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    Somerset Folk Tales for Children
    Somerset Folk Tales for Children
    Somerset Folk Tales for Children
    Ebook115 pages1 hour

    Somerset Folk Tales for Children

    By Sharon Jacksties

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    When you are in Somerset you are never far from mysterious caverns, whispering woods, hidden valleys and places which can’t decide whether they are seascapes or landscapes. The ancient Kings Arthur and Alfred hid amongst Somerset’s secret waterways, waging the wars and making treaties that forged Britain’s history. Outlaws and highwaymen lived on the wildest of moors that plummet into the sea. Ordinary people farmed the land and fished the waters alongside the Little People, the Fair Folk, the fairies and goblins that were as tricksy and unchancy to meet as any smuggler…In this collection, professional storyteller Sharon Jacksties has selected and reworked tales for children aged 7–11 to discover.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherThe History Press
    Release dateApr 25, 2018
    ISBN9780750988247
    Somerset Folk Tales for Children
    Author

    Sharon Jacksties

    Sharon has been a performance, community and applied storyteller for over 30 years and is the author of 4 books published by The History Press. Sharon has storytelling teaching practice in the UK and abroad, regularly running courses at Halsway Manor, England’s only residential centre for the performing arts. Much of her work is focused on the stories of place, teaching how to invoke a ‘sense of place’ through the stories of various locales and working site specifically with performance programmes, e.g. for The National Trust and countless museums. Until recently she was UK ambassador for The Federation of European Storytelling organisations. Sadly this new post came to a premature end due to Brexit. As a performance storyteller she is known for her eclectic repertoire and for telling unusual and seldom-heard stories from all over the world.

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      Book preview

      Somerset Folk Tales for Children - Sharon Jacksties

      Somerset.

      INTRODUCTION

      I have been a storyteller for a very long time, telling stories from all over the world. Many years ago, I came to live in Somerset. As with any new place, I couldn’t wait to explore. Moving to Somerset was like coming for the first time to an old, old house. An old house whose various rooms were like the different features and scenery in the Somerset landscape – with their own colours, shapes, sizes and even smells. Like the best houses with attics or cellars, I knew that there were secrets to discover, perhaps even treasure. So I went on a treasure hunt. The treasure I found wasn’t what you could hold in your hand, or count like golden coins. It was stories. Like the best treasure, some of these stories are very old. They have been kept bright and shining by re-telling, re-reading and re-writing. Here is a riddle for you:

      The more often you give me away, the

      longer you keep me. What am I?

      The answer is at the back of this book.

      Here is a treasure map of Somerset and the places these stories come from.

      PART ONE

      MAGICAL CREATURES

      THE KING OF THE MOLES

      The River Parrett winds its way through the Somerset Levels like a great lazy snake until the rains come. They can last through autumn and winter and most of spring. Then the river loses its shape and hides beneath the vast lakes created by the floodwaters.

      Near the banks of the Parrett is a small church with a chest in a cupboard in the vestry. Inside is an ancient altar cloth made out of moleskins. It is kept to remind people of one of the worst floods.

      Not so long ago, the new lord inherited the big estate that sloped down to the river. Now that he was the new owner he wanted to change everything. When he had finished changing the great house, destroying old bits and adding new bits, he turned his attention to the land around it and decided that the avenue of 200-year-old oak trees looked rather untidy. Their branches were twisted in the wrong directions and when autumn came their leaves made a dreadful mess on the grass. As for the meadows, those slopes would look better if they were levelled off down to the river to make everything flat, and as for the river with all its untidy curves – they would have to be evened out.

      He sent for the head gardener and gave instructions to chop, level and straighten. The gardener went pale with horror and warned him against it. The lord said that he hadn’t asked for advice, he was giving an order. In time the work was done – there were no untidy trees on the horizon, the grass was completely flat and the riverbanks were as straight as a ruler. At last the lord was content, but only for a day. The next morning when he looked out on his empty landscape it had been spoiled by hundreds of heaps of dirty piles of earth. The moles had arrived, covering everywhere with their molehills. The head gardener had trouble hiding a smirk when the lord summoned him to give the order to get rid of the moles. Again he tried to warn his master, again he was overruled.

      It took a long time to kill all those moles. So long, in fact, that all the fabrics on the estate and in the village were now made of mole skins: people slept on moleskin sheets, wore moleskin clothes and even the babies wore moleskin nappies. The local church boasted the only moleskin altar cloth that had ever been known in Britain.

      At last the horrible task was over, there were no more molehills, the bare patches of earth had been reseeded with new grass and the lord was content. But only for a day. The next morning there were a few enormous piles of earth, far higher than any man. The head gardener didn’t bother to hide his grin when he explained that the King of the Moles had arrived because he had heard that his people were in trouble. He was ordered to get rid of the King of the Moles but had to explain, whilst disguising his snigger with a cough, that there was only one person with that kind of skill, and as Micky-the-Mole was one of the travelling people, they would just have to wait until he happened to be passing. It was a long wait, during which the King of the Moles took his revenge by raising his massive piles of crumbling earth everywhere.

      At last Micky-the-Mole was found sleeping in one of the few ditches that the lord hadn’t ordered to be filled in. He was taken to the great house where the master stared at the strange man with dark velvety hair growing low over his face, a whiskery moustache offsetting huge yellow teeth, little piggy eyes a-blinking, a pink turned up nose a-trembling, and huge blunt hands swinging low like a pair of shovels. He was promised a bag of gold for the capture and killing of the King of the Moles, as long as the lord was able to see his tormentor before the giant mole was put to death.

      In no time at all Micky-the-Mole was back, dragging an enormous cage. Inside was a mole the size of a calf. The lord was one of these people who believe that size isn’t everything, but he had to believe the monster mole’s gold crown, set with human teeth. He gave Micky a large bag of gold, told him to kill the beast in the cruellest way possible and come back to describe which method he had chosen. The sound of that cage, further weighed down with the sack of gold, scraping its way down the corridor, made the chimneys crooked and put cracks in the crystal chandeliers. But it was all worth it when Micky-the-Mole returned with the tale of the beast’s death. The lord had spent a few delicious moments imagining the method. Had he been roasted slowly over a fire? Had he been skinned alive? Had he been drowned slowly on the riverbank as the tidal waters of the Parrett had risen? None of these was the case – the King of the Moles had been buried alive. The lord was so pleased at this cruellest of deaths that he gave the killer an extra bag of gold. He was too cruel and too stupid to realise that as moles live underground, you can’t kill one by burying it!

      Soon after that the autumn rains came, heavier than

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