Everett Pixie Folk Tales

1. Auflage 2025
ISBN: 978-1-80399-617-2
Verlag: The History Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 192 Seiten

Reihe: Folk Tales

Pixies are recognised around the world as mischievous members of the fairy race, but their traditional stories dwell in South West England. Across Cornwall, Devon and Somerset, they have been loved and revered, avoided and feared for centuries. Within these pages, you will find the collected tales of the Pixies, Piskeys, Knockers and Spriggans and many more of their magical kin. Their impish and unpredictable nature can help or hinder us, their human neighbours. Their stories call for playful kindness, magical thinking and careful respect for the living landscape around us. Allow the stories of the Pixies to charm you, rekindle your relationship with the land and embolden your connection to nature. But be warned: these tales are alive with Pixie magic! Expect enchantment and take care as you prepare to enter the wild places of Britain's South West.

HENRY EVERETT is a storyteller, artist and writer, born and based on Dartmoor. He tells traditional tales in the oral storytelling tradition and his particular interest is in tales which speak of our relationship with the land. Henry has a BA Hons in Photography and is an exhibiting photographic artist as well a performing poet and a lantern tinsmith. He has previously led the design team and creative management for a Brighton-based chocolatier and appeared in all seven TV series on The Good Food Channel.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Everett, Henry

Leseproben

1

THE VEIL THINS:
MEETING THE PIXIES

To meet the Pixies, we must step into the landscape of Cornwall, Devon and Somerset and meet the ancient stories that have defined it: the dance of water and stone.

Somerset has some of the oldest-known rocks in England, dating back around 440 million years ago to the Silurian period. This was a key time in the earth’s history, when plants, fungi and arthropods were diversifying and establishing life on its surface.

Around 400 million years ago, the Devonian period followed, covering areas of the South West in a vast shallow sea with coral reefs and volcanic activity. The sandstone, mudstone, limestone and shale we walk on today are remnants from this time. Some 120 million years later, much of the mudstone was baked into slate and thrust into the sky in a period of mountain building. A giant body of subterranean magma intruded beneath the ground, from a colossal chamber called the Cornelian batholith.

Over millions of years, the Cornelian batholith cooled into a great body of granite, stretching over Devon, Cornwall and beyond the Isles of Scilly. The intrusion left the area rich in minerals, particularly cassiterite, copper, lead and china clay. Millions of years and multiple ice ages later, the mountains were weathered away, finally revealing the granite body that continues to define much of the landscape we encounter today.

Around 11,700 years ago, the most recent Ice Age began to retreat. Sea levels rose as the climate defrosted. The region was then shaped by Britain’s temperate climate.

This was the landscape that our early ancestors explored, first as moving tribes, then settling, erecting stone monuments, in circles, rows, menhirs and field boundaries. Some of these ancient remnants are funerary sites, others are mysteries. Over the past 4,000 years, miners have sought the rich materials the area has to offer. Home to Celtic Britons, the landscape became known as Dumnonia. The region became smaller and smaller as the Saxons encroached. The ancient people were pushed further and further west. Is this why West Penwith remains filled with stories?

As the Industrial Revolution pulled more people toward cities, stories changed and many stopped being shared. Some tales were recorded in the nineteenth century by enthusiastic folklorists. Coloured by their own intention and bias, these folklorists recorded the traditional tales of the country folk, preserving them in the pages of history.

MODILLA AND PODILLA

Dartmoor, Devon

Tales of the Dartmoor Pixies

A long time ago, before my time but not lost to time, there was an old lady who lived in the village of Brent.

She didn’t have any children or grandchildren, but everyone called her Grandma Partridge. She was a real local character and held in high regard by all, which is why the village referred to her so affectionately.

Grandma Partridge seemed to enchant every conversation or chore into something special. Her cottage garden was filled with colour, and the children of the village would even call round after school to see if she needed any help.

They would put out or bring in her washing or even weed between her flower beds, because once Grandmother Partridge got talking, magic was never far away.

She had curious names for the flowers. She called the honesty flower ‘money-in-both-pockets’ – You’ll see why when they try to seed!

