An Encounter with The Knockers
It happened all so quickly down in there -
there in the mine - working away was I -
all of a sudden - gave me such a scare -
rocks were falling - I had no time to try
escaping - or in helping other men -
no warning was there - not a thing - when -
the tunnel caved in. All in a sprawl
others were lying about - everything broke -
the mine all dust and clutter. That is all
honestly I can remember - till I woke.
My heart then sank - I'd hoped it wasn't true -
hoped that I'd dreamt - but true it was - and you -
the rest you'll not believe - I dare say. Still,
what happened next I'll try my best to tell.
I - Cubbie am I - woke - and damp and chill
it was - and pitch dark. Where the ceilings fell
was deep inside. All over I was sore,
and felt dazed like I'd never felt before.
No way out could I feel. For hours and hours
I saw nothing and heard nothing, wishing
I could just see my wife - and boys of ours -
and that instead I'd made my bread by fishing.
I groped but blindly with no candle glow,
and felt forgotten trapped so far below.
Then in the distance - faintly came a voice -
murmurs that nearer grew - bringing a hope.
A few more joined it - how I did rejoice -
that even in this darkest place I'd cope.
I cried out loudly - surely they would hear.
Alas - I heard those voices disappear.
Later behind those fallen beams and rocks -
I'm sure I heard it though my mind was blurred -
there came mysterious and ghostly knocks -
that echoed through the tunnels. These I've heard
some rumours of - some say they are a sign -
and often warn of a collapsing mine.
Then to my disbelief I saw a hand -
disembodied, floating through the air -
holding a candle. Finding strength to stand
I followed it. Drifting, it led me where
a small but passable crevice was. I squeezed
myself through, and my heart was somewhat eased.
Through many winding tunnels I was led -
until we reached an opening I knew.
Then saw I something - something strange ahead -
knee high - with tools - some figures - strange but true -
large noses - dressed like miners they appear -
long skinny limbs - mouths stretched from ear to ear.
Benign they seemed, then silent went their way.
I'd heard of them - the Knockers they are called,
the spirits of dead Kernow miners - they
warn of cave ins. For long I stood enthralled -
then looked up - where - relieved - my sight was caught
by shafts of light, this cheered my every thought.
They warn of rockfalls with their knocks - if left
some food like crusts and treated with respect.
Ignore or mock them and you'll suffer theft
of tools or lunch - or other tricks expect.
So that's what happened - now to bed is best;
however dazed I am, I need some rest.
Misled by Piskies
How sore my legs - but brings this fire much cheer;
come gather round, I'm pleased in meeting you -
Billy Puck am I, and hail from near -
droll teller, balladeer, and singer too.
But pays it not - I tell my tales instead
in hopes of earning here a meal and bed.
Old Kernow then the setting is - a place
where many a forgotten myth has grown
of crashing giant, of furtive fairy race,
of singing mermaid, of ancient standing stone.
But now I turn to moorlands for this one,
where walked a farmer home once - on and on:
Tom Mawker was he called - a local fellow,
who lived upon a farm on Fowey Moor.
Fond of simple things, his nature mellow,
filled were his days with toil and little more.
His humdrum life, with Elowen his wife,
was rarely free from drudgery and strife.
The upland there is rugged and remote,
with scattered granite circles, cairns and rows.
The only sounds the bleating sheep or goat -
the bleak wind or the brook the gently flows.
Now once walked Tom his usual homeward way,
late from the market where he'd spent that day.
The narrow road he took was solitary,
and clothed in golden leaves. He heard the trill
of feathered creatures - as, unhurriedly,
he wandered through a forest. All was still -
as twilight filled the air. It was November,
and glad he was his coat he did remember.
He felt he had been walking for some while,
and wondered if he'd taken a wrong turn.
As well as this he hadn't reached the stile
he always climbed. He could not quite discern
his path – not unfamiliar did it seem -
and had no light except the moon's faint gleam.
