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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
In "The Piskey-Purse: Legends and Tales of North Cornwall," Enys Tregarthen masterfully weaves a collection of enchanting folklore and mythical narratives that pay homage to the rich tapestry of Cornish cultural heritage. This work, characterized by its lyrical prose and evocative imagery, transports readers to a bygone era where pixies, mermaids, and ancient spirits dance within the rugged landscapes of Cornwall. Tregarthen presents these tales not merely as stories but as vital threads in the fabric of regional identity, drawing on historical influences and folk traditions that have shaped local sentiments over centuries. Enys Tregarthen, a prominent figure in the early 20th-century revival of British folklore, was deeply fascinated by the oral histories and local legends passed down through generations in Cornwall. His personal connection to the region, alongside a scholarly appreciation for its literary roots, provided him with a unique perspective and impetus to document these narratives. Tregarthen's passion for preserving the disappearing tales of his homeland stands as a testament to his dedication to both literature and local culture. This book is a treasure for enthusiasts of folklore, scholars of regional literature, and anyone longing for a glimpse into the mystical elements of Cornish life. "The Piskey-Purse" will undoubtedly enchant readers, inviting them to explore the junction of imagination and heritage that defines this captivating region of England.
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The Piskey-Purse: Legends and Tales of North Cornwall
Table of Contents
Introduction
The tales given in this small volume, with one exception, are from North Cornwall, where I have always lived.
The scene of ‘The Piskey-Purse’ is from Polzeath Bay (in maps called Hayle Bay, which is not its local name), in St. Minver parish. This charming spot was once much frequented by the Piskeys and other fairy folk, and many a quaint story used to be told about them by the old people of that place, which some of us still remember. The spot most favoured by the Piskeys for dancing was Pentire Glaze cliffs, where, alas! half a dozen lodging-houses now stand. But the marks of fairy feet are not, they say, all obliterated, and the rings where Piskeys danced may yet be seen on the great headland of Pentire, and tiny paths called ‘Piskey Walks’ are still there on the edge of some of the cliffs.
‘The Magic Pail’ is a West Cornwall story, the scene of which is laid on a moorland between Carn Kenidzhek (the Hooting Carn) and Carn Boswavas, and not a great distance from the once-celebrated Ding Dong tin-mine.
The ancient town of Padstow provides the ‘Witch in the Well’; lovely Harlyn Bay, in the parish of St. Merryn, is the scene of ‘Borrowed Eyes and Ears’; and the ‘Little White Hare’ is from the Vale of Lanherne, at St. Mawgan in Pydar.
Readers will gather from these tales that we have several kinds of fairies in Cornwall—the Good Little People, the Merry Little People, and the Bad Little People. To the latter belong the Spriggans, who are spiteful and lovers of money, and who have all the hidden treasures in their keeping. The Merry Little People are the Piskeys and the Nightriders, and are the best known of all the Wee Folk. The Piskeys are always dancing, laughing, and ‘carrying on.’ Their special delight is in leading the traveller astray, and who is at their mercy till he turns a garment inside out. The Nightriders take horses out of the stable and ride them over the moors and downs when their owners are in bed.
There are many quaint accounts as to the origin of the Cornish fairies. According to one tradition they are the Druids, who, because they opposed Christianity when it was first preached in Cornwall, were made to dwindle in size till they became the Little People they now are. The worst opposers of the Christian Faith dwindled to ants!
Another tradition says that the Wee Folk are the original inhabitants of Cornwall, who lived here long centuries before the Birth Star of the Babe of Bethlehem was seen in the East. In North Cornwall they are still sometimes called the ‘little Ancient People.’
Whoever the Cornish fairies are, and whatever their origin, they are not without their interest from the folklore point of view, and we hope that these stories about them will be pleasing, not only to Cornish people themselves, but to those who come to visit ‘the land outside England.’
I am indebted to my kind publishers for their deep interest in these folklore tales, and to Mr. J. Ley Pethybridge, a Cornishman, for so faithfully depicting many of the scenes referred to.
Enys Tregarthen
The Piskey-Purse
Polzeath Bay.
