The Mammoth Book of Celtic Myths and Legends (63 page)

Inside was an old, bleary-eyed man, who was doing all the heavy work while the girl flirted with her guests.

“Who is that old man?” Jowan asked the girl. “Surely he is too old to be doing all that heavy work?”

The girl chuckled in good humour. “That old wreck? He is my husband. Don’t worry about him, my handsome.”

At once, Jowan recalled the old farmer’s advice:
never lodge where an old man is married to a young woman
. He rose immediately and went to the door.

“Where are you going?” demanded the merchants.

“I cannot lodge here,” he replied. “I will find lodgings next door in the old inn.”

“No, no. Stay and dine with us, first,” insisted the merchants. “We want to repay you for saving us on the road.”

But he would not. The merchants, who were honest men, said that if he found lodgings in the old inn, they would pay for him.

That night, while he lay in bed in the old inn, a noise roused Jowan from his slumber. He went to his window and looked down. There were two figures in the shadowy doorway of the new inn
opposite. They were engaged in conversation.

“Are you ready?” asked a female voice.

Jowan had no trouble recognizing the voice of the voluptuous young hostess of the new inn.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” came a masculine voice.

“Are you agreed on the plan?”

“I will stab your husband as he lies in bed tonight and place the bloody dagger in the hands of one of those fat, stupid merchants. When they are blamed and hanged, we shall be together
and owners of a fine inn.”

The figures then went inside the new inn.

Now Jowan dressed and hurried to the new inn, with the thought of warning his merchant friends. He peered through the open window where he saw a light.

He was too late to save the host of the inn, for he saw the deed had already been done. Near the window, within arm’s
reach, stood the figure of the man, the murderer.
It was then that Jowan recognized the man for he was named Lewarne, the Fox, of Chy-an-Horth, who had once refused him a job. He was the factotem, or manager, of the great estate of Lord Gwavas of
Castle Gwavas. He was a vain man who wore a very distinctive purse at his belt and Jowan, who was nimble, reached in across the window-sill and managed to lift it from Lewarne’s belt without
him noticing it.

Soon the lecherous hostess raised a cry, claiming her husband had been murdered and that there was no one but the merchants in the house and that they must have done the deed.

Lord Gwavas, lord of the Castle of Gwavas, came riding to the new inn, for he was the administrator of justice in the area.

Lord Gwavas had the merchants marched out and told them: “You will all hang, unless one of you confesses your crime.”

Each merchant cried out that they were innocent, and Lord Gwavas ordered they all be marched off to prison, to await execution.

“Wait, lord,” cried Jowan. “Why not arrest the real murderer?”

Lord Gwavas stared down at him in surprise.

“Who committed the crime,” he demanded, “if not these merchants?”

Jowan gave the man the purse. “The owner of that purse did the deed.”

Then Jowan told Lord Gwavas all he knew.

“Why, this is the purse of my factotem, Lewarne of Chy-an-Horth. Bring him here.”

Lewarne came in fear and they brought the hostess with him. Lord Gwavas saw the truth of the situation in their eyes. He ordered the merchants to be set at liberty and the hostess and Lewarne
taken to prison to be hanged for the crime.

So they all journeyed on together, the merchants and Jowan, and at the foot of the hill, the hill on which Jowan’s sister and her husband lived, they parted company. But not before the
merchants gave Jowan a fine horse and loaded on
it all manner of presents, in return for his services in saving them not once but twice. Jowan went home with wealth enough to
compensate him for his three years without wages.

His wife was waiting at the gate of the cottage. After they had had their reunion and celebration, his wife said: “Jowan, you have returned in the nick of time. I have a problem. You see,
Lord Gwavas passed here yesterday and, when I was going along the same path that he had been on, I came across this purse of gold. But the purse has no name on it, only a crest, so I am fairly sure
that it belongs to him. Yet I have been living on your sister’s charity these last three years, and the gold is such a great temptation.”

Now Jowan remembered the third piece of advice which the old farmer had given him.
Honesty was the best policy
.

“No. We will take the purse to Lord Gwavas in his castle and return it to him.”