With brisker pace he went - and with relief
he found a spot he knew. He tried and tried
each path from there – and yet - in disbelief -
they all led back to this same place. He sighed,
as late and lost he was. He heard - he thought -
laughter – and sight of fleeting shadows caught.
Still anxious to get home he carried on -
but went in circles still. At last he sat -
with head in hands - his will was slowly gone.
A figure he glimpsed - tiny - smart - red hat -
green coat - he looked - it vanished round a tree -
but on its bark this writing he could see:
Look near - I am about,
to ease the cold and rain;
now turn me inside out
and find your way again.
'I ease the cold and rain - what's this?' - he mused.
'A fire perhaps? A fire would ease the cold -
but not the rain. Look near?'. Tom did - confused.
'A shelter then?'. But he was not consoled.
He saw no shelter though he looked about -
and wondered how you'd turn one inside out.
Puzzled - once more he sat - sunk in despair
that this predicament would never end.
He wrapped his coat around him tight - the air
cooled - rain fell - then - then did he comprehend.
'What's near, and eases cold and rain? A coat.
Can be turned inside out as well? A coat.'
Tom turned it inside out - he felt quite silly,
but saw no other hope. He walked again -
and progress made this time - mysteriously
he now found paths he recognized. The rain
soon stopped - he saw at last his farm that night -
and never felt so happy at the sight.
His strange adventure to his wife he told;
not disbelieving was she. 'Piskies are they',
said Elowen to Tom, 'from time of old.' -
and Tom was Piskie-led - as some still say.
It's harmless mischief - but - so they don't scheme -
and bring good luck - leave out for them some cream.
A Misadventure with Spriggans
I tell of fairies more ill-natured now,
from Kernow folktales - that I, Billy Puck,
heard in my family - this one's of how
a local robbed a tomb - but vengeance struck,
from those that guarded it - whose dreadful wrath
caused these bizarre events and aftermath.
It was a stormy night on Trencrom Hill;
a figure came beneath the downpour's lash -
Jack Bligh was he - alone with spade - his will
faltering in the howling wind and flash
of lightning. Thunder clouds blacked out the moor -
the fortress fragments loomed upon the tor.
He reached a structure made of standing stones,
on top them lay a slab. It was a tomb,
from days of spears and axes - ancient bones
rest undisturbed within. There in the gloom -
Jack halted shivering - then with map he strove -
bent to locate a rumoured treasure trove.
Finding the spot among the crumbled boulders,
he took a deep breath and, after a pause,
began to dig. At times, over his shoulders -
he looked - though lone and desolate it was.
He felt like there was something in the dim -
and peered with an expression fixed and grim.
But not a soul he saw, and - with a shrug -
he shovelled through the soil. His lantern shone
upon his rustic features as he dug -
and dug. Though aching, still he carried on -
but still found nothing. Cursing his bad luck,
he planted down the spade. It something struck.
Scraping the earth away from it revealed
a gilded wooden chest. Jack lifted up
its lid - and gasped. Within, for ages sealed,
were many shiny things - a shield, a cup,
gold coins and weapons - what more could he seek?
Plus bracelets, brooches, rings - he gave a shriek.
Placed in his sack, he covered up the ground,
then gathered up his tools and turned to go.
Hearing - he thought - a horrid hissing sound,
he sought his bearings with his lantern's glow -
when from behind the rocks emerged a swarm
of creatures - with a dwarfish human form.
Waist high, with shrivelled, gnarly features - thin,
though disproportionally large its head,
with shoulders puny - evil was its grin -
they hissed and spat at Jack, who froze in dread.
He thought - then from his sack produced a sword;
they shrank - he brandished it and fled the horde.
Fast taking to his heels, homeward he ran -
far to his cottage in the countryside.
The night was lifting and as day began
faint stirrings of the birds he heard. He cried
triumphantly when home - Rosen, his wife,
awoke to promise of a better life.
