for years after hearing them, acting as a warning for life, and what not to do.

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Like its English and Scottish counterparts, every corner of Wales has a magical figure connected to it. Whether hag like beings (the gwrach), fairies, or human practitioners of charming and cursing, every region has its story. Many of these figures are legends, but many others were historical practitioners who plied their cunning trade from the height of the middle ages into the modern period. The dynion hysbys (‘knowing ones’) are the Welsh counterparts to the cunning folk of many other European cultures (bean/fear feasa in Ireland, wisemen/women in England, pellars in Cornwall, curanderas in Spain, hexenmeisters in Germany etc,). This semi-professional position in society existed from the medieval age right through to the beginning of the twentieth century.

In a society where the supernatural forces were understood to play a role, communities often resorted to magical means to solve some of life’s problems. Say you lost something valuable, or one of your cows wandered off, or you became sick with a strange malady you would turn to the dynion hysbys to figure out a solution. While people would go to the clergy for God’s help, sometimes it was faster to approach the local wiseman/woman. Utilizing astrology, old charms, conjuring spirits, summoning the faeries, or even sometimes common psychology the dynion hysbys gave their prescriptions… for a price. These were magicians for hire, wise in the ways of the supernatural, but understood to mostly be working on the side of good.

The enemy of the dynion hysbys were those who practiced malefic magic. These were not necessarily called witches in Wales, however, because more often than not anyone could perform a curse. In North Wales is the famous Ffynnon Elian (St. Elian’s Well), which for centuries was a cursing well, a spot anyone could go to and pay to have someone cursed using the power of the sacred well. Indeed, the very notion of witchcraft in Wales is so different from England and Scotland. In large parts of the folklore, witchcraft was not necessarily different from the practices everyone did, but whether it was intended for good or ill. A witch was not something you were, it was something you did, and anyone was potentially capable of causing harm. Only in later centuries did English concepts of witches and witchcraft enter the culture and we see similar motifs of witches causing trouble, dedicating themselves to the devil, and resembling the English folkloric witch more. 

Even the very word witch was imported into the Welsh language for the sole purpose of describing the crime of witchcraft as it was understood in the English law codes. It often surprises the uninformed to learn that there were only five official witchcraft trials in Wales, as opposed to the hundreds in Scotland and England. The dynion hysbys in many folktales therefore primarily stop theft (a much more serious crime in Welsh legal tradition), unwitch someone who has been cursed, and prescribe healing to the sick.  Many of these characters, grounded in historical practitioners, became central to local legend and many sites connected to them remain to this day.

Despite the cultural difference between Welsh and English cultures around witchcraft, witches do appear in abundance in the folklore, with many of them capable of both harming and healing. One of the legendary witches of North Wales, Bella Fawr of Denbigh, appears in the lore as a monstrous member of the Llanddona witches who arrived one day shipwrecked on an Anglesey Beach and who went on to terrorized the island. Yet, in another folktale, the same Bella appears as a wisewoman assisting her neighbour uncover the identity of a harming neighbour. This legendary Bella is based upon a late 18th century fynion hysbys, Bela of Dinbych, who travelled the markets of the north reading her playing cards to any who wished their fortune told.

Aside from the witches and dynion hysbys, a third branch of magical character appears in the lore. These purely legendary magicians appear connected to every region, and often have the same stock stories connected to them. Among them are clergymen or monks, knights, prophets, and regular trickster figures. Some of these characters were based on historical figures from history, while some are purely legendary. The classic image of the welsh magician is: a character who learns his art from a master after mishaps with a magic book; he (as they are almost always male) compacts with the Devil to protect crops, bring in the harvest, build bridges, and punish thieves. He is able to conjure spirits to ride them around the world, and often visits Kings and Popes. Near the end of his life, the magician tries to save himself by cheating the Devil one last time and usually is buried in the wall of the local church. Some of the most well-known of this peculiarly specific Welsh characters involve John o’ Kent, Huw Llwyd, Robin Ddu Ddewin, and Sion Davies Sirevan. These stock characters, virtually identical in story to each other with onloy the specific information adapted for place, appear to have links with the legendary magicians of England and Scotland, such as Michael Scotus, Friar Bacon, and the archetype Dr Johann Faustus. I theorize that Welsh tradition was introduced to these characters and assimilated them entirely to form a uniquely Welsh set of tales.

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The Lovesick Leannan Sidhe

But like a lovesick leannan sidhe

She hath my heart enthralled,

Nor life I own, nor liberty

For love is lord of all.

From My Lagan Love

Hugh was an adventurous young man and wanted to see the world so, despite the pleadings of his parents, he set off. Well, he’d been travelling for about three years when he got word that his father was very ill and he set sail for home. Unfortunately, his father died before he arrived and his mother was beside herself with grief. He knew that he would have to stay at home. She was a good mother and he just couldn’t leave her, so he set about trying to keep the farm going. To be a good farmer you need to have a love of the land, but since he wasn’t a man of the soil at heart the farm began to get a bit run down. Within a year of his father’s death his mother fell deeper into a decline brought on by melancholia, for she never got over the death of her husband.

Hugh took to the drink, and soon the farm suffered; crops weren’t sown, fences went unmended and the house wanted the lick of whitewash. Sure, it broke his mother’s heart to see her big son falling to pieces, and when she was dying she begged him to catch hold of himself, to stop drinking and to find a wife.

Now, Hugh was a man of his word and he took his mother’s dying words to heart. As her body was committed to the grave he made her a promise. He’d never touch another drop of drink, even when the other mourners were drinking after the funeral. When everyone departed to their own farms he walked around the place and took a good freshlook at it.

‘Right enough,’ he said to himself, ‘it’s a mess of the place. I’ll put this to rights and maybe then I’ll be able to find me a nice girl to marry.’ Now, like most places in Ulster, there are seven girls to every man, so you wouldn’t have too much difficulty finding a nice girl. Hugh was a fine, big man and had a grand way with him, though he was unaware of his own good looks. Sure, wasn’t he the finest looking man ever seen in County Derry? He had hair as black as the raven’s wing, and eyes as blue as the sunlit sea. He was tall and broad of shoulder and under his tanned, windblown skin the powerful muscles rippled, having been built up from hauling in the nets filled with fish from the oceans of the world. Even the dissipation of the past year hadn’t softened him up too much. All he need were the right clothes because, as his mother had often said, ‘Clothes maketh the man.’

