Читать книгу Collected Folk Tales - Alan Garner, Alan Garner - Страница 10

Brownie was a type of goblin that lived in and around the farmhouse. He would often work for the people on the farm, but he had an unpredictable temper, and sometimes, as in this story, he was much more trouble than he was worth.

here was a brownie once who got above himself, and thought that because he stacked the hay (if he felt like it), and cleaned up in the kitchen (if it wasn’t too mucky), the whole farm belonged to him. He was for giving the farmer marching orders.

Of course farmer will have none of that, so brownie makes a great to-do at night, and it’s half a day’s work regular to clear up after him around the house. Well, then farmer gives over leaving milk out in a saucer by the hearth; and so it goes from bad to worse.

Anyway, brownie must have the big field, he says, and they chunner and chunner, calling each other all the names, so as women have to cover their ears for language. Anyway, it’s left that farmer will do the work, and they’ll share the crop half and half between them.

When Spring comes, farmer says, “Which will you have, tops or bottoms?”

“Bottoms,” says brownie.

So farmer plants wheat, keeps the grain for himself, and gives brownie the roots and stubble.

Next year, farmer says to brownie, “Which will you have, tops or bottoms?”

“Tops,” says brownie.

So farmer plants turnips, and brownie is left to make what he can of the leaves.

He’ll have none of it the next year: not tops or bottoms: he will not. Corn, says brownie, that’s what it must be, and the field divided in half, and brownie and farmer to have a mowing match, winner keep all.

July next, farmer goes to the blacksmith and has ever so many thin iron rods made, and he plants them all over brownie’s half of the field.

Anyway, they start mowing at daybreak. Farmer walks through his patch, up and down, sweet as a comb, but brownie’s snagged like I don’t know what.

“Mortal hard docks, these: mortal hard docks,” he keeps clacking.

Anyway, after an hour of this the rods have knocked the edge from his scythe and it’s as blunt as a plough handle, and brownie is right borsant.

Now in a match, mowers take time off together for sharpening up; so brownie calls to farmer, “When do we wiffle-waffle, mate?”

“Oh, about noon, maybe,” says farmer.

“Noon!” says brownie. “I’ve lost my land!”

He drops his scythe, and he’s never seen on that farm again. And no wonder.