So Jowan and his wife went up to the castle and demanded to see the great Lord Gwavas.

Lord Gwavas was delighted when his eyes fell on Jowan.

“You went off too soon, before I could reward you for revealing the crime of my factotem.”

“Well, I came with my wife, who found something of yours on the path this morning.”

They gave Lord Gwavas his purse of gold. He was amazed and quite delighted. “Such honesty needs reward,” he said. “Now that Lewarne is no longer my factotem, will you come and
work for me in his place? I will pay you five golden sovereigns each year, and you will have the big house at Horth as your own.”

Jowan was ecstatic.

“Here, then,” said Lord Gwavas, when Jowan had agreed, “in token of my respect, is the purse of gold to set you up in your new home.”

They thanked Lord Gwavas, but the great lord dismissed their thanks by saying that he owed them much, for he had finally found trustworthy friends to help him run his estates.

So Jowan and his wife returned to Jowan’s sister’s cottage and there was a great celebration. Jowan ensured that his sister and her husband did not go short, on account of the
years they had looked after his wife. He paid them in gold coin from Lord Gwavas’ purse. Jowan’s sister and his wife prepared a big home-coming feast.

Jowan felt the most joyous that he had ever felt in his life.

It was then he remembered the cake that the old farmer had given him. He took it out and placed it on the table.

“I promised my old master that I would break and eat this when I felt most joyous. I do now and so I shall be true to my word and break it open to eat it.”

His wife, his sister and brother-in-law, laughed at the humble-looking cake but Jowan broke open the cake. Then he stared in amazement, for inside the cake were nine golden sovereigns, his wages
for the three years he had worked for the old farmer.

30 Nos Calan Gwaf

P
endeen, north of St Just in Penwith, in the western extremity of Cornwall, is an ancient mining village and there are many stories associated with
it. Its history goes back into the time before time began, and it is regarded as the most primordial part of the country with many old sites nearby – places like Chun Quoit and Chun Castle,
that date from when man first walked the land; strange underground tunnels, such as the one which is shaped like a “Y” and stretches fifty-six feet in length and is four and a half feet
high, called a
fogou
, and no one knows what it is used for.

Pendeen has long been associated with the
piskies
– the mischievous supernatural creatures who haunt the remoter areas of Cornwall. Many are the people who have been
pisky
-led and have disappeared from this world or, if they have returned, been out of their mind until their dying days. Locals will tell you to avoid the nearby Wood Gumpus Common,
especially at night.

Time was, down at Pendeen House, which stands out towards Pendeen Watch on the cliffs, and where the great antiquarian William Borlase was born, there was another family who were squires there.
I can’t vouch for their name but I have heard tell that it was Bosanko, which some say comes from the old Cornish
bosancow
– meaning the dwelling place of death! And if it were
so, they dwelt at Pendeen so long ago that no one will now vouch that they were ever there.

Well, let’s call the squire “Squire Bosanko”, and say he had
an elderly housekeeper named “Peggy” Tregear. It turned out that the old lady was
a fussy kind of soul, who liked to make sure that the squire was well fed. One day, she found that she had run out of certain herbs to cook a meal with, and what could she do but get her basket and
her rowan walking stick and set out across the hills to Penzance market? Now, Penzance is a fair walk from Pendeen, and you have to cross the hills from the north to the south side of the Penwith
Peninsula.

Now the time and day on which she set off was noon on 31 October. Maybe some of you will recognize the significance of the date. The significance had, in fact, not occurred to the old lady. It
was
Nos Calan Gwaf
, in the old Cornish calendar. That is now called Hallowe’en, when the Otherworld comes into view in this world and when spirits can come forth and wreak their
vengeance on the living, and when the
pisky
folk may lead unguarded souls a merry dance.

Old Peggy Tregear, before she started her journey, went first to the house of Jan Tregher, who was the wife of the tailor over at Portheras Cove, for Peggy liked to walk in company and thought
that she would see if Jan might accompany her to Penzance. Jan had the reputation of being a
peller
, which in Cornwall is a remover of charms or a white witch. Others said that she was not
so “white” in her witchcraft and could curse as well as any folk. I heard tell of one man who even said that the Torpen himself, that is to say Lucifer, advised Jan Tregher and her
husband when a rich wreck would come floating into Portheras Cove.

