Oxfordshire Folktales (6 page)

Holding his nerve, he continued to the Money Pit, a hollow scooped out of the top of the hill. He walked around it, sizing it up, letting his feet test the ground. Evidence of previous excavations were clear and it looked as though an army of moles had been at it. He wasn’t going to get anywhere here. On a whim he decided to strike out at an angle from the pit, towards a notch in the ramparts where the glow of the morning sun could just be seen.

Halfway along, he stopped his pacing and plunged in his spade. This felt like as good a spot as any and so he began to dig. For a while he put his back into it, and was soon a good foot or two down. He whistled while he worked, to keep himself company – it was a lonely sound in the mist, a gravedigger’s whistle.

Suddenly, his spade struck something – something hard – with a dull thud. Heart pounding, he cleared away a handful of earth and could see a metal band of intricate workmanship, part of a strong iron box. With renewed energy he cleared the rest away until he could see the whole chest. A treasure chest!

He had found it – Lucky Jack strikes again!

Blessing his good fortune, Jack pulled the chest free with some difficulty. For a moment he sat on the dewy grass, catching his breath, which escaped in clouds.

There it was before him, as real as the day. It had probably not seen sun for many centuries. Dark and solid in the mist, it was a chip off the block of time.

And then he got up and scratched his head. How was he going to open this? There was a big lock on it but it looked rather rusty. Ever the practical man, Jack decided to thwack it one – that usually worked. And so he picked up his spade and was about to strike it when suddenly the silence of the Clumps was shattered by an eerie cronking.

There was a flurry of dark wings, and a huge raven landed on the chest. It looked at Jack with black beady eyes, glinting with intelligence. For an uncomfortable pause, they looked at each other and Jack wondered what was going to happen next. His throat was suddenly in need of a ‘wetting’.

To Jack’s astonishment, the bird began to speak in a hoarse voice: ‘
He has not been born yet!
’ The raven’s voice riveted Jack to the spot, and made him drop the spade. Croaking loudly, the raven took off, circling overhead.

Pale and trembling, Jack acted without thinking – from some primal place of terror. He lowered the chest back into the hole and quickly covered it with earth, stamping it down, stamping it down good, all the while terrified the raven would come back, would speak, with
that
voice.

Jack covered the pit with a large log so that no one would know it had been recently dug.

He picked up his spade and hot-footed it back down the hill, back to the village. He kept going, all the way to The Plough at Long Wittenham. He was in need of a drink of something strong!

The banging on the door eventually stirred the landlord, who knew Jack well – he was a good customer – and so he agreed to let him in early: he could see he had had a ‘turn’. Pale as a ghost he was!

Later, tucked quietly by himself in the inglenook, where he hogged the fire to take the chill out of his bones, Jack pondered on what the raven had meant.
He has not been born yet
… Who has not been born yet? The one destined for the treasure? If not him, then who? Perhaps his son … No, not that good-for-nothing layabout! What about a grandson? Or granddaughter for that matter? Not born yet, but the stork would bring them sooner or later if his son kept sowing his oats like he did!

Maybe one day, Jack reflected, one of his descendants would strike lucky. He sank the rest of his pint, happy with this conclusion. Perhaps, sometimes, you have to pass on the luck.

Old things can be stubborn. People can be like that – and places too. The Rollright Stones are one such place, or should I say three (there's something about this place that makes it hard to count). On the borderlands between Warwickshire and Oxfordshire, high up on a misty, rain-lashed ridge, a lonely traveller wondering if he'd taken the wrong turn – caught in that unsettling uncertainty of direction – would suddenly glimpse clusters of dark figures. Out of the mist they emerge, like characters from an ancient drama: the King's Stone, the King's Men, the Whispering Knights – wizened standing stones, menhir pock-marked with time, yet weathering the ages and the will of men with a deep toughness.

There is always one who thinks he is tougher, who thinks he can ignore the ancient codes that generations have heeded. The Rollrights have long been thought to be a rum place – the haunt of witches. Around such places, superstitions stick. Watch out if you're passing when the church clock of nearby Long Compton strikes midnight – the King's Men come alive, so they say! And on certain saints' days – unspecified to keep you on your toes – both the King and his men come to life. Yet, what is bane to one is boon to another. On Midsummer's Eve, village maids would sneak to the Whispering Knights and place a delicate maiden ear to the rough stone, hoping to hear whispers of their future and fate.

