The House of the Sleeping Winds and Other Stories Some Based on Cornish Folklore - Illustrated by Nannie Preston

By Enys Tregarthen and Nannie Preston

The House of the Sleeping Winds and Other Stories Some Based on Cornish Folklore is a bright wholesome volume of stories, founded on the lore of the old-world Cornish folk. From fairies, wishes, small people and quaint songs, this collection of delicate stories will enthrall children of all ages and adults alike. Stories include ‘The House of the Sleeping Winds’, ‘Hunting the Fairies’, ‘The Wishing Song’, An Enchanted Field’, ‘The Piskey Spoon’, ‘The Little Weather Man’, The Piskey Shoemaker,’ A Piskey Who Rose in a Pocket’, and ‘The Golden Egg’.

Nellie Sloggett was an author and folklorist born in 1851 from Padstow, Cornwall. She wrote under the names Enys Tregarthen and Nellie Cornwall. At 17 she suffered a devastating spinal illness and was paralysed for the rest of her life. She began to keep diaries about flowers, the changing seasons, and birds and other creatures, all observed from her bedside window. This practice eventually led to the writing and publication of her first book, Daddy Longlegs, and His White Heath Flower, in 1885, under the pen-name Nellie Cornwall. Later she came to devote much of her attention to Cornish folklore and legend. She collected and recorded many stories about the Piskey folk, fairies of Cornish myth and legend. She published most of her works in this category under her better-known pen-name of Enys Tregarthen.

Pook Press celebrates the great ‘Golden Age of Illustration‘ in children’s literature – a period of unparalleled excellence in book illustration from the 1880s to the 1930s. Our collection showcases classic fairy tales, children’s stories, and the work of some of the most celebrated artists, illustrators and authors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Read Books Ltd.
• Release date: Apr 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781473390102

Book preview

THE HOUSE OF THE SLEEPING WINDS

PART I

It is not easy to keep one’s fancy in the present as one sits or lies among the ruins of this famous castle, watching the sea pour over the black rock ledges far below, or gazing past the old church on the headland where bells tolled without mortal ringers on the day when the body of the blameless King was borne away. . . . But how these old stories vary! Who knows what the truth may be? All that great age of chivalry lies happily outside the period of records, in the far lovelier land of fancy and imagination, where those who visit it may follow what paths they like, bringing their own light with them.

ARTHUR NORWAY.

PART I

ON the top of a moor is a big dark lake known as Dozmare Pool. Not far from the lake lived a very old man and his wife called Brattle and Bitha Tregonning. They were moor people born and bred and acquainted with all the wild legends of their wild moors. Now that they were advanced in years, nothing gave them greater pleasure than to tell those legendary tales to Arluth, their orphaned great-grandson, who lived with them.

Arluth listened with much interest to the stories his great-grandparents told him, especially those about the Small People, the little Grey Men, and the laughing Piskey Gentry as Bitha called them. But the tale he liked most to hear was the brewing of the winds which, according to Old Brattle and his wife, were brewed by an ancient dame known on the moors as the Mother of Storms. The old couple told the boy that she brewed all the winds that blew in an enchanted brewhouse under Dozmare Pool, and stirred them into being by a great stirrer as white as goat’s milk. They also told him she had been at her brewing from the time that the granite hills on the moors had had their birth, and that when she sent them forth into the world from the dark lake she bade them blow and blow till they blew themselves to sleep and that then the little Grey Men would take them to the House of the Sleeping Winds.

This tale so fascinated young Arluth that he begged his great-grandparents to tell it to him every day. One evening when they had told him the story once again, he looked up at them very earnestly and said—

Has anybody ever seen the Mother of Storms brewing the winds and stirring them with her enchanted stirrer as white as goat’s milk in her great big brewhouse under Dozmare?

Somebody must have once upon a time, answered Old Brattle, or how would folks know about her and the brewing of the winds?

If once upon a time somebody saw the old Storm Woman, and she is still down in the pool, I would like to see her too, stirring the winds with her great white stirrer.

I dare say you would, laughed Brattle. So would I. But, unfortunately, the pool is too deep for us to see to the bottom. It goes down and down to unknown depths. Some folks say that it hasn’t a bottom.

Then what do Mother Storm and her enchanted brewhouse stand on? asked the boy.

I cannot tell, answered the old man, unless it stands on nothing at all!

P’r’aps, if I look into the pool every day for a year and a day, I shall see the old dame brewing, said Arluth half to himself, gazing thoughtfully into the turf fire which burnt brightly on the hearth.

P’r’aps so, said his great-grandfather with another laugh. We can see most things if we look long enough.

There is a whirlpool in the middle of Dozmare, put in Old Bitha, which, perhaps, is caused by Mother Storm herself. She comes up in the whirlpool, ’tis said, when she brings up the winds to blow about the world. If you happen to be by the pool when she does that, you may get a glimpse of her. It would be a sight for sore eyes to see the ancient dame and her great big white stirrer sending forth the winds.

I’m sure it would, said Arluth, and if she can be seen by the eyes of a boy like me, I hope I shall.

