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Mythic Cheshire: The Boggart of Godley Green

Our last dive into the “Legends of Longdenale” by Thomas Middleton, collecting folklore sites and monsters for a saga book. Boggarts are sometimes faeries, but here it seems to be a ghost. Thanks to Tony Scheinman and his Librivox production team.

T would, perhaps, be difficult to find in all England a tract of country of which so many wild stories of ghosts and boggarts are told as the old common land of Godley Green, and the picturesque cloughs and dingles which surround it. Some interesting old farmsteads still stand on and near the “Green,” and there were in former times others still more quaint, which have disappeared before the march of time. Concerning most of these homesteads, ghost tales are told; indeed, one old native of Godley recently declared that “there were more boggarts at Godley Green than anywhere else in the kingdom.” And perhaps this statement is true.

Most of the stories are old tales, which have been handed down from former generations, no living being laying claim to any personal experience of the boggarts referred to. But in one or two cases the boggarts are said to be still haunting the scenes of their former exploits; and people still living claim to have actually seen the ghosts, as well as heard about them. The present story belongs to the latter class.

There is a certain house in that part of the township of Godley known as the Green, which is said to be haunted by a boggart in the shape of an old lady, who formerly belonged to the house. The legend is not very precise as to the cause of her unrest, but it is said that she did certain things in her lifetime the memories of which will not allow her to rest quietly in her grave. Accordingly, her ghost wanders about the house and grounds, occasionally startling people by its appearance, and its peculiar actions.

One old lady—still alive—gives some graphic details of the boggart. She at one time resided in the house but now she has removed to a distance.

“Many a time,” says she, “I have seen ‘Old Nanny’—the boggart—wandering about after dark. She is generally outside the house, but occasionally peeps in at the windows. I can remember the old woman during her lifetime, and the boggart is just like her. She wears an old-fashioned cap, and a skirt kilted or tucked up in the old-fashioned style. She wears an apron, which she shakes, and makes a peculiar hissing noise. There is a gate leading from the garden into a meadow and I have seen the boggart standing there, waving her apron, and saying, ‘Ish, ish, ish.’”

“On one occasion a relative of the old dame, was present, and saw the boggart. ‘It’s owd Nanny,’ said he, ’reet enough. Why the d—— can’t she rest quiet in her grave. What does she want frightening people like that.’”

Another night a serving man was ordered to go into the back garden, and gather a quantity of rhubarb. He was gone a short time, and then he rushed back to the house with blanched face, and terror in his countenance.

“What is the matter?” asked his mistress; “where is the rhubarb?”

“It’s where it mun stop, missus, for me,” he replied. “I’ve had enough of rhubarb getting in that garden.”

And then he related how he had proceeded to the rhubarb bed, had gathered one stick, and was about to pluck another, when he suddenly became aware of the white figure of an old woman standing before him in the midst of the rhubarb, looking at him intently.

“She waved her apron at me,” said he, “and then I heard her say, ‘Ish, ish, ish.’”

While he looked the boggart vanished, and then the man took to his heels.

Another lady, who resided at the house in the last years of the nineteenth century, has also some queer tales to tell of the appearance of the boggart. Says she:

“I would not live in that house again if its owner would give it to me, and the land it stands on. The place is uncanny, and the boggart is always there. I saw it more than once. I remember going into the orchard one evening with my sister. We went to pick some apples, and having got as many as we wanted, were returning to the house. At the gate, which leads into the meadow, we saw the boggart—in the form of an old lady, with a withered face. She stood there waving her apron, and saying ‘Ish, ish, ish.’”

“We dropped the apples, and fled.”

Other persons still alive assert that they have seen this boggart, and it is firmly believed by many that the ghost of the old woman will continue to haunt the house until her sins are expiated, or until some minister or holy man “lays the boggart,” by using the forms laid down by law in the olden time, for exorcising evil spirits.

Author’s Note.

To the two other ghost stories relating to the township of Godley—namely, the stories of “The Haunted Farm” and “The Spectre Hound”—I have thought it necessary to append a note of explanation. I now adopt the same course with regard to the story of “The Boggart of Godley Green.” I wish to repeat in this instance that nothing in the story must be credited to the imagination of the writer. All the details have been given to me by persons still living (May, 1906), who have resided in the house at one time or another, and who solemnly assert that they have seen the boggart, under the circumstances related in the above account. Their statements were given to me in the presence of witnesses, and it is impossible to doubt the earnestness and honesty of my informants.

I do not wish to cast any harsh doubt upon their statements, nor do I, on the other hand, desire to give it forth that I am a convert to the belief in ghosts and boggarts. I merely record the stories as told to me by people whose honesty I know to be above suspicion, and who firmly believe that they have seen the things they describe.

The houses and the fields and lanes mentioned in the three stories, as haunts of the ghosts, are all well known to me. I have walked over them alone, at all times of the night and day, and in all seasons. And with the house and grounds mentioned in the story of “The Boggart of Godley Green” I am especially familiar. The land behind the house dips down to a secluded valley; and the gate mentioned by the narrators as a favourite haunt of the ghost is half-way up the slope. It is overshadowed by tall trees, and in certain lights the darkness cast by these trees is peculiar, and almost palpable. Beyond the gate is a meadow, from which at certain times the mists rise thick and white. When seen through the trees the mist sometimes takes strange forms. My first experience of it was rather startling. I had been in the orchard alone one night, and when slowly walking up the rise I chanced to look towards the gate, and there in the gap between the trees appeared a white form, like the veiled and draped figure of a female. It seemed to be moving, and for the moment I received a shock. On proceeding towards the gate, however, I found it was nothing but a moving column of mist, framed by the thick foliage of the trees. Even then, by an abnormal imagination, it might have been taken for a spectre.

But although the mist might in some degree explain away the appearance of “The Boggart” at the gate, I must candidly admit that it does not account for the spectre hound, or the strange noises, movings of furniture, and openings of doors, recorded in the two first stories. These things are as much a mystery as ever.

Mythic Cheshire: The Spectre Hound.

Our monthly foray into Longdendale to find material for a saga book. There’s a barguest the size of a cow! Thanks to the reader, Tony Scheinman, and his Librivox production team.

NTIL the latter half of the nineteenth century there might have been numbered among the curious old buildings for which the township of Godley has long been famed, a low, old-world farmstead of the style that is now fast fading away. It was a small, picturesque building, and stood upon a portion of Godley Green, surrounded by a prettily laid-out cottage garden. Its occupants combined farming with other pursuits, and in one part of the building handloom weaving was carried on to a comparatively late period. The farm was pulled down, as already indicated, in the latter half of the nineteenth century; and a handsome modern residence has been erected near the site on which it stood.

There is a curious legend told about this old building. It is said to have been haunted; and the ghost, in the form of a spectre hound, is still supposed to roam at nights over the fields which were formerly attached to the farm. The legend runs that some persons were done to death in some mysterious fashion in the building; and that ever since, an evil spirit, in the shape of a great yellow hound, has haunted the neighbourhood. Old people who can remember the farm, state that in it there was a certain flag on the stone floor, which bore the stains of blood; and that no amount of swilling and scrubbing could ever remove the stains. What became of the stone when the house was pulled down is not known.

Many persons—residents in Godley, and others who have had occasion to be in the neighbourhood said to be haunted—have seen the spectre hound, careering over the fields and through the lanes during the night-time. The occupants of the adjoining farms have been awakened from their sleep in the dead of the night by the noises made by the cattle in the fields; and on looking from their windows have seen the terrified animals dashing wildly across the fields, chased by the horrible form of the great ghost-hound, which with hanging tongue, protruding eyes, and deep sepulchral baying, drove them round and round.

Children, returning along the country lanes from school on winter evenings, have seen the hound dash past, and have reached home well-nigh frightened out of their wits. Young lovers, walking arm in arm along the quiet lanes, seeking some secluded spot wherein to dream of love and happiness, have been put to flight by the spectre; and the more timid maids from the farms have been afraid to venture out after dark.

