Moon in the Water

The moon is above, shining white in the night sky.
The people are below, on the dark earth.

There is a prosperous village, full of health and happiness, surrounded on all sides by a thick, black marsh. Those wishing to journey to or from the village must first negotiate tiny pathways and sticky depths.

Evil resides in the marsh - deep shadows that lanterns of the village cannot penetrate; whispering voices that lure from the path into the sinking swamp; strange, pale lights that dance and deceive.

When the moon is high in the sky, the path is clear enough to navigate but those who travel on nights without her light are lost.

Woe betide the wanderer who goes without the light of the moon to guide her.

One night, a mother lamented her child lost in the marsh-darkness and the moon heard her sorrows. The moon had always loved the people of the village and was deeply distressed by the cries.

Mother Moon wrapped her radiance in a thick cloak, put a hood over her bright hair and sank to earth.

A small glow around her feet was all that she had to guide her through the marshes. She felt around for rushes, grass underfoot, but the path was not clear and she heard the distant murmurings of sorrowful thoughts.

You could walk forever in this strange, dark place.

At that moment she lost her footing, slipped and splashed into water. Mother Moon struggled and grasped, but she only sank deeper. The evil things that live in the swamp came creeping up around her, curious and hungry, holding her tight in their murky grasp.

Suddenly, there came a great sobbing voice: "Help me, please help me" and footsteps approached.

"Turn and walk away. Do not come this way. There is no path here," cried Mother Moon, but it was no use - the man came ever nearer.

"Hello? Is there someone there? Please, help me!"

"NO! Do not come this way. Turn around!" She struggled and twisted with all her strength, crying with full voice to the traveller. As she pulled and kicked, the hood of her cloak fell back and the face of the moon lit the marshes for miles around.

Startled and relieved, the lost man fled on moonlit paths through the marsh and was gone.

He did not stop to think what marvellous thing had happened.

Exhausted, Mother Moon sank into the mud. Her head fell to her breast and her light was concealed once more. Full of hate and spite, the evil things returned to do away with the blinding light of the Moon. Sharp claws pulled her downward, cold voices crowed and strange songs were sung.

A great boulder was brought to cover where Mother Moon was buried and keep her light from the world forever.

From that night onwards, the moon was gone and many, many travellers, wanderers and dreamers  were lost to the never-ending dark.

How long was she down there, in her living tomb? How long were we without her?

After too many did not return, the villagers decided something must be done. With blazing torches, they gathered together to search the marshes for the moon. Evil things scratched and pulled at their ankles, but together they were strong and together they remained marching deeper into the blackness.

"This rock," cried a child. "It doesn't belong there."

With a great heave, the people of the village wrenched the stone from the inky water. In a heartbeat, the marsh was filled with a glowing light and there she was, rising from the depths - a great gleaming wave of guidance.

Sorrow and fear faded in this moon-rising.
Dark thoughts fled from this moon-dawning.

The bright Mother smiled at her children and they watched as she climbed the staircase of night to took her place amongst the stars. Her distant shining brought them safely home.

She is above, shining white in the night sky.
The people are below, on the dark earth.
Upturned, their faces silver in the light of the Moon.

From an old English folktale (http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/meft/meft24.htm)

Retold by Abigail Palache September 2014

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Eating the Earth - a first draft

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, there was a town. It was a peaceful, happy and prosperous place, protected from the world by a great mountain - its side strong with grey rock; its top glistening with snow.

One day, an old man came down from the mountain with a cart full of sweet buns.
"One bun for ten coins, two for twenty coins, three for free!"
A middle aged man in a smart hat stopped him.
"Old man, are you mad? You mean you will charge me nothing for three buns but twenty coins for two?"
"Yes," smiled the old man. The creases around his eyes and the lines around his mouth were as deep as a valley.
"So if I ask for one, I must pay ten coins."
"Yes," smiled the old man.
"And if I want two, I must pay twenty."
"Yes," smiled the old man.
"But for three, I pay nothing."
"Yes, exactly."
"Well," the middle-aged man said in the smug tones of one who has beaten the system, "I will have three buns for free."
The old man gave him three buns and then gave three buns each to a group of women and the elderly couple walking their dog took three buns each and the mother walking her baby down the street took three buns and his cart was as empty as his purse.