Under a hill, and facing Polzeath Bay, a wild, desolate but magnificent porth on the north coast of Cornwall, stood a small stone cottage, thatched with reed, and with tiny casement windows. It was enclosed by a low hedge, also built of stone, which many generations of orange-coloured lichens, pennycakes and moss, had made pleasant to look at and soft to sit on.
The cottage and hedge thus confronting the porth, with its beach of grey-gold sand, commanded the great headland that flanked it on its north side, and leagues and leagues of shining water stretching away to where the sun went down. Three people lived in this cottage—a very old woman called Carnsew, and her two great-grandchildren—Gerna and Gelert.
They were a lonely trio, for they were the only people living at the bay at that time.
The children had nobody but themselves to play with, and nothing much to do all day long save to pick limpets for their Great-Grannie’s ducks, and to help her a bit in the houseplace and in the garden, which grew very little except potatoes, cabbages, herbs, and gillyflowers. They never went to school, for there was no school for them to go to, even if their great-grandmother could have afforded to send them, which she could not; but in spite of that, they were not ignorant children, and although they did not know A from B, they knew a great deal about the Small People, or fairies, of which there were many kinds in the Cornish land.
The Great-Grannie having lived ninety odd years in the world, was well up in everything relating to the Small People, or she thought she was, and it was she who told her great-grandchildren about them.
Gerna and Gelert cared most to hear about what they called their own dear Wee Folk—the merry little Piskeys—who, Great-Grannie said, lived in one of the googs or caverns down in their bay.
Piskey Goog, as their particular cavern was called, was half-way down the beach in Great Pentire itself, and just beyond Pentire Glaze Hawn. On the top of the cliff were large Rings, where the merry Little People held their gammets, or games, and danced in the moonshine.
The children often sat on the hedge of their cottage to watch the Piskeys dancing, and, as the hedge was in view of Pentire Glaze cliffs, they could hear the Piskeys laughing, which they did so heartily that sometimes Gerna and Gelert could not help laughing too. They could also see their lights—Piskey-lights they called them—flashing on the turf until they sometimes wondered if a hundred little dinky1-fires were burning there.
One June evening, when the moon was getting near her full and making everything beautiful, even the dark headland standing grimly out from the soft sky, the Piskeys, as they thought, were again holding their revels on the top of the cliff, and as they danced the Rings seemed one blaze, and their laughter broke more frequently than ever on the quiet of the evening. There was no other sound to be heard save the far-off growl of the sea, for the tide was down.
Gerna and her brother were on the hedge as usual, and as they watched the dark moving figures and the flashing of the little fires they longed that they, too, could join the dancers.
When the fun seemed to be at its height, the Piskey-lights went suddenly out, and a weird cry, like the cry of a sea-bird proclaiming a storm, broke on the silence, which so startled the children that they gripped each other’s hands in trembling amazement. Then they saw in the moonshine hundreds and hundreds of tiny dark figures, all in a line, on the edge of the cliffs from Pentire Glaze Hawn to the cliff above Piskey Goog, some of whom seemed to be bending over the cavern; and then they disappeared.
The day following, Great-Grannie sent Gelert up to St. Hinver Churchtown, a village three miles from Polzeath, on an errand, and Gerna down to the bay to pick limpets. The little girl had picked half a basketful when she saw a dozen or more Piskey-purses lying by the side of a rock-pool. Leaving her basket near a seaweed-covered rock, she went to get them.
Her Great-Grannie had told her and Gelert that these brown, skin-like things so often found in this bay were used by the Piskeys to keep their gold in, and if they were ever lucky enough to find a Piskey-purse with their coins in it they would be rich as a Spriggan.2
Gerna and her brother never forgot this: not that the dear little maid loved money, or wanted to be rich, for she certainly did not; but her Great-Grannie did, and so did her brother; and so, for their sakes, whenever Gerna saw a Piskey-purse she stooped and picked it up to see if it contained any golden pieces. But the only gold she had ever found in them were grains of sand!
When the little girl had picked up all the brown bags she could see, to look into at her leisure, her soft blue eyes were attracted by a light-brown mottled thing half-hidden under a bunch of wet seaweed. Taking it up, she found it was a Piskey-purse, at least in shape, but it was of a much lighter colour, and all over it were tiny golden rings, with a halo of silver round each, like rays shooting out from a sun. Its skin was not flat like all the other Piskey-purses she had ever seen. It was quite plump, and rather soft, like a half-ripe gooseberry, and closed at both ends, which was also unusual.
