Long ago, when Parcurnow was still a harbour of importance west of Hayle, and Treen was remembered as a market town, there lived in a lonely place called Chyannor a man named Tom. He had a wife, whose name has been lost, and a daughter called Patience. Tom was a working man. When there was farm labour to be had, he took it. When there was none, he went streaming for tin on the moors near his dwelling. But the ground was deep, the tin was poor, and the labour brought him little reward. At last, between the tilling season and harvest, he gave up his small working, gathered what tin he had won, and carried it down to Treen market. In those days, Treen was a busy place. Woollen weavers, rope makers, and basket makers lived there, and fisherwomen came to buy the creels that were said to be better than any others in the west. In the marketplace stood a great holy stone, broad and flat as a table, with shallow hollows worn into its upper face. Into these hollows the stream tin was poured for sale or exchange. Tom placed his tin on the stone and asked after news from the east. There he met merchants from Market Jew, who had brought goods by vessel to Parcurnow, when the harbour was still clear of sand and the tide ran deep along the channel. They told him that work could be found near Praze an Beeble, a short day’s journey from Market Jew. Tom exchanged his tin for leather and other things, drank cider with the merchants, then went home to tell his wife. “One must be a fool,” said he, “to stay and starve here, when a few days’ walking may bring a man to plenty. What dost thee think, wife?” His wife knew his mind was already made. “Well, good man,” she said, “thee wilt always have thy own way, whatever one may say. If thee hast a mind to go eastward for work, go. I and the maid will stay and get our living here. But do not go for a day or two, so I may put thy clothes in order and bake a cake for thy road.” Tom agreed. For three days he made ready. His tools were mended, his pick and beat axe repaired, and he went about the neighbourhood wishing folk well until his return. The young women kissed him, and the older women kissed him too, and all warned him to take care in Market Jew, where many a good man had been carried away and never heard of again. At last the morning came. His tools, clothes, and provisions made a heavy load, so his wife and Patience went with him for some miles, carrying what they could. They came to a public house at the place where the roads met, which in later times was called Catchall. There they drank together, though their hearts were heavy. “Mind our only child,” Tom said to his wife. “Patience is but fifteen.” There was kissing, crying, wishing of good luck, and then they parted. Tom reached Market Jew before dark. It was the largest place he had ever seen, and as it was Whitsun market, the streets were full of streamers, traders, pilgrims, pleasure seekers, and merchants. Tin was being sold by measure. Foreign goods were changing hands. The noise and bustle bewildered him, yet he found a lodging in a quiet house outside the town and set out early the next morning. He crossed barren hills and deep bottoms, passed through wild thickets, waded strange streams, and kept walking eastward. He went over Roost Common, through Colenso and Chypraze, across Godolphin hills, and onwards over Crenver Downs. Near sunset he came to a farmhouse called Penthoga. He knocked at the door. “I have travelled from the far west seeking work,” he said, “and would be glad to lodge in your barn tonight.” The mistress of the house opened the door and looked kindly on him. “Come in, good man,” she said. “Lay down thy burden and sit at the board.” The farmer welcomed him too. “What cheer, stranger?” he cried. “Sit beside me, and when supper is done, we will hear the news from thy country.” The mistress brought ale, and the farmer heaped Tom’s trencher with meat pie. Tom ate heartily, then turned to his host and said: “This is a house of plenty, master. I wish you wanted a servant.” “What work can thee do?” asked the farmer. “All sorts,” said Tom. “Farm work or moor work. Give me board like this to keep up my strength, and I’ll turn my back for no man.” The farmer soon saw that Tom was simple, honest, and willing. They struck a bargain for two pounds a year. Tom served him well. In winter, after supper, the men told old drolls and carded wool by the fire, while the mistress and her maids kept their spinning wheels moving until each had spun her pound of yarn. The women knitted Tom warm stockings, mended his clothes, and washed his linen. All in the house liked him, and he liked the house. When the first year ended, the farmer brought out two pounds and laid them on the table. “Here are thy wages, son,” he said. “But if thee wilt give them back to me, I will teach thee a piece of wisdom worth more than silver.” “Give them here,” said Tom. “Keep thy pennyworth of wit.” “No,” said the farmer. “Give them to me, and I will tell thee.” Tom grumbled, but at last pushed the money back. “Take it then,” he said. The farmer leaned forward. “Never lodge in a house where an old man is married to a young woman.” Tom thought it a thin bargain, but the year was done, and another bargain was made. At the end of the second year, the farmer again laid two pounds on the table. “Here are thy wages,” he said. “Give them back, and I will teach thee another piece of wisdom.” “No, by dad,” said Tom. “Hand them here. I do not want thy pennyworth of wit.” But the farmer would not yield. “Give them to me,” he said, “and I will tell thee a piece of wisdom worth more than strength.” Once again Tom surrendered the money. Then said the farmer: “Never leave an old road for a new one.” Tom served a third year. By then he thought often of his wife and Patience, and he longed to return home. When his term was ended, the farmer brought out two pounds again. “Here are thy wages,” he said. “But give them back, and I will teach thee the best wisdom of all.” “No,” said Tom. “I have wit enough to find my way home.” “Thee wilt need it more than ever on that road,” said the farmer. “Give me the money, and I will tell thee.” Tom sighed and handed it back. The farmer said: “First, never swear to anything seen through glass. Second, be thrashed twice before content once. This last is the best wisdom of all.” Tom understood little of it, but he had learned to respect his master. When he said he would leave at once, the farmer held him back. “Do not go today,” he said. “My wife bakes tomorrow. She shall make a cake for thy wife, and a meat cake for thee to eat on the road.” So Tom stayed. The farmer’s wife was sorry to lose him. “Before thee goest,” she said, “thatch the hen house and the duck’s shelter for me, and I will give thee a charm stone for thy daughter. It shall be worth more to her than gold or jewels.” Tom did as she asked. When the work was done, she gave him a small smooth stone, shaped like an acorn, pierced through so it could hang from a cord. It seemed only a piece of dark rock, but the woman said it had great virtue. “Let thy daughter wear it,” she told him. “If ever her husband, or any other, contends with her, let her put this stone in her mouth and keep her lips closed, lest it fall. It will save her much trouble.” She tied it around Tom’s neck so it would not be lost. On Tuesday morning, Tom took his leave. The farmer gave him the cake for his wife. “Eat it when you are most merry together,” he said. The mistress gave him food for the road. “Good luck go with thee,” she said. “Come again, for thee wilt always be welcome here.” Tom set out towards the west. After many miles he met three merchants of Treen driving packhorses laden with wool