The Little Children of Dyring: or The Buried Mother

 

October is a month for talking about ghosts, ghouls and the revenant dead... Here is a story I found in Le Foyer Breton (Emile Souvestre’s 1844 collection of Breton folk and fairy tales). After I’d translated it I realised it’s not Breton at all, but a prose version of a Danish ballad, ‘Svend Dyring’ – known in various 19^th century English translations as ‘Childe Dyring’, ‘The Buried Mother’, ‘The Dead Mother’, ‘The Legend of the Stepmother’ and, in Sir Walter Scott’s The Lady of the Lake, as ‘The Ghaist’s Warning’. (‘Childe’, by the way, is an archaic term for a young nobleman who has not yet won his spurs.) 

 

Dyring went off to an island and married a pretty young girl. He lived with her for seven years and became the father of six children, but then what happened? Death swept through the countryside and his fair, pure lily succumbed.

            Off went Dyring to a different isle and chose himself a new wife. Once the wedding was over he brought her back to his home, but alas, her nature was hard and cruel. She walked in, saw the poor little children peeping at her through their tears and roughly rejected them.

            She gave them neither ale nor bread, telling them, ‘You shall suffer hunger and thirst.’ She took away their soft blue blankets, saying, ‘You will lie on straw.’ She took away their bright candles, telling them, ‘You will sleep in the dark!’

            In the evenings the little children wept, and from her resting place under the earth their mother heard them. Lapped in her cold shroud she heard and resolved to return to them. Coming before Our Lord she begged, ‘Let me go back, to see my little children!’ And she went on pleading and imploring until he gave her permission to revisit this world, on condition she was back in her grave before cock-crow.

            Raising heavy, tired limbs she crossed the graveyard wall. Dogs filled the air with their howls as she passed through the village. Coming to her home, she found her eldest daughter sitting on the doorstep.

            ‘What are you doing there, my dear daughter?’ she asked, ‘and where are your brothers and sisters?’

            ‘Why do you call me dear daughter?’ asked the child. ‘You’re not my mother! My mother is young and pretty, my mother’s cheeks are white and red, but you – you are as pale as a corpse.’

            ‘How could I be young and pretty? I’ve come from the land of the dead, that’s why my face is pale. How could I be white and red when I’ve been dead so long?’

            She came into her children’s chamber, where they were all crying. She bathed the first and braided the hair of the second. She comforted the third and the fourth, and took the fifth in her arms as if to breast-feed it. Then she said to her eldest girl,

‘Go and ask Dyring to come here.’ And when Dyring came into the room, she cried out in anger,

            ‘I left ale and bread here, and my children are hungry. I left warm blue blankets and my children sleep on straw. I left bright candles to light them and my children are in darkness. If ever I have need to come back again, bad luck will fall on you! Hark – now the red cock is crowing: all the dead must return to the ground. Hark! – the black cock is crowing and the gates of heaven are opening. And now, hark! – the white cock is crowing. I can stay no longer.’

            Ever since that day, whenever Dyring and his wife hear dogs barking they give ale and bread to the children, and whenever they hear dogs howling they are terrified that the dead woman will appear to them once more.

      

The vigour of the original Danish ballad can be seen in some verses from an 1860 century translation by R C Alexander Prior.

She gave them neither bread nor beer,

‘Hunger and hate will be your cheer.’

She took away their bolsters blue:

‘Bare straw shall be the bed for you.’

She took away their fire and light:

‘In blind-house ye shall sleep all night.’

They cried one evening, till the sound

Their mother heard beneath the ground.

She heard it as in her grave she lay,

‘But go I must, their pain to stay.’

At God’s high throne she bent her knee,

‘Oh let me, Lord, my children see.’

And such her prayer and tale of woe,

That God in mercy let her go.

‘But there on earth no longer stay

When cock shall crow the break of day.’

Out from her chest she stretched her bones,

And rent her way through earth and stones.

            As through the street she glided by

            Loud all the hounds howled to the sky...

