Thomas Mbe Midwinter Folk Tales

1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-0-7509-5771-7
Verlag: The History Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 144 Seiten

In this enchanting new book, one of the country's most celebrated storytellers has gathered together traditional tales that have their roots in the cold and long, dark nights of midwinter. Herein you will find magical accounts of the Legend of Tinsel, the Christmas Cat and the New Year's Bell, with a number of wintery riddles to unpick while enjoying the festive season and welcoming in the New Year. With so many folk tales intrinsically linked to ancient seasonal customs, there are a few included here relating to traditions such as the Ottery St Mary Tar Barrels (Devon), the Viking 'Up Helly Aa' (Shetland) and Tom Bawcock's Eve (Cornwall). This is a book to curl up with in front of an open fire on long winter nights and to share and retell over a steaming mug of mulled wine.

TAFFY THOMAS is a professional storyteller who gives around 300 storytelling performances across the country each year. He was the founder of legendary '70s folk theatre company Magic Lantern, who used shadow puppets and storytelling to illustrate folk tales. After surviving a major stroke in 1985 he used oral storytelling as speech therapy, which led him to find a new career working as a storyteller. One of the UK's most loved storytellers, he was made an MBE in the 2000 New Year's Honours List for services to storytelling and charity. In 2000-2011 he became the first laureate for storytelling, a role created to promote the power of stories. Taffy is the artistic director of the Northern Centre for Storytelling in Grasmere and the author of many collections of folk tales for The History Press. He lives in Grasmere, Ambleside.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Thomas Mbe, Taffy

Leseproben

PART 1

THE IRON WINTER

‘The North Wind Doth Blow…’

The north wind doth blow,

And we shall have snow,

And what will the robin do then, poor thing?

He’ll sit in the barn to keep himself warm,

And hide his head under his wing, poor thing.

Traditional

ST NICHOLAS

St Nicholas was a bishop of the early Church. There are many legends of this picturesque character with his long white beard and bright eyes. Several of these legends include the hanging up of stockings to be filled with presents. St Nicholas Day falls on 6 December, a day when many European children receive their gifts.

The story that follows, however, was gifted to me on a visit to my Shropshire storytelling friends. If it was a present to me, then it is a present from me. Please take this story as a gift and tell it.

Many years ago there was a hotel in Russia famous for its food and hospitality. The hotel owner was rich and popular.

It was the iron winter and the snow was so deep you could lean on it. Every room in the hotel was prepared for a guest and there was a big pot of soup bubbling on the hob, but no travellers could get there. The hotel owner was rattling around the big building alone. As the clock ticked towards midnight, there was a knocking on the heavy oak door. As the hotelier opened the door, he discovered a tramp – an old man with bright blue eyes, a long white beard and a ragged red coat. The tramp begged for a bite to eat and a bed for the night. The hotel owner told him he could ‘just about squeeze him in’, but it would cost him three roubles. The tramp turned out his pockets, finding them empty. He told the hotel owner he had no money but promised he would pay the debt as soon as he could. If he wasn’t helped, he would surely perish in the snow.

The hotel owner took pity on the tramp, leading him into the warm hotel and sitting him on a big wooden chair by the fire. He brought the hungry old man a big steaming bowl of borscht – beetroot soup with a twist of sour cream – and half a loaf of rye bread. The tramp devoured the soup greedily. It was the first food he’d had for more than a week. In fact, he ate it so voraciously that the beetroot left a red stain on his white moustache. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, thanking the hotelier for his kindness and again repeating his promise to pay him as soon as he could. He would be leaving with the first light of day.

After a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed, the tramp was up and away with the first light of day. Seeing the footprints in the snow disappearing up the road, the hotelier thought he would never see the three roubles he was owed.

Strangely, that very day the snow melted and folk could again travel to the hotel. Trade picked up and the hotel owner wanted to go to the cathedral to say a prayer of thanks for his new-found luck. He walked the twenty miles to Moscow City, to the great cathedral. As he walked through the gate in the city walls, the cathedral bells rang. Up the stone steps the hotelier went and opened the great wooden doors of the church. The walls of the cathedral were covered with icons, beautiful paintings of the saints, decorated with real gold leaf. One picture diagonally across the nave drew the hotelier towards it. It was a picture of an old man with a long white beard, bright blue eyes and a ragged red coat, a man strangely familiar to him. It was indeed the image of the old tramp the hotelier had helped the previous night. The hotel owner decided to say his prayer of thanks in front of that picture. He bought a candle and stooped to press the candle in the shallow sand tray in front of the picture. The candle bumped against something. Flicking the sand away with his fingers, he discovered three rouble coins. The old tramp had kept his promise. Pocketing the coins, the hotelier completed his prayer and looked at the painting for one last time. At the base of the picture there were two words written, the name of the old man. Those two words read ‘St Nicholas’.

