Collected Folk Tales. Alan Garner
Читать онлайн книгу.
align="center">
Brownie was a type of goblin that lived in and around the farmhouse. He would often work for the people on the farm, but he had an unpredictable temper, and sometimes, as in this story, he was much more trouble than he was worth.
Of course farmer will have none of that, so brownie makes a great to-do at night, and it’s half a day’s work regular to clear up after him around the house. Well, then farmer gives over leaving milk out in a saucer by the hearth; and so it goes from bad to worse.
Anyway, brownie must have the big field, he says, and they chunner and chunner, calling each other all the names, so as women have to cover their ears for language. Anyway, it’s left that farmer will do the work, and they’ll share the crop half and half between them.
When Spring comes, farmer says, “Which will you have, tops or bottoms?”
“Bottoms,” says brownie.
So farmer plants wheat, keeps the grain for himself, and gives brownie the roots and stubble.
Next year, farmer says to brownie, “Which will you have, tops or bottoms?”
“Tops,” says brownie.
So farmer plants turnips, and brownie is left to make what he can of the leaves.
He’ll have none of it the next year: not tops or bottoms: he will not. Corn, says brownie, that’s what it must be, and the field divided in half, and brownie and farmer to have a mowing match, winner keep all.
July next, farmer goes to the blacksmith and has ever so many thin iron rods made, and he plants them all over brownie’s half of the field.
Anyway, they start mowing at daybreak. Farmer walks through his patch, up and down, sweet as a comb, but brownie’s snagged like I don’t know what.
“Mortal hard docks, these: mortal hard docks,” he keeps clacking.
Anyway, after an hour of this the rods have knocked the edge from his scythe and it’s as blunt as a plough handle, and brownie is right borsant.
Now in a match, mowers take time off together for sharpening up; so brownie calls to farmer, “When do we wiffle-waffle, mate?”
“Oh, about noon, maybe,” says farmer.
“Noon!” says brownie. “I’ve lost my land!”
He drops his scythe, and he’s never seen on that farm again. And no wonder.
Adapted from the Translation of WHITLEY STOKES
I have to admit to a weakness for Celtic legends. It would be all too easy to fill this book with them. For me, no other people were so rich and terrifying in their imagination. They found no need to explain: the stories often appear to be strung together at random – and yet there is always the feeling that everything is very simple. We are looking at a real and brilliant and logical world through strange glass.
You can take this story all at once, or bit by bit. All at once will crowd your brain with colour: bit by bit will make thoughts like yeast.
The Voyage of Maelduin’s Boat This. Three Years and Seven Months Was It Wandering in the Ocean.
Now this boy was reared by the king’s queen, and she gave out that she was his mother.
Now the one fostermother reared him and the king’s three sons, in one cradle, and on one breast, and on one lap.
Beautiful indeed was his form, and it is doubtful if there has been in flesh anyone as beautiful as he. So he grew up till he was a young warrior and fit to use weapons. Great, then, was his brightness and his gaiety and his playfulness. In his play he outwent all his comrades, both in throwing balls, and running, and leaping, and putting stones, and racing horses. He had truly the victory in each of those games.
One day, then, a certain haughty warrior grew envious against him, and he said in raging anger, “You,” he said, “whose clan and kindred no one knows, whose mother and father no one knows, to vanquish us in every game, whether we contend with you on land or on water, or on the draughtboard!”
So then Maelduin was silent, for till that time he had thought that he was the son of the king and of the queen his fostermother. Then he said to his fostermother, “I will not eat and I will not drink until you tell me,” said he, “my mother and my father.”
“But,” said she, “why are you asking after that? Do not take to heart the words of the proud warriors. I am your mother,” said she. “The love of the people of the earth for their sons is no greater than the love I bear to you.”
“That may be,” said he: “nevertheless, make known my parents to me.”
So his fostermother went with him, and delivered him into his mother’s hand; and thereafter he entreated his mother to declare his father to him.
“Silly,” said she, “is what you are doing, for if you should know your father you would have no good of him, and you will not be the gladder, for he died long ago.”
“It is the better for me to know it,” said he, “however it be.”
Then his mother told him the truth. “Ailill of the Edge of Battle was your father,” said she, “of the Eoganacht of Ninuss.”
Then Maelduin went to his fatherland and to his heritage, having his three fosterbrothers with him; and beloved warriors were they. And then his kindred welcomed him, and gave great courage there.
At a certain time afterwards there was a number of warriors in the graveyard of Dubcluain, putting stones. So Maelduin’s foot was planted on the scorched ruin, and over it he was flinging the stone. A certain poison-tongued man – Briccne was his name – said to Maelduin: “It were better,” said he, “to avenge the man who was burnt there than to cast stones over his bare burnt bones.”
“Who was that?” said Maelduin.
“Ailill,” said he, “your own father.”
“Who killed him?” asked Maelduin.
Briccne replied: “Raiders of Leix,” said he, “and they destroyed him on this spot.”
Then Maelduin threw away the stone which he was about to cast, and took his mantle round him, and his armour on him; and he was mournful. And he asked the way to go to Leix, and the guides told him that he could go only by sea.
So he went into the country of Corcomroe to seek a charm and a blessing of a wizard who lived there, to begin building a boat. Nuca was the wizard’s name, and it is from him that Boirenn Nuca is called. He told Maelduin the day on which he should begin the boat, and the number of the crew that should go in her, which was seventeen men, or sixty according to others. And he told him that no number greater or less than that should go; and he told him the day he should set to sea.
Then Maelduin built a three-skinned boat; and they who were to go in it in his