 

The bursting of the coffin and rending of earth as the dead mother forces her way out of the grave demonstrates both her terrifying power and the strength of her love. Sir Walter Scott includes in his version the apparently irrelevant but haunting refrains usual to Danish ballads, which I think are lovely:  

 

Wi’ her banes sae star a bowt she gae,                       [With her bones so [?] a bound she gave,

            And O gin I were young!                                    Oh that I were young!

She’s riven baith wa’ and marble gray.                        She’s riven both wall and marble gray.

            I’ the greenwood it lists me to ride.                         In the greenwood I love to ride.]

 

In ‘Tales of a Wayside Inn’ (1860) a series of narrative poems linked in the style of ‘The Canterbury Tales’, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow includes yet another translation of the ballad, ‘The Mother’s  Ghost’, also with refrains:

 

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade,

I myself was young!

There he hath wooed him so winsome a maid;

Fair words gladden so many a heart.

 

A mother’s love for her children, lasting beyond the grave, clearly held great appeal for 19^th century sentiment, and the story of the ballad was very widely disseminated. As early as 1814, Robert Jamieson, touching on Scott’s version in Illustrations of Northern Antiquities, goes on to mention an Scottish variant which must date from at least the 1770s.

 

On the translation from the Danish being read to a very antient [sic] gentleman in Dumfriesshire, he said the story of the mother coming back to her children was quite familiar to him in his youth, with all the circumstances of name and place. The father, like Child Dyring, had married a second wife, and his daughter by the first, a child of three or four years old, was once a-missing for three days. She was sought for everywhere with the utmost diligence, but was not found. At last she was observed, coming from the barn, which during her absence had been repeatedly searched. She looked remarkably clean and fresh; her clothes were in the neatest possible order; and her hair, in particular, had been anointed, combed, curled and plaited, with the greatest care. One being asked where she had been, she said she had been with her mammie, who had been so kind to her, and given her so many good things, and dressed her hair so prettily.

                        Illustrations of Northern Antiquities, pp 318-319

 

I’ll be talking more about the power of the dead in ballads and fairy tales, both for good and ill, in my next post. 

 

Picture credit:

Woman and child - Richard Redgrave,  RA, 1804-1888

Uncanny Whistlers

 

Whistling spirits aren’t the best-known of supernatural folkloric creatures, but they do occur, as I myself can tell you. The 'Seven Whistlers' was a death portent of seven crying birds - which Wordsworth describes in part of a sonnet about a poor old man who nevertheless ‘hath waking empire, wide as dreams’ since ‘rich are his walks with supernatural cheer’:

He the seven birds hath seen that never part,

Seen the seven whistlers on their nightly rounds

And counted them! And oftentimes will start,

For overhead are sweeping Gabriel’s hounds,

Doomed with their impious lord the flying hart

To sweep forever on aërial grounds.

'Supernatural cheer' seems an odd way to describe these dread omens, but perhaps the old man enjoyed telling Wordsworth the stories. The Whistler is among the 'fatal birds' Edward Spenser mentions in The Faerie Queene: 'the Whistler shrill, that whoso hears, doth dy.' (Book II, canto XII, verse 36)

I first came across the Seven Whistlers as a child reading one of Malcolm Saville’s well-known-at-the-time ‘Lone Pine’ adventure stories. Seven White Gates is set in Shropshire around and on the hill called Stiperstones. It’s a region full of folklore – Wild Edric and Lady Godda lead the Wild Hunt there, and the Devil sits on the rock formation on top of Stiperstones, known as the Devil’s Chair. Jenny, one of the characters in the story, tells the heroine Peter (yes) about the Seven Whistlers:

‘I remember Dad telling me once – and there are lots of others who’ll tell you too – that the Whistlers are seven mysterious birds sometimes heard whistling together at night. When you hear them in the night like that it’s bad, and the miners round her often wouldn’t go to work because an accident might happen to them ... it’s horrid. I hate them.’

