Don't Count Your Chickens

'Henwife'. Taken from the Luttrell Psalter c. 1330

Don’t Count your Chickens

I can often be heard saying that there are no new tales in the world and we storytellers simply grow new corn from old fields. We take those old tales and make them our own. We impose our culture and our beliefs on them and in that way they travel around the world. Don't Count Your Chickens is a story that is a good example of this, because it is an ancient tale in both the East and the West. In the East more often than not the main character is a young man who is the fantasist, but in West it is a woman who plays the fool (Although even here there are exceptions like Johnny Wopstraw and the Hare) There are then many different versions of this tale, some of which can be found in the Hindu Hitopadesa, The Arabian Nights, Rablais Gargantua and La Fontaine’s Fables. Enjoy...

Once there was young woman who was fair of face and soft of thigh and a girl who had many an admirer. But she cared little of the attentions of local lads, for with a purse full of naught but head full of dreams she was a flibberty gibbit. A lass who was never in the here and now, for she was always in next week, next month, next year… For she was a girl who always wanted more….

Well once a year she had to take her honey, or rather the honey of her mother’s bees she kept in her small garden to market. Once a year she carried that precious load from her mother’s hives to the autumn fayre to sell. The girl trudged the long road to market and as she walked on this fine late summers day with the pot of honey set with a basket upon her back, she began to dream of how she would spend her mother’s profits, the coin from the sale of the honey….

First, she thought to herself, I will sell my honey and this very day buy me a dozen fine and goodly eggs And I shall take those twelve eggs home and set them under my mother’s fat brown hen, and in time they will hatch and I shall have me a dozen little fine and goodly chicks. And when those chicks become chickens, perhaps two cockerels and ten hens, I shall sell them all and buy myself some fine and goodly lambs. And when those lambs become sheep, I shall shear their backs of wool. Fine and goodly wool it shall be. Wool to be spun into fine and goodly threads. Fine and goodly thread to be woven into fine and goodly cloth. That’s it yes, she thought, fine and goodly wool, which will bring a fair price at market and so lots more coin. And with that coin I shall buy myself some fine and goodly cows and they shall feast upon the lush, fine and goodly grass in the churchyard and their milk it too shall be fine and goodly and folks shall travel from miles around to buy my milk and I shall be rich!

And so it was she dreamt of how she would become richer than her neighbours, how she would, be able to marry the handsome son of a Lord from here or there or even somewhere else for that matter. How she would live in a fine house and marry her fine and goodly sons, all twelve of them to fine and goodly wives and how they would sing and dance each night to beat of the tabor and fine and goodly pipe….

But the young woman who fair of face and soft of thigh was so taken with her fine and goodly thoughts that she really did begin to dance… skipping this way and that, clapping her hands to the beat… she leapt into the air so high that suddenly the jar of honey was thrown from her basket. It flew high into the air and along with her dreams was smashed upon the floor. For want of honey she never did get her fine and goodly eggs, nor her two cockerels and ten hens, her sheep with fine and goodly wool, her cows, her handsome husband, twelve sons and their fine goodly wives. All were all lost. All were left naught but a sticky mess upon the road.

No Tale to Tell

Inside the Cardinal's Hat, Norwich!

No Tale to Tell
Adapted from an Irish Story

The nights are drawing in and so its time for all storytellers out there to turn their attentions to those darker Devilish tales. Tales like this one, although all you storytellers spare a thought for all those who do not have a story; men like the Pedlar you'll meet below who didn't have a tale to tell....

Once long ago there was Pedlar who went from town to town, village to village and house to house selling his wares, crying, what do you lack, what do you lack, what will you buy from the pack on my back... wherever he went. And one day he came to Norwich walking here and there, there and here, from Ber street to Bishopsgate bridge, from Westwick Street to Whitefriars and on the market place as well, selling his wares.

But times were hard in the City. It was winter, food was short, prices were high and plague was rife and carts loaded with bodies were carted to mass graves to be buried with out care or much in the way of prayer. Whilst others suspected of the great pestilence were nailed up in their houses to await their doom. And so it was the Pedlar did little trade and with little coin in his pouch and winters icy grip reaching deep inside him, he went from inn to alehouse seeking a cheap bed for the night. And after many wrong words his search brought him to the Cardinals Hat, an inn well known for harboring all manner of rogues and knaves . A house of ill rule if ever there was one! The landlord was a giant of a man, red faced and roaring but with smile in his eyes that put the Pedlar at his ease.

He told the Landlord of his needs and the landlord smiled, he sat the Pedlar down and fed him upon hot soup and ale heated with a poker fetched from the fire. He offered the Pedlar a bed free of charge for the night, for all the landlord wanted in return was a story. A story from the Pedlar. But the Pedlar did not have a story. Why even my own story is of little worth, says he, I was born, I was raised and I took to the road like my father and his father before him, and so I have no tale to tell. But the landlord merely laughed. He patted the Pedlar upon the back, lit a candle and led him to a room. Have the bed anyway, says he as he bowed to the Pedlar and bid him goodnight.

