Brunt Boggart

  PUSHKIN PRESS

  Brunt Boggart

  “These are utterly wonderful new-old tales. In his bones, David Greygoose understands the rhythms of great storytelling, with its incantations, repetitions, knowing asides and snappy dialogue, and he has a frankly marvellous ear for the music of language. This tapestry is inventive and witty, dramatic and moving, and deeply earthed in the superstitions and folk beliefs of old England. Now that I’ve stepped into Brunt Boggart, I know that part of me will never leave it”

  KEVIN CROSSLEY-HOLLAND, AUTHOR OF THE ARTHUR TRILOGY

  “In Brunt Boggart, David Greygoose conjures a rich, primordial dreamtime from the sullen hedgerows and fields. A wonderful excavation of the story traditions that our ancestors huddled around for warmth, and highly recommended”

  ALAN MOORE, AUTHOR OF WATCHMEN

  “It tastes fabulously medieval, it smells uncanny, it looks like the roots of half-forgotten herbs, and it sounds like verbs of thunder and earth”

  JAY GRIFFITHS, AUTHOR OF WILD: AN ELEMENTAL JOURNEY

  “David Greygoose is a master-storyteller, creating the visceral netherworld that is Brunt Boggart. Greygoose draws deeply on the riches of Britain’s folklore to conjure up dark and whimsical tales of an imagined village. I found myself lost in the wildflower meadows, mossy hollows and wolf pits of Brunt Boggart”

  EMILY PORTMAN, FOLK MUSICIAN

  “Brunt Boggart is a skilfully crafted collection of timeless tales which connects the reader on a visceral level. Each is as true a tale as ever was told. Just as a great sculptor sees the divine form within the slab of granite, Greygoose has stripped away all that is extraneous exposing the primal folk-tales which lay buried within us all”

  JOHN REPP ION, CO-AUTHOR OF ALBION

  “A strange and beautiful book”

  THE SCHOOL LIBRARIAN

  “A fascinating book by a storyteller immersed in the dark folktales of another time”

  BRIAN PATTEN, AUTHOR OF MONSTER SLAYER

  “Folklore and nature collide in Brunt Boggart. Greygoose’s inventive language makes these tales a joy to read aloud – in true storyteller style”

  ANTONIA CHARLESWORTH, THE BIG ISSUE IN THE NORTH

  For K.F.W.

  The Tapestry…

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Brunt Boggart

  Crossdogs and the Wolf Pit

  Snuffwidget and the Crowdancers

  Ravenhair and the Pedlar Man

  Riversong, Larkspittle and the Moon of Blood

  Arnica, Cloudrunner and the Wolfsbane

  Firedancer, Turnfeather and the Loom of Night

  Snowpetal, Ha’penny Rose and the Star that Fell in the Meadow

  Scallowflax and Tom Tattifer

  Greychild, Scritch and the Eye of the Glass

  Oakum Marlroot and the Lumpen Stone

  Old Mother Tidgewallop and the Well

  Larkum, Grizzlegrin and the Cottage Sad with Dust

  Thunderhead and the Five Cures

  The Pedlar Man’s Track

  Saffron

  The Waking Sleepers

  The Daughter of the Wind

  Ludditch and Scrunt

  The Sister in the Water

  The House of the Sea

  The Blue Crow

  The Edge of the World

  Grinfickle, Chaindaisy and the Wheel

  Grannock

  Jessimer

  Arleccra

  Milkthistle

  Scumknuckle

  The Woman in Blue

  The Grimmancer

  Ilania

  Celanda

  The Robe of Smoke

  The Crying Is Done

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Let me tell you… I lived in this place before you were born – when it was just a tiny village on the banks of the river, where I used to fish. The river flowed down to the city beside the great blue – and yes it was truly blue – ocean. I still live here now. And I am still fishing. I fish for dreams. I am the dream-fisher. I catch the dreams of the sleeping-wakers, of the waking-sleepers. And what do I do with these dreams? Why, I hang them up in bottles. I tie them onto leaves. I leave them under flowers. I freeze them in a snowflake. I let them rest, and sing, and listen – and then, when they are ready, I turn them into stories.