There’s a rather wonderful 19^th century poem about the Whistlers by Alice E. Gillington (1863-1934), who collected folklore and folk songs. The first verse: 

Whistling strangely, whistling sadly, whistling sweet and clear,

The Seven Whistlers have passed thy house, Pentruan of Porthmeor;

It was not in the morning, nor the noonday’s golden grace,

It was in the dead waste midnight, when the tide yelped loud in the Race;

The tide swings round in the Race, and they’re ‘plaining whisht and low.

And they come from the gray sea-marshes, where the gray sea-lavenders grow;

And the cotton grass sways to and fro;

And the gore-sprent sundews thrive

With oozy hands alive.

Canst hear the curlews’ whistle through thy dreamings dark and drear?

How they’re crying, crying, crying, Pentruan of Porthmeor?

Though the Seven Whistlers were often associated with curlews calling, that didn’t mean they were not still feared:

‘I heard ‘em one dark night last winter,’ said an old Folkestone fisherman. ‘They come over our heads all of a sudden, singing “ewe, ewe,” and the men in the boat wanted to go back. It came on to rain and blow soon afterwards and it was an awful night, sir; and sure enough before morning a boat was upset, and seven poor fellows drowned. I know what makes the noise, sir; it’s them long-billed curlews, but I never likes to hear them.’

            Folklore of the Northern Counties, William Henderson, Folk-Lore 1879, 137

So that’s the Seven Whistlers, but there are solitary whistlers too. JG Campbell’s Witchcraft and Second Sight in the Highlands and Islands records a tale from Tiree, ‘The Unearthly Whistle’. A young man was hurrying home late one moonlit night:

His way lay across a desolate moor called the Druim Buidhe (‘Yellow Ridge’), and when halfway he heard a loud whistle behind him but in a different direction from that in which he had come – at a distance, he thought, of above a mile. The whistle was so unearthly loud he thought every person in the island must have heard it. He hurried on, and when opposite an Carragh Biorach (‘the Sharp-Pointed Rock’) he heard the whistle again, as if at the place where he himself had been when he heard it first. The whistle was so clear and loud that it sent a shiver through his very marrow.

            With a beating heart he quickened his pace, and when at the gateway adjoining the village he belonged to, he heard the whistle at the Pointed Rock. He made off the road and managed to reach home before being overtaken. He rushed into the barn where he usually slept, and after one look towards the door at his pursuer, buried himself below a pile of corn.

            His father was in the house, and three times, with an interval between each call, heard a voice at the door saying. ‘Are you asleep? Will you not go to look at your son? He is in danger of his life and in risk of all he is worth.’

            Each call became more importunate, and at last the old man rose and went to the barn. After a search he found his son below a pile of sheaves, and nearly dead. The only account the young man could give was that when he stood at the door he could see the sky between the legs of his pursuer, who came to the door and said it was fortunate for him he had reached shelter, and that he (the pursuer) was such a one who had been killed in the ‘Field of Birds’ in the Moss, a part of Tiree near at hand.

                        The Gaelic Otherworld, JG Campbell, ed Ronald Black, Birlinn 2005, 282

Another tale of a strange whistler was collected in Gaelic in 1891 by Lady Evelyn Stewart Murray from John Robertson of Atholl (born c. 1829), carter and labourer. But ‘The Whistler of Glen Tilt’ was not malevolent:

There was a whistling spirit in Glen Tilt. It could be heard whistling up and down the glen but nobody ever saw it. A farmer called Paul lived in the glen. He had a flock of sheep and when he was out among the sheep Whistler would call to him, ‘Paul! Leave the sheep,’ and Whistler himself would keep the sheep safe. A thief went to steal Paul’s grey sheep and he tied the animal’s legs with garters and carried her off on his back. Whistler shouted, ‘Leave the grey sheep, Paul,’ and Whistler struck the man and he left the sheep. When the folk got up in the morning they found the sheep, tied up just as the thief had left it.

