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ALAN GARNER
A Bag of Moonshine
Illustrated by Patrick James Lynch
for
Wilfred Lancaster
and for Joshua Birtles
Fred Wright
Tom Turnock
Dafydd Rees
IN MEMORIAM
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Jack My Lad
Mr Vinegar
Grey Goat
Tom Poker
Jack and the Boggarts
Mollyndroat
The Three Gowks
A Fat Hen
Jack and the Beekeeper
The Salmon Cariad
Wicked Sparrow
Billy Bowker’s Mowing Match
Hom Bridson
Cocky-keeko
Jack Hannaford and the Gold to Paradise
Todlowery
Johnny Whopstraw and the Hare
Belenay of the Lake
Alice of the Lea
Harry-cap and the Three Brothers
A Bag of Moonshine
Loppy Lankin
Also by the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
“– it is in the speech of carters and housewives, in the speech of blacksmiths and old women, that one discovers the magic that sings the claim of the voice in the shadow, or that chants the rhyme of the fish in the well.”
JOHN MARUSKIN
Jack My Lad
Jack was boy that sold buttermilk, and one day, as he went along, he met a witch.
“Jack, my lad,” said the witch, “sell me a bit of your buttermilk.”
“No,” said Jack. “I shall not.”
“If you don’t,” said the witch, “I’ll put you in my sack.”
“No,” said Jack. “Not a drop,” said Jack. “You can’t have any; and that’s that.”
So the witch put Jack in her sack, the sack on her back, and set off for home. After a while, she said, “Eh up. I was forgetting. I’ll want some fat to fry with.”
“Then you’d best let me down, missis,” said Jack, “and go fetch your fat. I’m too big to carry to the shop.”
“If I do that,” said the witch, “you’ll run away.”
“No, I’ll never,” said Jack.
The witch saw some men who were cutting a thorn tree; and she said to them, “Just you keep an eye on this sack for me while I go fetch some fat to fry with.”
“Right you are, missis,” said the men. “We’ll keep an eye on your sack.”
So the witch left the sack with the men, and off she went to fetch her fat.
As soon as she was gone, “Now then,” said Jack. “You let us out, and I’ll give you some buttermilk.” Well, the men let Jack out, and he gave them some buttermilk, and he said, “I know what. Fill this here sack up with the thorns you’ve been cutting, and I’ll get off home.”
So the men filled the sack with the thorns, and Jack went home. And along comes the witch with the fat, takes the sack full of thorns, sets the sack on her back, and off she goes.
Well, it wasn’t long before those thorns began to prick her, and the witch, she said, “I reckon you’ve got pins in your pocket, Jack, my lad. I mustn’t forget to take them out when I’m frying.” But when she got to her house and opened the sack and tipped the thorns on to a clean white sheet, she said, “Well, I’ll be jiggered! Jack, my lad, I’m going to catch you, and then I’m going to boil you; and that’s a fact.”
The next day, Jack met the witch again.
“Jack, my lad,” said the witch, “sell me a bit of your buttermilk.”
“No,” said Jack. “I shall not.”
“If you don’t,” said the witch, “I’ll put you in my sack.”
“No,” said Jack. “Not a drop,” said Jack. “You can’t have any; and that’s that.”
So the witch put Jack in her sack, the sack on her back, and set off for home. After a while, she said, “Eh up. I was forgetting. I’ll want some salt to boil with.”
“Then you’d best let me down, missis,” said Jack, “and go fetch your salt. I’m too big to carry to the shop.”
“If I do that,” said the witch, “you’ll run away.”
“No, I’ll never,” said Jack.
The witch saw some men who were digging a hole; and she said to them, “Just you keep an eye on this sack for me while I go fetch some salt to boil with.”
“Right you are, missis,” said the men. “We’ll keep an eye on your sack.”
So the witch left the sack with the men, and off she went to fetch her salt.
As soon as she was gone, “Now then,” said Jack. “You let us out, and I’ll give you some buttermilk.” Well, the men let Jack out, and he gave them some buttermilk, and he said, “I know what. Fill this here sack up with the stones you’ve been digging, and I’ll get off home.”
So the men filled the sack with the stones, and Jack went home. And along comes the witch with the salt, takes the sack full of stones, sets the sack on her back, and off she goes.
Well, it wasn’t long before the stones began to rattle, and the witch, she said, “My lad Jack, your bones do crack!” But when she got to her house and opened the sack and tipped the stones on to a clean white sheet, she said, “Well, I’ll be jiggered! Jack, my lad, I’m going to catch you, and then I’m going to roast you; and that’s a fact.”
The next day, Jack met the witch again.
“Jack, my lad,” said the witch, “sell me a bit of your buttermilk.”
“No,” said Jack, “I shall not.”
“If you don’t,” said the witch, “I’ll put you in my sack.”
“No,” said Jack. “Not a drop,” said Jack. “You can’t have any; and that’s that.”
So the witch put Jack in her sack, the sack on her back, and set off for home. And when she got to her house, the witch said to her cat, “Just you keep an eye on this sack for me, while I fetch sticks for the fire.”
The witch left the sack with the cat, and locked the door behind her while she fetched sticks for the fire.
As soon as she was gone, “Now then,” said. Jack. “You let us out, and I’ll give you some buttermilk.” Well, the cat let Jack out, and he gave it some buttermilk; and after that, he filled the sack with every pot in the witch’s scullery. Then he ran up the flue, down the roof and all the way back to his own house.
The witch came in with the sticks. She lit the fire, opened the sack, tipped the pots on to a clean white sheet, and broke them every single one.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” said the witch. “Jack, my lad!” she shouted up the chimney. “Keep your buttermilk, you great nowt! And never again come near me!”
And he never did.
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