  Let me tell you… I can see it all. Remember, I can see you now.

  I know what you are doing. You are part of someone’s dream – not mine, not your own. Maybe someone you do not know, someone you only saw once, one day in the street. You may not have noticed them, but they saw you, and they remembered – and now you are in their dream…

  Crossdogs and the Wolf Pit

  Let me tell you. Let me tell you… once there was a village – not a big village, not a small village, just a middling village, much like this place used to be. And what was the name of that village? – I know what you’re asking. Why, that village was known as Brunt Boggart. And who was it who lived there? Let me tell you. I can see that you’re curious. I knew that you’d want to know. If I didn’t tell you, you’d make up your own stories.

  And that’s just what the boys did who lived there: Hamsparrow and Bullbreath, Larkspittle and Longskull, Shadowit, Scarum, Scatterlegs and Crossdogs – they all made up stories. Every night when the old’uns were busy, weaving and sewing and sleeping off their supper, all the boys who thought they were men and all the men who wished they were still boys, they’d all come and gather in the mossy hollow that lay in the middle of the Green that was in the middle of Brunt Boggart. A middling village, just like I told you. Much like this place used to be.

  What stories did they tell? I knew that you’d ask me. Every tale is worth telling, even if it’s half-forgotten. And for every tale there is to tell, there must be someone to listen. So – are you listening? Good. Let me tell you…

  The boys would sit around in the mossy hollow and tell each other stories of the wolf who lived in the woods: how big he was, how strong. How sharp his teeth, how long his claws. In each boy’s tale the Wolf grew more terrible. They said he did dreadful things. They told how he came to the village each night and gobbled up all the food. He broke down the fences and tore leaves from the trees and smashed the window of Old Mother Tidgewallop’s cottage. He drank the water in the well. He stole the wine from Snuffwidget’s cellar.

  “That’s nothing,” said Longskull, the next boy in the circle. “I know the Wolf steals more than food and wine. I think he tries to steal our sisters. Why, where are they now while we’re all sat here? They’re not indoors neither, safe and sound. They’ve sneaked out same as we did while the old’uns are creeping and slopping and sleeping. Listen – you can hear them laughing, hear them tittering, hear them shrieking – over there by the woods. That’s when the Wolf comes to take them.”

  Bullbreath and Scarum looked over and nodded. They could hear the wind howl through the tall whining trees. They could hear the snapping of branches. They could smell hot smoke like wolf’s breath in the breeze.

  Then Larkspittle spoke. His voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper. All the other boys gathered round, crowded in close, so that they could hear.

  “I think my sister’s new baby must have come from the Wolf.”

  The boys were aghast. They were shocked and surprised. But then they realised – yes, it could be true.

  “Her baby does not look like us. It is hairy and howls every night at the moon.”

  “It is not one of us. It does not have our ways. It has a long chin, long ears and a long pointy nose. Larkspittle is right. His sister has been taken by the Wolf!”

  Across the way and over they could hear their sisters laughing. They could he
ar their sisters skittering, screaming and shrieking.

  Crossdogs sprang up.

  “We must drive the Wolf away!”

  Hamsparrow nodded. “Better to catch him. Catch him and kill him.”

  “How shall we do it?” Larkspittle asked them.

  “With a net!” bellowed Bullbreath.

  “Dig a pit!” clamoured Scarum.

  “Hit him and hit him…” Scatterlegs gibbered.

  “… with sticks,” muttered Longskull.

  “… with staves,” echoed Shadowit.

  “… with stones!” they all cried.

  The boys danced in a circle, in the middle of the Green. They were maddened. They were angry. They fixed their gaze on each other’s eyes.

  “Listen!” hissed Longskull.

  They stopped their cavorting.

  “I can hear nothing,” Scatterlegs wheezed.

  “Nothing is not what we heard before,” Longskull retorted. “We heard our sisters laughing and shrieking. Now it is silent.”

  “Where have they gone?”

  “The Wolf’s come and taken them!”