Purple fuchsias she called ‘ladies’ eardrops’ and the wood sorrel at the gate was always ‘cuckoo’s bread’. She told the children to take care with the stitchwort. ‘Don’t pull up any of that! That’s the Pixies’ favourite flower.’

When they were done, they would put the waste on the compost pile.

‘Keep an eye out,’ she would say. ‘There’s a dragon in there!’

And sure enough, on the luckiest days, the children would glimpse a lazy slow worm basking atop the warm pile.

One sunny day in June, Grandma Partridge poured some tea for her little helpers and they asked her for a story.

‘What names do the Pixies call each other?’ one child asked.

Grandma Partridge’s eyes sparkled.

‘Well, I don’t know if it was their names, or what it was, but this is what happened the first and only time I ever saw the Pixies …

‘I must have been about your age,’ began Grandma Partridge. ‘I was just a girl when my family farmed on the edge of Brent …’

It was a freezing winter, the ground was hard as ice, and the trees all dusted with white. A young Grandma Partridge was working in the kitchen with her mother and sister. Meanwhile, her father was in the fields, mending the old stone walls. Now this day was special – it was her father’s birthday – so whilst he toiled away, the three women were secretly making ready a surprise feast!

The family had been on rations since Christmas, so the feast was exciting for all! A joint of meat had been held back for the occasion and was turning on the spit by the fire. The fat was beginning to bubble and burst and the room was filling with the most delicious smell.

Her mother was making a ginger cake (Father’s favourite) and a punch for the celebration. The sisters were busy peeling potatoes, carrots and parsnips.

The three of them poured love into what they were doing, and as they worked, fell into a meditative silence.

‘That’s when it began!’ said Grandma Partridge with glee in her voice and sparkle in her eyes.

At that moment, the door came off the latch and opened, just an inch. They felt the January breeze blow in, and all turned, expecting to see the dog at the door…

Each of them was amazed, for in the crack of the door stood the tiny figure of a Pixie.

None of them had ever seen a Pixie before, but you don’t mistake it when you see one!

The little being was about eight inches off the ground, dressed in a fine green jacket and skintight trousers, the colour of the first hawthorn leaves in spring. It had roots for shoes and a little red cap on its head.

Each of them froze, as the Pixie skipped its way towards the hearth.

The Pixie paused and regarded the meat on the spit. It was very curious and spent a while inspecting the joint. It must have been satisfied, because it gave a little nod.

Ducking beneath the meat, the Pixie drew close to the fire. It gazed into the flames, transfixed, when suddenly, it plucked a hair from its head and flicked it into the fire.

The three women were entranced and watched as it pulled another hair from its head before flicking it into the blaze.

A third hair was plucked, flicked and floated down into the consuming fire. Just as it was about to pull a fourth hair, a tiny voice called from outside in alarm, ‘Modilla! Modilla!’

The Pixie at the fire was startled, suddenly alert.

‘Podilla! Podilla!’ They cried back.

‘Modilla!’ urgently repeated the voice outside.

‘Podilla!’ called the Pixie, and darted, quicker than the wind, across the kitchen and out of the door, which closed shut behind them with a bang!

The three women got up to follow the Pixie. They opened the door to see where it had gone, but the outer door was bolted shut.

The three of them came back into the kitchen when the door burst open behind them. They all jumped in shock! It was Father, in from the fields!

‘Did you see the Pixie?’ the three of them said together, eyes wide with wonder. He thought they were playing games with him, ‘Come off it! Have I caught you red-handed making me a birthday surprise?’

‘No, Father, well … yes, Father, but, I promise, it was a real Pixie!’

He looked at them, as his wife tried to hide the cake bowl. ‘You’ve been on the punch already!’ he said.

‘Father didn’t believe at first,’ Grandma Partridge said to the children, as she finished her story. ‘But something happened over those next weeks.

‘We didn’t stop talking about the Pixies. We asked the neighbours for their stories and they told us tales even Mother and Father hadn’t heard before!

‘We started exploring more. Mother taught us the names of the trees and we learnt the medicinal uses of the plants in the hedgerow.

‘Father was a thoughtful man and watched the transformation of our family. Even though he never saw them himself, he would always say, he knew the magic of the Pixies after that.’

BATTLE OF PIXIES AND FAIRIES

Blackdown Hills, Somerset