from Helston fair. They knew him at once. “What cheer, Tom?” they cried. “Where hast thee been all this long while?” “In service,” said Tom, “and now I am going home to my wife.” “Come along with us,” said the merchants. “Right welcome thee shalt be.” They travelled together until they reached Market Jew. There the merchants meant to lodge in an inn they knew well, and they urged Tom to stay with them. But when they reached the place, Tom saw that the hostess was young and fair, and he asked to see the host. The merchants laughed. “What dost thee want with the host? There is the hostess, young and hearty enough. But if thee must see him, he is in the kitchen.” Tom went in. By the fire, sitting on a three legged stool and turning the spit, was a feeble old man, bald headed and bent. Tom remembered the wisdom he had bought. “This is no inn for me,” he said. “I will lodge next door.” The merchants pressed him to stay for supper, and he did. But afterwards he went to the house beside the inn, where there was no bed to spare, only a pile of clean straw in a garret beside a wooden partition. Tom lay down there. Now the young hostess of the inn had long tired of her old husband. She was fond of a tall red haired man who idled about Market Jew, courting landladies, drinking where he could, and doing no honest work. That night she saw her chance. Tom, unable to sleep because of music and noise below, lay awake in the garret. Around midnight, when all had grown still, he saw light through a small hole in the partition. Looking through, he saw the young hostess speaking with the red haired man. “I am sick of the old fool,” she told him. “He is good for nothing but turning the spit, and a small dog would do that better. Tonight is the time. Take this handkerchief, wind it round his throat, and twist it tight. Leave the rest to me. I will put the blame on those three West Country merchants sleeping here.” The man hesitated, but she flattered and urged him, spoke of love, money, and the house he might gain. Then she gave him brandy to strengthen his courage, and he went below. In a few moments he returned. “It is done,” he said. “The old man stirred once and murmured, ‘Do not hug me so close, my dear.’ Then I tightened the cloth, and it was over.” The man reached for bags of money hidden near the partition. As he bent close, the skirt of his coat brushed the hole. Tom caught hold of the cloth with one hand, drew his knife with the other, and cut away a piece. He meant to stay awake and guard the merchants, but tiredness overcame him, and he fell asleep. Before dawn, the young hostess ran through the streets crying for vengeance. She tore her clothes, loosened her hair, and called to the mayor, saying that three West Country villains had robbed her, dishonoured her, and murdered her dear husband in the night. The mayor was a man who loved speed more than justice. He ordered the crier to summon the town, chose a jury, and had the three merchants dragged from their beds in irons. Before the people of Market Jew, the hostess told her false tale, weeping, sighing, and calling on the saints. The doctor, who had seen the dead man, had doubts. “The body is cold and stiff,” he said. “The old man has been dead for many hours. Why did she not raise the alarm sooner?” “I fainted from the wickedness done to me,” she replied. “I woke only now to my grief.” That satisfied the mayor. The merchants protested their innocence, but they had no witness except a tinner who had travelled with them, and they did not know where he was. “That will not stand here,” said the mayor. “I sentence all three to hang.” At that moment Tom came running into the court. “Hold!” he cried. “Do not murder three innocent men.” All turned to look at him. “That woman caused the death of her husband,” said Tom. “And the deed was done by a tall red haired fellow with a pimpled face, wearing a coat of this colour.” He held up the piece of cloth he had cut from the coat. The mayor demanded to know how Tom could speak of such things. Tom told all he had seen through the hole in the partition, and how he had cut the cloth from the murderer’s coat. The officers were sent out. They soon found the red haired man in a drinking house and brought him back. His coat was turned, and there in the skirt was a torn place where Tom’s cloth fitted exactly. In his pockets were found two bags of gold. The mayor, being as quick to condemn one as another, said: “It is clear now. String them up at once. The man and the woman, I mean.” The merchants were freed, and they thanked Tom as a man thanks another for his life. When they left Market Jew at sunrise, they passed the jail and saw the wicked pair hanging there, so they turned their eyes away and hurried on. By noon they came to a public house and rested. The merchants wished to give Tom something for saving them, but he would take nothing. “It was only by a cat’s jump that you were not hanged,” he said. “Let us go on. I am thinking of my wife and child.” So they set off again and came to the foot of Trelew Hill. There, since Tom had gone eastward, a new road had been made. It looked easier for the horses, and the merchants were for taking it. The old road climbed steeply through a rocky lane. “Come with us, Tom,” said they. “This new road will save labour.” “No,” said Tom. “I have bought wisdom that tells me never to leave an old road for a new one. I will go the old way. We shall meet again where the roads join.” The merchants laughed and took the new road. Tom climbed the old lane. When he reached the place where the roads met, he saw the packhorses coming on without their masters. Then he saw one merchant crossing the downs without coat, hat, or purse. Soon after came the other two, stripped almost bare. “However came thee into this plight?” Tom called. “Robbers,” said they. “They fell on us halfway up the hill.” “How many?” In their confusion, each said three had attacked him. Then they understood that the same three robbers had struck them one by one, for each man had tried to save himself and had left the others. Tom was angry. “One and all,” he said. “That is what thee forgot. Fall fair or foul, stand by thy comrades. It is by breaking apart that men are beaten.” He took up his flail, split it into its parts, and handed weapons to the merchants. “Now come on,” he said. “One and all. The devil take the first to run.” They went back down the road together. Near the place where the roads divided, they found the merchants’ clothes and wallets laid on a rock. A little further on, the three robbers were stretched on the grass, counting the stolen money. Tom and the merchants rushed them. The robbers sprang up, but too late. Tom and two of the merchants knocked them down, while the third bound them. They gave the robbers a sound beating, took back the money and clothes, and Tom helped himself to the captain’s fine buff coat and new high boots. “These will do for Sundays,” he said. Then they went on. The merchants urged Tom to come home with them to Treen and sup well, but he refused. “Some other time,” he said. “I am longing to see my wife and child.” So they parted, and Tom took the road to Chyannor. When he came within half a mile of his dwelling, he sat on a bank until dusk. He wished to come home unseen and learn whether his wife had kept her duty while he was away. At last he crept towards his house and looked through the little glass window. By the fire he saw a man and a woman sitting close together, kissing and laughing. Tom’s heart went black. He thought the woman was his wife, and the man some stranger who had taken his place. He gripped his stick and was ready to burst in. Then he remembered the last wisdom he had bought: Never swear to anything seen through glass. And: Be thrashed twice before content once. So he looked again, trembling with anger, but he held his hand. Just then a voice spoke behind him. “Halloo, eavesdropper. Who art thou, spying at windows?” Tom turned and saw his wife coming up the path with a bundle of fern on her back. “That can never be thee, wife,” he said, “unless thee art a witch. For this moment I saw thee sitting by the fire with a strange man.” “Art thee come home such a fool as not to know thy own child?” she replied. “That is Patience with Jan the cobbler, her sweetheart.” Then Patience came running out, overjoyed to see her father. Tom shook Jan’s hand and marvelled to find the boy he had known grown into a stout young man, and his daughter grown into a woman taller than her mother. Tom came inside and sat in his old place. His wife admired his buff coat and boots, then asked what he had brought home for her and Patience. “I have brought myself,” said Tom, “and a charm stone for Patience, worth more than gold. And I have brought thee a cake.” He set the cake on the board. “Is that all?” she cried. “And what became of thy wages?” “I gave them back to my master,” said Tom, “for wisdom.” His wife flew into a rage. “Thee art a wise man from the east indeed,” she said, “who lacked wit to know his own child.” She snatched up the cake and threw it at his head. Tom ducked. The cake struck the wall and broke open. Out fell silver and gold. The farmer had hidden Tom’s three years’ wages inside the cake, and more besides. His wife’s anger changed at once to joy. “Oh, my dear Tom,” she cried, “how glad I am to see thee home again safe and sound.” “The devil a bit,” said Tom. “But I forgive thee. Let us have supper.” She sent Patience and Jan to fetch drink from Trebeor, for there was a leek and pilchard pie baking, and the house must welcome Tom properly. When the young people were gone, Tom’s wife sat beside him and said: “Do not let thy temper outrun all thy wisdom, for I have something to tell thee. I have had a young fellow living in this house more than two years, and lately he has slept in my bed every night.” Tom rose like a man struck by lightning. But his wife took the lamp and led him into the other room. “Come softly,” she said. There in the bed lay a fine little boy, almost three years old. Tom stared. Then his wife told him that soon after he left for the east, she had found herself expecting another child. Tom’s joy knew no bounds, for he had always wished for a son. When Patience and Jan returned, they all drank to the boy’s health, and neighbours soon came in with drink and welcome. That night passed merrily with Tom telling of his adventures in the east. A few days later, Tom and Patience went to Treen. While they were gone, Tom’s wife, being curious, examined the buff coat he had taken from the robber captain. She had wondered why it was so heavy. When she unpicked the lining, she found gold coins quilted between the layers, two deep in some places. She took out more gold than would fill a pewter quart and hid it carefully in an oak chest. When Tom returned, she could hardly keep from laughing and singing to herself. He asked more than once what had come over her, but she kept the secret for a while. Soon afterwards, Patience married Jan the cobbler. Before the wedding, Tom gave her the charm stone and told her how to use it. When Jan grew sharp or angry, she would slip the stone into her mouth and keep her peace. In time his temper cooled, and their home became a place of steady love and content. Some neighbours mocked Patience for her gentleness, but their talk passed like wind over grass. Jan loved her all his days. Years went by. One night, after a hard day’s work, Tom sat by the fire and sighed. “I have toiled all my life,” he said, “yet we shall never have an inch of land to call our own until we lie in the churchyard. If only we could buy a few acres, or even a corner for a hut and a garden, with none to say us nay.” His wife looked at him. “Cheer up, Tom,” she said. “Suppose I were to tell thee we have enough to buy not a corner, but a good part of the farm now for sale?” Then she brought out the gold from the chest and poured it onto the table. Tom sprang back. “Now I know thee art a witch,” he cried. “That is the Old One’s coinage, and I will have no dealings with it.” “Hold thy tongue, child,” she said. “If I am a witch, thee art no conjurer. This gold came from the coat thee took from the robber captain.” Tom counted the money and found there was enough not only to buy land, but to stock it well. So Tom bought fields in St Levan, and in time he became a rich yeoman. His sons and grandsons became substantial farmers after him. Some say his descendants may still be flourishing somewhere near the old country, though no one knows what name they took when surnames came into use. And so the old people told the tale of Tom of Chyannor. He paid six pounds for wisdom and thought himself robbed. But the wisdom saved three innocent men from the gallows, saved his friends from robbers, saved his own household from bloodshed, and brought him home to fortune. For gold may be lost, stolen, hidden, or spent. But a true piece of wisdom, dearly bought, may stand beside a man when all else fails.

Long ago, before the fields were divided as they are now, and before the old stones were given common names, Castle Treen was held by giants. They were not enemies of the people there. In those early days, the giants protected the folk of Treen and the neighbouring places, and in return the people brought them cattle, milk, fish, hides, and whatever else such enormous guardians required. It was a hard bargain, perhaps, but a useful one. In a wild country, where sea, storm, hunger, and hostile hands were never far away, a giant on the headland was no small comfort. Of all those who lived at Castle Treen, only three are clearly remembered in old tradition: an ageing giant, his wife, and the child they took as their own. The giant’s name has been lost, which is a pity. He was said to be more than forty feet high without his boots, broad in proportion, and strong enough to move the Logan Rock with the tip of one finger. His wife was almost as great in size, but not in temper. They had no child. This grieved not only the pair themselves, but all the people who lived under their protection. If the giant and giantess died without an heir, who would guard Treen in the years to come? Who would stand between the common folk and the dangers beyond the headlands? Who would keep the old strength of Castle Treen alive? The giant bore his sorrow gently. He was a quiet soul, slow to anger, and too fond of his great stone chair, where he sat looking towards the Logan Rock and the sea beyond it. But the giantess grew restless. With no child to tend and no household large enough to satisfy her, she became sharp tongued and sour. She called her husband a lazy old loon. She said he was too fat, that he slept too much, and that he needed exercise. “Go,” she would say. “Swim out to the Dollar Rocks and bring me conger. Dive for cod and pollock. I want fish fat for my baking, and thou dost little enough sitting there with thy mouth open.” Sometimes, to keep the peace, the giant obeyed. He would stride down to the sea, plunge into the water, and swim the miles to the rocks. Before long he would return with fish enough to make a string a furlong long. Then, when his wife demanded more effort from him, he would stand below Men Amber and set the great stone rocking with one finger. At other times, seated in his chair, he would reach out with his staff and keep the sacred stone moving from where he sat. But often, before the