  “Let’s go and find him and bring our sisters home.”

  The boys stood quite still and watched each other, waiting to see who would move, who would lead them, who would be the first to tread the path to the edge of the wood. Out of the darkness they heard an owl’s mournful wail, the whisper of the wind. The crack of a branch. And then silence. Nothing more. Nothing more. None of them moved.

  Where were their sisters? I know what you’re asking. Why – they’d crept up behind the boys on their way back home. Ravenhair and Silverwing, Moonpetal and Dawnflower, Duskeye, Scallowflax, Dewdream and Riversong: they rushed out of the darkness, chasing their brothers all the way to the cottages where the old’uns were waiting beside warm glowing fires.

  Who would be Wolf Slayer? All the next day, all through the village, the boys watched each other with wary eyes – circling and staring, growling and crouching, like wolves themselves. Then as late day turned to evening, turned to dusk, turned to night, by the light of flickering torch flames they sat in a circle, squatted in the hollow in the middle of the Green. And they raised the torches high as they began to dance, whirling sticks, clashing staves, dashing stones.

  “Wolf Slayer.”

  “Wolf Slayer!”

  They shouted and taunted, each of them trying to hit harder, throw farther, leap higher than the rest. A glint in the eye. A flashing of teeth. Arms grabbing arms to wrestle, to grip. Tippling and rolling across the hard ground, punching and clawing, pulling each other down. Muscle and sinew, spittle and blood – they struggled and grunted and threatened and stood. Until Crossdogs, the tallest of them all, howled “Stop!” And they stopped. And they listened. And from the woods they heard a wailing.

  Could be owl, could be wind. Could be Wolf.

  And then a snapping-off of twigs and a clatter through the branches.

  “Wolf is come!” they cried, “Wolf is come!” snatching up sticks and staves and stones.

  But it was only the girls running home before Silverwing’s mother came out to fetch her daughter and drag all of the rest of them away from the woods.

  Night after day after night the boys would meet and fight. Fight each other for the right to be “Wolf Slayer”. But none of them deserved it, for they would only fight with each other in the middle of the hollow at the middle of the village green. None of them would go into the woods. No-one would go alone. And the girls would watch them and jeer them and taunt them, crying, “Who is Wolf Slayer now?” And the boys would grow maddened and chase them away but then rush after to save them.

  “From what are you saving us?” Ravenhair asked them.

  “From the dark.”

  “From the night.”

  “From the Wolf.”

  Then Silverwing laughed and Dawnflower giggled and Scallowflax tittered behind her fingers.

  “We’re more afraid of you,” cried Duskeye and Dewdream, while Riversong and Moonpetal said nothing at all as they linked arms and walked away.

  Day after night after day, the old’uns would wake and find fences broken and food had been stolen and daughters had been dragged to the dark wood and back. But no-one ever saw who had done it.

  “Wolf,” they muttered.

  “Wolf,” they cried.

  “Wolf!” they howled.

  “Wolf has been and gone again and no-one saw him come. But Wolf has been here, we know.”

  “We will find it,” cried the boys, brandishing their sticks and staves. “We will slay the Wolf.” And they marched up and down the village streets, smashing fences as they went, grabbing food to give them strength and chasing after the girls.

  “Look at them,” Old Mother Tidgewallop exclaimed. “There is no Wolf at all. Only the boys. Not fit to grow into men. Why, my son Larkum is worth ten of them.”

  The girls got to hear her and the gossip spread in whispers and the whispers spread in catcalls, leering and jeering.

  “There is no Wolf,” taunted Ravenhair. “You only say there is so that you can march around the village with your sticks and your stones and your staves. As for trying to save us, you’re as useless as a cuckoo. We’d be safer with a wolf than any one of you!”

  Crossdogs gathered all the boys together, the boys who thought they were men and the men who still wished they were boys.

  “Listen to what the old’uns are saying. Listen to what our sisters are whispering. We’ve spent too long watching and waiting – it’s time to go to the wood!”