Tales from Highland Perthshire, Stewart Murray: tr. & ed. Robertson & Dilworth, Scottish Gaelic Text Soc. 2008, 139

A second tale of the same whistling spirit was told to Lady Evelyn by 83 year-old widow Mrs Ann Stewart (born 1808) on Saturday May 16^th, 1891:

In Glen Tilt there was a spirit called the Whistler. The shepherds would hear him chivvying along the sheep and they wouldn’t see him, but they could hear the whistle even though they couldn’t see him. One wet night the River Tilt was in spate, and the shepherds said to each other, ‘We won’t see the Whistler tonight’ and the Whistler said, ‘I created the spirit laws. I went round by the bridge and here I am.’

Tales from Highland Perthshire, Stewart Murray: tr. & ed. Robertson & Dilworth, Scottish Gaelic Text Soc. 2008, 287

And so to my own whistler story. Far too long ago I lived in an old house in the remote Dales village of Malham, in Malhamdale at the top of Airedale. Nights were dark, winters were wild, and I'd lie at nights listening to the owls and the noise of the beck rushing over stones on its way down to the source of the Aire. Once in a while there was another sound, which I described in a diary entry of December 7^th 1977. (I was twenty-one.) 

A black wind blowing around the house and I don’t like getting up in the mornings because of the cold. Last night there was the whistling again, long fluctuating whistles like a farmer to his dog. The time was ten past midnight and it was fainter than before, and only lasted about ten minutes. I have heard it often, louder and longer; it can’t possibly be the wind and is like no owl I ever heard.

It wasn't a curlew either, I was used to hearing their long melancholy cries. They are rare now. And later that month, Sunday December 18^th:

Whistling again: it’s a clear still night, midnight. Very clear, shrill and fluctuating; it’s not wind. Either man, bird or ghost!

Maybe it was one of the farmers, though they wouldn’t usually be moving sheep at midnight, or be whistling for so long, so close to the farms. I don't have a good explanation, but I wrote a small poem at the time.

 

Whistling after dark,

whether man, bird, ghost,

often seems to come

when the stream runs most;

 

while the beck’s rough and loud

it carries most plain,

the long sheep-dog whistle

again and again,

 

like somebody walking

unable to sleep,

whistling the lost collie,

the canny dog that knew the sheep.

 

 

 

Picture credits:

Turner: Breakers on a Flat Beach (1835-40), National Gallery, Wikimeda

Turner: Fishing Boats Bringing a Disabled Ship into Port, Tate Gallery

Katharine Holmes: Malham: Trees and Barn, ink and wash: in possession of author.

The Two Sisters and the Curse

This sinister story is recorded by John Gregorson Campbell in ‘Clan Traditions and Popular Tales of the Western Highlands and Islands’ (1895). In his notes, Campbell explains that the term ‘dun’, applied to a human being, could be an expression of contempt. He adds that the harvest custom was for the last handful of corn to be cut and taken home by the reaper – usually the youngest – and kept as ‘the harvest maiden’ until the following year; and that old women might go about from house to house begging from the harvesters, and whoever was last to finish reaping would have to maintain one of them for a year. (I wonder if ‘last to finish reaping’ implied ‘more furrows to reap’ and therefore more corn to share?  Lastly, I think ‘my sickle will not cut garlic’ must be taken to mean that the sickle is not sharp.

 

Two sisters were living in the same township on the south side of Mull. One of them who was known as Lovely Mairearad had a fairy sweetheart, who came where she was, unknown to anyone, until one day she confided the secret to her sister, who was called Ailsa, and told her how she dearly loved her fairy sweetheart. ‘And now, sister,’ she said, ‘you will not tell anyone.’ ‘No,’ her sister answered, ‘I will not tell anyone; that story will as soon pass from my lips as it will from my knee!’ But she did not keep her promise; she told the secret of the fairy sweetheart to others, and when he came again, he found that he was observed, and he went away and never returned, nor was seen or heard of ever after by anyone in the place.