Try and count the stones of the King's Men and you'll get a different tally each time, but be reassured by that – for if you count the same, ill luck is sure to follow. A wily baker once reckoned that he could count the stones by baking a bun for each stone and then laying them out upon the stones. He did not count on the fairies eating them between times, so he failed too. Better not to touch them at all – to touch the King's Men is considered ill luck.

But there was once a farmer who took no heed to such ‘foolish stories', and was determined to carry off one of the large stones from the Whispering Knights. He was building an outhouse in his farmyard and he'd had his eye on a particularly fine piece of ancient masonry for just the purpose. His neighbours warned him about such an undertaking, but he paid them no heed. Once he'd set his mind on something, that was that – as stubborn as old Jenny the donkey he was. One morning he woke up, rubbed his hands together and decided, ‘Today's the day I'm carrying one of them witch stones away.' He put four horses to his sturdiest waggon and set off up the hill. With a lot of grunting and cursing, he managed to get one of the stones into his waggon.

The sky didn't fall in.

Once he caught his breath, he started to lead his waggon back down the hill, laughing at those foolish stories. But halfway down, his waggon broke in two, and all his horses died at the strain of dragging it back to his farm.

He finally got it to his farmyard, but at what cost? Had it been worth the loss of his waggon and horses? Well, if it showed that nothing would stop him once he set his mind, then yes! He raised the stone in place, and it looked very impressive on the corner of his new outhouse, but from that moment on nothing went right for him – his crops failed, his cattle died – until he was forced to mortgage his land and sell off his remaining horses and waggon; all he had left was a rickety old cart and an old nag who'd seen better days.

Then the penny finally dropped – all his misfortunes had started when he'd brought home that stone. He was determined to right the wrong and set to removing the stone. He placed it in the cart and hitched his old horse to it, but you know what? She pulled it up that hill like it was a pile of hay.

Soon enough, the cart was by the Whispering Knights and the farmer replaced it with his fellows, with a lot less sweating and cursing than before. He felt a huge sense of relief and rode home as light as can be, singing all the way. From then on, his fortunes changed and he prospered, reclaiming all his former wealth and gaining more, but the greatest wealth was the lesson learnt. From that day forth he respected those old witch stones on the top of the misty ridge and always made sure he rolled right with things, and not against.

So, the farmer learnt the hard way, but how did the stones come to be there in the first place? Well, there are as many theories as fairies, but the local wisdom is always the best. A local tale warns of the downfall of another wilful man. It goes like this…

* * *

There was once a strong-minded king, set on invading the rich lands of England with his men. He had got as far as the high windswept ridge on the cusp of the Cotswolds when he was stopped by a wise woman (maybe Mother Shipton herself – certainly by the length of the hairs on her warts you could tell she was a venerable witch indeed). Witches were a common sight around Long Compton. The locals would often say, ‘There are enough witches in Long Compton to drag a load of hay up Long Compton Hill.' Be that as it may, the King was not so afeared of the hag he saw before him. He haughtily ignored her, and as he went to stride by, said, ‘Out of my way, old woman!' Knowing his mind, the crone challenged him, saying:

‘Seven long strides shalt thou take, and

If Long Compton thou canst see

King of England thou shalt be.'

The King laughed at this – seven strides and he'll be king? Lead on! His men seemed reluctant at first, muttering amongst themselves, but a sword is a good persuader. He and most of his men strode confidently forward, but as they approached the top of the hill a great mound grew in front of them, obscuring their view. The witch cackled her cantrip:

‘As Long Compton thou canst see

King of England thou shalt not be.

Rise up stick, and stand still stone,

For King of England thou shalt be none,

Thou and thy men hoar stones shall be

And I myself an elden tree.'

The witch raised her bony finger and in a flash, the King and his men were turned to stone. The proud king stood alone, almost on the crest of the hill, waiting forever for his reluctant troops who linger on the opposite side of the road – a circle of stone.

Yet such mighty magic comes at a price. Feeling her old bones stiffen, her skin become even more bark-like than normal, the witch hastened away to her own doom and bumped into four of the King's knights, who had lagged behind and were whispering plots against the King. Peevishly, she turned them to stone as well, and today they are called the Whispering Knights.