The next day the old man came down the mountain with his cart full of sweet buns.
"One for ten, two for twenty, three for free."
And once again the crowds flocked.

And the next day the same, and the next, and the next.

This went on for days,
                               weeks,
                                   months.



One chilly, spring morning when the sun shone brightly over the town, a young man stopped by the old man's cart.
"I'll have one please," he asked and handed the old man ten coins.
"What's wrong with you? You can get three for free you know," said a passing woman, in a fine silk dress.
"I don't want three," said the young man, "I want one."
"What's wrong with you? You can get three for free you know," said a passing man, wearing an expensive suit.
"I don't want it for free," said the young man, "I want to pay him."

A few people heard, but nobody listened. An old woman took three free buns as she passed by and shoved them into a bulging bag.

The young man stood next to the old man, watching the people of the town.

"They don't see and they don't listen," said the old man, putting a gnarled hand on his companion's shoulder. "They don't see."

The old man turned his head and the young man followed his gaze up to the great mountain that protected the town. What had once been a solid, strong triangle of rock and snow, was now split down the middle by an empty wound, a great gaping gash.

"They have been eating the mountain. They have been eating earth and rock and snow and soil," said the spirit of the mountain softly, his hand lifting from the young man's shoulder "and they didn't even notice."

When the young man turned back, there was no cart and no old man, just people with shopping bags walking from shop to shop, from stall to stall.

He stood for a moment as the world moved to and fro around him. No-one lifted their head to see what they had done.

The young man breathed deeply, turned and walked alone up the mountain path.

* * *

A Living Ghost Story - authentically encountering a the oral tradition

Sally lived with Mother in a little cottage in a little village in a little county of a little island that people called Great. But Sally didn't know that; Sally just knew that she had to do what Mother told her and if she didn't, she'd get a smacked bottom and go to bed without supper.

Mother was a hard woman, but she did love her daughter, even though she didn't always know how to show it. One day when Sally came home, her mother presented her with a gift - a pair of soft, yellow, leather gloves.

"If you lose these, I'll kill you."

Sally loved those gloves like the sea loves the shore, like the stars love the night. She wore them to church every Sunday and wrapped them carefully in a square of linen and tucked them into her drawer every Sunday evening.

And so imagine her surprise when she left her pew one Sunday and found only one glove in her coat pocket. Her heart fluttered and her chest caught in panic.

Mother was furious. Sally searched the whole church, she scoured the graveyard, hunted through hedgerows and combed through the coppice. She knocked on the doors of her neighbours but no-one had seen a yellow, leather glove.

Then there was only one house she hadn't visited. At the end of the lane that lead out of the village and into the wild of the moorland was Old Father's house. He was rarely seen and often whispered about in the playground. As Sally walked nervously up to his front door, the sour scent of rotten leaves caught in her throat and she stumbled, as if her feet were willing her to turn back and run far from this strange, dilapidated dwelling.

Father opened the door with a grunt and a sneer. Behind him, his shelves were filled with porcelain faced dolls with empty, painted eyes.

"I've got your glove girl. You can have it back. But if you tell anyone I had it, I will come at midnight and my girls will get you."

Sally promised she would keep quiet and she danced delightedly back home with both her yellow gloves on.

When she got home, she forgot all about her promise and she told Mother everything. As she repeated the words of the Old Father it was as if she was hearing them for the first time. She burst into a frightened flood of tears.

Mother locked all the doors and barred all the windows. She sent Sally to bed and locked her bedroom door tight.