It would be yet a more wonderful sight to see the little Grey Men taking the worn-out winds to the House of the Sleeping Winds, said Brattle. But I don’t believe you will ever see either.

But you said a minute ago that we can see most things if we look long enough, cried Arluth.

So I did, laughed the old man. But looking long may be next-never-day, as the old grannie women say to the children.

I shall look into Dozmare Pool till I do see Mother Storm, said the boy.

That’s right, cried Bitha.

Who are the little Grey Men? asked Arluth after a pause, turning to his great-grandfather.

Dinky chaps about a span high, Old Brattle made answer.

And what do they look like? again asked the boy.

I’ve never been lucky enough to see them, once more answered Old Brattle. But I’ve heard tell that they have dinky brown faces with grey beards, and that they wear long grey cloaks with hoods to them.

Where do the Grey Men live, Great-Granfer?

That’s more than I can tell. But the old people of my young days said that once upon a time they lived in the tors up on Dartmoor. They are always on the look out to take the winds to the House of the Sleeping Winds.

And where is the House of the Sleeping Winds? asked Arluth.

I haven’t any idea more than a new-born babe, returned the old man.

If Arluth is lucky enough to see old Mother Storm, he may be lucky enough to see the little gentry, the Grey Men, taking the winds to the House of the Sleeping Winds, said his great-grandmother.

If he sees either, he will be the first to have seen them since Good King Arthur’s sword with the blazing hilt was thrown into Dozmare, laughed Old Brattle.

The weird story of the brewing of the winds by the Mother of Storms under Dozmare and the little Grey Men taking the winds to the House of the Sleeping Winds so worked upon the mind of young Arluth Tregonning that he could think of little else, and he went every day, wet or fine, to look into the dark lake with the hope of seeing the ancient dame. The oftener he went, the more he wanted to go. It fascinated him quite as much as the legends and stories connected with it. Gloomy as the pool generally was, it had a charm all its own. When its water was very still, it reflected everything around and above it—every blade of grass, every flower and bush that looked into the pool. Everything on the wing, whether bird or insect, that flew over its surface was reflected there, especially the passing clouds which took every shape and form and sometimes shone like the tops of the sundew that grew by the pool. To an imaginative boy like Arluth, whose mind had been filled with old tales of romance almost from his cradle, it was easy to picture an enchanted world in the great lake, particularly in the evening when much of the pageantry of the sky was marshalled across its dark surface; knights in flashing armour on golden horses were seen there; silver chariots, giants, dwarfs, castles and houses, beasts and birds, and all manner of strange creatures burning with sunset hues. The pool was a miracle of colour and a marvel to the young Celt, and as he watched the wonderful reflections he sometimes forgot what had brought him thither in his delight at the wonderful sights he saw, for the lake was a vast illuminated picture-book such as few were privileged to see, and each page painted in living colours by the setting sun.

Arluth was not content with coming to the lake only in the daytime, but came sometimes after dark when the great stars looked into its soft depths and the moon floated on it as Arthurian barges did in olden time. But as yet, to his great disappointment, he had not seen the Mother of Storms.

When he had visited the lake a year and a day it became suddenly agitated, and the pool went round and round like a spinning-top. When the swirling had ceased the boy saw two bony hands thrust out of the centre of the pool, one holding something that looked like a bundle, the other grasping a large white stirrer. The hands were followed by the head and shoulders of an aged woman with her head covered with a white wimple. Out of the wimple appeared a face exceedingly withered and old, but her eyes were as bright as a child’s.

’Tis Mother Storm, and she has her great big stirrer as white as goat’s milk, cried Arluth to himself.

As he stood gazing, half fascinated, half afraid, she flung the bundle from her and it fell about a dozen feet from where he was standing, and as it fell she cried—

Rise up, Black East Wind, and go thy way over the earth, blow and blow, freeze and freeze till thou hast destroyed everything that poisons the air and water. Be cruel to be kind, slay the slayer, and make ready the way for the West Wind and the South Wind which bring the soft wet clouds and the warm rain and cause the flowers to come forth in multitudes. When thou hast done thy work for which thou wast brewed, lie down till thou art borne to the House of the Sleeping Winds.

Arluth kept his gaze on the ancient clame till she had done speaking, and then he looked at the black bundle which, as he looked, began to unfold, and from the folds appeared a thing of strange aspect. When it was out of the folds it began to grow and grow, and it grew and grew till it was as high as the granite-piled hills in the vicinity of the pool. Then it spread wide its wings and flew away towards Hawk’s Tor. When it had gone, the pool began to swirl again, and the Mother of Storms went down in the swirling; and when she had disappeared, the air became bitterly cold—so cold that the boy’s teeth began to chatter. The Black Easter was already breathing his cold icy breath over the land. The very bushes by the pool seemed to feel it and shivered, and the little birds that had piped and fluted by the lake before Mother Storm came up in the whirling water flew away for shelter. Arluth felt so cold that he, like the birds, was glad to turn his back on the tarn, now as black as midnight under the clouds which the Black East Wind was sweeping down from the granite tors. The boy had difficulty in getting back to his great-grandparents’ cottage, for the wind was in his face and blew him back almost at every step. When at last he did get there, the day had closed in and Old Brattle was watching anxiously for his return.