He began to clear the fields again for the planting and discovered that once he put the sea out of his mind he liked the land work. Still, at the end of the day it was lonely coming back into the house that had forgotten the touch of a woman. After a particularly hard day clearing the far field of rocks and trying his hand at building a stonewall, he resolved to do the final thing that his mother had asked of him, and that was to find himself a wife.

Knowing that there was a big fair on the Monday at the beginning of August he went into Portstewart to buy himself some decent clothes. Coming out of the tailor’s shop he stopped as if struck by lightning, and indeed it was lightning of a kind, for didn’t he spy the most beautiful girl he’d ever laid eyes upon.

Oh, her hair was like a fire glowing in the sun, her skin was white, and on her cheeks were freckles sprinkled like gold dust. Poor Hugh was besotted at first glance, and as he made his way over to her he wondered if this lovely creature had a husband already. When he reached her side he looked down and she, catching his glance, looked up. Sure, wasn’t that the truth of the saying, ‘It was love at first glance?’

Didn’t they chat as if they’d known each other all their lives, and as the sun began to set in the sky and the market emptied, he asked if he could walk her home.

‘You can,’ said she, ‘but only as far as the bridge, because my father will be waiting near there, and he warned me not to have any truck with strangers.’

Hugh would have walked to the ends of the earth with her, but as they neared the bridge she stopped.

‘No further, Hugh, and thank you.’

Hugh stuttered out the words, ‘Can I call on you, Kate?’

They arranged to meet, and as the summer dipped into autumn they were as deeply in love as any young couple could be. When she decked herself out in her best clothes and went out of an evening, her father suspected that there was a man in the offing. Now, an elderly man depending on a daughter to see to him in his old age gets a bit obstreperous and selfish when a young man is in the offing. He determined that he would put off any man courting Kate, but he didn’t let on to his daughter what was in his mind.

‘Will you marry me, Kate?’ Hugh asked her one night, and her smile lit the heavens, for wasn’t she as besotted with him as he was with her?

‘Aye’ she answered, ‘but you’ll have to square it with my Da. Come round tomorrow night and see him.’

As Hugh was walking over the mountain road on the way home that night, a wind whistled up out of nowhere and he knew right away that it was no ordinary wind. His mother had warned him about the Leannan Sidhe, a fairy woman of great beauty wanting to carry off handsome young men who were betrothed to another. It was said that once she got her eye on a man he was going to be tortured by her presence until she finally ensnared him. So Hugh pulled his cap down until it almost covered his eyes and kept his head down too, looking only at the road. Didn’t he know that any man, looking into the fairy lover’s eyes was doomed to follow her forever?

Well, that Leannan Sidhe came to his side and wrapped the wind around him like a blanket, and he had to battle against it to move an inch along the way. She pulled and she hauled, but he would not raise his eyes, and eventually she tired of the struggle and let go of him. When the sound of the wind disappeared he looked around and didn’t he catch sight of her on the hill, and she was burying something under a galla rock (a standing stone). He took note of the spot and hurried on home,determined that the next day he would see what she had buried.

The dawn broke and Hugh rose, pulled on his clothes and went to the hillside, knowing that the fairy lover would not come out in daylight. He pushed the rock aside, for it was powerful heavy and there, underneath it, was a bag made of the softest leather. He looked around, lifted the bag, and it was heavy. When he undid the string he couldn’t believe his eyes for the bag was chock-full of gold coins, bright as the leaves of the buttercups growing in his field. All sorts of thoughts were going through his mind, but the main one was not to tell anyone about his find. He would provide Kate with any treasure she asked for when she was his wife.

That night he dressed in the fine suit the tailor in Portstewart had made for him and went to ask Kate’s father for her hand in marriage. He noted that this farm was as neat as a new pin, that the cows were well fed and content, and the outside of the house was newly white washed, unlike his own. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘with my gold I can fix up my farm and Kate will never want for anything.’

Kate was waiting for him at the door. ‘Me Da’s in a right ‘aul mood and he’ll try to make you lose your temper. Now I’m warning you, hold onto it, for it will do us no good for you to lose it.’

He nodded and she brought him in. Her father was sitting in front of the turf fire and he neither rose nor took Hugh under his notice at all. Hugh went forward with his hand out in greeting.

‘Hello Mr Logan, I’m pleased to meet you. Here,’ he said, ‘Kate told me that you smoke the pipe, I brought you a couple.’

He held out the clay pipes and Kate’s father took them, looked at them then threw them on the hearth, where they smashed. Hugh stood with his mouth open and Kate’s eyes beseeched him not to retaliate. He stepped back and squared his shoulders.

‘I’ve come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage, sir,’ he said, his voice was strong with passion.

‘What! If you think that I’d let my daughter marry a ne’er-do-well like you, you have another think coming. You, with not a halfpenny to your name, your run-down farm and dirty house and no cattle. You, who drank like a fish of the sea that you sailed on and drove your poor mother into her grave. How dare you think that you would make a suitable husband for my Kate? Get out of my sight and don’t come back!’

Before he could stop himself, and forgetting what Kate had said about not losing his temper, Hugh retorted.

‘I’ve got plans sir, and gold aplenty, more than every man in this parish put together, and I can tell you that Kate would never want if she marries me!’

‘You! Where would you get gold when you’re scarcely scraping a living out of that dung heap of a place you call a farm?’

By this time, Kate’s father was on his feet and pointing to the door.

‘Come back here when you can prove it. Until then, get out!’

Kate took Hugh’s arm and he could see the sheen of tears in her eyes. Outside Hugh held her in his arms.

‘I’ll be back and I’ll show him. Don’t worry. We’ll be married by Advent, I promise you.’

Hugh went on his way home, all the while debating in his mind about showing the gold to Kate’s father, but sure, wasn’t the love of his life worth it? He was so deep in thought that the cloying wind was on him before he had a minute to compose himself. But just in time he remembered, and when the Leannan Sidhe started her pulling and hauling again he was able to resist her. Aw, but he knew she was angry and that it wasn’t the end of her trying out her wiles on him. He was fair exhausted by the time he arrived at his own wee house.

That night he stayed up and scrubbed the place from end to end. He blackened the pots and painted the crook over the fireplace and even whitewashed the side of the chimney. Once he started he couldn’t stop, for if Kate’s father agreed to let her marry him he was going to bring her back to the cottage the day after to have a look at her future home. In the morning he took every bowl, cup and plate from the dresser and painted the wood a lovely bright blue. He rummaged in the big cedar chest at the back of the room, where he knew his mother had stored her linens, and there he found the nicest curtains and tablecloth.

