storyteller

A marshy meadow – a quiet pond

A lonely road and a hill beyond
In the reedy marsh below the hill
On starlight nights when air is still
Where rushes and cresses grow green and crisp
There goes, dancing, Will o’- the Wisp,
Will o’- the Wisp so gay…


You heard him coming, a long way off on a still night and by the time he’d reached the village they were there in welcome. You could not mistake the song of the traveller, it caressed the world around him as he walked…soft his footfall, stepping time…he came on the same day every year on the 14th of July, it was the time for telling…and leave then the next day…


… every so often Farman the traveller came to tell the news, once a year for sure he would, staff in hand, cut from beech, worn and polished by time, he had carved it himself, a ‘V’ at the top where he could rest his thumb or turn it about to kill an adder if he had to, a bundle slung over his back, his hat pulled low, felted and warm…good even I July and you would hear him singing as he walked towards the village and the all the children came to greet him, grown ups reticent and slow to follow, suspicious, as it was not safe to have a stranger in their midst…and after a cool drink he was offered he began to talk of what he’d seen and what he’d heard. He talked about the king and of the folk he ruled and he told them their crimes and their suffering as well as of deaths he remembered and of births and who’d wed whom…he talked of fireballs in the sky and the comet and all, burnt harvests, of torches in the heavens and four rainbows all at once…how all were afraid in Ireland and Scotland of the fires that drifted across the skies at night and around the sun in broad daylight…he talked of Saints and of bishops, of maids and knaves, of feuds and of wars…they gathered all around him now, hungry for the telling and to know just what was going on…


...and


they listened in awe and gave him a bed for the night.


We see the gleam of his lantern bright,


he said in a low voice,
looking around him
and
gazing from face to face,


Flitting about the quiet night.
He balances on the cattail tops,
Then to the rustling reeds he drops,
And reeds to the rushes will softly lisp’
Here comes, dancing, Will o’- the Wisp,
Will o’- the Wisp so gay…


…and before he gets ready to leave in the morning he listens to what was new in the village and tells just one story more. He tells the story he likes the best, the tale of Lar Swithin, word for word the same every time and every time he comes he tells it. The children wait with baited breath and eyes upon the traveller in faded red, his hat on his lap ready for leaving, about the the teacher, who taught the sons of kings, whose sister died in childbirth, his beloved mother of the fever and his father who was lost somewhere on the moor…Lar was a bit like him, he said, he travelled just the same but he had lots of money so he travelled not on foot. He’d built a church in every county where he stayed and they named each after him…there was rejoicing when he came with gifts of toys and money for the builder, the carpenter and mason and there was laughter but great sadness when he left…


…and


...when he died they buried him just as he’d asked…so he might rest across from those he’d loved by
the church wall so all might walk where he would lay and rain might fall upon his breast…


…and Farman tells about the dreadful storm that came when he was moved and how it stormed and rained for forty days, how fire shot across the skies, how Lar could be seen at night when the moon was setting and the grey mist lay low across the moor. The wind would howl and drive the branches ‘gainst the windows, rain would seep in every nook and every cranny and run under houses in rivulet streams…they had no choice but make of him a Saint, to appease him for the wrong they’d done him…but it was all too late….


…all the churches had to have a bit, an arm in one, head somewhere else, he was sore cut up and put in holy little golden coffins in each church that he’d once built…


…’they couldn’t leave him be, could they’, said Farman, ‘and look what happens every year’, he paused and looked around him at the children waiting…’and who’s turn is it this year for the rhyme today?’ ‘Mine!’ a young boy in grey shouted, ‘mine!’ hand stitched fine leather shoes…’and what would be your name?’asked Farman. ‘Lar sir, from the big house sir.’ ‘Right then, Lar, your turn it is.’ he said….


St. Swithin's day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain
St. Swithin's day if thou be fair
For forty days 'twill rain nae mair…


…all clapped and cheered …


… and Farman put on his hat and picked up his bundle, heavy with bread and with cheese now in parting and he got up to make his way away into his new day…


The east grows grey at the touch of dawn.
Presto! Will o’- the Wisp is gone.
For the morning wind blows out his light-
He’ll dance again another night.
When crickets are chirping in grasses crisp,
Then we’ll watch for Will o’- the Wisp,
Will o’- the Wisp so gay...




09/07/2010