George urged his horse out of the stables into the fading light of that September evening. Storm’s hooves bit damp earth from the road as they left the sleepy town of Farringdon behind them. The night was unseasonably cold, the young man pulled his cloak about him and was grateful for the warmth of his labouring steed.
It was a matter of money that had driven him on this near desperate journey. George had lived his whole life in the shadow of a family debt which had blighted his family for two generations. George, with his connections in society and his hansome features had found the answers to their woes in a farmer’s daughter from Aldbourne. Her father, old Jacob, though of humble birth had made a modest fortune through his trade. He approved of the match that would see his only child very well placed, and had offered to settle the bankers dues. So George was engaged and the marriage near and all soon to be well. But today the banker had called, apologetic though firm, he had explained that he himself was hard pressed and could let the long overdue debt stand no longer, allowing only two days for payment.
It was a long and hard ride to Aldbourne, and not a pleasant journey to be undertaken on such a miserable September evening. The strong horse took the miles in a steady gate, and soon the village of Longcot lay behind them. Perhaps over eager, George took the high road past Dragon hill, the white chalk beast glowed faintly in the gathering gloom. The way was dark and the road stony and uneven. The weak reflection of the moonlight on the bare chalk of the track was their only guide.
On this lonely pass Storm threw a shoe. George cursed at his mounting ill fortune, dismounted and searched for the shoe on the road, if only he could find it he could try and nail it back on with the spare nails in his saddle bag. But there was no sign of the iron in the dim light. George saw a fiery gleam in the distance, not greatly hopeful he led the limping horse towards it. As he came nearer he was delighted to see the glow of a forge and the clatter of a hammer on metal. ‘Good evening smith’ he called ‘can you shoe my horse for me? He’s thrown one.’
‘I could’ a voice replied ‘If you have a shilling.’
‘Of course.’ George replied and patted his pockets searching for a coin, there were none. The only bulge was his pocket watch. Acutely conscious of the delay to his urgent journey he unhooked it from his coat and called out ‘I regret I have no money on me, but I will give you my watch instead, it is worth five shillings and it keeps fairly good time.’
‘A pocket timepiece?’ the smith replied ‘This I must see.’ The smith turned from his forge and faced him. He looked ancient with long silver hair like the wild men and prophets the parson spoke of. He opened the watch and studied every facet with nimble fingers and inquisitive eyes. ‘Oh yes,’ he said ‘oh yes indeed, there is some fine work here.’
‘If you don’t mind,’ George interrupted ‘I am in a dreadful hurry, I must get to Aldbourne by morning.’
‘Well then’ then smith replied tucking the watch safely into the pocket of his leather apron ‘for such a generous payment I will shoe every hoof!’
‘I don’t have time.’ George protested.
‘I work fast lad, and shod by me your horse will run like the wind.’
The horse stood quieter in the hands of the smith than he had ever been when handled by a stranger. The old man worked with both skill and speed, he stripped and shaved the hooves and he carefully selected four shoes from the multitude hanging from hooks on stone walls of the forge house and nailed them on. The horse whinnied ‘Steady now Storm’ said the smith ‘Nearly done now.’
His work complete the smith led the horse to a stone mounting block and George was soon astride. ‘Thank you smith.’ he said.
‘Oh my pleasure, my pleasure.’ the old man replied, ‘And a good journey to you!’ The smith slapped Storm on the rump and he took off as if fresh from the stable.
The miles of the stony hilltop track melted away under the horse’s eager canter. Away from the heat of the forge George again felt the chill and pulled his coat tight about him. He thought he saw movement in the verges, quick flashes of light or colour but dismissed them as tricks of the dark on his weary mind.
George was only a mile or so from Aldbourne when he saw a girl standing by the road side sobbing miserably. He reigned in Storm and leant down, ‘What are you doing out at this time of night so far from home.’
‘This is my home.’ she replied pointing to a small door set into a grassy bank.
He was surprised, partly because he had ridden this path many times and never seen such a dwelling, and partly because she was no child but a woman only three feet high with a child at her breast no bigger than a doll. ‘Why do you weep then?’ he asked.
‘The owl has taken my Alfie, my other baby’ she wailed pointing up into a tree across the lane. A barn owl was perched in a gnarled oak tree, it was struggling to keep a grip on the baby’s bindings with its beak.
George walked Storm over to the tree and the owl flapped away, but with its burden it couldn’t fly far and startled by the pursuing horse it dropped its prey. The babe howled in pain but had only fallen in nettles and was otherwise unharmed. George carried the tiny thing back to its mother. ‘Oh thank you thank you.’ the woman cried happily, gratefully taking her screaming infant from his hands. ‘I must give you something for your kindness.’ She bustled into her home and came out without the children holding a thick metal platter. ‘I don’t have much’ she said ‘but please take this with my thanks.’ and disappeared back into the little doorway to sooth her prickled child.
George set out again on his way with the woman’s plate tucked in his coat. The night had taken on a strange quality and now he paid more heed to the quick flashes along the roadside. Now he had seen the tiny woman he saw similar people peering through the hedges and dancing as quick as flames across the road.
In the gray hours before dawn George rode into old Jacob’s farm. The dogs woke at his arrival and barked joyfully seeing the frequent visitor and the hullabaloo soon roused the whole house. Jacob himself, in nightgown and cap came to the door ‘Why George,’ he cried ‘come in out of the cold, my man will see your horse fed and stabled.’