By the time he had finished he was ready to go to Kate’s house, and he set off with the bag of gold in his pocket. The old man refused him entry and Hugh went to the wall outside the cottage door and spread the gold coins along it. With three steps that were almost jumps Mr Logan was at the wall, fingering the gold.

‘I won’t ask where you got it young man, but,’ and at this point he slapped Hugh on the back, ‘you can marry my daughter when the house is fixed up and the farm running well.’

Hugh blinked, ‘that’s too long a time.’ He reached out and took Kate’s hand. Her father stared greedily at the gold and thought.

‘I’ll tell you what, young fellow, I can have your farm fixed up in no time because I have strong workers. I can start you off with a herd too but I’d need to hold onto this gold for safekeeping. Would you trust your future father-in-law to do that, hmm?’

Hugh was so overjoyed that he and Kate could marry soon that he agreed, and true to his word her father did everything he said, although between you and me, he didn’t have to spend but a fraction of the money. Every time Hugh enquired, Mr Logan had another wee job to do with the money, and the wedding was a grand excuse. When the couple married, the people came from miles around to celebrate the union, because country folk love nothing better than a wedding to get them all together. And what a wedding that was, with not a penny spared…

Discover more legends and lore from across Ireland in The Anthology of Irish Folk Tales Volume II out now!

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A famous tale from Ancient Greece is a tragic story of love and loss. Yet, it also contains the power of undying hope. It is a story of endurance and persistence. It’s also just a great story.

Orpheus and Eurydice

Orpheus was a musician of unparalleled talent, his melodies so exquisite that they could make the very stars pause in their celestial dance. He plucked his string kithara with grace, he played his tortoiseshell chelys lyre with skill and blew the double-reeded aulos so that each note seemed to sing with the voice of the gods.

His own voice, rich and resonant,wove through the air like a golden thread, enchanting all who heard it. One day, as Orpheus wandered through an ancient forest, his song rose like a lark’s call at dawn, filling the woods with its ethereal beauty. In the distance, he spotted a group of girls, their laughter tinkling like silver bells as they played among the trees. Undeterred, he continued singing, each note a beacon drawing him closer. These were no ordinary girls; they
were wood nymphs, mystical beings capable of transforming from maiden to tree and back again at will.

As Orpheus neared, the nymphs, startled by his presence, gasped and morphed into slender trees, their leaves trembling. All but one. This wood nymph, named Eurydice, stood rooted in place, captivated by the musician’s presence. Her smile, shy yet radiant, mirrored the sun breaking through morning mist.

‘Hello,’ Orpheus greeted her, his voice a caress.

‘Greetings,’ Eurydice replied softly, her cheeks tinged with the blush of dawn.

‘You’re very pretty,’ Orpheus said, his own face flushing with admiration.

‘You’re very handsome,’ Eurydice responded, her bright eyes sparkling.

They talked and talked and eventually decided that they could not be parted. Their love was so instant and passionate
that they decided to marry. Their decision made, they climbed to the top of a hill, seeking the favour of the gods of Olympus. In a blaze of light and a clap of thunder, Hera, queen of the gods, materialised before them. She glowed with a brilliance that rivalled the midday sun, her smile a cascade of light. With a voice like the ringing of a thousand golden bells, she declared them husband and wife, then vanished as suddenly as she had appeared. Orpheus and Eurydice, now bound by love and divine decree, were overjoyed.

‘We’re married!’ they exclaimed in unison, their voices blending in perfect harmony.

‘Play me some music! Sing me a song! I want to dance!’ Eurydice urged, her joy overflowing.

Orpheus nodded, picking up his lyre, and began to play. He sang too as Eurydice twirled and danced. Her movements were as fluid and graceful as a stream in spring. But suddenly, she stumbled, a sharp pain shooting through her leg. She looked down to see a snake slithering away, its venom already coursing through her veins. She fell, her body lifeless, her spirit fleeing before Orpheus could reach her.

‘No!’ Orpheus cried, his voice breaking like a wave upon the rocks. ‘We’ve only just been married, and now she’s gone!’ Determined to reclaim his love, he vowed, ‘I will travel to the edge of the world! I will descend into the Underworld! I will face Hades himself and bring her back!’

Clutching his lyre, Orpheus set off on his epic journey over vast landscapes. Days turned into nights and nights into days until he finally reached the River Styx at the edge of the world. Its waters were smooth as glass, glowing with an eerie, dark luminescence. A boat emerged from the mists, guided by a figure cloaked in black. As Charon the Ferryman drew near, his hoodfell back, revealing a skeletal visage with hollow, staring eyes.

‘May I cross?’ Orpheus asked, his voice steady but his heart pounding.

The skull nodded, and Orpheus climbed aboard. They glided silently across the river, arriving at the gates of Tartarus
that were massive and foreboding. Orpheus stepped on to the shadowed shore, nodding his thanks to the ferryman. A menacing growl rumbled behind him. He turned to a colossal three-headed dog with the tail of a snake that hissed and writhed. Each head bared fangs like daggers, foam dripping from their snarling mouths.

‘Cerberus!’ Orpheus gasped. ‘Oh mighty guardian of the Underworld, who never sleeps but endures endless sentry of
Tartarus, I dedicate this song to you.’

With trembling hands, he began to strum his lyre, singing a lullaby so soothing it seemed to weave a spell. Cerberus’
eyelids drooped and soon the monstrous hound lay asleep.

The beast slept for the first time since its creation. Thousands of years of service were now lost in dream-filled bliss. Orpheus slipped past the hellhound, his song a soft whisper in the shadowed halls. The Underworld was a realm of mist and shadow, ghosts flitting like whispers through the gloom. Orpheus pressed on, his path lit only by the faint glow of the spirits. At last, he reached the heart of the Underworld, where Hades sat upona throne of bones, his eyes as cold and dark as the void.

‘What do you seek, living man?’ Hades demanded, his voice like the echo of death.

‘I’ve come for my wife, Eurydice,’ Orpheus pleaded. ‘We were only just married, and she was taken from me. Please,
let me bring her back.’

‘No,’ Hades replied, his tone final.

‘Please?’ Orpheus implored.

‘No.’

‘I beg you!’ Orpheus’ voice cracked with desperation as he fell to his knees.

‘No.’

Heartbroken but resolute, Orpheus began to sing, pouring all his love and sorrow into his music. His song was a haunting lament that resonated through the Underworld, drawing the spirits close. Even Hades, unmoved by centuries of suffering, felt a tear escape and fall to the ground.

‘I know the pain of separation,’ Hades said quietly. ‘My wife, Persephone, is with me for only three months of the year.’