Mind you, there were plenty of wrecking places off the shore, like The Mozens or the rocks known as The Wra or Three Stone Oar. That’s why, on certain days, they lit beacon fires on
Pendeen Watch and along the coast at Greeb Point. Even so, there were plenty of wrecks, with or without the Devil’s help. It seemed that the Treghers were always there ahead of anyone else,
and rich were the pickings they had. But, of course, as is always the way, no one would challenge Jan and her husband Tom to their faces, but went around muttering darkly about the Treghers between
themselves.

Now Peggy Tregear was not one to gossip unkindly. She never bothered about sorcery and the like and was always friendly to Jan. In turn, Jan would give her a good bottle of
spirits as came off any of the wrecks. Come this Hallowe’en, old Peggy arrived at the Treghers’ door, to find it shut: which was unusual. She heard voices raised within and so bent to
the keyhole and peered in to see what she could see.

Tom Tregher was sitting on a stool with Jan rubbing his eyes with something held in a
crogen
, which is a limpet shell. Then she placed the
crogen
in the oven. Tom stood up. So
Peggy gave a call to announce her presence, lifted the latch and went in. Now neither Jan nor Tom seemed pleased to see her, and Tom left with scarcely a greeting on his lips. This was unusual. He
bade her a good day and left the cottage. But Jan was soon all smiles and acted as though she was pleased to see her.

“Glad I am to see you, for I have been thinking of you, Peggy. I have a choice bottle for you to take up to Squire Bosanko.”

True it was that the Treghers liked to keep the squire happy with a bottle or two from the wrecks. The squire was the local justice of the peace and, if he were happy, he would not bother to
chase wreckers too strenuously.

Jan went off to get the bottle of spirits and, while she was gone, old Peggy Tregear, out of curiosity, bent to the oven and looked at the
crogen
of ointment. She bent a finger in it and
touched one of her eyes with it, as she had seen Jan placing it in the eyes of her husband. She could only place it in one eye before Jan was back with the bottle.

“Now take a glass for yourself,” Jan invited her and, nothing loath, she did.

When Peggy Tregear told her what she had come for, Jan made an excuse and said she was busy with a meal for her husband that afternoon. She also expected some guests who were interested in
buying goods from the wreck.

So Peggy Tregear, after her drink, bade her farewell and set off, basket and rowan stick, towards Penzance. It was curious that she strode out with a firm step and felt she was walking more
rapidly than ever she had done before. As she trod the
road, she realized how well she suddenly could see and she was tripping down the lane without the need of her stick.
Faster went the ground beneath her. Even so, Penzance is a fair distance from Pendeen, and she realized that she would be returning home in the dark. Yet still it did not occur to her what the
evening was.

She went to the market place to make her purchases.

Who should she see in the market but Tom Tregher? Something curious was abroad. Tom Tregher was going round the market stalls, helping himself to anything which took his fancy, picking it up and
never paying a copper penny for it. Yet no one seemed to take any notice of him nor challenge him to pay. He carried a big sack into which he placed the goods which he was picking up.

Old Peggy Tregear grew quite amazed.

“Tom Tregher,” she called, “what does this mean? How are you allowed to pick up such rich purchases and not pay the market-folk for them?”

Tom Tregher whirled round on her with a dark expression on his face, his eyes narrowed. “Do you see me, old dame Tregear?”

“Of course I do.”

“Which eye can you see me from?” he asked.

“Both, I suppose.” But when Peggy Tregear closed the eye that was not anointed, she could not see him at all.

In a trice, Tom Tregher knew what had happened.

He pointed to her anointed eye and cried: “This for poking your nose where you are not wanted. You shall no more pry with that anointed eye!” It seemed as if a needle pierced it and
she fell to the ground in such agony, for she couldn’t keep on her legs.

Immediately, he vanished. But she heard his voice saying: “May you be
pisky
-led this evening and not reach your bed! May the winds of retribution carry me and mine off if the
pisky
will is not fed!”