From the Forest Page 9

  They come out of the forests seeking their fortunes; they go back into the forests to find their true identity. They trick the kings and marry their daughters. They are not the ‘lumpen proletariat’; they are skilled workers on the cusp of industrialisation. In the century following the publication of the Märchen they will become Chartists,13 trade unionists, communists.14 The last armed insurrection in Britain, the Battle of Bossenden, took place in the ancient sweet chestnut forest of the Blean in 1838, when the agricultural workers of Kent took up arms against the royal militia. Oddly enough, their leader, the self-titled Sir William Courtenay, believed he had the magical power of immortality. They were defeated of course: the tropes of fairy stories are inspirational or consolatory, not prophetic.

  It was inspirationally beautiful in the woods that May day with the bluebells and the adder and some tiny baby rabbits and my own high-minded thoughts. In a perfectly organised world I would have heard a cuckoo as I walked. This is not a wild fantasy; May is the month when you are mostly likely to hear that familiar disyllabic call echoing through the woods, and it would have fitted very neatly into my thoughts, since the bird arrives from a long journey and sneaks into the nests of other birds, tricking them into raising its young often at the expense of their own brood. It would have made a splendid analogy. But I did not hear a cuckoo that day. I was quite glad because, although my heart always lifts a bit for the very first cuckoo of the year, which really does shout out the spring, I find the incessant repetition of that strangely penetrating call rather annoying. Once a cuckoo starts, it seems able to keep it up all day. Even without a cuckoo, though, the forest was full of bird music, celebratory, joyful, exuberant. Then, when I was nearly back to my car, I heard a sound I had never heard before, a brand new bird song – an accelerating run of crisp metallic notes, ending up with a tremolo trill. (I have read it described as the ‘sound of a spinning coin on a marble slab’.) I had to listen to an audio tape later to identify it: a wood warbler, a summer visitor from tropical Africa to deciduous woods throughout Europe where the forest floor is reasonably clear of undergrowth. And when I listened to the tape, I learned something else: the wood warbler has an alternative, completely different song that it inserts, as it were, between the verses of its main one. I had heard that too in the forest, a fast sequence of intense, soft, somehow sad notes, but had not realised it was one and the same bird singing both songs in the afternoon sunshine of the bluebell woods, the King’s hunting forest.

  Histories of the imagination are hard to trace and impossible to prove, but it is surely at least provocative that in Scotland, where the Crown was always much weaker and slower to move towards the new European concept of the King, there was much less afforestation – and a different sort of fairy story. The magic of the Celtic tales is deeper and grander; the heroes come with long pedigrees and noble education and they never laugh at themselves, nor at the social systems they emerge from. Merlin may roam mad in the Great Caledonian forest, but he serves the King first and foremost; despite a less-than-grandiose childhood, Arthur always was the true king by inheritance, by blood – he was no indigent soldier, no sneaky little tailor, and certainly not the ‘child of a poor man’, a servant or agricultural labourer. Merlin’s magic is a high magic, far more powerful than the little domestic magic of the old women, the witches, and the woods themselves in the classic fairy stories; but it won’t save him or Camelot or the Kingdom. The little tailor, the sly and boastful servant girl and the surly, discontented soldier, however, will become rich, sexually satisfied and in power. The Crown’s attempts to exclude them from the forest, deprive them of their traditions and keep them in their places will fail. They will sneak back into the woods, where they will learn a thing or two and emerge to claim their rights, achieve power and live happily ever after.

  Rumpelstiltskin

  Once upon a time there was a funny little man and he was dancing in the forest.

  He, at least, called it dancing, though to you it might have looked more like gambolling and frolicking, tumbling and prancing, because he was not graceful. He danced in the hazel coppice and he looked like those trees – short and bristly with skinny misshapen branches. But, like those trees, he promised sweetness and ripeness and generous joy. Later, in the moonlight, high up the mountainside, he danced with trembling aspens and the bristly junipers and he looked like them too – solitary, clinging to the poor soil, spindly and grotesque. He was leaping and somersaulting and singing for joy:Today I’ll brew, tomorrow I’ll bake

  And soon I’ll have the Queen’s namesake;

  Oh how hard it is to play my game

  For Rumplestiltskin is my name.

  He is me. I am him.

  And he ought to be the hero of this story, but they have made him into the villain.

  Once upon a time there was a greedy king and a boastful, ambitious – though admittedly rather lovely – miller’s daughter.

  He wanted to be rich and she wanted to be queen. They were as selfish and worldly and mean-hearted as each other, and they lied and tricked and exploited their inferiors to get what they wanted.

  They ought to be the villains of this story, but they have made themselves into the heroes.

  It is not fair.

  The funny little man was dancing in the forest because there no one could see him dance, or so he thought. In the forest he was hidden. In the forest there were no sneers, no averted glances, no stifled giggles or covert disgust. In the forest there were no mirrors. In the forest he could be who he chose and how he wished. He was full of joy that night. He danced because, come morning, he was planning a good deed, and in his folly he imagined that a king and queen would be grateful, would smile at him and would let him play with their darling baby. Poor fool.