In Russia he is called St Nicholas, in France he is called Papa Noel, in Germany he is called Sinter Claus, in America that becomes Santa Claus but we just call him Father Christmas.

JACK TURNIP

The following story concerns Jack Turnip, an anti-hero whose vain pride leads to a ‘fall’ on the ice. I first heard it from one of the Company of Storytellers, a trio of ‘Performance Storytellers’ who have specialised in taking oral storytelling to a primarily adult audience. That said, I have discovered that children love this tale. Why wouldn’t they when the protagonist falls on his bottom?

It was the iron winter. Jack Turnip sat in the grandfather chair in his tiny cottage and shivered. The hearth was lifeless and the log basket empty. His heavy axe stood patiently in the corner of the room. Jack knew what he had to do. He also knew that logs warm you three times: firstly they warm you when you wield the axe, then they further warm you when you lug them home; only then do they truly warm you as you sit by the fire.

Donning his hat and scarf, Jack set off confidently up the lane. In a daydream, and thinking of how much work he might achieve in a day, Jack didn’t notice the frozen puddle on the path. He keeled over on the ice, landing flat on his backside! Collecting his scrambled senses he cursed the ice, regretting it was stronger than him – or so it would seem. Then he pondered that although it was midwinter, the sun would soon rise in the sky and gain the strength to melt the ice. Therefore the sun was the strongest – or so it would seem. Jack, something of a bar room philosopher, continued his train of thought. He pondered that even in spring clouds could block out the sun, so clouds must be the strongest – or so it would seem. He reasoned March winds might be strong and they could chase the clouds, so the winds were the strongest – or so it would seem. Ahead of him, Jack could see the mountain that overshadowed his tiny cottage. He ruminated a little wind couldn’t blow away the mountain, so the mountain was the strongest – or so it would seem. On top of the peak, silhouetted against the skyline, was a hardy tree. Jack thought that a tree could grow on a mountain, but a mountain couldn’t grow on a tree. Therefore the tree was the strongest – or so it would seem. Feeling the weight of the axe on his shoulder, Jack walked towards the tree and swung the axe, felling the fir giant in three mighty blows.

Jack stood triumphant with the axe above his head, bragging to the heavens that he was the strongest – or so it would seem.

Full of himself, and more than a little hungry and thirsty, Jack headed full tilt down the path that headed towards home. He was so much of a boaster and poser that he didn’t notice the frozen puddle on the path. He slid dramatically, landing flat on his bottom.

All he could do was grab a couple of sticks, crawl home and sit by his meagre fire pondering his mishap.

ADAM’S FALL

This story hails from Cornwall and I first heard it as a narrative song. It was sung at the Sidmouth Folk Festival in the 1960s by Mrs Foxworthy (mother to my friend, folklorist Tony Foxworthy). She was always known as Mrs Foxworthy, even to those who knew her well – old school! She carried on singing it for the full century of her life. I have put it back into a rhossum (the word Ruth Tongue used to denote short humorous stories of local characters) and it may well have started life in this form before a Cornish dialect enthusiast fashioned it into a song. The song is now kept alive by Cornish singer and storyteller Mo Keest of Bodmin, who also got it from Mrs Foxworthy.

Like Jack Turnip in the previous story, the anti-hero comes to grief on the ice.

Adam Trelawny and his wife Morwenna lived in the tiny Cornish village of Blisland. Like most Cornish villages, the devotions of the locals had been much influenced by the Wesley brothers John and Charles. If most of the locals were ‘chapel’, Morwenna Trelawny was ‘church’ and much looked forward to a weekly visit to their tiny cottage from the Reverend Tremayne, who would deliver a scripture in exchange for a cup of tea and a saffron bun. If most folk were ‘chapel’ and his wife was ‘church’, Adam was ‘pub’ and disappeared to the Kiddly-wink whenever possible, especially when the winter weather started to bite and he could warm himself with several large glasses of Rum and Shrub.

One December day, after a liquid lunch, Adam was making his way home. Droozled with drink, he didn’t spot the large frozen puddle by the oak tree. He slid sideways, cracking his skull bone on the lower branches of the tree. Bruised and bleeding from the rough bark, Adam picked himself up and continued home. Morwenna cussed him before cleaning him up and binding his head with vinegar and brown paper to bring out the bruising.

Wouldn’t you know it, no sooner had Morwenna completed her nursing when she spotted the Reverend Tremayne making his way up the path to deliver his scripture and enjoy his saffron bun. In shame Morwenna hid her battered husband – who still had the aroma of Nelson’s Blood (rum – his favourite tipple) about him – under the stairs. She opened the door to the smiling parson and handed him his tea before eagerly requesting the scripture of the day. Reverend Tremayne asked her if she had heard about Adam’s fall....