The wife of one of the farmers, when returning home one night, after delivering the milk in the neighbouring towns, was driving slowly along the lane past the site of the demolished farmstead, when the horse suddenly stood still, and began to tremble violently. At that instant the form of the giant hound, yellow in colour, with horrible staring eyes, sprang from the field, leaped over the fence into the lane, and with great strides like the galloping of a horse raced down the lane in the direction of a well which is sunk close to another farm. Full of fear the good woman reached home, and told her father what she had seen. The old man, merely shook his head, and said quietly:

“The yellow hound. So you have seen the yellow hound?”

“What is it—what does it mean?” asked the daughter.

“Some day I will tell you,” said he. “But not now. If you have seen it once, be sure you will see it again.”

Some time afterwards the old man himself came quietly home, and told his daughter that he, too, had just seen the hound.

“It was sitting by the edge of the old well,” said he, “looking into the water. Its eyes were staring wildly, and foam dropped from its lips.”

“What is it—what does it mean?” again asked the daughter.

But the old man only shook his head, and answered:

“Who can tell?”

Again the woman saw the hound in the fields of their own farm, and sometimes it appeared without head. A great hound it was, life-like enough at first appearance, but clearly a spectre, terrible to see.

Another lady saw the hound when she was a child, and several times during her life it has appeared before her. This is her narrative:

“The first time I saw it was in the lanes, when I was walking with a relation, older than myself. I was a child at the time, and although startled was not too frightened to think of trying to scare it away. As it kept pace with us, I looked out for some stones to fling at it; but my relative caught hold of me and said: ‘Don’t; you mustn’t throw at it, or it will attack us, and tear us to bits. It is the ghost-hound.’ Since then I have seen it several times. It is not a pleasant thing to meet, and I have no wish to see it again.”

Yet a third lady saw the ghost-hound between the years 1890 and 1900. “I was staying at —— Farm,” said she; “and I went down to the well to get some water. It was a winter night, and on a pool near the well was a strong sheet of ice. While the buckets were filling I went towards the ice, thinking to enjoy a slide. But when I reached the pool, there stood the hound. It was about the size of a lion, its skin much the same as a lion’s in colour, and it had eyes as large as saucers. At first I thought it must have been a lion that had escaped from Belle Vue, or from some menagerie; and as it came towards me I backed away. I was too terrified to turn and run, but kept my face to it, as I retreated. When I neared the house it disappeared. I shall never forget the sight as long as I live. It was a dreadful thing to see.”

A tradesman of Hyde—a fishmonger, who made a weekly journey round Broadbottom, and came homewards across Godley Green—once saw the spectre, and his story is equally sensational.

“It was as big as a cow,” said he, “its skin a light tan colour. I was walking down the lane with my basket on my shoulder, when suddenly I saw the thing beside me. It kept pace with me as I walked; if I stood still, it stopped, and if I ran, it ran also. I could not overtake it. I was not more than a yard from the hedge, and the ghost was between me and the hedge. I struck at it, but hit nothing; for my hand went clean through it as through air, and my knuckles were scratched by the hedge. My blood ran cold, and I was terribly frightened. Then it ran in front of me, and then came back, and passed me again; it did not turn round to do this, but, strange to say, its head was in front when it returned. As soon as it had passed, I took to my heels as fast as I could run, and it was a long time before I ventured down the lane again at night. When next I met the farmer whose lands were haunted by it, and whom I had formerly served with fish, he asked me where I had been lately; and I then told him I had seen the ghost. He replied that he and his family had seen it often; and that I must not be afraid.”

“Never mind about that,” I said. “You’ll have to do without fish at night, unless you like to fetch it.”

“It was the most hideous thing I ever saw. Its feet went pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, with a horrible clanking noise like chains. I wouldn’t meet it again for twenty pounds. I never want to see it again if I live to be a hundred.”

And so on, the different mortals who have seen this terrible spectre of the yellow hound relate their grim experiences.

The legend is that the ghost-hound must haunt the lanes and fields about the site of the old farmstead, until the crime for which it is accursed has been atoned for, when its midnight wanderings will cease, and the troubled spirit will find rest.

Author’s Note.

As in the case of the story of the “Haunted Farm,” I desire to state that I have not drawn upon my imagination for any of the incidents related in the account of “The Spectre Hound.” The story of the ghost came to my ears from the lips of a friend, and being filled with curiosity at so remarkable a story I determined to investigate it. For this purpose I saw and interviewed all the persons whose experiences are related in the story, and from them I received the substance and detail of the above account. They are all perfectly serious, and positively affirm that they saw with their own eyes the actions of the spectre hound as recorded.

Their statements were given to me in the presence of reliable witnesses; and my informants are still alive at the time of writing (May, 1906).

The fishmonger whose statement is given above is a well-known Hyde worthy, and I interviewed him at his own house on Thursday evening, March 29th, 1906. I took with me two friends—well-known public men of Hyde—as witnesses. My knock at the door was answered by the fishmonger himself. I told him who I was, and my object in calling—that it was about a ghost, a spectre hound—a great dog.

“Great dog,” said he; “why, man, it was as big as a blooming cow. Come inside.”

With that we entered the house, and he related the story which is recorded in the foregoing narrative. At the conclusion I suggested that the spectre might have been a cow.

The man shook his head.

“It was no cow,” said he solemnly. “It was a ghost. I never want to see the thing again if I live to be a hundred years old.”

Mythic Cheshire: The haunted farm

Our monthly return to Cheshire, to patch together a saga book. May I offer the ghost of a witch in a ruined cottage? Thanks to Doc DL Martin and her Librivox production team.

N the township of Godley, on the fringe of what was formerly an unenclosed common known as Godley Green, stands an old farm, stone-built, of picturesque appearance. It is pleasantly situated a short distance from the turnpike road, from which it is approached by a country lane. Its windows command some beautiful views over the farm lands of Matley and Hattersley, which stretch away eastwards with many a clough and dingle, to the bleak hill country where the old church of Mottram stands out dark against the sky. The farm is said to occupy the site of an ancient hall, and old folk tell of the remains of mullioned windows, and a curious antique mounting block, which were to be seen there in the days when they were young.

Tradition says that the farm is haunted. In former times it was occupied by a family, the last survivor of which was an old dame, who is spoken of by those who remember her as being the very picture of a witch. She is said to have had a nose and chin so hooked that they almost met; and to have been very mysterious in her movements. Rumour had it that there was some treasure or secret buried in or about the farm, and that after the old dame’s death, her spirit, unable to rest in the grave, commenced to wander through the farm at night, as though searching for something which was lost.

Various persons who have at different times resided in the farm—some of whom are still living,—have related strange stories of their experiences of the ghostly visitant. In the dead of night, the doors—even those which were locked—have suddenly opened, footsteps have been heard, as though some unseen being walked through the rooms and up the stairs, and then the doors have closed and locked themselves as mysteriously as they opened. Sleepers have been awakened by the beds on which they lay suddenly commencing to rock violently; and at times the bed clothes have been snatched away and deposited in a heap upon the floor. The ghostly figure of an old woman has been seen moving about from room to room, and then has vanished. Fire-irons have been moved, and have tumbled and danced about mysteriously; pots and pans have rattled, and tumbled on the floor; and there has been heard a strange noise as though some one invisible was sweeping the floor.

In the early and the middle decades of the nineteenth century, the appearances of the ghost were of frequent occurrence, so much so that the farmer’s family became accustomed to them, and beyond the annoyance and the loss of sleep which were occasioned, ceased troubling themselves about the visits. But for guests or strangers the ghost had terrors. The farmer’s daughter had a sweetheart, and one night he paid a visit to his betrothed, and sat with her before the kitchen fire. Suddenly there came a gust of wind, there was a noise as though every pot and pan in the house had been broken, and every door was flung wide open by a mysterious and invisible agency.

“What on earth is that?” asked the young man, full of surprise, not unmixed with terror.