  He was me. I was him.

  It is not fair. So I am going to tell the story again – it is my story and I have the right.

  Once upon a time there was a self-important miller; he had worked his way up from not much and wanted all the world to know it. He scrooged his workers, bullied his wife and spoiled his children, as such men do. His favourite child was his oldest daughter, who was very like him only prettier, and on her his ambition was set. Nothing was too good for that little madam. She grew up wonderfully self-centred and with a total lack of useful skills; she believed the world owed her not simply a living but adulation and chocolates and jewels and furs. Her father, who inevitably called her ‘my princess’, believed that she ought to be a queen, and by the time she was seventeen she entirely agreed with him.

  The miller was a man who could not help boasting. Swagger was like sweat for him, it oozed out of his flesh and smelled slightly rank, although he never noticed, any more than he noticed that his childhood friends laughed at him and that his new acquaintances despised him. His voice was loud and his purse was full – what more could a man need? he thought complacently.

  One day the miller met a king – a venal, greedy young man with sharp eyes, a weak chin and a rather unimportant kingdom, but a real and proper crowned king nonetheless. In an expansive mood brought on by brandy and arrogance, the miller told the king that his daughter could spin straw into gold.

  Well, the king was not stupid, or at least not very stupid, and he was both eager for gold and somewhat dubious, as anyone might be. He did what kings have tendency to do when something they want a lot looms up on their horizons – he sent some soldiers round to arrest her and drag her off to his castle. This was not, of course, quite what the miller had intended, but he was convinced that the mere sight of his daughter would melt the King’s heart, and any form of introduction to royalty tends to rot the good sense of men like him. So he managed to fool both himself and her that this was not an arrest exactly, but more of an invitation to visit the castle. He gave her a good deal of advice, which would have been shrewd if he had not failed to understand that the King was more driven by avarice than by lust. A surprising number of men are, when push comes to shove, but this is often
hidden by the fact that avarice can easily enough take the form of greed for power and power can most easily, and pleasurably, be expressed by sexual conquest. So the miller accompanied his daughter to town and, more in a spirit of investment than of generosity, bought her some rather exotic lingerie and some very expensive jewellery.

  Yes, these are nasty people and my take on them is without good humour or kindness. Or even much forgiveness. But I am just a funny little man who dances on his own in the high forest and dreams that one day someone will love him. I have cause for bitterness, as you will see.

  So, the young woman arrived at the palace with an eager anticipation. Her father had, of course, failed to inform her fully of his folly, so she was little startled to be led not to a lavish bedchamber where some appropriate minion would help her decorate herself for the festivities, but to a small, cramped attic filled with straw, in which there stood a spinning wheel. The King accompanied her and announced:

  ‘Now get to work; and if all this straw isn’t gold by morning, I’ll have you executed.’

  A humbler, more sensible and more merry-hearted girl would have laughed at the King, admitted she had not the least idea how to set about such a task and told him that indeed she could hardly spin flax or wool into thread, let alone straw into gold, and that her father was a boastful fool and the King an idiot for believing him. But after the haughty looks she had cast at her sisters and the contemptuous flounce with which she had crossed the village square, accompanied by a guard of uniformed soldiers, she could not face the shame. She smiled archly at the King, hoping to deflect him, and was still smiling flirtatiously when he left the room and slammed the door. When she heard the key turn in the lock her smile collapsed, and before many minutes had passed she was weeping.

  When she looked up there was a funny little man looking at her sympathetically. He enquired politely as to her difficulties.

  He is me. I am him.

  At this point I did not know she was a nasty piece of work. Passing about my business in the corridor, I had heard someone crying and popped my head round the door to see if I could help. No magic about that – the King had left the key in the keyhole. There was this pretty little thing, her face all swollen with tears, and anyone would have offered to help if he could.

  Now, most people have forgotten this, but spinning straw into gold is not that hard: there is a knack to it and it takes practice, but anyone with the will can learn. It is easier with straw than with many things because it is the right colour to start with. You sit at the spinning wheel and you think of all the golden things in the forest: of lichens in flat, round disks on granite; of wild narcissus under the first fresh leaves in springtime; of the patterns on the back of Carterocephalus palaemon, the Chequered Skipper butterfly; of globe flowers seen through hazel branches, bright as sunshine; of the stripes of a bumblebee sipping on clover; of the iridescence on the undersides of dung beetles; of the flash of goldfinch in a hawthorn hedge; of chanterelles on shaded moss; of owl eyes blinking in the deep wood; of tormentil and asphodel and agrimony and broom; of horse chestnut leaves in autumn and of ripening crab apples; of grass seed heads catching the low sun in winter. If memory fails, even buttercups and dandelions will do, though the work is slower with such common joys. You gather all these together in heart and head and eye and then – and this is the tricky bit – you need to spin the spinning wheel very, very fast and without breaking the rhythm. Whizz, whizz, whizz. Whirr, whirr, whirr. And that is it really, though of course a loving heart helps, as always.

  After the straw was all spun into gold, the miller’s daughter asked the funny little man, ‘What must I pay you?’ He wanted to ask for a kiss, but he was courteous and gentle, so he asked for her necklace and she gave it to him.

