Pedws Ffowk & St Elian's Cursing Well

Open publication - Free publishing - More art

White Rabbit

White rabbits are the deftest darting under the shed, the decking or into the garage mess. Why ever did she get a rabbit? To save it from a cooped up pet shop cage and as a symbolic gesture for all those rabbits experimented upon in barbaric labs, chemicals rubbed in their eyes, their brains opened up.

Thus she lives on edge having liberated this fiend of fleetness that eats her French marigolds and taunts her terrier that shakes like a leaf at one whiff of rabbit smell: terriers have been honed down the centuries to be ratters and rabbiters extraordinaire, the poacher’s dream on a moonless night. But in suburbia he’s another white test of the nerves as he lunges for the liberated rabbit disappearing behind the barbeque, rediscovering her wild rabbit ancestry in this modern world.

 

Tho recently the fleet beast did disappear for a few nights...off after a mate or tastier dandelions on the other side of the fence? She even suspected the fat ginger tom down the road had finished her off. But white rabbit reappeared munching nonchalantly a couple of days ago.

Maybe in the end a neighbour will flatten her one night with his four wheel drive on the smooth tarmac of the cul-de -sac or an urban fox will commit the final act. Not a nice end for the twitchy red-eyed madam bringing all these thoughts of death...

So she prays she long continues her escapade and doesn’t get caught on CCTV eating the neighbour’s much lauded sweet peas.

Bye bye!

She’s been hearing birds recently, even above the growling traffic of the urban grey. It must be something to do with spring and the blackbirds at dawn and dusk, the prehistoric shriek of the gulls scavenging bins and the chit chat of sparrows on branches as she makes her way to work. 

In fact she’s begun imagining herself to have wings that lift her up over the streetlights and tarmac to blue skies, away from the rush hour fumes and angst, all those creased faces who’d give anything to be on holiday or under the duvet dreaming still. 

Her wings stretch six foot to each side and she’s climbing high.

Bye bye!

The Fougou

If you happen to be in Cornwall you may see on a map the word Fougou and wonder what it’s all about. A Fougou is a dome-like chamber and tunnel built underground where fluorescent green moss thrives and which was used for anything from rituals, wild parties, a grain store, a stash place for smugglers or travelling fair folk, and as a place for witches to meet to make magic in the depths of the night. The word Fougou is derived from the Cornish word for cave, fogo, and they can be dated back to Neolithic folk.

At Trove near Land’s End a tunnel leads from a Fougou all the way to the local manor and the Bucca-boo, the Devil Himself, has often been heard playing his pipes under the parlour where he parties with witches who have travelled in the form of hares through the Fougou to dance to his music. Sometimes they brought their familiar, a black cat, adding delightful meows when their tails singed in the fire.

Even by day many locals were afraid to enter a Fougou as they believed Spriggans lived there guarding treasure, which is still buried there to this day if you care to dig a hole and risk their wrath. 

In fact Fougous have long been feared as being places rife with evil spirits so it’d be wise not to take a spade with you, or metal detector for that matter. 

Back in the old days women would say to their squawking babies they would leave them down the Fougou for the Bucca-boo to whisk them away to the Otherworld if they didn't hush up. It tended to do the trick.

At Pendeen near Land’s End a Fougou called the Vow stretches from the nearby manor to Pendeen Cove. A spirit in the form of a beautiful lady dressed in white with a red rose in her mouth appears there at dawn on Christmas Day over the turquoise ocean to warn of death, and is known as the Spirit of the Vow. 

Fairy Music

There was once, quite recently in fact, a bloke walking to work. He was feeling quite perky even though it was early as he’d already had three cups of coffee. 

On turning a corner he heard some angelic music wafting over a concrete wall inscribed with some lovely graffiti telling bankers exactly where to go. He had never heard such music in all his life, it was that unearthly and very different to the drum’n’bass that was his usual preference. 

He scaled the wall in one leap and somersaulted over to the other side landing before a very short man with a pointy chin and bad breath. It was Piskey himself surrounded by a gaggle of elves all dancing merrily. 