As she was wondering if it were a Piskey-purse, a tiny voice, no bigger than a wren’s, only far sweeter, came out of the purse, which so frightened the child that she nearly dropped it.
‘Hide me quickly in your pocket,’ it said. ‘They are coming out on the bar to look for this purse, but please don’t let them find it.’
Gerna was too terrified to do other than she was asked, and lifting the skirt of her tinker-blue frock, she dropped the mottled purse into the depths of an unbleached pocket tied under her frock.
She had scarcely done so when she saw a tiny kiskey3 of a man come out of Piskey Goog, followed by a score of others much like himself.
They all had on three-cornered hats and knee-breeches, their tiny sticks of legs were encased in black stockings, and on their feet they wore low-heeled buckled shoes.
Apparently they did not see Gerna, who was standing on the edge of the pool with her pinafore half-full of brown Piskey-purses.
Their little faces, which were not pleasant to look at, for they were brown and withered—much more withered and brown than the Great-Grannie’s—were bent on the sand. It was easy to tell, by the way they were turning over every bit of seaweed, that they were searching for something.
As one of the wee Dark Men—it was the first who came out of the goog—turned his face seaward, he caught sight of Gerna standing by the pool.
Instead of his disappearing into the cavern, as Great-Grannie told her the Small People would do when they saw anybody looking at them, he took off his little three-cornered hat and came towards her, and Gerna, poor little maid, was too frightened to run away.
‘May I ask what you have got in your pinny’ (pinafore), ‘which you are holding so tight?’ he asked, with what was meant to be a most fascinating smile, but which only terrified her the more.
‘Only Piskey-purses, please, little mister,’ she gasped, ‘which I was a-going to look into when I’ve got time.’
‘What did you hope to find there, eh?’
‘Some of the dear little Piskeys’ golden money,’ answered the child.
‘She opened wide her pinafore so that the tiny Brown Man could take them out.’
‘Did you? You are a nice little girl’ (she was a giantess compared with him) ‘to want the Small People’s gold, and I hope one of the purses has some. May I look into them for you and see?’
‘Iss, if you like,’ cried Gerna; and, sitting down on the sand, she opened wide her pinafore, so that the tiny Brown Man could take them out, which, however, he did not do.
‘The Small People never put anything of value into these common brown things,’ he said disdainfully, just glancing at the purses in her lap. ‘The bags into which we put our golden money are much prettier, and are painted all over with golden rings, with dashes of white, like this,’ making tiny strokes with his finger on the sand. ‘If you ever find such a purse you will indeed be a lucky little maid—that is, if you take it into Piskey Goog and put it on a shelf of rock there, which is what I want you to do. We value these ring-marked purses more than I can tell you,’ he continued, as Gerna did not speak, ‘and are greatly troubled when we lose one of them; we have done so now, and shall never be happy any more until we find it.’
‘My dear life!’ ejaculated the child.
‘In return for your kindness, if you find the bag we have lost and bring it to Piskey Goog, we will give you another something like it, full of gold, and you will be quite rich, and be able to buy anything you want.’
‘My dear soul and body!’ ejaculated Gerna again.
‘I mean what I say,’ continued the man, looking up into the little maid’s open face with a glitter in his twinkling black eyes, which were no bigger than a robin’s eyes, and not nearly so soft. ‘But I warn you that if you do find this purse, you must not tell anybody of your great find, but bring it straight to Piskey Goog.’
Whilst he was impressing this upon Gerna, who was getting over her fear of the little Brown Man, she remembered the mottled purse in her pocket, and was on the point of telling him, when a great voice roared out over the bay, and, on looking round, she saw a man called Farmer Vivian coming across the bar.
The great voice, or Farmer Vivian himself, she did not know which, so frightened the Brown Piskey Man that he took to his heels, and in less than a minute he and all the other Little Men had vanished into their cavern.