“It is only the ghost of the old dame prowling about,” answered his sweetheart.

But the youth had seen and heard enough, and seizing his hat, he dashed outside and made off rapidly over the fields. Scarcely had he departed, when the doors shut themselves, and all was quiet as before.

Some time afterwards, the farmer engaged a farm-hand from a place beyond Charlesworth. The new man took up his abode and slept one night in the haunted farm. The next morning he came downstairs with blanched face and startled eyes.

“I have seen a boggart,” said he; “the ghost of an old woman; and I think it must be my mother. On her deathbed I promised her to place a stone upon her grave; I have been too greedy to spare the money for the purpose. It must be her ghost come to upbraid me; and I cannot rest until I have placed the stone above her grave.”

Never again would the poor fellow spend a night in the farm, but for years he walked to and from his home beyond distant Charlesworth and his work at the haunted farm.

Other farm-hands and servants were equally terrified by the strange noises and apparitions; and the farmer found it almost impossible to get anyone to remain long in his service. At length, so annoying did the ghost visits become that it was decided to call in the aid of some minister of the Gospel for the purpose of “laying the boggart.” The Rev. James Brooks—the respected pastor of Hyde Chapel, Gee Cross, from 1805-1851—was asked to undertake the task, and he readily complied. Accompanied by other devout men, he spent several nights in the haunted rooms, reading passages from the Bible, and uttering prayers specially adapted for driving evil spirits away. The ministrations of the reverend gentleman were so far successful that the ghost did not again appear for some time, and its visits have not since been of such frequent occurrence as formerly. It was widely believed that had Mr. Brooks continued his visits and his prayers long enough, the boggart would have been effectively “laid.”

As it is, the strange noises and visitations have continued, and are borne witness to by several persons. Between 1880 and 1890 the following strange thing happened. It was in the middle of the afternoon, when most of the household were out of doors, and there were only the farmer’s wife and a boy, and girl within the house. Presently the mother went into the yard, and the youngsters, bent on mischief, rushed into the pantry for the purpose of feasting on the jams and honey which they knew to be there, when lo! they were suddenly startled by a loud and strange noise overhead, giving them the impression that some burglars must have got in the upstairs rooms by some means or other. Full of fear, they rushed for their mother, who boldly went upstairs, the children following at her heels. When they entered the room from which the noise came, they beheld the curious sight of an old rocking-chair, violently rocking itself as though some person might have been seated in it, and the rocking continued unabated for a considerable time. A farm labourer, who was called in to stop the chair, was too terrified to do anything, and finally the farmer’s wife had to sit in the chair to stop it.

It is said that the old dame whose ghost haunts the place, died in her rocking-chair in that very corner of the room; and the belief was that it was her spirit, invisible to the inhabitants of the farm, which had set the chair rocking so mysteriously.

To add to the mystery and the uncanny character of the place, there is a certain part of the garden connected with the farm, on which nothing will grow. Time after time have the tenants endeavoured to cultivate this little spot, but always unsuccessfully. Some years ago human bones were dug up, and the secret attached to their interment is supposed to account for the sterile nature of the soil. The present tenant of the farm asserts that he has paid special attention to the piece of ground, has applied quantities of the best manure, and in other ways has endeavoured to bring the soil to the same state of fruitfulness as the rest of the garden, but all to no purpose. So recently as the month of April, 1906, primroses growing on that part of the garden are pale and withered; while those in other parts are fine and healthy flowers.

The present tenant’s wife relates a strange story of a supernatural death-warning which occurred in connection with this haunted house. Her brother lay ill in the farm, and she had occasion to go to Gee Cross on business. Returning homewards, she met a black cat, which, do what she would she was unable to catch. Then, whilst walking along the lane leading to the farm, in company with her mother who had met her, a strange thing happened. It was a beautiful summer night, hot and still; not a breath of air stirred the leaves upon the trees; and there was no sound. Suddenly the high thorn hedge on their right commenced to rock violently; and behind it there sailed along from the direction of the farm a female figure draped in white. The beholders were spellbound, and they entered the house with bated breaths. There they found that the sick man had just died.

The history of this haunted farm is but another testimony to the truth of the saying that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of by ordinary mortals. Things such as these are beyond human ken; and in all probability the apparition and the ghost-noises of this old farm house in Godley will baffle the wisdom and the cunning of generations yet unborn.

Author’s Note.

It is quite probable that the majority of those who read the foregoing account of “The Haunted Farm” will come to the conclusion that it is entirely the outcome of the writer’s imagination. I therefore hasten to explain that there is not a single detail in the account which has been imagined by me. Every incident recorded has been supplied to me by persons who have resided in the farm, and all that I have done has been to put them in the form in which they now appear.

Most of my informants are still living; indeed, I saw and interviewed four of them so recently as the last week in March, 1906. One of these was the old lady, who, as a young woman, was one of the lovers mentioned in the account; after her marriage she resided in the farm and is “the farmer’s wife” referred to, who witnessed, and stopped the mysterious rocking-chair. The other individuals, who were much younger, related to me the story of the strange noises, invisible footsteps, and uncanny opening and closing of doors, which they witnessed towards the close of the nineteenth century. They are persons of the most reputable character, and of social standing, and they solemnly assure me that the things recorded in the above article are literally true.

I also visited the farm in the month of April, 1906, and obtained from the present occupants their experiences, which are also embodied in the above narrative. The sterility of the “haunted” part of the garden I saw for myself; and can unhesitatingly testify that, from some cause or other, the flowers growing on it are quite withered and weak, whilst similar flowers in other parts of the garden are healthy and blooming. There is no apparent reason for this fact, inasmuch as the unfruitful portion of the ground is as advantageously situated as the rest of the garden.

Mythic Cheshire: The Devil and the Doctor

A further link in the chain of stories to create a story book set in Longdendale. Proof of a constant culture of magic in the valley. We have a story that will seem familiar to fans of early Americana. Thanks to RandyReads and their Librivox production team.

ONGDENDALE has always been noted for the number of its inhabitants devoted to the study of magic arts. Once upon a time, or to give it in the words of an unpublished rhyme (which are quite as indefinite)—

“Long years ago, so runs the tale,

A doctor dwelt in Longdendale;”

and then the rhyme goes on to describe the hero of the legend—

“Well versed in mystic lore was he—

A conjuror of high degree;

He read the stars that deck the sky,

And told their rede of mystery.”

Coming down to ordinary prose, it will suffice to say that the doctor referred to was a most devoted student of magic, or, as he preferred to put it—“a keen searcher after knowledge”—a local Dr. Faustus in fact. Having tried every ordinary means of increasing his power over his fellow mortals, he finally decided to seek aid of the powers of darkness, and one day he entered into a compact with no less a personage than His Imperial Majesty, Satan, otherwise known as the Devil. The essentials of this agreement may thus be described.

It was night—the black hour of midnight—and the doctor was alone in his magic chamber. He had long desired power sufficient to enable him to accomplish a certain project, and hitherto all means by which he had tried to secure that power, had been of no avail. Blank failure had attended every effort, and at last he had decided to make use of the most certain, yet withal most desperate, agency known to him. In other words, he would call up the Prince of Darkness, and ask his aid. The only thing which troubled the doctor was the thought that the price which Satan would demand, might be much greater than he would care to pay. But, after all, that was something he would have to risk.

He set a lamp burning on the table, and into a small cauldron hung above it, he poured certain liquids, which he mixed with certain evil-looking powders and compounds. Some of the items which he added to this unholy brew, appeared to have once been members of the human frame. But that, of course, was known only to the doctor. When the brew began to simmer, the doctor commenced to mumble certain strange incantations, which he continued with unabated vigour for the best part of an hour, without, however, eliciting any manifestations from the dwellers in the spirit world. At length, however, his patience was rewarded, for the light beneath his cauldron suddenly went out, the mixture within boiled over, and the vapour which rose from it, spread over the room until all the objects therein were hidden as though by a thick black cloud. Then, out of the cloud, came a voice, deep and terrible in tone, which caused the very building to rock as though an earthquake had occurred.