sand had run through his wife’s hour glass, the old giant would fall asleep. Then the giantess would pelt him with rocks. The stones she threw are said to lie there still, scattered near the place where they fell. The poor giant would wake with a sore head and hear her bellow: “Stop thy snoring, old fool, and work, or I will beat thy noddle to pieces.” In summer evenings, when the people of Treen came to visit him, the giant would ask: “What shall I do to cure her temper? Can any of ye tell me?” Many gave advice, as people always do when the trouble belongs to someone else. Some said she needed work. Some said she needed company. Some said a child would settle her. And there lay the heart of the matter. The giantess longed for a child, and the people longed for an heir. Charms were tried. Wise words were spoken. Old rites were performed. Still the cradle carved from stone remained empty. Then one day, a cunning man of Treen had an idea. Far away near Maen lived another giant, fierce and proud, with many children. He was a troublesome neighbour and had often flung rocks towards Castle Treen. Why should not one of his children be stolen and raised as the heir of Treen? The old giant and his wife were delighted. To steal from Maen would be revenge. To gain a child would bring comfort. To raise a young giant at Castle Treen would secure the future of the place. The giantess was already dreaming of it. “How fine it will be,” she said, “to sit upon the Logan Rock with the child in my arms while the waves sing below, and my old man rocks us both to sleep. He may dandle the boy on Castle Peak, and leap with him from carn to carn, while I skin an ox for supper and the people bring milk to help him grow.” So they sent for a wise woman of Treen. She was said to be a witch, and one who could take whatever shape she pleased. If anyone could steal a child from Maen without raising a storm, it was she. One afternoon she set out. Unseen upon the road, she reached the rocks near Maen and hid herself there, watching. Before sunset, she saw a giant child coming across the ground with a group of ordinary children. The child was only four years old, but already as large as a grown man. He still had the face and ways of a baby, and though his clothes were much too small, he wore his bib and little frock as if he had not yet outgrown the cradle. The common children were leading him about and teaching him their games. They placed buttons for play, though they had few enough between them. The witch saw her chance. She took a string of bright buttons from her basket and shook them in the light. “Kiss me, dear,” she said, “and I will give thee all these.” The giant child kissed her again and again, pleased by the shining things. Then she asked if he would come with her to gather limpets and winkles from the shore. The older children shook their heads. “It is too late,” they said. “We must be home before sundown, or our mothers will beat us and send us to bed without supper.” But the giant child wanted shells to play with, and limpets to use in his father’s games. “I will go,” he said. “My mother never beats me.” “Come along then, my pretty one,” said the witch. She took his hand and led him away. As they went, she drew toys from her basket and showed him how to play with them. When he grew tired, she changed herself into the shape of a horse, and he rode upon her back for a mile or more. Then she became a woman again and led him into Castle Treen. The giantess received him with open arms. The old giant loved him at once. The people brought food and milk. The child was fed, praised, petted, and admired. He slept at first in a smaller chair beside the old giant’s great one, and when he was still young enough, he often rested in the giant’s arms. Those were the happy years. At sunrise in summer, the old giant would carry the child to Castle Peak and set him on the highest stone. Then he would turn him slowly, pointing out the headlands, the coves, the far places, and the shining line of the sea. “Look well, my boy,” he would say. “From the Lizard there, to the land beneath the setting sun, no giant has a finer home than Castle Treen. All this shall be thine when I am dead and gone.” When the sun was warm, he took the boy down to the rocks near the Gap. There was a deep pit where the giant pounded bait to bring in fish. From that place he would swim out across the water like some vast sea beast, with the child standing on his broad back and holding tight to the hair of his head as though it were reins. They swam round the rocks, rested where the sea birds nested, gathered eggs, limpets, and mussels, then returned by another way. As the boy grew, the old giant taught him to fish from the rocks with rod and line. He showed him how to make hooks from bone and shell, for in those times the giants had no iron, not so much as a nail. The giantess spun yarn for lines with her distaff and spindle. The old giant did not know much, for he had more strength than learning, but what he knew he gave gladly. The boy grew quickly. He ate whenever he wished, and the giantess saw that nothing was denied him. Before many years had passed, he was nearly as large as the old giant himself. He called the old one Dadda, and for a while there was joy at Castle Treen. But fair weather does not always hold. As the boy grew, the giantess changed. At first, all her care had seemed motherly. Then it turned into something darker and less fit to speak of. She neglected her husband. She saved the best food for the young giant. Sheep, which had once been dainties for the household, were kept for him. The old giant was left to dive for his own fish, skin his own oxen, and sometimes, when hunger pressed him hard, make poor meals of seaweed. Worse than hunger were her words. She mocked his age. She laughed at his weakness, though her neglect had helped bring it on. She praised the young giant before him, saying he could move the rock better from the grass than the old one had ever done in his strongest days. The old giant was slow to jealousy. He had a gentle nature and did not easily think evil of those he loved. But the people of Treen saw more than he did. Some women, sharp eyed in such matters, came to him and told him what passed between his wife and the youth in the sunny hollows between the rocks. Then grief entered the giant’s heart. He became watchful and surly. When the pair slipped away, he followed and came upon them unawares. From that time, they had little comfort unless the old giant had left the castle to fetch food. One winter day, before setting out in search of provisions, the old giant told his wife and foster son that one of them must meet him on his return and help carry whatever he brought home. They promised. But they forgot him. Time passed pleasantly for them, and they thought nothing of the old provider until they heard his footsteps on Pedn y vounder cliff. He was coming back angry, his voice rising above the breakers, vowing vengeance on the ungrateful pair. The giantess was frightened, but not helpless. She knew the narrow path he would have to take as he entered the castle’s inner ground. So she placed herself on the rocks above the Gap, where she could strike before he knew she was there. The old giant came on. Across his shoulders he carried an ox, its legs bound together and passed over his head. On each arm he carried a sheep, their feet tied so they hung like baskets. He roared louder than the storm sea when he saw that no one had come to meet him. In his fury, he strode along the narrow ledge and did not see his wife waiting above. As he passed beneath her, she struck him in the face with all her strength. The blow sent him, ox, sheep, and