He sighed deeply. ‘Alright, you may have her back.’

Orpheus leapt up as joy flooded his heart.

‘But,’ Hades warned, ‘you must not look at her until you have crossed the Styx back to the human world. If you do, she
will be lost to you forever.’

‘Thank you, I understand,’ Orpheus vowed.

Filled with hope, Orpheus began the journey back, his steps light with anticipation. He passed the sleeping Cerberus, who seemed to smile in his slumber. Orpheus then crossed the gates, but doubts gnawed at him. Was Eurydice truly following him? Had she even left the Underworld? The urge to look back was overwhelming, but he resisted, focusing on the path ahead.

As he neared the river, he could no longer bear the uncertainty. The ferryman awaited him, and Orpheus’ resolve
crumbled. He turned to see Eurydice, her ghostly form shimmering behind him. In that instant, she was pulled back into Tartarus, her spirit vanishing like mist in the dawn. Devastated, Orpheus crossed the river with Charon, then sat alone on the opposite shore with his lyre. He played the saddest song ever heard, his grief pouring out in every note.
He neither ate nor drank, singing of his lost love until he himself faded from the world. In death, Orpheus returned to the Underworld, reunited at last with Eurydice. Together, they embraced in the realm of shadows, their spirits intertwined for eternity. And so, in a bittersweet twist, they died happily ever after.

This tale follows a theme of eternal love that intertwines with desperation, highlighting both the beauty and risks of deep devotion. Orpheus’s journey to reclaim Eurydice shows the lengths love can inspire, but also the dangers of holding on too tightly. His inability to let go of her becomes a cautionary tale, suggesting that while love can be a source of strength, it can also threaten wellbeing when one cannot move forward. This story serves as a reflection on the balance between cherishing love and preserving one’s mental health.

Cerberus’s role in this story also reminds us of a valuable lesson. As he finally falls into slumber, we are reminded that sleep does not come easily for some of us. We do not have Orpheus to sing us lullabies, yet sleep is crucial for both mental and physical health. Sleep impacts the regulation of emotions, reducing the risk ofmood swings, irritability, and emotional instability, which perhaps explains Cerberus’ initial response to a visitor at the gate! Poor sleep is even linked to mental health disorders like depression and anxiety. Adequate sleep helps manage stress and emotional resilience.

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The Welsh Utopia

Amser maith yn ôl / A long time ago.

The shallow sea in Cardigan Bay, from Pen Llŷn in the north to Ceredigion in the west, was once a mix of forests, lakes, rivers, swamps and saltmarsh. The nomadic people who lived there cared for their land, yet never thought they owned it. They foraged and hunted, treated animals as equals and left offerings in exchange for anything they took. This was the land of Plant Rhys Ddwfn, the Children of Rhys the Deep. Not deep below the sea – Rhys was a thinker, a dreamer, a philosopher.

He reasoned that if the mean giants who lived in the mountains ever saw his land, they would destroy it. So, he devised a cunning plan. He planted a hedge of herbs along what is now the west Welsh coast, to hide his land from their prying eyes.

Only if the giants stood on the one small clump of this herb that grew away from the coast would they see Rhys’ world, but as they had no idea where this piece of turf was, all they saw was rain.

Rhys’ children cared for each other, their numbers grew, food became scarce, and the giants heard the distant rumble of empty bellies, although they mistook it for the anger of the gods.

They turned to crafts, became toolmakers, wood carvers and basket makers, and travelled by sea to the markets in Ceredigion to trade their goods – but as soon as they were seen, prices went up. They traded with Gruffydd ap Einion, a radical free-thinker who dreamed of a fairer world. After many years, they took him to the clump of herbs, where he saw Rhys’ land with all the knowledge and wisdom in the world archived safely in forests and books. Preachers and politicians were few. Choughs and kestrels hung in the air. The land was rich beyond dreams, the utopia he had long dreamed of.

Gruffydd asked how they kept themselves safe from crime, and they explained that Rhys’ herbs hid them from an angry creature with horns, snakes and a sword that spewed toxic venom at anything it disagreed with.

When Gruffydd stepped away from the herbs, he lost sight of Rhys’ land, though he never forgot there was a better world out there in Cardigan Bay. Rhys’ children traded with their friend all his life, until one day they came to the market to find Gruffydd’s hair had turned to snow and he had passed over to the Otherworld.

As the floodwaters lapped at their feet, Rhys’ children turned to a nomadic life, following the seasons and tracks of animals along the water’s edge, fishing and foraging, carrying the bones of their ancestors to remember their stories. For pity the people who have forgotten their myths.

Marsh Girl

Seven thousand years ago, Môrwen was born into this world of rising floodwaters as one of Rhys’ children. She fishes for salmon, forages for hazelnuts, scavenges for honey, digs for celandine tubers, carves wooden spoons from holly, weaves baskets from rushes, draws animals on stone with charcoal and makes pigments from crushed rock. She knows the movements of the deer herd and follows their tracks and scents through the forest. She collects antlers shed by the old stags and sharpens the points into axe-heads with flint tools. She has no need to keep deer in enclosures – they come when she calls. She is sharp as flint, moulded from the dust of time. She has spent so much of her life up to her waist in water, friends call her Marsh Girl.

In the evenings Môrwen huddles at Nan’s feet to hear stories of the mean giants of the mountains, the mischievous old women who make potions from the herbs of the forest, the green man of no one’s land, and the girls who transform into fish, birds and wolves. She draws mammoths chased by little stick men who glory in the spilling of blood and praise themselves in poetry and song. She has never seen a mammoth, but Nan’s words paint them in her imagination. They become real when she sketches on rocks, until the rain and floods wash them away.

One day Môrwen is foraging along the riverbank when a storm gathers out to sea, waves crash over the beach, and the forest fills with floodwater. She runs for high ground but slips into the swamp and sinks up to her shoulders. She grabs hold of a clump of tough reeds and bends her knees to stop herself being sucked further into the wet peat. She hangs there for what seems like hours until the wind abates and she hauls herself on to the dry forest floor, where she lies breathless, staring at the stars.

Thoughts swish round her mind like waves. Is the sea having a laugh? Why are Rhys’ children losing their way of life to the floods? Will the sun set fire to the trees? Do her descendants have answers in the future? She knows there is a future, for she has stepped through the veil on Calan Gaeaf before.

The Cardigan Bay Mermaids

Amser maith yn ôl / A long time ago.