“Why hast thou summoned me from the shades, O mortal, and what dost thou require?”

The doctor gasped with awe, he almost felt afraid to address the dreadful spirit, which his own incantations and rites had brought from the underworld. At length he screwed up sufficient courage to proceed, and said:

“I would have the possession of certain powers, O, thou Dread spirit.”

“And of what nature are they?” asked the spirit.

Whereupon, the worthy doctor commenced a long explanation, into which we need not enter, setting forth his evil desires, and begging the Devil to aid him.

“Thou shalt have all that thou requirest, and more,” said the Devil when the doctor had come to an end of his requests; “that is, providing thou art prepared to pay the price.”

“And the price is?” ventured the doctor, trembling.

“The usual one,” said the Devil. “I have but one price, which all mortals must pay. On a day which I shall name, thou shalt wait upon me, and deliver up thy soul to me.”

“’Tis a stiff price, good Satan,” said the doctor in protest.

“’Tis the only price I will listen to,” said the Devil.

“Then I must een pay it,” said the doctor, seeing that further argument was useless, and, being by this time quite determined to have his desires no matter what the cost. “I agree,” he added. And there and then he signed the bond in blood, with a pen made from a dead man’s bone.

Satan pocketed the bond.

“Thy desires are granted,” said he. “Make the most of thy opportunities. One day I shall surely call upon thee for payment.”

Then, with a burst of mocking laughter, he disappeared.

The doctor seems to have enjoyed the results of the compact until the day drew near for the settlement. Then, indeed, he appears to have repented, But he was by no means a dull-witted individual, and in a happy moment he began to cudgel his brain for some way out of the difficulty—some plan of escape. Before long his face brightened, a gleam of hope shone on it, and at length he seemed to see his way clear. He received the formal summons of Satan with a knowing smile, and when the day at last arrived, set out in good time to keep his unholy tryst.

In the language of the rhyme,

“Now rapidly along he sped

Unto a region waste and dead,

And here at midnight hour did wait

His Sable Majesty in state.”

The Devil appeared, seated upon a coal black charger, which was of the purest breed of racing nags kept specially for the Derby Day of the Infernal Regions. Satan was very proud of his horse; he was open to lay any odds on its beating anything in the shape of horse flesh that could be found on earth.

Judge then of the Devil’s surprise when the Longdendale doctor offered to race him. (It should be stated that the doctor had ridden to the place of meeting on a horse which was bred in Longdendale, though the trainer’s name has unfortunately been lost).

At first Satan laughed at the impudence of the proposition, but after some little haggling, he at length agreed to the doctor’s conditions. The conditions were that the Devil was to give the doctor a good start, and that the latter was to have his freedom if he won the race.

“I am unduly favouring thee,” said the Devil; “I do not as a rule allow my clients a single minute’s grace when payment falls due, and I do not reckon to let them bargain as to other means of payment. But for all that, I do not see why I should not make merry at thy expense. I am not altogether as black as I am painted. And if it will give thee any comfort to imagine thou hast a chance of escape—why then get on with the race.”

Acting upon the above agreement, a start was made, and the course was along the road now known as Doctor’s Gate. The contest was most exciting. Prose can scarcely do justice to the occasion, but we will endeavour to give some account of the strange contest. The Devil good naturedly conceded a big start, for, of course, he felt quite certain of reaching the winning post first, and when the signal was given he went full cry in pursuit. Away the coursers sped like wind, the doctor riding with grim countenance, and teeth firmly set, ever and anon casting an anxious look behind him, and now looking as anxiously in front. Meanwhile the Devil rode in approved hunting fashion, with many a loud halloa, which made the very mountains shake as though a thunder peal was sounding. His horns projected from his head, his cloven feet did away with the necessity for stirrups, and he lashed the flanks of his coal black charger with his tail in lieu of a whip.

Slowly but surely the Devil gained upon the doctor. Inch by inch the black steed drew nearer the Longdendale hack, until at length the Devil, by leaning over his horse’s head, was able to grasp the tail of the doctor’s horse. With a loud burst of fiendish laughter, Satan began to twist the tail of the Longdendale horse, until at last the poor beast screamed with pain and terror. This greatly amused the Devil, who twisted the tail all the harder, so that the doctor’s horse, goaded almost to madness, plunged along faster than before, and in its fright took a mighty leap into a running stream which dashed brawlingly across the path. All too late Satan saw his danger; he held on to the beast’s tail and tugged with all his might. For a second, the contest hung in the balance, and the result seemed doubtful. But luckily for the doctor, the tail of the horse came off—torn out by the roots—the Devil’s steed fell back on its haunches, and the doctor’s charger plunged safely through the flood, and gained the opposite bank. Then the doctor gave a great shout of triumph, for according to the laws of sorcery—laws which even the Devil must obey—when once the pursued had crossed a running stream, the powers of evil lost all dominion over him.

Thus by a combination of skill, cunning, and good luck, the Longdendale doctor outwitted the Devil. Some profane mortals state that when he found himself victorious, the doctor turned towards the Devil, and put his fingers to his nose as a sign of victory, while the Devil, sorely disgusted, rode off to hell with his tail between his legs, vowing that the mortals of Longdendale would have no place to go to when they died, for they were too bad for heaven, and too clever for hell.

Author’s Note.

The road known as “The Doctor’s Gate”—mentioned in the above story—runs across a portion of Longdendale. In reality it is part of the old Roman road from Melandra Castle, Gamesley, to the Roman station at Brough in the Vale of Hope.

With reference to the main incident of this legend, the following quotation from Sir Walter Scott will be found of interest:—“If you can interpose a brook between you and witches, spectres, or fiends, you are in perfect safety.”

No date is attached to the legend.

A slight delay

I’ve had COVID for the past two weeks and I’m not over it yet, so there will be some delay in transcripts being available. Sorry for that.

Venice’s Faerie Market : The Maskmakers

In the depths of the market is a shop with a narrow frontage. It has a single mask, of a gilded gorgon, above the door. It has eyes made of red glass which seem to follow everyone in the street. People say that no-one has ever tried to steal anything from this store. People say if they did the mask would…do something. Move? Turn them to stone? Scream the hideous wail of the gorgons? Stories vary. Some street vendors deliberately set up within sight of the gorgon, and it is said that pickpockets also avoid this street.

Euryale

Euryale, “far traveler”, sister to Medusa and Stheno, came to Venice decades ago. She knows a goddess of wisdom is stirring in the spaces behind the city’s reflection. She needs to know if it is her enemy, grey-eyed Athena. Euryale wants to kill Athena in to avenge for her sister. Medusa was cursed by the Goddess of Wisdom and murdered by her champion. Euryale hides her terrible face behind a mask of her terrible face, and waits.

Gorgoneion

The gorgoneion, the mask of the gorgon, is used by Venetians as a charm, particularly as a protection for children. It is thought to cause evil spirits to flee, as they lack the bravery to meet the gorgon’s gaze. In Venice, where mask spirits possess some of the participants in Carnivale, the gorgoneion forces Brave checks in those who view it. Those who fail are too shocked to think or move voluntarily, but do not literally become stone. They may make a new Brave check every ten minutes and can be, for example, led away by hand. Euryale can cause this effect through her mask, or remove it to unveil her terrifying face.

Blood from the left side.

A drop of blood from Euryale’s side cures most diseases. It is consumed when used, which differs from Medusa’s blood, that persisted when used, presumably due to Athena’s meddling. It contains Creo vis.

Blood from the right side.

A drop of blood from Euryale’s other side is a deadly poison. Again, Medusa’s blood continued to be toxic regardless of how many times it was used. This may make folklore skill checks inaccurate.

Brazen wings

Euryale has metal wings that fold out of her back, tearing through her clothes. These allow her to fly slightly slower than a human of great endurance can run.