all, over the edge. Down he fell among the rocks below. At that moment, seeing him fall, something broke inside the giantess. Perhaps she remembered the old days when she had loved him. Perhaps she feared what she had done. Perhaps no heart, however hardened, can watch such a fall without trembling. She stepped back some twenty paces onto a flat stone between high rocks. There she stood and threw her apron over her head, so she would not hear his dying cries. But the old giant did not die at once. His skull was thick, though badly broken. As he lay among the boulders, he called upon the powers he had served to avenge him. They answered at once. The giantess, standing with her apron over her head, was changed into stone. There she remains. The old giant, in his last moments, thought of the young one more with sorrow than anger. He could not bring himself to hate the boy he had carried, taught, fed, and loved. In his heart, he blamed his wife more than the foster son, whom he saw as foolish, led astray, and too young in wisdom for his size. What became of the young giant, no one knows. Some say he fled. Some say he went back towards Maen. Some say he wandered the western cliffs until the race of giants faded from the land. But the old tales give no certain ending for him. Only the stones remain. The chair of the giant. The rocks his wife threw. The Logan Rock he moved with finger or staff. The place where the giantess stood when judgement found her. And so the old people of Treen told the tale: Strength may guard a country, but it cannot guard a heart from loneliness. A stolen child may bring joy, but what is wrongly taken carries sorrow within it. And when trust is broken in a house of stone, even giants may fall.

Not so very long ago, as old tales reckon time, there lived near the foot of Carn Kenidjack a poor man named Tom Treva. His dwelling stood alone, with a few hard crofts about it, and in that small place he and his wife raised a large family. The boys, as they grew older, went to work in the mines and helped with the rough tillage when they could. The eldest daughter, Grace, stayed at home to assist her mother. Grace was a good girl, nearly sixteen, and handy in all the simple work of a poor household. She could cook, sweep, wash, spin, knit, and turn her hand to whatever was needed. But there was one thing she lacked. She had no proper clothes. Her best gowns were made from old dresses that had belonged to her grandmother. They were bright enough, with large flowers and colours that had once been fine, but they were old fashioned. The young women who worked at the mines and had wages of their own laughed at her for wearing them. They would not walk with her to preaching, nor take her with them to games, nor be seen beside her at feast time. Grace bore it for a while. She sang about her work like a lark, and in the evenings she listened to the old stories told by her father and the neighbours around the hearth. But year after year her mother and brothers promised that, when money could be spared, they would buy her a new rig out as smart as any maid in the parish. Year after year, there was no money to spare. Then at feast time, a cousin of Grace’s came home from service. She had been away only a year, but to Grace she looked almost like a lady. She wore a shining blue dress, earrings, bright beads of red, green, and yellow, and flowers in her bonnet that all the girls admired. “Cousin Grace,” she said, “I would take thee up to Church town to the fiddler on Monday night, if only I had brought a frock for thee to wear. But thy grandmother’s old gowns would make thee a laughing stock. Go into service, child. Get clothes fit to be seen in, and a sweetheart too, as other maidens do.” From that day, Grace grew restless. She saw her old gowns with new eyes. The house seemed smaller. The hills seemed lonelier. The tales that had once comforted her now felt like cobwebs holding her in place. At last her mother agreed that she might go into service after the summer came. Through the winter they spun and knitted as hard as they could, earning a few extra shillings so Grace might have proper underclothing before she set out. Her father was reluctant. He disliked sending any of his children away, and when the morning came, he warned her carefully. “Do not go farther than a day’s journey,” he said. “Keep away from Penzance and the towns. Strange sailors prowl there, and many a maid has been carried off and never seen again.” Grace promised. She took her bundle, kissed her family, wished them well, and walked away from Carn Kenidjack towards the southern parishes, where the richer farmers lived. At first her heart was steady. She thought of her cousin’s shining dress, her beads, her bonnet, and the fine world that might be waiting beyond the hills. But before long she turned aside to take one last look at Carn Kenidjack, where she had spent so many Sunday afternoons among the rocks, playing with other young people and listening to old stories. Then she climbed until she could only just see the smoke from the roofs below. Her courage failed. She sat on a roadside rock, covered her face with her apron, and wept aloud. She thought of her parents, her brothers and sisters, her old playmates, and the possibility that she might never see any of them again. While she was crying, she looked up and saw a gentleman standing close beside her. He was handsome, well dressed, and had a kindly way with him. “Good morrow,” he said. “Why dost thee weep, my maid?” “Oh, sir,” Grace answered, “I have left home and am on the road to a strange country, to seek service.” “Then good luck has brought me here,” said he. “I came this way to find a tidy girl to care for my house and my little son. I am a widower, and there is no one but an old great aunt to look after the boy. There is little to do, only the dairy work for one cow, a few poultry, and the care of the child. Come home with me, Grace. Try the place. If it does not suit thee, stay until another can be found.” Grace wondered how he knew her name. She wondered, too, how he had come so near without her seeing him on the open ground. But her mother had taught her not to ask questions too freely. The gentleman spoke kindly, and when he lifted her bundle as if it weighed nothing, she followed him. He told her his name was Robin, though some called him Bob o’ the Carn, or Bobby Carn. They walked downhill together, towards country Grace did not know. She kept her eyes mostly on him, for his voice was pleasant and his manner gentle. By the time she noticed the road again, they were in green lanes shaded by trees, with honeysuckle and strange sweet flowers hanging overhead. Grace had never seen such trees. She had never smelt such flowers. Robin smiled at her wonder. “These are little things,” he said. “Where I live, thou shalt see more.” They passed a great house, which Grace thought must be a king’s palace, and went on through shade and water, where clear streams crossed the path. Whenever the water ran across the road, Robin lifted her over so she did not wet even the edge of her shoe. He gave her cakes and cordials as they travelled, and the road seemed short. Near sunset, they came to a river beneath a towering carn of grey rock, standing among trees. Robin carried Grace over the stepping stones, then led her through an orchard heavy with red and yellow fruit. The boughs bent low, and the air smelt of apples, blossom, and things Grace had no names for. By a winding path, they came to a green surrounded by flowering trees. Without realising that she had left the garden, Grace stepped through what seemed an arbour and found herself inside Robin’s dwelling. The kitchen was