In the Old Welsh Dreamtime, when people were people and fish were fish, three brothers lived in a yellow stone farmhouse overlooking the forests and swamps of Cardigan Bay. Eldest Brother ploughed the land and had honey on his bread, Middle Brother farmed the sea and had salt in his porridge, whilst Little Brother wandered the old Welsh Tramping Road with a tune on his lips, head in the clouds and feet in the mud, and when his belly rumbled he asked his brothers for food. The two hard working brothers grumbled.

‘Little Brother?’ said Eldest Brother, holding a small pig on a rope, ‘Take this enchanted pig, sell it for money – and don’t swap it for anything that makes wishes come true! You know what happens to wishes in fairy tales?’

Little Brother nodded and set off along the Old Welsh Tramping Road with a tune on his lips, an enchanted pig on a rope and no thoughts about wishes in fairy tales. He walked until he came to a deep dark wood, and in the middle of the wood found a crooked lime-washed house with a red door. In the doorway stood an old woman with a thousand wrinkles round her eyes and a single yellow tooth wobbling unnervingly in thebreeze from her breath.

‘Would you like to buy an enchanted pig?’ asked Little Brother. The woman pulled on the one grey hair in the middle of her chin, and drooled. ‘Mmm, roast pork! I’ll swap your pig for my enchanted handmill. It will make your wildest wishes come true.’ The pig hid behind Little Brother’s legs.

Little Brother completely forgot about wishes in fairy tales, and the deal was done. He set off back along the Old Welsh Tramping Road to the shores of Cardigan Bay with a tune on his lips and an enchanted handmill under his arm, and as the red door closed, he heard the squealing of a pig.

Little Brother returned to the yellow stone farmhouse overlooking Cardigan Bay, and thought, ‘I’d like a cottage of my own.’

‘Little mill, little mill, grind me a handsome house.
Little mill, little mill, grind it without a mouse.’

And the handmill ground out a pink-washed longhouse with a table, a chair, a bottle of wine and a roaring fire. Now he would never need to ask his brothers for food again.

Eldest Brother looked out of the window of the yellow stone farmhouse and saw a pink-washed longhouse that wasn’t there yesterday. He knocked on the door and there stood Little Brother.

‘Little Brother, last time I saw you, you were poor as a church mouse, now you’re rich as a lord. Where has all this money come from?’ and Eldest Brother poured out a bottle of home-brewed beer. Before Little Brother passed out, he told Eldest Brother all about the handmill.

Eldest Brother took the handmill home to the yellow stone farmhouse, placed it on the kitchen table and made a wish.

‘Little mill, little mill, grind me maids and ale.
‘Little mill, little mill, grind them dark and pale.
Oh – and a little fish for my tea.’

Eldest Brother was a simple man.

The handmill began to grind out strong beer till it covered the floor, then a dark girl with the tail of a fish, followed by a pale girl, also with a fish tail. Soon the beer covered Eldest Brother’s feet, his knees, waist, belly, chin, and mermaids were frolicking in the sea of ale, so he shouted ‘Stop!’, but the handmill continued grinding ‘til the door burst open and a river of beer and mermaids flowed down into Cardigan Bay, flooding the forests and swamps until Eldest Brother drowned, as he would have wanted to go, with a drunken fish-girl on either arm.

Little Brother awoke with a headache to the sound of rowdy mermaids frolicking in the floodwater. At that moment, Middle Brother, the one who ploughed the sea, sailed into Cardigan Bay in his red-masted ship with a cargo of salt from a faraway land, to find a sea full of mermaids singing rude sea shanties and impolitely inviting him to remove his trousers and join them.

He dropped anchor, waded ashore and went to the yellow stone farmhouse, where he found Little Brother holding a handmill that was still grinding out beer and mermaids.

‘Little Brother, when I left, this was all land and now it’s water. And where have all these drunken mermaids come from?’

Middle Brother produced a bottle of smuggled Jamaican Rum and before he passed out, Little Brother told Middle Brother about the handmill.

Middle Brother took the handmill back to his ship, placed it on the deck and made a wish.

‘Little mill, little mill, grind me salty salt.
Little mill, little mill, grind it without a halt!’

for with an endless supply of salt, he would never have to sail to faraway lands, live on mouldy biscuits or be looted by pirates.

The handmill began to grind until the deck was covered in salt, and soon it covered his feet, knees, waist, belly and chin, so he climbed the red mast but the salt climbed higher and under its weight, the ship sank to the bottom of the sea, where Middle Brother, like Eldest Brother, drowned in the arms of rowdy mermaids.

Little Brother woke with another headache and went to the seashore for a drink, but the water tasted of salt, beer and mermaids, and now he remembered. ‘Is this what happens to wishes in fairy tales?’

So he set off along the old Welsh Tramping Road with a tune on his lips, head in the clouds and feet in the mud, in search of fresh water and food from the forests.

And the handmill? Well, it’s still there on the wrecked deck of the ship on the seabed in Cardigan Bay, forever churning out salt, beer and mermaids, who are often mistaken by the environmental services for dolphins. And that’s why a swim in the Salty Welsh Sea leaves you feeling as if you have been swimming with drunken mermaids.

Calan Gaeaf

It’s Calan Gaeaf, the first of November. Mischief night, the first day of winter in the Welsh calendar, when the veil between this world and the Otherworld is at its thinnest and spirits from the past are able to pass through and haunt our dreams with scary stories of forgotten ancestors. A bit like a Welsh Day of the Dead, or Halloween when people wear bedsheets and pretend to be ghosts, or witches in green make-up with fake blood dripping from their mouths. Time isn’t linear on this day. It travels in endless circles, swirling through space. You can travel around the coast of Wales in one day at any time in history.

Môrwen hauls herself out of the swamp and stands up, dripping mud on to the mossy forest floor. She remembers Nan’s stories about the ice mountains melting and filling the valleys with floodwaters where her people live. She wonders if it will ever stop? And what happened to the mammoths? Did they drown? Môrwen can hunt like a wolf, swim like a mermaid and speak the language of birds, so she will escape the inundations – but what will happen to her people? She places a sprig of rowan in her pocket, faces the sea, sweeps back her hair, curses three times, and steps through the veil into her future.

Time passes in a moment.

Years, hundreds of them. Thousands. Millennia.

Môrwen hasn’t enough fingers, toes, tails or limpet shells to count them all.

The post The Mesolithic Mermaid and the Welsh Utopia appeared first on The History Press.