Scream

Euryale’s discordant scream was the inspiration for Athena’s creation of the flute. Screaming allows Euryale to extend the range of her terrifying power, but in a crowded area like the City it would cause mayhem.

Euryale: the leather mask maker

Faerie Might: 25 (Mentem)
Characteristics: Int +1, Per +6*, Pre –3, Com 0, Str 0, Sta 0, Dex 0, Qik +3
* Due to Dozens of Eyes power.
Size: –1
Virtues and Flaws: 2 x Greater Faerie Powers, 4 x Increased Faerie Might, Faerie Sight, Faerie Speech, Hybrid Form; Incognizant, Small Frame
Personality Traits: Vengeful +3, Perfectionist +1
Combat:
Brass Claws*: Init +2, Attack +5, Defense +7, Damage +2
*On the rare occasions when Euryale leaves her shop she covers these with gloves. This is why she makes the leather masks and Gabriella makes the papier-mâché ones: Gabriella lacks claws.
Tusks: Init +3, Attack +7, Defense +6, Damage +5
Serpent Hair: Init +2, Attack +8, Defense +5, Damage +1*
* Euryale’s serpents reach the middle of her back so they can only attack targets close together. Theoretically, she has 18 snakes able to strike at any time on her head, although usually she only uses three at a time. See also the Venomous bite power.
Soak: 0
Wound Penalties: –1 (1–4), –3 (5–8), –5 (9 –12), Incapacitated (13–16) Dead (17+).
Pretenses: All suitable for role. Includes Craft: Maskmaking 9 [leather], but can only follow traditional forms or creates commissioned work: is unable to originate designs. Brawl 3 (humans),
Powers:
Deadly Visage: 1 point, Init –2, Terram: (4 intricacy points on cost) The gorgon can
transform into stone any person or animal which see her face. Creatures so changed revert to life if the gorgon dies or is stripped of its Might. Note this differs from the usual roleplaying idea that the gorgon’s eyes hold the power to kill.
(Base 25, +1 Eye, +4 Until. Yes, “Eye” is used in the scaling as an approximation of “being seen”)
Dozens of Eyes, 0 points, constant, Animal: The gorgon has dozens of pairs of eyes, which scan her surroundings, in all directions, constantly. This grants her extraordinary Perception. Enthralling Sound, 3 points, Init 0, Mentem: A gorgon can utter the scream of the dead, which sounds like discordant flute music. This creating terror in those who hear it. The low hissing of her snakes can create the same effect.
Flight: 0 points, Init +3, Terram: Natural power of hybrid form.
Venomous Bite, 0 Points, Init 0, Animal: When the gorgon’s hair attacks, compare its Attack Advantage to the victim’s armor Protection (not his Soak). If the gorgon’s advantage is higher, the victim suffers the effects of adder venom as listed in the Poison Table on page 180 of ArM5,
regardless of whether the bite inflicts an actual wound. The storyguide may adjust the required Attack Advantage for special circumstances. Euryale keeps an antivenin nearby, as leverage. This is a power of the gorgon’s Hybrid Form, and does not need to be paid for with the Personal Faerie Power Virtue.
Vis: 5 Creo or Perdo depending on which side it is drained from.
Appearance: A n elderly woman, who has a lsight forward bow in her spine. She has a hideously deformed face with scales and tusks. Snakes replace her hair. Her fingers are replaced by brass claws.

Gabriella: the papier-mâché mask maker

The Venetians find privacy alluring. The most seductive of their masks is a featureless void. They posit that the face beneath the gorgoneion must be too beautiful for words. The lady who seems to do little but make the finest masks must have a passionate inner life, and secret loves. Stories draw faeries, and so now there is a second mask-maker. Her name is Gabriella, and she’s at the edge of many parties.

Gabriella works in the Merceria but she is also seen in its shops and stalls, a mixture of craftswoman and noblewoman that can make sense only in a rich city like Venice . Her mask is also a gorgoneion, but lacks tusks. She calls Euryale “mother” but most of the people of Venice do not know there are two mask-makers as Euryale rarely leaves her store, so as not to be seen by the agents of the rising power. Gabriella does not have wings, but sometimes fails to notice she needs them, leaping unlikely distances. This was an attribute of her “aunt” Stheno, and again this may cause confusion to folklorists.

Gabriella

Faerie Might: 25 (Mentem)
Characteristics: Int +1, Per 0, Pre +6, Com 0, Str 0, Sta 0, Dex 0, Qik +3
Size: –1
Virtues and Flaws: 2 x Greater Faerie Powers, 4 x Increased Faerie Might, Faerie
Sight, Faerie Speech, Hybrid Form; Incognizant, Small Frame
Personality Traits: Secretive (which in Venice is basically the same as “alluring”) +3, Delighted +1
Combat:
Brawl (grapple): Init. +3, Attack +3, Defense +0, Damage n/a
Scissors and determination: Init +3, Attack +2, Defense +2, Damage +0
Gabriella’s snakes vary in length from short bangs at the front to extremely long serpents that pour down her back and coil at her waist, where they pretend to be a gilded leather belt. She can theoretically bite a person eighteen times simultaneously, but only if they are grappled.
Soak: 0
Wound Penalties: –1 (1–4), –3 (5–8), –5 (9–12), Incapacitated (13–16) Dead (17+).
Pretenses: All suitable for role, Includes Craft: Mask making 9 (papier-mâché) , but can only follow traditional forms or creates commissioned work: is unable to originate designs. Brawl 4 [humans)
Powers:
Note that Gabriella does not have the Dozens of Eyes power.
Flute-like sound, 3 points, Init 0, Mentem: Gabriella’s vocalization is stunningly beautiful, rather than terrible. It does not affect the tone deaf, and has a stronger effect on those with above average musical appreciation of skill. Given her poor Brawl skill, this makes it much easier to bite people.
Deadly Gaze: 1 point, Init –2, Terram: (4 intricacy points on cost) Gabriella can transform into stone any person or animal with which she makes eye contact. Creatures so changed revert to life if she dies or is stripped of might.
(Base 25, +1 Eye, +4 Until)
Lack of Gravitas: 0 points, Init 0, Corpus: Gabriella sometimes does not obey gravity as strictly as other people. It’s not as useful as flight, and she doesn’t seem to notice she’s doing it.
Venomous Bite, 0 Points, Init 0, Animal: When the gorgon’s hair attacks, compare its Attack Advantage to the victim’s armor Protection (not his Soak). If the gorgon’s advantage is higher, the victim suffers the effects of adder venom as listed in the Poison Table on page 180 of ArM5,
regardless of whether the bite inflicts an actual wound. The storyguide may adjust the required Attack Advantage for special circumstances. This is a power of the gorgon’s Hybrid Form, and does not need to be paid for with the Personal Faerie Power Virtue.
Vis: 5 Mentem, a mask
Appearance: A noblewoman or rich crafter of Venice. Always wears a gorgon mask, without tusks. Has a hair-veil over golden ropes of hair that seem to stir in a wind that is not there. Wears a lot of brass sequins, especially on her gloves.

Mythic Cheshire : Four Longdendale Covenant Sites

There are four sites near Longdendale that seem obvious as covenant locations. These are suitable either for player characters or, if they are settled in this area, a rival covenant.

Highstones

The simplest of the four suggested settings is at Highstones. This location was a Roman “fortlet”, a sort of waystation between the large fortress at Melandra and one further into the land of the Briganties. Where that was isn’t currently known but was possibly at Penistone. Highstones is in the deeply-wooded Longdendale valley. My notes say it is close to the manor house at Tintwhistle but to me it looks closer to Crowden.

The site is along the Roman road that runs up through the peaks, used to carry salt east. Characters here would do better to have an inn than a castle. The path over the peaks takes more than one day and the traditional starting point is Edale, and the first night stop is Crowden. Folkloristicaly there are five inns on this road.