bright. Pewter shone on the shelves like silver. A wood fire burned on the hearth, though it was high summer. Beside it sat a sharp faced old woman on a chimney stool, knitting. Robin said: “I am come, Aunt Prudence, with a tidy maid I had the good luck to meet on her way to service.” The old woman looked Grace over as though her eyes were awls. “I see thee art come, Robin,” she said. “And it seems to me thee hast brought home a young giglet who will use her tongue more than her hands. We shall see.” Then a little boy came running in. “Dadda!” he cried. Robin took him on his knee. He looked no more than six or seven in size, but his face had something old and cunning in it, and his eyes were sharp. “My little Bob,” said Robin, “here is a nurse for thee. She will give thee milk, wash thy face, and anoint thy eyes, as thy mother used to do.” “That I cannot tell yet,” said the boy, looking at Grace as closely as Aunt Prudence had done. Robin set bread, cheese, apples, honey, and other good things on the board. Grace had never tasted such white bread or such sweetness. After she had eaten, she rose to work, but Aunt Prudence told her to wait until milking time. When the hour came, Robin gave her a pail. “Go through the orchard into the meadow by the river,” he said. “Call ‘Pruit, Pruit,’ and the cow will come.” Grace did as he told her. From among the trees came a beautiful white cow. She stood with her udder over the bucket, and the milk fell in such a shower that the pail was full and running over in a minute. Grace rose to fetch another vessel, but as soon as she lifted the bucket, the cow lowed and vanished into the wood. When Grace told Robin, he laughed gently. “That pail will do for tonight. The cow’s name is Daisy. If ever thou wants more, take two or three pails with thee, for she will fill whatever is brought. But she will not wait while thee goes back.” Grace thought Daisy must be the finest cow in the world. That evening, Aunt Prudence gave her the rules of the house. She must put the boy to bed before dark. She must sleep in the same room. At sunrise she must take him to a spring, wash him well, and anoint his eyes with a tiny touch of green ointment from an ivory box. She must milk Daisy, feed the child only one bowlful, make breakfast, scald the milk, and clean the house. Then came the warning. “Do not go into the spare rooms. Do not meddle with what does not concern thee. Ask no questions except about thy work. Above all, never enter thy master’s private room. If thou dost, thou shalt rue the day as long as thou livest.” Grace listened and promised. For a while, all went well. Robin was kind. Daisy gave milk in abundance. The garden seemed like Paradise. The poultry followed Grace about the place. The flowers were unlike any that grew near Carn Kenidjack, and the fruit was so golden and fragrant that it hardly seemed meant for cooking. Robin praised Grace when she worked well. He showed her how to weed the flower beds and what to spare. When she pleased him, he kissed her, saying he knew no other way to show his satisfaction. Grace worked harder to earn such praise again. Days passed. Then months. Then years, though Grace scarcely knew it. Robin sometimes rode away in the mornings dressed like a gentleman going hunting. Grace polished his boots and buckled his silver spurs, taking pleasure in seeing him mount and ride into the wood. She wondered where the paths led, for whenever she walked that way, the lanes seemed to wind on forever. Robin told her never to leave the grounds during his absence. Above all, she was not to go near the high rock, for at its foot was a dark low hole where Bucca dhus came out and carried people away, never to be seen again. For a long time, Grace obeyed. Then, one afternoon, Robin was away and the boy was at school. Grace felt lonely. The hens and pigeons followed her, but they were poor company for a heart that had begun to grow restless. She went to the outer gate. Beyond it was a pleasant walk by the waterside, green and shaded. She opened the gate and stepped through. She followed the path until she came near the high rocks. She thought she heard the sea murmuring somewhere beyond them. Then a voice called: “Stop there, my pretty maid. I will come down and give thee a diamond ring.” Grace looked up. On the topmost stone stood a dark man dressed like a sailor. He beckoned for her to go farther along the path. Fear seized her. She ran back through the gate, with the hens screaming after her. Their noise set the dogs barking, and the dogs brought Aunt Prudence hurrying over. The old woman scolded Grace soundly, saying she had nearly been carried away through her own gadding. When Robin came home, Grace confessed her fault with tears. “I will let it pass,” he said, “as it is thy first disobedience.” He gave her cordial, and that night she slept deeply and dreamt sweetly. After that, Grace often waited up for Robin, though Aunt Prudence told her not to. She liked to pull off his boots and make him supper. Robin seemed pleased, and Grace cared more for his pleasure than for Prudence’s warnings. Yet one forbidden thing gnawed at her thoughts. The locked parlour. What could be inside it? Why was she forbidden to enter? What rooms lay beyond? The more she told herself not to think of it, the more the thought returned. One afternoon, Aunt Prudence was cleaning the private room and left the door ajar. She did not know Grace was near. Grace peeped in. She saw rare and curious things, more than she could take in. There were objects that looked like conjuring tools. There were heads and shoulders without arms. There were whole small bodies, white and naked, set upon shelves and in cupboards, looking to Grace like people turned to stone by enchantment. She trembled and began to back away. But Aunt Prudence came behind her, struck her, and cried: “Now, thou perverse girl, since thou hast entered the forbidden room, thou shalt work in it for punishment.” She pointed to a long dark chest standing on a frame, like a coffin upon a table. “Rub that till thou canst see thy nose in it.” Grace cried, but she rubbed as she was told. She worked so hard that she shifted the thing from its frame, and from within it came a low, sorrowful sound like a dying groan. Thinking some spirit or enchanted body was imprisoned inside, Grace fell down in a fit. Robin soon knew something had gone wrong in his private room. When Grace came round, he was stern. “This is thy second disobedience,” he said. “For the third, there is no forgiveness. If thou cannot check thy curiosity, thou must find another place.” For many days he did not sing to her, nor play with her, nor show his old warmth. Grace grieved and tried all the harder to please him. In time, he forgave her, and kissed her again. But the forbidden room had only deepened the mystery. Grace began to think about the boy’s sharp eyes, and the ointment she placed in them each morning. Perhaps, she thought, the ointment let him see things hidden from her. So one morning, when Robin had ridden away, she took the ivory box and rubbed some of the green ointment into her own eyes. At once they burned. They smarted so fiercely that she thought they would turn inside out. She ran to the pool and washed them. As the pain eased, she looked into the water. There, deep below the surface, was another world. She saw trees, birds, and little people in great numbers. Some were so small they perched on branches among the birds. Most startling of all, she saw Robin moving among them. Here, there, everywhere, dressed in his hunting clothes. Grace looked up. The orchard itself was full of the Small People, and Robin among them. “Now I know it,” she whispered. “This is an