Sally sat in her bed, her blanket wrapped tightly around her, and wept. She wept as the clock ticked to ten o'clock. She sobbed as the clock tocked to eleven o'clock. She cried to the moon and the star and prayed for morning.

But instead of morning, Sally heard the church bells chime Midnight. There was a creak and a sound of china footsteps on wooden steps. Sally held her breath.

"Sally, I'm on the first step. I'm coming to get you," sang a high-pitched, thin voice.
"Sally, I'm on the second step. I'm coming to get you."
"Sally, I'm on the third step. I'm coming to get you."
"Sally, I'm on the fourth step. I'm coming to get you."
"Sally, I'm on the fifth step. I'm coming to get you."
Sally could hear the soft thump of footfall on the wooden steps of the cottage.
"Sally, I'm on the sixth step. I'm coming to get you."
"Sally, I'm on the seventh step. I'm coming to get you."
"Sally, I'm on the eighth step. I'm coming to get you."
"Sally, I'm on the ninth step. I'm coming to get you."
"Sally, I'm on the tenth step. I'm coming to get you."
"Sally, I'm on the eleventh step. I'm coming to get you."
"Sally, I'm on the twelfth step. I'm coming to get you."

"Sally, I'm at the door. I'm coming to get you."

***

The next morning when Mother unlocked Sally's bedroom door, she found the room deserted.

Lying on the bed was a blood-stained pair of yellow, leather gloves.

***
Encountering the Oral Tradition in a Secondary School

When I was 7 or 8, we told each other scary stories and I always got really scared. Whether it was the doll who climbed up the stairs carrying a kitchen knife singing her haunting song or the drip, drip, drip of the tap that wasn't the tap at all but the slow drip of blood from an old woman's dead dog, strung up by some unknown assailant (incidentally I have a clear memory of it being a West Highland Terrier in my imagination at least), these stories have stuck with me through my whole life. They were modern, contemporary tales, sometimes featuring Freddie Kruger (Nightmare on Elm Street had recently come out and was being watched surreptitiously by some of my friend's older brothers and sisters) and often featuring hooked hands, mysterious radio reports of escaped prisoners and frequently featuring an unpleasant scarecrow or two.

A couple of days ago, as I flicked through Katherine Briggs' British Folk-Tales and Legends, imagine my surprise when I came across the story I have re-written above. The same shape, the same little rhyme, the same slow, rising climax to doom and death. Briggs' version was recorded first in Sheffield in 1897. But this isn't the only version of this tale - it seems they have been freaking out children and adults alike for many a-year.

I had this sudden and overwhelmingly satisfying sensation of being in a stream of story - of course as an oral storyteller I know I am always part of this stream, but this reached beyond being an adult and the discovery of storytelling as a contemporary revivalist movement back into St Pauls Primary School playground in 1992(ish). I had never read this story till February 2014 and yet I knew it - not because I had listened to a storyteller at one of the festivals or in a performance or at school, but thanks to the stream of orality that runs through childhood in game, song and story.

On the 13th February I had a great day at Oakmeeds Secondary School in Burgess Hill, creating ghost stories with Year 8s and I told them this tale. Kids who have been carrying iphones since they were out of diapers and have watched all manner of horror films carrying ratings way above their age; kids who live in the 21st Century and post their lives on facebook, snapchat and whatsapp; these same children piped up with 'I know a story just like that' and from the mouths of this new generation of children came the same stories that I heard when I was playing Red Rover and Tally-O, swapping POGS and singing songs by D-REAM (don't judge me too harshly). There were differences, slight alterations, some familiar pictures that floated from film into story, but as I left school that day I left knowing that whilst not many kids get to hear tales told in the traditional way, they are still telling those strange stories that form part of childhood's initiation into the great mysteries of the world, or at least the bloodthirsty mysteries of the world...

COPYRIGHT Abigail Palache (C) 17/02/2014