When designing the fortlet my initial idea was to use the floorplan of a milefort. Mileforts are fortified gateways which the Romans placed along the two walls that separated off what’s now Scotland. The fortlet doesn’t have the tremendous cost of a full fort: but it’s small enough that the magi may have to place their sancta carefully. The space is roughly a square 50 meters across. The aura may be even smaller than this. There’s a small record for it

https://historicengland.org.uk/listing/the-list/list-entry/1019061

Melandra Castle

Melandra Castle was a Roman fortress laid out in the traditional grid. The modern name suddenly appears in the record just after the site is rediscovered by an antiquarian. Archaeology seems to indicate a Celtic name like “Ardotalia”. It is on a Roman road that leads south to a fort called Navio near modern Brough. The road, in the modern day, is called Doctor’s Gate, which isn’t a period name. “Gate” in this sense is a Scandinavian word meaning “road”.

In 1220 it may have a small castle on it, but an alternative suggestion is that it was a royal hunting lodge. There are not a lot of peasants around a hunting lodge, but there are foresters and their families. Similarly there’s not a lot of cropland directly adjoining, but trade is possible with nearby supplements. This gives a larger Aura space and the possibility of Roman spectral armies.

Mouselow Castle

This is a Celtic hillfort which predates Melandra and it faces across a valley. It’s too small for the standard Roman camp layout, which may be why it was not reused. Local folklore says there were burials, either under cairns on the summit or beneath the entire mound. It also says the two castles used to rival each other: Romans in one and Celts in the other, or in a more recent version of the story from the “Legends of Longdendale” the Romano-British on one side and the Saxons on the other. The land between the two is said to be haunted by the warriors of each side. This space has some ready made defences, dry moat trenches, and plot hooks based on burials.

In 1220 it’s agricultural land that is difficult to plough because of the hillfort ditches. Characters could access it trivially.

Beeston Castle

When Ranulf de Blondeville gets back from the Holy Land in late 1220 he discovers that the king’s men are vacuuming up all of the spare land they can, so he decides to build three castles simultaneously on his larger properties. The one in Cheshire is at Beeston. Oddly he never lives there, nor do any of his heirs. The whole place is run by his constable, who lives in the gatehouse: this castle never has a keep.

Here we have a rich nobleman with something he wants: a castle. As an added bonus his design suits basic Terram magic better than many other castles. Beeston Castle still exists, and it’s on a rock outcrop with cliffs on three sides. His plan is to cut a trench through the fourth side and throw up walls and a gatehouse on the approach. The player characters might even be responsible for the sharp cliff faces: that’s simple Perdo Terram. It has some of the deepest wells of any castle in England. In real life they were dug but a magus could ignore the Minecraft rule of never mining directly down to carve a cylinder into the rock. There’s a piece or land that looks remarkably like a landing spot for flying animals in the inner ward. De Blondeville brings an architectural idea back from Egypt: the D shaped towers on his curtain walls are hollow so they can’t provide cover for besiegers who take the wall. For Terram magi that makes the towers a twisted wall rather than a Structure, and are thus easier to make.

One of the Major Site Boons in Covenants is a Natural Fortress and it is suitable here.

This covenant is all but unassailable because of peculiar geography that limits attackers to a single line of advance. A covenant in Scotland, for example, is sited on a headland that has sea cliffs on three sides. Only a curtain wall and a stout gatehouse are needed to retain it. Covenants in similarly defensible positions should take this Boon, which includes the defensive works used to secure the single direction of possible mundane attack. – Covenants p. 7.

When I wrote it I was thinking of Tantallon Castle in Scotland, but it suits this place as well. The art on English Heritage shows the benefits of the site.

https://www.english-heritage.org.uk/visit/places/beeston-castle-and-woodland-park/history/

Mythic Cheshire: The Wehr Wolf

Let’s keep running around with a butterfly net through the folklore of Cheshire, grabbing things to use in a setting. There’s a local magical tradition of multi-form shapeshifting witches. Thanks to Brian Fullen and his production team for this recording. This is a pretty simple style of magic to create statistics for: the person gets a single score and as it increases they gain additional shapes. You can make it more difficult by using the Art advancement table instead of the usual Ability table. You can also make experience dependent on Initiations if necessary: it depends on if you want the witch in a companion or magus slot.

LOSSOP, which in the Doomsday survey was reckoned as part of Longdendale, was granted by William the Conqueror to his natural son, William Peveril—Peveril of the Peak,—whose descendant was disinherited by Henry II. for procuring the death of the Earl of Chester by poison, when the township reverted to the Crown. King Henry, however, being on a military expedition to North Wales, became acquainted with the monks of Basingwerke, and in return for their friendship and attention he bestowed the township upon Basingwerke Abbey.

A road which crosses a portion of Longdendale is known as The Monk’s Road, and is so called because the Monks of Basingwerke are said to have made and used it. On the wildest part of this road stands a large stone, hollowed out in the shape of a rude seat, which is said to have been the seat of the Abbot of Basingwerke, who periodically held open-air court on that spot. The stone is known as “The Abbot’s Chair.”

On a certain day in the reign of good King Henry, the Abbot of Basingwerke sat in state upon the stone seat of “The Abbot’s Chair.” He was holding a court for the receipt of all his rents and tithes, for the dispensation of justice in that part of his possessions, and for the purpose of hearing any petitions which the people might wish to make. To him came an old dame, full of woe and misery, and almost blind with the falling of bitter tears. Her tale was enough to melt the stoutest heart. She had an enemy, and the enemy was a woman who dabbled in witchcraft. Through the agency of evil spirits, this witch had brought death upon the old dame’s husband and on all her children, so that now she was all alone in the world, and knew not where to look for shelter or for bread. It was said, also, that the witch possessed the power of changing her shape, appearing now as a woman, now as a man, now as an animal or bird, so that it was almost impossible to catch her and bring her for punishment.

The Abbot of Basingwerke, on hearing the story, was very angry. He first relieved the distress of the poor woman, and then pronounced an awful curse upon the wicked witch.

“May the hand of Heaven fall upon this wicked mortal,” cried the Abbot, “and in whatever shape she be at the present moment, may that shape cling to her until justice has been done.”

“THE ABBOT’S CHAIR.”

Then he prophesied that ere long the righteous wrath of heaven would fall upon the witch, and that a bitter death would assuredly be her portion. And the old dame went away satisfied.

Now it chanced that that very morning the witch had changed herself into a wehr-wolf, and was even then prowling about the forest in search of victims. And by further good luck it happened that good King Henry II., who was on a visit to the Baron of Ashton-under-Lyne, was out hunting in company with his son, Prince Henry, the Lord of Longdendale, the Baron of Ashton, and other noblemen and knights of the district, The Royal party hunted chiefly in the forests of Longdendale, which were noted for wild boars, deer, and game of every description. And inasmuch as it was customary at a Royal hunt for every portion of the forest to be explored, and all the game therein, great and small, driven forth before the hunters, there was—providing there was any efficacy in the Abbot’s curse—every prospect of the wicked old witch being immediately laid by the heels. On former occasions when she had assumed the form of an animal, it had always been easy for her, if pursued, to fly into the nearest thicket, and there resume her human shape, or else to suddenly disappear altogether. But if the Abbot’s curse took effect and compelled her to remain in the garb of a wehr-wolf, then it was almost certain that she would meet her doom before the sun set.

The hunt proceeded, and the huntsmen met with good sport, but the chief success of the day fell to the lot of the Lord of Longdendale, who slew “several horrible British tigers,” and after a tough struggle succeeded in killing the largest wild boar which was ever seen in Cheshire.

Prince Henry, who was a valiant youth, was desirous of imitating the exploits of the Lord of Longdendale, and accordingly he repaired to a gloomy part of the forest in search of some worthy adventure. Here, to his great surprise, he was suddenly set upon by a fierce old wehr-wolf, which, taking him unawares, seemed likely to put him to death.

BASE OF CROSS ON THE MONKS’ ROAD.