enchanted place. My handsome master is no common man.” That evening, Robin came home with strange guests bearing baskets of cakes and delicacies. He told Grace to put the boy to bed, and said she would not be wanted below again that night. But Grace could not sleep. After some hours, she heard cups and glasses, then music and singing from the room where the stone figures were kept. The stairs were dark, so she crept down and peeped through the partly open door. Inside were Robin and two finely dressed gentlemen, with three ladies in white trimmed with green. Their diamonds shone like stars on their ears, necks, and arms. One fair haired lady sat beside the long dark chest and struck it with both hands, bringing from it music finer than a line of fiddlers could make. Grace watched until the company rose to depart. From her chamber window, she saw Robin kiss each lady in the garden as he took his leave. She cried herself to sleep, though she could not have said why. In the morning, she found the parlour locked again. She washed the glasses and china, put all in order, and went about her work. When Robin came in and saw how neatly everything had been done, he put his arm around her. But Grace drew away. “Go and kiss thy little white and green ladies,” she said. “Thou shalt touch me no more. Thou art not of common human kind, but a changeling of the Small People, who can take this shape for nine years at a time. With all thy fern seed and enchantment, thee cannot deceive me now.” Robin’s face changed. “Hold thy foolish tongue,” he said. “Old tales have turned thy head. But I see what thou hast done. Thou hast used the green ointment, and since nothing can quiet thy curiosity or stop thy prying into what does not concern thee, we must part.” Grace begged forgiveness, but it was no use. “Thy last year ends tomorrow,” he said. “At daybreak, I will take thee back over the hills to the place where I found thee. Alone, thou wouldst never find the way.” Grace packed her bundle with a breaking heart. She did not know how long she had been there. Years had passed like a summer afternoon. Robin and Prudence had given her clothes from time to time, so now she had a good stock of them, better than anything she had dreamed of when she left home. Yet the clothes meant little to her. She grieved to leave the flowers, the fruit trees, the poultry she had raised, the pigeons that ate from her hand, the rabbits and hares that played about the garden, and most of all a tame robin that lived in the house and sang whenever she entered. At daybreak, she crossed the river as Robin had told her. He soon overtook her on horseback, lifted her onto the pillion behind him, and they rode away through dark lanes. They went uphill for miles, and Robin did not speak a word. Grace, blinded with tears, saw little until they came out into open country and broad daylight. Then she saw Carn Kenidjack. Robin stopped at the very rock where he had first found her. He lifted her down and placed her there. “Take me back,” Grace pleaded. “Prudence and I shall try to get on without help,” he said. “Yet if we cannot, I may come for thee again.” Then he rode away. Grace climbed the rock and watched until he was gone. She lay on the heath and wept until near night, then rose and made her way home. Her parents were astonished, for they had long believed her dead or lost. Her mother opened the bundle and found good clothes enough to last Grace a lifetime, and with them a bag of money larger than any they had seen before. Grace told her story. The neighbours wondered, but the older folk understood. They said she had been taken by one of the changeling Small People into an underground dwelling, or into some hidden house in a wood, and that she had lived there nine years, though to her it seemed far less. But Grace could not settle. She no longer liked the old house, the plain food, or the ways of her people. She had little heart for work. Almost every day she wandered to the rock where Robin of the Carn had first found her and last left her. Fine clothes and money gave her no comfort. People feared she would lose her wits or fret herself to death. Yet time, work, and care are strong medicines. After nearly two years, a neighbour’s wife died, leaving several small children. The widower came courting Grace, and though her heart had wandered long in another world, he pressed his suit so steadily that at last she married him. The children needed care. The house needed work. Little by little, these daily duties drew Grace back into mortal life. In a few years, she almost forgot the enchanted garden, or remembered it without the old wound. And it was said, when the tale was first told, that Grace might still be living then, a hale old woman, with grandchildren around her. So the old people kept the story of Grace and Robin of the Carn. A poor girl went out seeking fine clothes and found a hidden world. She was given beauty, kindness, wonder, and warning. But wonder has doors that must not be opened too soon, and there are sights that cannot be unseen. For the fairy road may lead to sweetness, but it does not always lead home unchanged.

A hundred years ago, or more, there lived at Brea Vean, near the foot of Chapel Carn Brea, a woman named Jenny Trayer. She was a working woman, used to hard weather, small means, and long days. One harvest afternoon, she gave her baby milk, rocked it to sleep, and laid it safely in its cradle. Before she left the house, she covered the fire, turned down the brandis, and placed the fire hook and furze prong across the hearth for luck. Then she hurried away to Brea to help cut the neck. In those days, the last handful of wheat was not taken lightly. The reapers stood back and threw their hooks at it until the final stalks were cut. Then they divided into three bands, and the old cry went up across the harvest field. “We have it, we have it, we have it!” “What have ye? What have ye? What have ye?” “A neck! A neck! A neck!” Then all lifted their hats and shouted together. The neck was dressed with flowers and hung above the board, and there was beer, cake, and a harvest cheer for all who had worked. But Jenny’s thoughts were not on feasting. Her baby was alone at Brea Vean, and the evening had drawn in. She took her drink of beer, gathered her neck cake, and hurried home. When she opened the door, moonlight lay across the floor. The cradle was overturned. The straw and rags were scattered. The child was gone. Jenny searched in the half dark, groping beneath the cradle, behind stools, along the walls, and into every corner. There were no live embers left among the ashes, so she struck a light with the tinder box and struggled to set the rush wick burning in the iron lamp. At last she found the child in the wood corner, among the turves, ferns, and furze. It was fast asleep. Jenny was tired and shaken, but she lifted it, held it close, and took it to bed. In the morning, by daylight, she looked at the baby more carefully. Something seemed wrong. She could not say what it was. It looked like her child, and yet it did not feel wholly like her child. From that day, the trouble began. The baby was never satisfied. It wanted to be always sucking, always eating, always held in her arms. If it did not get its will, it roared like a bull. Jenny could scarcely do her work. She had no peace in the house and no rest at night. Yet for all its feeding, the child did not thrive. The more it ate, the thinner it became. All winter long it wasted, growing leaner, sharper, and more wretched, while its hunger never failed. The neighbours began to whisper. Some shook their heads. “Jenny,” they said, “the Small People played thee a trick the day thee went to the