Once upon a time there was a lonely, old man who lived in a little cottage in the woods. There, the old man sat all alone, as the sun was slowly setting and darkness engulfed his little abode amongst the trees. Many a long evening was spent in this manner – alone in the dark – because the old man did not know how to make the light that existed in daytime, stay with him in his cottage come evening.

“Summers are all right,” the old man said to himself. “It’s those winters I can very happily live without. I simply cannot abide the dark and the cold in winter.”

The old man liked daytime, even if it didn’t bring a great deal of light in winter, and he endeavoured to use the daylight hours as best he could. He brewed coffee at regular intervals and took a sip from his cup every now and then, whilst reading the morning papers. Washing up was swiftly taken care of and if the weather wasn’t too cruel, he might even venture out for a walk, wearing his snow boots with crampons if the paths were slippery, his fur hat pulled down tightly around his ears and a pair of thick woollen mittens keeping his hands warm.

Days turned to weeks and weeks to months. Spring, and then summer, returned, but no matter how the old man tried to hold on to the delightful light of summer, autumn too returned, followed by winter.

“Poor me,” the old man lamented, “now I’m stuck here again, without light. Is there no end to this misery? It’s dark and silent and lonely all winter. I am so fed up with this.”

Next day the sun was shining from a bright blue sky and the snow surrounding the cottage was positively glistening in the sunshine, the trees all beautifully frost-clad. The old man donned his boots with crampons again and went outside, all wrapped up. Just as he entered the woods on the frozen path, he had an idea. A lamp… What if he had a lamp in his tiny cottage? Maybe then the light that ran away earlier and earlier in the evenings, would stay a little longer? The old man pondered and wandered in the chilly morning light, while the snow crunched and creaked underneath his boots.

When it was next time to go for a walk, the old man brought a small axe and a small saw with him. He picked and chose among the trees until he was sure he’d found the right one – the very one that would help him persuade the light to stay with him even in winter. The following week the old man was, if possible, even more grouchy, grumpy and disappointed as soon as daylight left the cottage. He needed as much of it as possible to finish his work before the upcoming festivities, but despite pulling back all the curtains and even opening the windows, light kept leaving when it had had enough of daytime.

“It’s Christmas soon,” the old man said, “and I’ll never get them ready in time.” Making a supreme effort, he sawed and hammered, glued, polished and painted. On the 23rd of December, just as night planned to swallow day, there they were – ready. Five lamps, placed neatly on the table, awaiting the light. ‘Now,’ the old man thought, ‘now finally, I’ll be able to see in the evenings. I’ll be able to sit and enjoy the light all Christmas and all winter.’ The old man waited and waited, but nothing happened. The lamps remained unlit and the kitchen got darker and darker.

Dejected, the old man sat down at the kitchen table, with tears in his eyes. He could not understand what he’d done wrong. He’d carried out all the work from beginning to end, the lamps were in good condition and ready to embrace the light – the light that he truly wished to welcome with open arms and open eyes. Why wouldn’t it come?

Hours passed; it was the dead of night. The old man sat there, awaiting the light as long as he could keep awake, but there was no sign of it, not even the tiniest of glimmers. The lamps refused to light up.“It is going to be a gloomy Christmas, this year,” the old man said, despondent, and finally went to bed, cold and tired.When he awoke, it was broad daylight. “My goodness, have I slept that late? I can’t believe I’ve overslept on Christmas Eve morning,” the old man muttered to himself where he was lying in bed, in the little bedroom next to the kitchen.

He yawned and stretched. Then he remembered the night before and immediately felt like curling up in bed again. The Christmas he’d been hoping for was not going to happen. “It’s Christmas Eve after all. I guess I’d better get out of bed,” he said grouchily, while searching for his slippers. That’s when he happened to look at the clock on the bedside table, showing five a.m. on Christmas Eve morning. The old man practically jumped out of bed. “Five o’clock in the morning? But why is it so light in here?” There, on the kitchen table, stood five shining lamps made of wood, ready to light up the lonely, old man’s Christmas.

The post A Christmas tale: The Old Man and the Lamps appeared first on The History Press.

What is Halloween?

First, the name. The general presumption is that the word ‘Halloween’ is simply a shortened form of All Hallows Evening, and so should properly be written as Hallow e’en. This may not be the case. The word ‘Hallow’ comes from the Old English ‘Halgan’ (holy), and many older, provincial forms of the word Hallowtide (referring to the wider season) retained the ‘n’, as Hallantide or Hollandtide – in some examples, it is called Hallowen, and Hallowen Eve and Hallowen Day are referred to. The Halloween spelling, then, likely developed as a continuation of the linguistic Halgan/
Hallan/Hallowen shift, rather than as a specific contraction of ‘evening’, or as a reference to a single day.

Originating in the dialects of northern England and southern Scotland, today the word ‘Halloween’ refers both to the night of All Hallows Eve (31st October), but also to the wider halo of the Halloween period – the word ‘Christmas’ is used in a similar way: for both the day and the broader season. The preference for this specific form (where before there had been many local variants) began after the Scottish poet Robert Burns published a verse of the same name in 1759. It became hugely popular during the 1800s, and ubiquitous across the English-speaking world over the twentieth century. All Hallows Eve is, of course, followed by All Hallows Day, which is then followed by All Souls Day.

Known together as Allhallowstide, this triptych is a 1,000-plus-year-old Christian festival season, maintained still by the Catholic Church, to honour the saints without committed feast days, and to pray for them to intercede on behalf of souls in Purgatory. Continental Europe still observes it fervently, as do most other Catholic countries globally, and it is
still defined for them today by church services and religious custom. So. How did the Catholic All Hallows become the semi-secular, folk spiritual, pseudo-pagan season of Halloween?

Contrary to popular belief and much misinformation, it was not invented by or imported from America, nor does it really originate in a pre-Christian ‘Celtic’ festival called Samhain (pronounced Sowen) or a pre-Christian Roman festival for the goddess Pomona. When the English Reformation tore Catholicism from the state, and the Anglican Church divorced from the Pope, the official and authoritarian observance of All Hallows in England ceased. But All Hallows did not die. Instead, it forked off into a second form of observance.

The rituals and the practices continued, still celebrated and performed by the common folk, but without the guidance or control of any church authority, and withourestrictive interpretations or rigid explanations. It folkified into strange and distinctive, organic paths that were powered by The People, and which resulted in broad and beautiful divergences from region to region. Country lore and rustic superstition began to blossom, without any form of officialdom to uproot it when it sprouted; strange practices not sanctified by any Church started to spread.