Thy great-grannie and I had begun to fear that Mother Storm had taken ’ee down to the bottom of Dozmare, he cried, as he opened the door to the boy. Have ’ee seen the ancient dame?

Yes, Great-Granfer, I have, said the boy, shivering, and a fine an’ queer old body she is, with a chin and nose like a nut-cracker and eyes as bright as elvan sparks. She looked terribly old—a great deal older than you and great-grannie. I’ve seen her great big stirrer too, white as goat’s milk, with which she stirs the winds in the enchanted brewhouse under Dozmare. I’ve also seen one of the winds, the Black East Wind, when she threw him out ’pon the land from the pool to blow and blow, and a fine and big wind he is and as black as a rock blackbird.

Then you have seen what nobody else has seen within the memory of man, cried his grandmother, with uplifted hands. You will be seeing next the Small Gentry—the little Grey Men—taking the worn-out winds to the House of the Sleeping Winds, as sure as I am Bitha Tregonning.

I have seen enough, and I am starved with the cold, said Arluth, getting as near as he could get to the fire. I don’t want to stir outside the door till the dinky chaps have carried the great Black Easter to the House of the Sleeping Winds. The wind is terrible, and the cold is bitter.

’Twill be colder yet, said Old Brattle. We must keep up a good fire till the wind has departed, which won’t be yet awhile, and forthwith he began to pile on furze and turf.

Many days the old couple crouched over the fire, and the boy Arluth sat on a small cricket or stool in the chimney-corner whilst the Black East Wind blew his dreadful blast over the moors, and none of them ventured outside the cottage save at night when it died down for a short time.

The Black Easter is a terrible wind, moaned Bitha one day. It searches out every hole and cranny, even my old bones. I wish Mother Storm would keep the Black Winds down in the bottom of Dozmare, for it is neither good for man nor beast, folks say, and I believe it. It will kill the lot of us if it blows much longer.

Not tough old bodies like you and me, laughed Old Brattle. It will only kill the wicked germ that ought to be killed. ’Tis a wind that the good old earth cannot do without any more than it can the soft winds.

Mother Storm told the Black Easter to be cruel to be kind, Granfer, to kill all that poisoned the air and water, and to slay the slayer, put in Arluth.

Mother Storm is wise with the wisdom of centuries, said his great-grandsire. She knew what she was about when she brewed the Black East Wind and sent him forth. But he’s a bitter wind all the same, and ’tis a pity he is needed.

When the great Black Easter had blown himself to sleep, Arluth went out upon the moors to see what it had done, and he saw nothing but blasted country. The great open spaces looked as if a fire had swept over them. There was not a sign of anything green anywhere except the narrow Piskey paths leading over the moors towards the sea, and not a moorland bush or tree but looked as if it had been flogged by the wind.

As he was gazing about him he saw, coming over the hill from Dozmare Pool, a soft grey thing half enveloped in fog. It passed him and, as it passed, he felt the breath of a soft wind.

Mother Storm has brewed another wind, he said to himself. I’ll run home and tell Granfer and Grannie.

We know, said the old couple, when the boy came to the cottage with his news. It is a West Wind she’s brewed, and it will soon be drawing soft warm clouds in from the sea which will empty themselves in rain upon the land. ’Tis good to be out upon the moors in the day of the West Wind. The dear little birds know what is going to happen. They have come out of their hiding-places already; soon the moors will look like Small People’s gardens, and be as full of song as flowers.

I wonder if the little Grey Men have taken the worn-out Black Easter to the House of the Sleeping Winds? asked the boy.

I wonder, returned the old man.

The West Wind blew and blew softly for a week or more and drove before it flocks of clouds like flocks of sheep in from the sea, and they fell in gentle drizzles on the land, and before many days the great open spaces of the moor were almost as green as the Piskey paths. The gorse put forth its gold, the crowfoot tribe opened their cups, daisies silvered every bank facing the West; Lords and Ladies revealed themselves, the Veronicas ventured to show their exquisite blue flowers, and many another spring blossom did the same. The brown heather broke into living green, and the sweet-gale by the pools showed burnt-sienna blossoms and tender green leaves. Before the West Wind had blown itself to sleep, the moors and hills looked as if touched by an enchanter’s wand.

While the West Wind was still blowing, Arluth left his great-grandparents’ cottage one morning to go to Dozmare Pool. He yearned once more to see the pictures in the water and the Mother of Storms.

As he was going across the moors in the direction of the lake, he saw a tiny grey cloak fashioned with a hood lying on the heather, near a golden-brown pool.

What a dinky cloak! he cried, picking it up. Perhaps it belongs to one of the little Grey Men. If I put it on I wonder whether it will make me invisible, and with a laugh he flung it over his shoulders.

It no sooner touched his shoulders than he felt himself growing small, and he grew smaller and smaller till he was no higher than