neck cutting. They took thy own babe, and left one of theirs in its place.” Whether Jenny believed them at first or not, she could not deny the child’s strange ways. So when May came, the women advised her to carry it to Chapel Uny Well. “The water may show the truth,” they said. “And if there is a spell, the well may help break it.” On the first Wednesday in May, Jenny took the child on her back and trudged away over the moor. At Chapel Uny Well, she put it through the water three times from west to east. Then she dragged it three times round the well against the sun. The child seemed no better for it, but neither was it worse. The next Wednesday, she carried it there again. This time the creature seemed to expect the journey. It rode on her shoulder with a kind of ugly pleasure, clinging to her as she went. On the third Wednesday, the weather turned foul. Rain swept the moor, and the wind blew hard around Chapel Carn Brea. But Jenny did not dare spoil the charm. She set the thing astride on her shoulder, held one of its feet in her hand, and went out into the storm. The creature loved it. It grasped her hair to steady itself and crowed like a cock whenever the wind roared louder. They had almost passed round Chapel Carn Brea and were coming near some large rocks by the open moor, when Jenny heard a shrill voice above her head. “Tredrill! Tredrill! Thy wife and children greet thee well.” Jenny stopped and looked about. There was no one to be seen. Then the thing on her shoulder answered in a voice just as shrill: “What care I for wife or child, When I ride on Dowdy’s back to the Chapel Well, And have got pap my fill?” Jenny’s blood ran cold. The miserable little creature had spoken like a grown man. It had spoken of a wife and children of its own. She flung it from her shoulder in fright, and there it sprawled on the ground. For a moment she could not move. Then fear of leaving it there overcame fear of touching it. She snatched it up, threw it across her shoulder, and ran as fast as her legs would carry her until she reached Brea. There, below the mansion, she stopped before the houses and threw the thing onto a dung heap beside the road. The women of Brea came running out. Jenny, breathless and trembling, told them what had happened on the moor. “Did I not tell thee?” cried one. “Thou hast been nursing a Small Person’s brat since neck cutting night.” “Look at it,” said another. “Did ever a Christian child look like that? See its goggle eyes, its twisted mouth, its crooked nose.” Then the oldest woman among them spoke. “There is an old way to get thy own child back,” she said. “Put the Small Body on the ash heap and beat it well with a broom. Then lay it naked beneath a churchway stile. Leave it there until the turn of night, keeping out of sight and hearing. Nine times out of ten, the thing will be taken away, and the stolen child set in its place.” The women were eager to begin. They threw the creature onto the ash heap and set upon it with their brooms. But they had scarcely touched it before it gave such a dreadful cry that the sound carried up to Brea mansion. Dame Ellis came running down to see what was being done. By then it was nearly dark, and the wet ash clung to the creature so thickly that she could hardly tell what lay there making such a pitiful noise. “What are you beating so cruelly?” she asked. Jenny told her. She spoke of the overturned cradle, the strange child, the endless hunger, the wasting body, the journey to Chapel Uny Well, and the voice from the rocks calling: “Tredrill! Tredrill! Thy wife and children greet thee well.” Then she told how the thing had answered from her shoulder, saying it cared nothing for wife or child while it rode on Dowdy’s back and had pap enough to fill itself. Dame Ellis lifted the poor creature from the ashes. “I believe,” she said, “that thou wert drunk, or else caught in a waking dream. This child is thine as truly as any thou hast borne. Take it home. Wash it. Feed it properly. Do not leave it lying all day in the cradle. And if it does not thrive, send for Dr Madron.” But the women of Brea would not accept this. They believed Dame Ellis knew nothing of such matters. She and Squire Ellis were Quakers, and that alone was enough for some to say they had no understanding of piskies, spriggans, knockers, buccas, or any of the Small People who haunted the carns, moors, and mines. Still, Squire Ellis was their landlord, and he and his wife were not to be openly crossed. So the women waited. When the great house was dark, Jenny and another woman took the creature and carried it to a stile on the churchway path. There, while it slept, they laid it down and left it. Jenny went back to Brea Vean and stayed there until morning. She was worn out by fear and sorrow, and she overslept. It was nearly daybreak when she woke and hurried back to the stile. There she found a baby sleeping on clean straw. It was washed from head to foot and wrapped in a piece of old flowered chintz, such as the Small People were said to covet when cloth was set to dry on the furze bushes. Jenny knew it for her own child. She carried it home and nursed it with all the care she had. Yet the child was never quite as other children are. No one who has once been in fairy keeping comes back unchanged. He was always ailing. As soon as he could toddle, he wandered away to lonely places. He did not grow like other boys, nor think like them, though there was no harm in him. Dame Ellis often came to see him and brought him good things his mother could not afford. When he was about nine years old, Squire Ellis took him into service. Everyone still called him the changeling, though he was Jenny’s recovered child. He was simple and could not be trusted with field work alone, and certainly not with cattle. Some whim would seize him, and he would wander away across hills and moors for days. Yet with lambs and young creatures he had a gift. In lambing time, he watched the flock with such care that few were ever lost. Weakly or forsaken lambs were often given to him, and he reared them so well that, in time, he had a flock of his own. Squire Ellis and the neighbours allowed him to pasture them wherever he pleased, for everyone knew the poor changeling of Brea, and no one begrudged him his wandering. When he grew to manhood, fits came upon him. After each fit, he would stay a while at home with his mother. But once he recovered, nothing could hold him. He wandered the moors again, and his sheep, goats, and even calves followed after him as if they knew his road better than he did. Often he talked to himself as he walked. Some said he was speaking with the fairy tribe, invisible to all eyes but his. They believed those old companions still called him to the carns, the hills, and the open moor, where such beings have always been said to dwell. When he was about thirty years old, he was missed for several days. His flock had been seen lingering longer than usual in one place on the moor between Chapel Hill and Bartinné. At last, people went to look. There they found him. He was lying on a bed of rushes he had gathered for making sheep spans. His arm was beneath his head, and his flock stood close around him. He looked as if he had only fallen asleep. But the poor changeling of Brea was dead. And so the old people told the tale. A mother left her child for the harvest field, and when she returned, the cradle was overturned. The Small People may take what is left unwatched. A child restored from their keeping may come home in body, yet carry some part of the other world within him. And those who wander far across the moors may not always be lost. Some may simply be answering a call the rest of us cannot hear.