Well the Pedlar was well pleased with his room and the bed was the softest he had ever slept in and soon he was drifting off to sleep. But there was a noise, feint at first, a tap, tap, tapping upon the window pane. The Pedlar peered over the covers and saw nowt and so thought it must be a branch from a tree swaying in the wind, for the weather had worsened and there was snow on the way. And the Pedlar thought the tap, tap, tapping so annoying, he would sleep very little that night. He rose from his bed, he padded to the window and opened it to see what he could see. He peered into the darkness but could see no tree nearby, he saw nothing.... Save only a hand attached to the ragged remnants of an arm.... A hand pointing at him. The hand grabbed the Pedlar taking hold of his throat it dragged him through the window, the nails tearing at the flesh of his neck and now another and another hand, many hands took hold of the Pedlar taking his hair, his arms, his feet, dragging him to a churchyard nearby.

And there in the churchyard was pit half dug with a great pile of bodies mouldering nearby. A spade leant against a nearby tree and hanging from its branches was a winding sheet flapping in the breeze. A winding sheet waiting a body to wrap tight. The hands pointed into the pit and a voice that came from void said, Dig. And other voices they too whispered, dig, dig, dig, as the hands pushed the Pedlar into the unfinished grave. To say the Pedlar was scared could not do his feelings full justice, for he was terrified and he knew that the winding sheet flapping on the tree was his, but still he dug. Seeing no way out he dug and he dug and he dug his sobs mingling with the melancholic cawing of crows; crows who sat upon the tree and cackled like old crones, laughing at the poor Pedlar forced to dig his own grave.

The Pedlar dug for what seemed an age whilst the snow fell heavily, making the sides of the pit cold and slippery to the touch. The Pedlar stop crying, resigned now to his fete. But the crows they too had ceased their scathing mocking calls and the whispering cries of, dig, dig, dig, they were no more. The Pedlar set the spade across the top of the hole and pulled himself up, eyes half closed terrified of what he might see. But he saw nowt except the thick snow laden clouds passing across the moon. The hands were gone. The Pedlar slowly pulled himself from the grave and crept through the graveyard making his way towards the gate set in the churchyard wall in front of the porch. Closer and closer he crept as silently and as slowly as he could. Feeling for the gravestones he got closer and closer... But a hand from nowhere took hold of his leg, then another and another. The Pedlar screamed tearing the hands from his body . He threw himself through the gate running as fast as he could towards the Inn, not looking back he leapt onto a cart that sat beneath the open window of his chamber and from the cart he leap towards the window, hooking his fingers over the ledge, pulling himself up. Heaving his aching body into the room, he slammed the window shut, he crawled into the corner of the room and curled up like a frightened child...

And that is how he remained for the rest of the night. Sitting with head between his knees and arms wrapped about him, rocking backwards and forwards until the sun began to rise, the cock crowed and there was a knock at his door that set him jumping again. The Pedlar got to his feet and slowly, very slowly he opened the door just enough to peep through and there was the innkeeper before him. The Pedlar broke down and sobbing he told the red faced man all that had happened in the graveyard, of the crooked crows, hurtful hands and the winding sheet waiting for him. And the Innkeeper looked at the Pedlar still with a smile in his eyes, except now it was a wicked smile. His face that too was much redder than before and now the Pedlar saw that he had hooves for shoes, hairy legs for trousers and a tale that lish lashed, lash lished behind him. For the Innkeeper was the Devil himself, the biggest rogue, the biggest knave of them all. Last night when you came to my Inn, says the Devil to the Pedlar. You told me that you did not have a tale to tell. Well, says the Devil to the Pedlar, well says he.... You have now!

A late medieval tale-The Friar and the Butcher

This is Lady Fortune or Fortuna as the Romans knew her and I have a copy of this very image on one of the backdrops that hangs inside my storytelling tent. She stands blindfold behind her great wheel, unable to see, unswayed by age, gender, wealth or status...

She turns the wheel. A great wheel that we all ride upon. That's right, you are sitting astride her wheel right now. You may not know it, but you are on there and you are all subject to it. For some will be having good luck and so are riding high upon the wheel. But others among you are having bad luck and are descending as I write. It is the way of things....

And so it was in times past, especially in stories And that's the reason I have a copy of it in my tent, for there isn't a story that I can think of where the the fortunes of one character do not influence the misfortunes of another; as this my first story of many will surely show...

The Friar and the Butcher
Adapted from an early 16th Century French Tale
One of many tales from the late medieval period that mocked religious men for their greed

Once there lived a grey friar. A man of the Franciscan order. A man who was supposed to lead a simple life, but who instead followed his belly. He was a stout fellow who was as big in the middle as he was tall; so large was he that his habit would have covered three of the leaner Brothers of his order.