Gerna was on the point of following him thither, for she was almost certain that the mottled purse she had found was the one they had lost, when a great wave broke over the rock where she was standing, and nearly knocked her down, and she had to run away from the cavern to escape another wave.
As she turned to go back to her limpet-picking, she found the limpet rocks were all covered with the incoming tide; her basket, poised high on a breaker and upside down, was fortunately thrown in on the sands at her feet.
‘Great-Grannie will be terribly put out,’ she told herself as she went home, ‘and the poor little ducklings will have to go without supper.’
The ancient dame was even more vexed than Gerna thought she would be, and sent her at once to bed, and Gelert had to sit on the hedge alone to watch the Piskeys dancing; but they never appeared on the headland, for all his watching.
As Gerna was undressing, the pocket under her frock began to twitch and shake as if it had St. Vitus’s dance. As she hastened to untie it, the little voice she had heard in the mottled purse before the Wee Men came out of the cavern spoke to her again.
‘Please take me out of your pocket; I want so much to talk to you.’
The child, though somewhat afraid, did so, and held the bag carefully in her hand.
‘I cannot tell you how thankful I feel that you did not take me to Piskey Goog, as that little Brown Man asked you to do.’
‘Did you hear what he said?’ asked Gerna, greatly surprised.
‘Every word; and I was so afraid you would tell him you had found me. It would have been too dreadful if you had, especially after they dropped me by accident over the cliff, as they did, and haven’t been able to find me since.’
‘However did you get into this purse?’ asked the child.
‘Hager, the King of the Spriggans, put me in here and sealed me up, so that I should not get out,’ said the little voice.
‘Whatever for?’
‘Because I wouldn’t marry him, and because he was afraid somebody else I loved was going to marry me.’
‘He can’t be a very nice king,’ said Gerna. ‘I am glad I didn’t take the purse to the cavern, as you are inside. You know, don’t you, that the little brown kiskey of a man promised they would give me a bag full of gold if I took this purse to their place. Will they?’
‘It all depends,’ answered the little voice. ‘The Spriggans—all those little Dark Men you saw on the sands were Spriggans—are dreadful storytellers, and they never keep their word unless they are obliged to. If they cannot get this purse without having to pay heavily for it, they will give you what they offered. Do you want to be rich, dear little maid?’ it asked anxiously.
‘I don’t one bit,’ returned the child truthfully; ‘but my Great-Grannie and my brother Gelert do. If they were to know that the little Brown Man had promised to give me a bag of gold if I take this one to Piskey Goog, Great-Grannie would make me take it. We are very poor—poor as a coot, she says.’ As the small voice in the purse was silent: ‘If I don’t take you to the goog, will you give me some of the dear Little People’s golden money?’
‘I have no gold to give,’ said the voice very sadly. ‘And if I had, I would not like to give it you, for it would not bring you real happiness. But if you take me down to the cavern, as the Spriggan suggested, you will break my heart. Hager,4 who is even crueller than his name, will never let me escape from him any more.’
‘But I wasn’t going to take you to the goog,’ said Gerna. ‘I should let you out first, of course.’
‘It is very kind of you to say so,’ said the little voice, with a tremble in it. ‘But you would not be able to open this purse, which, by the way, is not a purse at all, but a prison.’
‘I guess I could,’ cried the child. ‘My hands are ever so strong, and if they can get limpets off the rocks, they can open this tiny little thing, I’m sure. I’ll open it now, this very minute.’
Her strong young fingers began tugging at the end of the bag, but to her surprise she could not open it.
After working for ten minutes or more, she gave up in despair.
‘I told you so,’ said the tiny voice sadly. ‘Much stronger fingers than yours could not open this prison-bag, and no knife, however sharp, could cut its skin.’
‘Why could it not?’ asked the little maid.
‘Because a spell has been worked upon it,’ the wee voice answered.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Gerna.
‘When Hager put me here,’ explained the voice, ‘he was so afraid the dear Little People, and those who loved me, would discover where he had put me, and find out a way to release me, that he made it impossible by an evil spell that anybody—even himself—should be able to set me free for ninety-nine years three hundred and sixty-five days, unless a very poor little girl could be found who had no love of gold in her soul, nor any greed for riches, and who, out of the deep pity of a kind little heart, would be willing to carry me for love’s sake, in the dead of night, through a great bog haunted by hobgoblins, over a lonely moor to where a Tolmên5 stands, and pass me three times through the Tolmên’s hole before the sun rises, and then lay me on its top, so that the first ray of the rising sun might smite upon the bag. This will break the spell and set me free.’