At the first assault the Prince’s steed, by swerving as the wehr-wolf sprang, luckily saved the rider, and Prince Henry was enabled to bring his hunting spear to bear upon the beast. He drove at it, and although he succeeded in piercing its side, so that it cried out horribly—more like a human cry than a beast’s, said the Prince, when he afterwards came to recount the story of the combat—yet it seized the spear handle in its forepaws, and with a snap of its great jaws broke the spear clean in two, so that the Royal huntsman was left almost defenceless. He drew out his long hunting-knife and buried it to the hilt as the beast sprang at him, but though he fought bravely and long, the terrible thing succeeded in pulling him from his horse to the ground. Here the Prince gripped the beast by the throat, but his strength was much spent, and it seemed almost certain that he must succumb. Fortunately, however, he had been followed at a distance by the Baron of Ashton, who arrived upon the spot just in time to turn the fight, and to engage and finally slay the wehr-wolf.

Great honour was, of course, bestowed upon the Baron of Ashton, and the carcase of the wolf was taken in triumph to the Castle at Ashton-under-Lyne. Upon the beast being opened, its stomach was found to contain the heads of three babes which it had devoured that morning.

Much talk then ensued as to the unusual fierceness shown by the wehr-wolf, and the Prince again and again asserted that at times the cries of the beast were most human in sound. A forester, also, on hearing of the exploit, came forward and gave some strange testimony.

“May it please your highness,” said he, “I was to-day lying in a doze beneath the greenwood, whither I had crawled to hide, the better to enable me to watch and ambush certain forest marauders who interfere with the deer, when I was suddenly startled by a strange noise, and, on looking through the copse, beheld a wehr-wolf tearing at its own skin as though it desired to cast it off, even as a man discards his clothes. And the thing screamed and moaned piteously, and it seemed to me that a woman’s cracked voice, muttering wild incantations, emerged from the beast’s throat. Upon hearing which I was sore afraid, thinking I was bewitched by the evil one, and I fled.”

Divers others had also strange tales to tell of the wehr-wolf’s actions, and that same evening, on the Abbot of Basingwerke coming to dine with the Royal hunting party at the hall of Ashton-under-Lyne, it was proved beyond doubt that the wehr-wolf was none other than the wicked witch.

Thus was the curse of the Abbot speedily fulfilled and justice meted out. Needless to say that witch was never seen again.

Mythic Cheshire: The Magic Book

The collection of interesting trivia around Cheshire continues. A magic book, a likely regio, and a bound spirit. Thanks to Nick D and his Librivox production team.

HERE is a spot prettily situated near the town of Glossop, known as Mossey Lea. It is notable as having been the home of a great magician, who dwelt there in the olden time, and who was renowned far and wide. He was, perhaps, the most learned and powerful of all magicians who have lived since the days of Merlin, but unfortunately his name has been forgotten. Such is fame.

So renowned was he in his own day, however, that pupils came to him, not only from all parts of England, but even from across the seas. These pupils desired to be inculcated with the mystic lore, and invested with the same degree of skill in the exercise of the magic arts, that their master possessed. Accordingly they left no stone unturned in their efforts after knowledge—that is to say, they were not over-particular as to the means they adopted to secure the end they had in view. They strove to impress upon everyone with whom they came in contact, their vast superiority to ordinary mankind, and generally they proved a big nuisance to the country side.

But there were two of these pupils who were especially curious; they were constantly prying into nooks and corners which were labelled “private”; they were ever meddling with business that did not concern them. By some evil chance, the magician fixed upon these two pupils to act as his agents for the transaction of some business in a town in Staffordshire, and to bring back with them a very remarkable book, which dealt with magic, and which was, moreover, itself endowed with magical powers. Thus the two luckless youths became all unwittingly the heroes of the following Longdendale tradition.

History—as is often the case in these legends of the olden time—has forgotten to record for us the names of the two notable youths, hence we are driven to the necessity of naming them ourselves, in order to distinguish them from each other. So we call one Ralph and the other Walter. It has already been said that they were two curious youths, ever ready to pry into things; and on the night preceding their journey, they indulged in this pastime to the full.

While they were at supper the magician had bidden them to repair to his private chamber ere they retired to rest; and having entered therein, they were treated to the information already recorded—namely, that they would have to make a journey on his behalf, transact some business, and bring back with them a magic book—with the addition of the following piece of advice and warning.

“Look to it that ye heed what I now say,” said the magician; “for by the shades, ’tis a matter of mighty import. Ye shall get the book, and ye shall jealously guard it. On no account shall you open it. More I do not vouchsafe to you, but remember my warning. Open not the book at your peril. Now get ye to rest, for to-morrow you must een start with the rising of the sun.”

The youths left the room looking very solemn and good, with many promises that they would faithfully remember their master’s charges, and what was of more consequence, that they would act upon them. But for all that they did not retire to rest. When they reached the passage leading to their apartment, Ralph said to Walter:

“What thinkest thou of this quest of ours? Is our master treating us fairly in thus keeping secret this matter? We have paid a high fee for tuition in magic, and here he sends us on our first quest, and we are een to know nothing of the mission on which we go.”

“Thou art right,” said Walter. “’Tis most unfair, and methinks our master has in view the acquisition of some potent power. If we engage in the quest, it is but fair we should share the spoil—the knowledge to be gained.”

To which Ralph added, “I am with thee, comrade. And I would know more of this business before I start.”

Here he whispered to his companion, and the latter nodded his head in acquiescence. After which the two stole together in silence to the door of the magician’s room, and in turn set their eyes to the key-hole, whilst their ears drank in every sound.

The magician was seated before a crucible, muttering certain incantations which are as foreign language to the unlearned. But the two students understood the meaning of the sentences quite well, and the result of their eavesdropping appeared to give them satisfaction. When the magician made signs of coming to the end of his labour, they skipped nimbly away, and sought their beds, chuckling triumphantly as they ran.

It is not to the purpose of the legend to dwell upon the incidents of their next day’s journey. Suffice it to say that on that day they were early astir, that they went gaily upon their way, and in due course received the magic book from its owner. Then they set out on their homeward journey, looking very good and innocent until they were well out of sight. But withal both determined to see the inside of that volume before the day was over.

Soon they came to a lonely part of the country, and here they sat down, intending to gratify their curiosity.

“If there is knowledge contained within, then am I determined to drink of the well thereof, and become even one of the wise.”

So spoke Ralph, and Walter also said:

“And I am of a like mind, comrade. So bring hither the book, and let us fall to.”

They placed the thick volume upon their knees, and quickly undid the handsome clasp which held the sides together, when, lo! a veritable earthquake seemed to have come upon the scene. The ground shook, houses tottered, walls and fences fell down, a tremendous whirlwind arose, which uprooted trees and tossed the forest giants about like little wisps of hay. Even the students were terrified at the result of their curiosity, and as for ordinary mortals, why there is no describing the panic in which they were thrown.

When the luckless students recovered from the first shock of astonishment, they could only bemoan their folly in discarding the warning of so potent a magician as their master, and they were filled with dread as to the punishment they would receive when next they stood before him.

“Of a truth we are undone,” said Ralph; “our master will never more trust us.”

“We are like to be beaten to death with the tempest,” said Walter “Who can stay the power of this evil Spirit, that our mad curiosity has thus let loose?”

Now, luckily, the magician no sooner beheld the tempest than he at once divined the cause of this hubbub of the elements, and with commendable promptitude he proceeded with all speed to the spot where the students lay with the magical volume. Arrived there, he pronounced an incantation, and then by magic means known to himself alone, rapidly stilled the tempest, which the ill-timed curiosity of his pupils had brought forth. In the words of the old chronicle, he “laid the evil spirit, commanding him as a punishment to make a rope of sand to reach the sky.”

Which venture no doubt had a salutary effect upon the spirit, for there is no later mention of any similar antics on its part. We may conclude from this circumstance, that the spirit has found the task assigned it as a punishment, greater than it can discharge, and that it is still labouring away at the sand rope, which is not much nearer reaching the sky than it was when the work first begun.