Once, the fat friar journeyed with a fellow friar, a lean, serious man who followed the rule of his order to the letter and was a bit dull for all that. They were traveling to the great friary at Norwich, but nightfall came and so they sought lodgings at the house of a butcher and his wife. Their home was small, most travelers would have slept in the barn, but the butcher’s wife was a pious woman who held their order in high esteem. So instead, she guided them up stairs to the bed chamber. The bedchamber of the woman and her husband, but tonight it would be where the grey friars took their rest.

Downstairs the butcher returned from the market. He was a gruff man and a completely different cut of meat to his goodly wife. For he was a man who cared little for friars or monks and believed that they lived far to well for men of God, besides the butcher was more concerned with putting food on the table than with worrying about heaven or hell. So great was his dislike of such men that he called his two pigs, his ‘fat grey friars’ for he saw very little difference between them. The thin friar climbed into bed and was soon asleep, but the fat friar didn’t, for he had noticed that all that separated the chamber above from the kitchen below, were thin wooden boards, badly joined and desired to hear the talk between husband and wife and perhaps, a little more! So he set his ear to the boards and listened.

The butcher having no suspicion of his guest upstairs talked to his wife about the following day’s work. Wife says he, Wife. Tomorrow we must go to our fat grey friars, for I have noticed that one of them is very fat indeed. We will kill him, salt his flesh and sell it at market. Then the butcher laughed, for he knew his words would upset his pious wife. But she did not laugh, for she had warned him on many occasions that no good would come of his insults. For she felt certain that if he kept calling his pigs ‘fat grey friars’, then he would have the wrath of God upon him. And the fat grey friar upstairs did not laugh, for hearing the butcher’s words and believing them to tell of his own doom, he leapt into the bed and trembling with fear, confessed to his lean brother all that he had heard.

The thin friar began to moan, for although he had no fear of death he was not yet ready to give up this life. They couldn't leave by the door lest they pass through the kitchen where the butcher now lay; they must escape through the window, for as the thin friar said, We shall suffer no more grievous a death by falling than we would by being gutted by the butcher. The thin friar lowered himself from the window and dropped lightly to the ground, but then he ran away as fast he might. The fat friar, seeing he had been left to his fate, leapt from the window without care; landing with a mighty thud and much swearing besides, for he had broken his leg. And now the butchers dog began to bark, but the friar couldn’t walk let alone run and so it was he crawled to the only hiding place nearby, a pigsty and prayed that help might come.

Dawn broke, and it found the butcher and his wife already up. The butcher's wife cooking breakfast, the butcher sharpening his biggest knife! He bade his wife to come with him, so that she might help kill their fattest pig; the ‘fat grey friar'. Once again his wife warned him that no good would come of his insults, but the butcher just laughed and as they arrived at the pig sty, he called out… Come out, come out master grey friar for it is my fixed intent this very day to taste your chitterlins. But it was not a pig that came out of the pigsty this day, instead it was the fat grey friar crawling on his hands and knees and begging for mercy… Please don’t kill me, he pleaded. Please don’t salt my flesh and sell it at market.

But the butcher did not reply, for the butcher was no longer there, for if the friar was in great terror for his life, the butcher was in no less and it seemed that he did indeed have the wrath of God upon him. And so the butcher ran and ran and he ran. Some say that he ran to the nearest priory where he spent the rest of his days praying for his eternal soul.Some say that he ran until his feet were but bloody stumps and he fell over. But there are others who say that after a while he stopped running and realising his mistake he took to sea, had many adventures and was responsible for introducing the sausage to Italy!

The end

Welcome to a world of wonder...

Geoffrey Chaucer - from the Ellesmere MS circa 1400

Welcome to this this the third of my new blogs (See links & blogs) The first being about my life as a storyteller and the places that I tell, and the second about my earlier job as an historical interpreter.

As you will see from the profile on my other storytelling blog, I have had a varied career, but have been traveling the land and telling stories for a living for over six years. I like to think that I wander the land, bringing wonder wherever I go. A wandering wonderer by trade! I specialize in historical tales from England, although many of these were influenced by much earlier tales from the Middle East and other far off lands that were brought over by sailors and soldiers during the times of the crusade and later exploration. The stories vary from five minute silly 'gests' that were popular in Tudor times, to the thirty minute epic based on Saxon and Viking myth or Medieval Arthurian Legend. I tell something for everyone, from the serious to the sad, to the silly and many a bawdy tale beside. Stories that would make even Chaucer himself blush! And like Chaucer I have adapted earlier tales to suit a modern audience. For like all storytellers..

I Grow New Corn From Old Fields!

All the different types of tale I tell will be included in this blog, although you must understand that the written versions do not do the told versions justice - Stories I think are best heard. That said, I hope you enjoy this selection of my tales, some of which are old favourites of mine whilst others here have yet to be told. So..

Harken Unto My Words & Hold Your Tongues For I Have A Blog To Write!