There was also a wizened fiddler and a young woman with long floaty hair playing a harp. She looked a bit dazed and in a melancholic state of mind which he could relate to as that was how he often felt himself.

  

As this thought surfed his brain Piskey leapt forward with a raucous cackle and the vision was gone in a shudder. All that he was left with was a feeling like a hangover as he stood in front of the shops at the start of the pedestrianised area of town near a bus stop. 

And, though a hardened cynic, his heart did skip a beat when he thought of that mystic girl who seemed trapped in a world to which she didn’t belong. 

Mmm...though maybe he was simply going mad, had too much caffeine in his bloodstream and should get an early night.

King Of The Cats

Did you know your cat may be of aristocratic lineage? Yes, our very own moggy with his meal time meow and habit of leaving muddy footprints all over the house may in fact be descended from the Cheshire cat or the Egyptian cat goddess Bast.

If you don’t believe me the fact can be verified, here’s what to do: cut off a piece of his ear (just the pointy top bit will do), and if your mog is of blue blood he’ll shriek, “Don’t do that to me! Do you know who I am?” And he’ll proceed to tell you in detail which king or queen was his uncle or aunt and that Dick Whittington’s cat was his cousin’s great great great great great great great great great great great times seven grandparent (cats are a fertile lot).

He’ll also impart to you a few home truths that you’d rather not hear, things you don’t want the neighbours to know, titbits he’s gossiped about whilst sat on the fence by the wheelie bins with his moggy mates, one eye on the lookout for rats and the odd bit of chicken from a rubbish sack. Such stuff is what cats get up to having slipped through the cat flap.

One man a few centuries back did something terrible to his cat: he cut off its head and chucked it on the fire. As the eyes popped out the mouth twisted and hissed, “Go tell you wife you’ve cut off the head of the King of the Cats. You shall be avenged for such an act.” 

A year on he was playing with his wife’s new kitten (women in those days couldn’t get a divorce, alas) which was sweet as pie till it lunged at his throat, sinking its claws and teeth into his windpipe. The bloke died in agony that very night.

So be warned, you may have a Royal Cat sat right now on your lap, or meowing to be let in for his tuna chunks and a nap on your favourite cushion which he’ll cover with hairs as he’s curled up dreaming malevolently of birds.

Beware.

Rare Bird

She logged out for the last time last year and has been offline ever since, a New Year’s Eve resolution and challenge she can't resist. 

I heard her stash of sloe gin helped ease her through January’s grimness and those long nights of wanting to post, tweet or update status. 

In fact the crimson potion did its thing in sending her remarkable visions such as one of Piskey sat on her bed knitting a cardie for her.

She also began to imagine she was walking around wearing a dress like the one Scarlett O’Hara was wont to wear. So a friend said. 

In fact her friends are concerned and noticed a change in her like she no longer cares, she's even stopped looking in the mirror before she goes to work and has begun singing to herself. And she smiles a lot. 

Unfortunately her blog is no longer updated cos I’d love to know what’s in her head, this offline girl of the 21^st century, a rare bird.

Ice Cream

I met him down t’pub the other week in the queue for the bar. We were standing beside a black gloss-painted post that held the ceiling up and which retained indents of past drunken bouts. His name was Phil, a northerner down south with northern vowels. He hated motorway services, laundrettes and modern traffic management systems such as sleeping policemen, speed cameras and bollards which he often hit.

His mother had recently had a fall out with Age Concern which he told me all about and he swore he’d never been abroad in his life and had never had a passport. He lived on his wits, charming the women who swooned like lilies on a hot summer’s day with desire for him.

I offered to buy him a pint, in fact I felt obliged as he regaled me with the story of his life. But he went off on one about beers, lager, spirits and alcopops, their merits, after tastes and cost. On and on he went as he couldn’t decide which beer he best liked, he was so desiring of the lot his eyes fizzed with lust.

Myself, I got fed up, so bought him the cheapest can on sale and made a quick escape leaving him with the barmaid.