The customs around the dead crystallised and developed in instinctual folkways, varying from village to village and, truly unleashed from the religion that birthed and bound it, the British rewilding of All Hallows there commenced. Over the 500 years that followed, so formed our modern Halloween. I do not mean that our modern Halloween is only 500 years old – the secular British Halloween is not a separate holiday to the historic Catholic Allhallowstide, any more than the modern Catholic Allhallowstide is.

Both have direct continuity with the historic version, and both can claim those roots as their own. English, Irish, Scottish and Welsh emigrants to America eventually took Halloween with them, of course, and (as often happens in America) the holiday became genericised, simplified and commercialised; covered in candy and nylon and popularised through Hollywood. But it is not American. In this book I will try to prefer Hallowmas and Allhallowstide when referring to the wider Halloween season, and All Hallows Eve/Day when referring to the specific dates. I’ll use other names as the mood takes me, however, so keep your wits about you…

As the practices of Halloween vary from region to region, it is this inclusive, expansive Hallowmas season that I’m writing my book about – late October to mid-November, from around 28th October until 13th November. This, in England today, is the secular or folk season of Allhallowstide, within which we, of course, find All Hallows Eve itself, as well as All Hallows Day, All Souls Day, Bonfire Night, Martlemas, St Brice’s Day and more. If any of these names are unfamiliar, fret not. All will be revealed.

The post What makes a Halloween? appeared first on The History Press.

Come with me to a hillside where the trees face east and if you stand with them, you can watch the sunrise. Here the twilight lingers and the dew on the grass glistens in the gloaming. If we, for a moment, step into the elastic liminal space that exists between night and day, the crepuscular hours of the dawn and the dusk, and sit for a while, we may find that we have the ability to step through a gap in time and walk the path of those before us.

We may experience true awe as we watch Neolithic communities roll stones from the Preseli Hills in Wales to Salisbury Plain in England. Watch them carefully observe the sun and line up those 25-ton stones with it as it rises above them. Haul on ropes to stand them tall in the surrounding landscape, inspiring wonder in all those who see them.

We may see the Egyptian civilisations as they hide their Pharoh, a direct link to the sun, during an eclipse, so that no harm falls to him. We may sit awhile in the temples of Greece to hear stories of Helios, Apollo, Phaeton, Eos and Hemera. We may wonder at these gods and their complex lives, their fierce protection of the earth and their indifference to humans.

As we sit, we see Romans celebrating the solstice and the birth of their Sun God, Sol Invictus and as the Saxons arrive, we see them bring a second Sol and Mani both with wolves to chase them across the sky.

Hurry on and we see yrplings (earthlings) working the land. They encounter many more stones rooted in the earth and they dance amongst them. From their footsteps and laughing voice, spring new stories of witches, zealous brides and magical cows.

How farest thee on this journey for Henry is now on the throne and they are still dancing. This time around the Maypole as the farming folk and their communities celebrate the gifts the sun has given them this year

We journey on and smoke fills the skies as the Industrial Revolution arrives. We artificially lengthen our days, wring out ever last productive hour with candles, lamps and soon electricity. The machines churn on and progress marches forward as we spend hours in the dark behind walls that block us from the sun, softening our bones.

Laws are passed so that we may find balance in this new world of productivity, yet we continue on this path. We build more and more boxes to live and work in and spend more and more time in the glow of knowledge boxes, moving further away from the hill where the sun rises.

But the hill is still there. Waiting. Patiently. Sit once more on that hill and watch the light as it returns to us and you may find peace and a calm that we once honoured with megaliths. Come and join me and I will tell you the stories of the sun.

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Tom Muir author of Scottish Folk Tales of Coast and Sea has selected thirty-five tales from around Scotland. Some are familiar, some less so. Here you will find an array of supernatural creatures and places, from haunted castles to Tir-nan-og, the isle of the forever young. You will learn how the kind heart of a young fisherman who threw back a beautiful fish got him into trouble, but ended in his salvation from the devil. How a Caithness man was wooed by a mermaid but he was foolish with her gifts, which led to a terrible fate. And of the Cromarty man who captured a mermaid:

‘She struggled, but he held her tight, firmly pinned to the rock. Then her body relaxed, and she looked at him and spoke. Her voice, although as sweet as a songbird, had a cold chill to it that made the blood freeze in his veins. He knew the answer that he must give to win what he desired.

“Man, what with me?”

“Wishes three!”’

We meet the selkie folk, seal people who can take off their skin and dance by the light of the moon. Some are hapless victims, when a selkie maiden has her seal skin stolen and is forced to live on land with the man who possesses it, as told in this Orkney story:

‘But there was a great sadness on her. She would often slip away and sit by the shore. As she stared longingly at the waves, a large selkie’s head would break the surface of the sea and gaze at her. Then the tears would roll down her lovely face once again.’

But other selkie stories have a darker side and they can take a terrible revenge on those who hurt them. Witches too can bring death, while the evil Nucklavee is the most terrifying of all the uncanny beasts that hunt humans!

Pirates appear in some stories, but suffer the consequences of their actions. One Dutch pirate steals the bell from the Bell Rock, but regrets his actions after a year. Another wealthy laird acts as a privateer, raiding enemy ships during wartime before returning to his fine castle by the shore. He falls in love with a beautiful woman, but their love was doomed from the start. as the story says:

‘The Captain had no right to give his heart to Catriona, for it was not his to give. He already had a love, and one who would never give him up. For, you see, the Captain’s first love was the sea. He was devoted to her, and no earthly love was strong enough to break that bond.’

The devil is also to be found, loitering along the coast, looking for a fool to trick. There are stories about the devil gaining the promise of the soul of greedy lairds, whose lands lie on the coast. Sometimes he take other forms, like the twelve black demon cats, led by a larger one as red as fire, who trap a West Highland fisherman in his storehouse and insist on singing a funeral song for him, for a price:

‘The big red one turned to him and said with a purr, “Come along now, Murdo. You must pay for the fine cumha that the cats have sung for you.”
“Pay for it!” said Murdo, “Why should I be paying for that? I don’t need a cumha, what with me not being dead and all. Anyway, what do I have to pay for it with?”
“That I couldn’t tell you,” said the red cat, “but I know that singing gives you an appetite. You had better pay them, Murdo, for I can see the light of hunger in their eyes. Be quick about it, man!”’

The great sea monster of Orkney legend, the Stoor Worm, makes an appearance, but is slain by the most unlikely hero. While this is a well known story, this retelling is based on an alternative version, collected in the 19th century. A Shetland story warns of the dangers of stealing from the dead, when a man takes the boots from a drowned seaman. There is also to be found a remarkable wonder-tale about how Jeermit the Healer, one of Fin McCool’s band of warrior poets, travels to Land-under-Waves to save the princess.