Over the gleaming valuables they poured,
early that morning as they breakfast ate -
both animated. Nearby soundly snored
their baby Jowan in his cot - how great
their pride. Jack slept that night content and snugly -
though haunted by those creatures vile and ugly.
He saw them hissing, spitting - then he woke
suddenly - shuddering - from a troubled dream.
That morning Jack chopped wood outside to stoke
the fire - when out of nowhere came a scream -
Rosen it was - he went - and more distraught
he'd never seen a soul - he had no thought
what it might be. She stood - pointing to where
Jowan slept. Jack approached - moving their cat
away that hissed at it. Something was there -
child still - though a large-headed, ugly brat -
and not their beautiful, endearing boy -
Jowan was nowhere seen - gone was their joy.
All day they searched each nearby path and field,
each hill and vale, each forest, glade and nook,
but found no trace at all - no clue revealed
the infant's whereabouts. Ceasing to look,
they went back home to where that wretched child
instead there lay, whose wails them further riled.
Next morning, Rosen left a plate of food
and bowl of cream out - as she always did -
for local fairies. One had watched her brood
most heavily - and though they mostly hid -
this curious and lively thumb-high chap
appeared - in breeches, buckles, shirt and cap.
'What ails you madam, that you look so lost -
so spiritless, who once was full of cheer?'
Rosen was startled. 'Nothing would it cost
to let me help you.', he continued, 'Here
I've always supped with pleasure.'. Rosen sighed,
composed herself, then to reply she tried:
'Our baby's gone - gone - found not anywhere;
there's something else inside his cradle - while
our child has somehow vanished into air.'
She tightened up a holy water vial.
'Ah - changelings they are called,' - the Piskie said.
'Let me enquire - some light on this I'll shed.'
For hours she waited anxiously - then late
that afternoon, the flitting form returned.
Halting with urgency, he came out straight
with what he knew. 'Good fortune be - I've learned
your infant's whereabouts. A friendly bird
says Spriggans were at work - and worse I've heard.
They left a suckling of their own - and stole
your child. Nearby - this midnight - on the Gump -
where they will revel, feast and dance the whole
night long - up where fantastic things go bump
in the dark - there they plan to sacrifice
your babe - make haste and go there in a trice.'
The evening sky was clear when they arrived -
the downs were shining with a frost, the moon
was full and bright. Their dwindled hope revived,
they'd come prepared. Silent it was, but soon -
in lines the fiendish Spriggans dancing came,
carousing merrily with feast and game.
Silence was later called. All gathered round,
and strange, unearthly music softly played.
An alter was erected on the mound -
upon it were a cloth and candles laid.
A weird procession came - one held a child -
the rest behind it chanted as they filed.
Armed with the sword and shield he lately stole,
Jack crept across the grass and took his chance.
A Spriggan laid down Jowan - from a scroll
another read a prayer. Jack caught its glance -
it raised its hand and something cast his way -
Jack tried to move but somehow trapped he lay.
In giant cobwebs he had found himself -
in magic silken threads entangled. Stuck
he was, beyond the wit of scheming elf -
no sword could cut it, he was out of luck.
In horror Rosen watched - with little clue
what she - alone, unarmed - could possibly do.
'I, Vigus -', cried it, 'offer up this life -'.
She had on her the vial of holy water,
and nearer crept - then, as it raised a knife -
some on the creature threw. Halting the slaughter -
it shrieked with pain - the others shrank with dread -
the web spell broke, they grabbed the babe and fled.
Returning home they noticed something wrong -
the house was burgled while the Blighs were out,
they looked and found the stolen treasures gone.
Jack shrugged: 'The treasures care I not about.
We have once more the one I most adore -
our precious little boy, worth so much more.'
*****
Christopher Laverty has been published in Reach Poetry Magazine, Runcible Spoon, Scrittura Magazine, The Big Windows Review and The Society of Classical Poets. He lives in Bristol.