‘What a terrible lot for a little maid to do!’ cried Gerna. ‘I don’t believe one will ever be found to do all that, however kind she is.’
‘That is just what Hager believed,’ said the voice sadly. ‘And yet I was once hopeful that such a dear little child would be found, or rather would find this purse with its helpless prisoner inside, and take compassion on me. But as the long years dragged on, and no such little maiden came to my help, hope died within me, and I was in utter despair, until you discovered me half hidden under some seaweed, picked me up, and brought me hither. And now hope has begun to revive in my heart again.’
‘Have you been in this prison-purse a long time?’ asked Gerna, who dimly felt that the poor little prisoner was appealing to her pity.
‘A very long time,’ sighed the little voice—‘one hundred years all but a few days.’
‘My goodness gracious!’ exclaimed the little Cornish maid in great amazement. ‘How terrible old you must be—older even than my Great-Grannie, who is ever so much past ninety.’
‘I suppose I am old, as you count age,’ said the little voice, in which Gerna detected a laugh.
‘Have you really been in this bag ninety-nine years?’ she asked, not being able to get over her surprise.
‘Yes; and I am grieved to say the hour for my release has almost come. Before the birth of the new moon, which is on Friday next, Hager will take me out, if no child before that time carries me over the bog and moor, and passes me through the Tolmên.’
‘Was it only ‘cause you wouldn’t marry that old Spriggan king you got put into this prison?’ asked Gerna.
‘Yes, that was the only reason,’ answered the little voice. ‘I happened to be beautiful, you see, and because of my beauty he stole me away from my own dear little True Love, who was just going to marry me. If it ends, as I fear it will, in his getting me into his power again, I and my True Love will break our hearts.’
‘But I shouldn’t think anybody would want to marry you now, if you are so old as you say you are,’ cried Gerna, with all a child’s candour, thinking of her shrivelled, toothless old great-grandmother.
‘And yet Hager, in spite of my age, is waiting impatiently for the waning of the moon to marry me,’ said the little voice, with another sigh. ‘I overheard him talking about it to some of his people, and what grand doings they would have then, and how they would send an invitation to all the dear Little People—my own True Love included—to come to the wedding.’
‘What a horrid person he must be!’ cried Gerna indignantly. ‘Why ever didn’t your little True Love come and take you away?’
‘He can’t, because of the spells Hager worked upon this bag.’
‘Haven’t you seen your little True Love all those long years?’ asked the child.
‘Not once. But I thought I heard his voice when the little Brown Man was telling you to bring the ring-marked purse to Piskey Goog.’
‘There was nobody on the beach except those little Dark Men searching for this purse and Farmer Vivian,’ said Gerna. ‘Farmer Vivian is a great big man, and lives up at Pentire Glaze Farm. He is very kind, and he do love all the Little People dearly.’
‘How do you know he does?’ asked the little voice eagerly.
‘My Great-Grannie told me he did, and she do know. This little cottage of ours belongs to him, and he al’ays talks to her about the Wee Folk when she goes up to his house to pay the rent. There! Great-Gran is calling up the stairs to ask if I’m in bed. I shall have to put ’ee back into my big pocket now. I hope you won’t mind.’
‘Not one bit. The only thing I do mind is being given into Hager’s power. You won’t take me to Piskey Goog, whatever the little Brown Man offers you, will you, dear?’
‘Not unless Great-Grannie finds out I’ve got you an’ makes me,’ said the child, putting the purse very carefully into the unbleached pocket. ‘I hope she won’t go looking into it when she comes up to bed.’
‘Can’t you hide the pocket somewhere?’ asked the little voice anxiously.
‘I can put it into the big chest here by the window,’ said Gerna, looking around the mean little chamber, which was very bare. ‘A storm washed it in on the bar last winter, and Great-Gran don’t keep nothing in it but her best clothes.’