Venice’s Faerie Market: Doctor Eligius Caul, the bookseller

Eligius Caul is a faerie-blooded human whose book arcade acts as a navigational aid and safe harbour within the Merceria. A tall, shy man, Caul spends a great deal of time spinning tall stories to convince people to visit his book arcade. It’s three stories high and has a beautiful rainbow over the broad entrance. Caul truly doesn’t care if you buy his books. He’d like it if you did but if you just want to go to his store and read all day he doesn’t mind. There are wicker chairs for just such a purpose throughout the building.

Caul’s choice of the rainbow as his symbol is deliberately provocative. He hopes that every time people see a rainbow they think of his bookstore. The Church has appealed to the city to say this is sacrilegious, because the rainbow is God’s. The City has chosen not to intervene, because Caul paid good money for permission before he put his entryway up and the Church is too poor to bribe the right people. Player characters may be involved in this scheme as negotiators. The front door also has automatons of two galley rowers, whose strokes seems to power a sign that displays a wheel of signs: aphorisms and exhortations to enter. Actually they are powered by a simple water wheel, but its cleverly hidden.

Caul’s store is absolutely huge. It’s a block wide and three stories high. The first storey is the new books, the second storey is used books, and then third storey is filled with fascinating things. He hires musicians to play, singers to perform, and procures strange objects from distant ports to fascinate. He particularly loves automata and his fine collection is on display here. His third floor wonders include a xylographic printing press but how he gets his blocks carved is a secret he keeps. He has a parrot trained to extol the virtues of reading and another who swears in foreign languages. There is also a cage of apes who don’t do much, but force people who look at them to have strange religious epiphanies concerning their higher calling. The glass roof is held up with shining brass columns, and the upper levels have a huge light well through their centre. There’s a small flat above the store where Caul lives, but he spends a lot of time on the city’s streets.

Plot hooks

Garden

Somewhere in the building there’s a garden where people can have ombra, the little drinks and snacks Venetians so like. Not even Caul is sure where it is compared to the rest of the building but most people find if you open a door with sufficient determination the wine bar is behind it. Caul has ceased noticing that he does this, which can make following him through the building confusing, as he uses the garden as a short cut between distant places. Occasionally it even has a door to the street, but it’s not absolutely clear which street, so stepping out might be foolish. If you’re running an isekai story, characters from other times and worlds can walk into his building through the street door of the cafe and be trapped in Mythic Venice.

Caul feels terrible about this and offers them jobs, which is why some of his staff look unusual, even for a cosmopolitan city like Venice. Caul’s staff wear smart red jackets and armbands with his store’s name and rainbow logo upon them. His staff never pressure anyone to buy anything. Their tailored clothes are unnecessarily good for clerks. There are also rather more of them than there need to be.

One of his clerks does the terrible jobs, because he embezzled from Caul. Rather than sending him to the magistrates Caul has kept him on, and takes a little of the stolen money from his wages each week. This clerk is ridiculously loyal to Caul, and may take matters into his own hands if he believes the store or the owner’s family are at risk.

Coins

Caul’s staff are instructed to scatter bronze coins about the place when they are headed to and from work. This is made more difficult by the streets being made of water, but they do their best. Each coin has a symbol of a palm tree on one side and a few words from Caul on the other. Some are aphorisms extolling Caul’s eccentric beliefs, like the equality of all peoples or the universal truth of all religions. Others offer small gifts in exchange for returning them to the bookstore. Some are used as entry tickets when the store has a rush on. Every so often Caul informs Venice that he has put something truly remarkable on one of his tokens. He then hides it in the city, or the bookstore, or doesn’t strike it at all, and merrily watches people hunt for it. The prize does get given away eventually, but Caul, like Saint Nicholas, is not beyond throwing a coin through a needy person’s window.

Some people wandering the Merceria deliberately carry one of Caul’s coins. It’s rumoured that provided you have one, you can’t be properly lost, because the store will peek out at you from behind unexpected corners. Using a coin this way always seems to make it vanish, even if it is not spent upon arriving at the book arcade.

Flight

Caul is fascinated by flight and has a flying machine, which cannot work, that he sometimes displays. Magi who offer him a true flying machine would interest him extremely.

Funny Picture Books

Caul does not age. He attributes this to his Funny Picture Book which is a collection of engravings, witticisms and moralizing. His belief that laughter is literally the best medicine seems to work for him, and for some of his employees. Player characters may discover that’s why so many of them never leave: their terminal illnesses are held at bay by copies of his Funny Picture Books, which have greater effect in his store.

Caul is certain that if his book was funnier, copies have a more powerful medicinal outside his shop. He is always collecting jokes for his next edition. He holds joke competitions to harvest more. He pays for new witticisms, so some of the poorer children of Venice make a living scrounging the town for humorous incidents.

John Smith

For many years Caul has claimed that his books are delivered from Alexandria by sea monster. This is, of course, a tall tale, but it needs to be dealt with when a sea serpent arrives at the customs port in Chioggia asking to see him. The serpent’s name is John Smith and he is wearing Caul’s rainbow logo on his coils. Smith is rumored to be a bachelor who has failed to commit to several mermaids he courted, and they might also make life difficult for his employer.

The Lucanese Merchants

One of Caul’s favourite ways of drumming up business is by spreading pamphlets with odd ideas and hoaxes in them. He’s a bit embarrassed by his one about the Laucese, a people from the north who have tails. He printed copies of a letter from an explorer in a remote Alpine valley about how these people had greater sensual and spiritual sensitivity because of their tails. Tails were a nuisance, what with the added grooming and jewelry, but were useful for many manual crafts. Caul then touted a business on the Lido, the Lauco-Homo Search and Expedition Company, where people could invest to hire a troupe of Lauc to perform in the capitals of Europe. He did call it off before any one actually gave him any money, to avoid fraud charges. He’s doesn’t know how a ship of Lauc merchants appeared in the harbor, claiming to have sailed from their mountainous home. He’s certain they don’t exist because he made them up: their name is his spelled backward. What to do about them now they are here is a difficult question. Has he a moral responsibility to them? Are they, in some moral sense, his children?

Marriage

When Caul decides to marry he seeks a wife by posting out copies of a detailed letter, discussing his personal flaws and the virtues of the woman he’d like to be married to. During this time many women come to his shop and, in the mistaken belief that his floor manager, Cuttleworth, is Caul, embarrass the poor fellow by getting him to reach for books in ways that make his arms and buttocks tense, allowing them to check out what they believe to be on offer. Caul gets many humorous replies, including a notebook of noble ladies of negotiable virtue, which might be a story hook for blackmail.

One reply is serious and Caul has trouble finding the lady because, on the day she visits his store, he chickens out and hides in his flat. Eventually she leaves him a note saying she’ll be at the top of the street at noon in a hat with a rose, and they marry after having a walk in which they compare a series of what I, as an autistic person, feel are their neurodiverse traits. His wife absolutely loathes the idea of living in a palace and demands they keep to the flat above the shop, even when their family grows large. In Venice this may be because his wife is a faerie of the market, perhaps some new type derived from the Venetian fashion for women reading in the vernacular language.

A historical note

Caul is based on a real person, Edward Cole, who had a book arcade in Melbourne at the turn of the 20th Century. His Funny Picture Books are real, but I’d like to note that some of the material in them is racist by modern standards and a lot of it simply isn’t funny. Cole, as his biographers note, would be mortified to think he caused offence by accident, as he wrote several books on the immorality of the White Australia policy, and annoyed the Church tremendously by suggesting that Jews, Christians, Muslims, Hindus and followers of Shinto were doing the same thing. I’ve called him Caul because that’s the Latin translation of his name, and because he was born with a caul. This means, in Ars Magica terms, he’s not able to drown, which is more useful than usual in Venice. I did try to tie him in with the character of Aitken Drum, but couldn’t quite get any of that to fit. Ifyou’d like to give him green boots, so that they look like they are made of cabbages, I’d prefer that.