            When the lovely sister came to know this, she left her home and became a wanderer among the hills and hollows, and never afterwards came inside of a house door to sit or stand, while she lived. The cattle herders often tried to to get near her and persuade her to return home, but they never succeeded further than to hear her crooning a melancholy song which told how her sister had been false to her, and that the wrong done would be avenged on her or her descendants – if a fairy has power. On hearing that Ailsa was married, she repeated, ‘Dun Ailsa is married and has a son Torquil, and the evil will be avenged on her or on him.’ And she sang like this:

My mother’s place is deserted, empty and cold,

My father who loved me is asleep in the tomb,

Friendless and solitary I wander the fields

Since there is none in the world of my kindred

But a sister without pity.

She asked, and I told her, out of the fullness of my joy,

There was none nearer of kin to know my secret:

But I felt, and this brought the tears like rain to my eyes

That a story comes sooner from the lip than the knee.

 Then she was heard to utter these wishes:

May nothing on which you have set your expectations ever grow,

Nor dew ever fall on your ground.

May no smoke rise from your dwelling

In the depth of the hardest winter.

May the worm be your store,

And the moth under the lid of your chests.

If a fey being has power,

                        Revenge will be taken, though it be on your descendents. 

Ailsa married and had one son. Her afflicted sister heard of it and added to her song –

Dun Ailsa has married,

And she has a son Torquil.

Brown-haired Torquil who can climb the headland

And bring the seal off the waves,

The sickle in your hand is sharp,

In two swathes you will reap a sheaf.

Whatever other gifts the brown-haired only child of her sister was favoured with, he was a notable reaper, but this gift proved fatal to him. When he grew up to manhood he could reap as much as seven men, and none among them could compete with him. Then he was told that a strange woman was seen coming into the harvest fields in autumn after the reapers had left, and that she would reap a whole field before daylight next morning, or any part of the field that the reapers could not finish that day, and in whatever field she began, she left the work of seven reapers finished after her. She was known as the Maiden of the Cairn (Gruagach a’ chúirn), from being seen to come out of a cairn over opposite.

            One evening then, brown-haired Torquil, who desired to see her at work, being later than usual returning home looked back and saw her beginning to reap in his own field. He turned back, and finding his sickle where he had put it away, took it and went after her. Resolving to overtake her, he began to reap the next furrow and said,  ‘You are a good reaper, but I will overtake you;’ but the harder he worked, the more he saw that instead of getting nearer to her, she was drawing further away from him. Then he called out,

            ‘Maiden of the cairn, wait for me, wait for me.’

            She said, answering him, ‘Handsome brown-haired youth, overtake me, overtake me,’

            He was confident that he would overtake her, and went on after her till the moon was darkened by a cloud; then he called to her,

            ‘The moon is cloud-smothered, delay, delay.’

            ‘I have no other light but her, overtake me, overtake me,’ she said.

            He did not, nor could he overtake her, and on seeing again how far she was in advance of him, he said, ‘I am weary with yesterday’s reaping, wait for me, wait for me.’ She answered, ‘I ascended the round hill of steep summits, overtake me, overtake me,’ but he could not. Then he said, ‘My sickle would be better for being sharpened, wait for me, wait for me.’ She answered, ‘My sickle will not cut garlic, overtake me, overtake me.’ At this she reached the head of the furrow, finished reaping and stood still where she was, waiting for him.

            When he reached the head of his own furrow, he caught the last handful of corn to keep it, as was the custom, it being the ‘Harvest Maiden’, and stood with it in one hand and the sickle in the other. Looking her steadily in the face, he said,

            ‘You have kept the old woman far from me, and it’s not my displeasure you deserve.’

            She said, ‘It is an ill thing on Monday to reap the harvest maiden.’

On her saying this, he fell dead in the field and never more drew breath. The Maiden of the Cairn was never afterwards seen, or heard of; and that was how the sister’s wishes ended.

 

 

Picture credit:

A Cornfield by Moonlight with the Evening Star (c.1830) - sketch by Samuel Palmer, British Museum