  Suddenly silent, the boys picked up their sticks and reached for their stones and their staves. Then they shuffled single file towards the shadows of the wood. They trudged between the tall dark trees, dragging their feet through crisp fallen leaves.

  “Perhaps there is no Wolf,” whispered Shadowit. “Perhaps we imagined it all.”

  “Shsh…” cautioned Hamsparrow. “The Wolf will hear you. And there must be Wolf. Remember Larkspittle’s sister’s baby. Remember its nose and its long pointed ears.”

  “Look!” cried Scatterlegs.

  He pointed to the trunk of a tall gnarled tree. Its bark was scratched. The twigs on its lowest branches were broken and snapped.

  “Wolf has been here,” Scatterlegs said.

  The others nodded.

  “Look! Look at this.”

  Strands of grey fur clung to the thorns of a bramble bush.

  “Wolf been here. Wolf been close.”

  Scarum shook his head.

  “Could be anything, that,” he said. “Could be tomcat, or badger or an old mangy fox.”

  “Could be, true,” Shadowit replied. “But tomcats don’t break fences, badgers don’t steal our food and foxes don’t take our sisters.”

  Longskull shook his stave with his strong hairy arm. His long chin quivered, his long nose twitched and his pointed ears flushed with anger.

  “No-one must touch our sisters. Anyone who does must be punished. That’s why we come here. Come to find Wolf.”

  “Find Wolf!”

  “Find Wolf!” they chorused, rattling staves and banging sticks and flinging loose stones into the bushes.

  “Look there! Look there!” Hamsparrow shrieked.

  What did he see? A shadow running. So quick that before the others could look where he was pointing, it was gone. Just a darkness of quivering leaves and snapping of twigs. And way in the distance a lost howling sound.

  “It was here. Was Wolf. I saw him. I’m sure!”

  The boys stood rooted as the trees around them.

  “Wolf!” howled Crossdogs.

  “We found him,” Hamsparrow gloated.

  “Let’s chase him.”

  “And catch him.”

  “And stone him.”

  “And kill him.”

  But none of them moved.

  Crossdogs stood and looked at them.

  “We’ll never find him now. He knows this wood much better than us
. Let’s go back to Brunt Boggart and plan what we should do.”

  “Yes!” cried Hamsparrow. “Let’s go back. Let’s tell old’uns and sisteren what we seen. They got to believe us now.”

  Next day the boys gathered again. Gathered up all the things they needed to go and hunt Wolf. Nets to drag the undergrowth. Axes to hack a way through the woods. Horns to blow to make a hubbub – to drive Wolf into their trap.

  “There they go!” laughed Moonpetal and Riversong as they waved them on their way. “There they go with their sticks and stones and those daft silly horns that will let Wolf know a mile off that they’re coming!”

  “Tain’t to frighten the Wolf, my dears,” Old Mother Tidgewallop nodded. “Tis to scare their own fears away.”

  But the boys set off all the same, clamouring and chanting and blowing on their horns and rattling their staves in the air. Into the woods they came stamping and hacking and thrashing through the brambles.

  “This is where he was. This is where we saw him!” shouted little Larkspittle.

  They looked for the shadow. They tried to find the signs. They even stopped blowing on their horns to listen, to catch the echo of a distant howling. But there was nothing. Only the scuttle of a startled rabbit, a hare clattering out to the open fields, the dirt from a newly-dug badger’s burrow. The flash of a red fox’s brush.

  “Wolf ain’t going to come,” Hamsparrow muttered. “The girlen were right. We make too much noise. Wolf can hear us, see us coming. Best we go back, come again another day.”

  The next day the boys all waited till dusk. They left those great horns behind and they set out stealthily, just as the moon rose, wearing dark colours so Wolf wouldn’t see them – moving like shadows from ditch to hillock to tree. Instead of the horns they carried shovels and torches, and in the centre of the wood they started to dig. Shallow at first, then deeper and deeper, throwing up the dark earth to make a great pit. Down at the bottom they spread out a net then covered it over with branches and twigs. On top of it all they placed leaves and dry grass till under the stars no-one could tell that the trap had been set.