There is humour, mixed with wisdom, in tales like how Jack fought and overcame Death, as he was on his way to take Jack’s mother. As nothing will die they can’t get anything to eat, neither animal or vegetable, as Jack comes to realise:

“Why was I such a fool?” he said. “I have ruined the world. People are suffering because of me. I wish I had never done it. I didn’t know just how important Death is. People fear him, but he is a good person who helps sufferers to leave this world of pain.”

And finally I close the book with a story of how I became a storyteller, which is a true story – of course. I slipped and banged my head in a boat, which drifted off to sea, and I awoke to find I’d changed:

‘I stopped and thought to myself, “I need a smoke,” so I put my hand to the chest-pocket of my old denim work jacket.
My hand felt something there. A lump. A large, soft, warm lump. I was confused, and I moved my hand to the other side … and there was another one.’

The post Folk tales from the Scottish coastline appeared first on The History Press.

As language evolved into more complex speech patterns and extended vocabulary, it’s easy to see how the form of telling each other stories about the day’s events evolved. These stories would have been an essential part of processing events and wrapping up the day. Nobody knows this for sure, of course, but it is human nature to socialise and make relationships through verbal communication. It would naturally follow, then, that when these early peoples were blessed with time and leisure and the impulse to communicate, the sharing around the campfire would take all sorts of different forms, from dramatic reportage to funny accounts of what had transpired that day. Significant past events would have been reprised and told again, and of course, significant dreams would be shared. I wonder if this dream-sharing was the first formal structure of telling narratives. Either way, the trend developed into the huge variety of forms and genres of stories and storytelling that we see the world over. The stories migrated from their first natural home of fireside telling to appear anywhere and everywhere that people were gathered. It is fitting, then, given that provenance, that we include the following story, which features the element of fire.

A Fire Tail…

Cowichan, Canada

In the time before time, so long ago that the time could only be counted by suns or moons, a band of Cowichan Indians was drying deer meat in the morning sun. It had been a very cold night, and they spoke of how good it would be to have their own ‘small sun’ to warm them when the big sun left them to the night’s cold embrace. They had nothing else, for this was so long ago that people did not know how to make fire. Of course, they knew they were only dreaming out loud because to have that, it would take power and magic to obtain, and not one of their shamans had that much power. As they wished and talked, they suddenly noticed a little bird who was calling close by. They did not recognise its call, and this was unusual. So, they stopped talking and gave it their attention, and more so when it flew closer to them. They saw that it was a beautiful brown bird with a bright red tail, which seemed to shimmer and shine even when the bird sat still. They were mesmerized by this flickering red and orange light on its tail as this curious creature hopped from branch to branch, until the bird looked down on them from a branch right above their heads.

The oldest man spoke the languages of birds, and he greeted the bird in the old way, praising its song and its plumage.

‘What do you want, little bird?’ he asked.
‘Nothing do I wish for myself, but I can bring you what
you would dearly wish,’ it replied.
‘How so?’ said the old man.
‘Do you see my tail?’ said the bird. ‘It is hot and bright
like the flaming feathers of the sun. I can make you a gift
of this, which will comfort you when the north winds of
winter blow, that will cook your meat and bring light and
cheer when the sun sinks below the ground.’
‘That would be a great gift!’ said the old man. ‘My
people surely need this to ease their suffering in the long
cold nights of winter.’
‘Well, if you want it, you must earn it,’ said the little
bird. ‘Tell your hunters to meet me here at dawn and ask
each one to bring a little dry branch with pitch pine on it.’
The bird then disappeared, and the old man said to his
companions, ‘We should follow up that invitation, it may
bring us good fortune.’
When the sun shone again, the hunters waited in the
same spot, as invited by that strange little bird. Each carried a branch with pitch pine on it, as they had been told.
With no warning, suddenly the brown bird was perched
on a branch above them.
It asked in a language that, this time, all could understand, ‘Are you ready?’
They answered, ‘Yes!’
‘Then you must follow me, if you can, and the one who
first catches up with me will be given the gift of fire from
my tail, but only if the one who does so is respectful, is
patient, and tries hard without losing faith or courage.
Come! Let’s go!’

The bird flew off over the rough ground and thick forest. The chase was long, and it was difficult for the hunters to keep pace with it as it darted between the trees. For many, the going was too tough, and they fell away. Over fast-flowing streams and then marsh and swamp, the little bird continued to fly, perching occasionally on the rocks and the branches to keep the hunters interested. As the chase went on, more hunters dropped out. By now, there were only a few left in the chase. At last, one young warrior got close enough to call to the bird. He was hot, and tired and somewhat frustrated and even angry.

‘Give me your fire, you miserable little bird. I have followed
you far and I deserve the prize for I am the strongest!’
‘I shall not,’ said the bird, flying higher. ‘You think only
of yourself. You shall not have the prize.’
A second young man caught up with the bird. ‘Give
your fire to me,’ he called. ‘I have followed with faith
and courage, and I am the best warrior and I deserve the
reward. It will make me stronger to have it.’
‘A good man does not simply take that which belongs
to another, for his own ends,’ the bird answered, flying
faster and faster.

Soon, when it was no longer being followed, the little bird flew to the ground and perched on a branch above a woman who was sitting against the trunk of the tree below, nursing an old man who looked very frail and sick. The bird cocked its head onto one side and watched her for a while tending to the sick man. Then, it opened its beak and called for her attention.

‘You, who take good care of others, I have treasure to
share with you. Bring a branch with pitch pine on it,’ said
the bird. ‘I have fire on my tail, and you shall have it to
keep your sick friend warm and to cook your food, and to
bring you comfort at night.’

The woman was afraid, at first, of a bird that could speak. She said, ‘I don’t deserve such a magical gift. I do this because it is the right thing to do. We people take care of those who are sick.’ ‘You are a good woman, thinking of others,’ said the bird. ‘Now, do the thing that will bring your people much happiness. Fetch a branch and take of my fire and bring this precious gift to your people.’ The woman then brought a branch and kindled it from the little fire that flickered on the bird’s tail. She walked with it back to her people and she shared it with them. And so, the first flames were brought to the first people. That was all long ago, and since that time, those first people who lived in the wild world have had fire to keep them warm and cook their food. And they’ve been singing the praises of the birds ever since!

Extracted from Folk Tales of the Night by Chris Salisbury

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