  The King, of course, was too greedy to let it go at that. A whole room filled with gold thread was not enough for him, so he dragged her off to another larger attic and all three of them went through the same process Whizz, whizz, whizz. Whirr, whirr, whirr. This time the funny little man wanted to ask for a hug, but he was gentle and courteous, so he asked for her ring and she gave it to him.

  She was so pretty and grateful that the funny little man was glad to have been of service to her.

  But the third night was different. The King had been thinking, and although he despised her for being a miller’s daughter, his enthusiasm for the gold overrode his snobbery. He said that if she would spin one more roomfull he would marry her. And far from refusing point blank, she agreed. Her snobbery overrode her good sense. She was happy to marry a king who would make her a queen, even though he had proved himself venal, greedy and cruel.

  Not just folly, wicked folly. The funny little man was shocked. He thought he would teach her a lesson. So he slipped into the room and spun the straw to gold. Whizz, whizz, whizz. Whirr, w hirr, w hirr. And when she enquired what she would have to pay him this time, he asked for her first child. He thought that would give her pause, but after a bit of pouting and grumbling she agreed. She promised.

  He never imagined she would consent; he never meant to take the child.

  He wanted to make her think and he wanted to do a gracious thing. He wanted someone to be grateful to him – not laughing or sneering but grateful, admiring even, and appreciating. That is not a big ask, surely.

  I do know. He is me. I am him.

  So they made a deal and a year later he learned that the Queen was safely delivered of a child and he came back. He thought he would pretend to take the child, though he never would do so really. He had earned it, but he would not claim it – and she would be grateful and would smile at him and would let him play with the baby. He had it all planned.

  She reneged on the contract. She promised, she promised and she did not come through. She was a liar and a coward and a suspicious, selfish woman.

  He gave her one more chance: he offered to play a game with her. She had to guess his name. She cheated, flourishing the riches that she had stolen from her own husband and sending spies to catch the little man dancing in the forest.

  He did not want her baby. Unlike her, he was kind and gracious and generous. He only wanted a chance for the world to see those things in him and be glad and grateful. He knew that babies need their mummies and do not need to be stolen away by funny little men who everyone laughs and sneers at.

  There are rules; there are rules in fairy stories:• The true queen is gentle and kind and good as well as beautiful.

  • Hard work is rewarded – magical hard work by those who live in the forest is especially rewarded.

  • The old, the ugly and the weak should be respected, treated tenderly and not mocked.

  • Promises must be kept.

  So why is the funny little man the villain, and the greedy king and the spoiled queen the heroes?

  It is not fair.

  I should know. I am he. He is me.

  4

  June

  Epping Forest

  Late in June, and despite getting lost in the strange mixed countryside of tiny sunken lanes, motorways and approaches to Stansted Airport, I rather surprisingly managed to arrive in time at Bishop’s Stortford railway station, where I met Robert Macfarlane, the writer of Mountains of the Mind, Wild Places and The Old Ways, off a train from Cambridge so that we could go and walk in Epping Forest.

  We drove south from Bishop’s Stortford and crossed under the M25 to approach the forest from the north. There is something pleasing about the idea that one of the largest areas of ancient forest in England is inside the M25, and therefore effectively part of London. In fact, the city and the forest have an intimate, mutually beneficial relationship: the city grew because there were forests (providing fuel) around it, and Epping Forest survived because of the city.

  In the 1130s most of what is now Essex, including Epping Forest, was declared Royal Forest by Henry I and was indeed used by the monarchs for hunting.1 As in other Royal Forests, the interests of the Crown, landowners and local inhabitants we
re managed under the Forest Law, and over the next couple of centuries the commoners (those who held common rights in the forest) established the usual arrangement of rights to wood cutting and, in this case most significantly, to ‘intercommonage’ – the right to graze stock throughout the whole forest, not merely within the manor where they lived. By the eighteenth century there was a considerable tradition of hostility between the landowners and the commoners. For example, here the rule was that landlords owned the maiden, or timber, trees, but that the commoners could cut wood from pollards for fuel. There are frequent accounts of landlords bringing complaints to the forest courts that maidens had been lopped and thus turned into pollards. Equally, the commoners were actively resistant to all attempts to limit free grazing, even those legally sanctioned by the Verderers (the local officers of the Forest Law); they tore down all new fences and attacked the workmen constructing them.

  By the end of the eighteenth century the Crown, having no more interest in either hunting or raising venison in Essex, became not merely willing but eager to sell its rights to the forest back to the actual owners from whom it had freely taken them seven hundred years before; many of these owners still retained their medieval rights as Lords of the Manor. Here as elsewhere, they made energetic moves to buy back the forest rights and then enclose the land – thus preventing the commoners from exercising their customary free grazing and wood gathering. These tensions were replicated throughout the country – and not just in forests. The long tradition of common rights and open grazing was in effect very nearly abolished between 1790 and 1880 because of the rising value of agricultural land and because of the high capital investment for the major land improvements of the Agricultural Revolution.