A sleepy servant took the reigns from George and he was led into the kitchens where the fire was already lit ready for the maid’s tea and breakfast. ‘So,’ said Jacob ‘What brings you here in the middle of the night? Are you pining so to see our Cissy that you could not wait until the sun had lit your way?’
George sighed ‘If only that were the reason. I have so rudely roused you because our banker is pressing for settlement of our debt, he has given us only two days to find the money.’
‘The knave!’ Jacob roared ‘And you told him I was going to settle it?'
‘Of course he knew’ George replied ‘but it’s no use. He is now hard pressed too. We have known him so long, and his father before him, I cannot believe he would do this without real need.’
‘Well don’t you worry, the bloody man can have his money, excuse the word but I am a plain man and speak as I find. I will go and arrange it straight after the milking’s done. Now take off your coat and make yourself at home.’
George started to remove his coat and felt a heavy lump against his side. It was the little woman’s plate, in the relief of speaking to old Jacob he had forgotten the whole episode. He lifted it clear and nearly dropped it in shock, the plate he had dismissed as brass was made of gold. Jacob whistled ‘You have not lifted that from the church have you?’ he asked, half joking and half serious.
‘No, it was given to me, it has been a strange night.’
‘I think you had best tell me then’ prompted Jacob.
George explained about the tiny woman and her babies, he mentioned the strange people he had seen in the hedgerows. ‘If I didn’t know better I would have said they were fairies.’
‘I daresay.’ Jacob agreed uncertainly ‘Do you often see little people dancing on the road?’
‘No certainly not.’ George retorted ‘I have never seen anything like them, but after I stopped with the smith near Dragon Hill to get Storm reshod I have been seeing them everywhere.’
Jacob’s mouth dropped open ‘You used the smith on Dragon Hill? Up on the white track where there is no smithy by day?’ George nodded, frowning.
‘I think I know what has happened here.’ Jacob replied in wonder. ‘I have heard this tale before, been known in these parts a long time back. Thought it was just an old myth made up by old woman to keep their bairns quiet. George we must take a look at your horse and see if I am right.’ Bemused, George followed his friend out into the lightening dawn.
In the stable block Storm scrunched happily on fresh hay. ‘Look, look, just look at those shoes!’ the old man babbled excitedly. George stared, the shoes were gleaming gold, just like the little woman’s gift. Old Jacob laughed ‘And now you truly are a good catch for my daughter, in all ways!’
George stood thunderstruck ‘But how? They were iron I tell you, iron!’ ‘Well’ laughed Jacob ‘there’s this story you see. Years and years ago, back in the civil war this man needed to ride north from here in a desperate hurry through the night, I forget why but that was not important. So the story goes, his horse lost a shoe just like yours up on the white track near Dragon Hill. He found the smith and was so grateful for his timely assistance he gave him a golden guinea. It is said that the fairy folk danced around him all the way to Coventry, and when he arrived the horse’s shoes had turned to gold.’
‘Well I, I don’t know what to say.’ muttered George.
‘Round here they reckon the smith is Weyland, the smith of the elves and the old gods. I will not scorn that tale again.’
‘Haven’t others tried to get this gold?’ asked George.
‘Oh yes’ grinned Jacob, ‘at least according to our old wives, and they have been right so far. A greedy fellow heard of the soldier’s good fortune and rode out at midnight searching for the smith. He rode his mare for miles with a shoe missing hoping to win his gold and the poor beast was in terrible pain. But they say Weyland won’t suffer a horse to be mistreated. He shoed the beast all right but he put charms on the shoes. When the smith was done he slapped her on the rump and said ‘Be off Lady and find a good master.’ The horse went off like the wind and the greedy fellow never found her. Others have tried too and found nothing but the old barrow near Dragon Hill.’
Some hours later when the tradesmen of Aldbourne had opened up their shops and workshops for the business of the day Old Jacob accompanied George and Cissy to his banker’s office. Before the banker’s startled eyes they produced the gold plate and the four golden shoes.
‘Well now,’ he said ‘you want those exchanged for coin?’
‘Yes.’ Jacob replied. ‘Then you won’t be minding if I break one to check what’s within?’ He left the room and returned with a small smith’s hammer and a washstand jug, he used the hammer break several chunks from one of the horse shoes. ‘You see, I don’t normally have to check so much at one time.’ He weighed the broken gold carefully on his coin scales, blew the dust from a glass beaker with a spout, filled it with water and gently lowered the fragments in. Her peered at his device and made notes on his jotter, splattering ink in excitement.
‘Now that, Jacob, is gold. And if I know anything, its pure gold.’ He weighed the rest of the shoes and the plate and his quill scratched across the blotter. ‘Twelve pounds of gold, you could buy another farm with that, with livestock and all!’
‘Oh George!’ Cissy cried with delight and embraced him.
Jacob tugged at his beard, as he eyed the ecstatic George ‘Would that buy back the land that your family have been selling off for years?’
‘Yes I think it would’ George conceded, ‘but I need it to pay off my debts…’
‘Which I have promised to pay,’ Jacob reminded him ‘so spend your fortune wisely.’
George held onto Cissy hardly daring to believe his change in fortune as Jacob instructed the banker to draw up a promissory note for the tiresome family debt, and asked that the gold be used to start a new account in George’s name.
One May morning eight months later Cissy asked her husband if they could ride up to Dragon Hill and look for Weyland’s forge. George readily agreed and they set out from Farringdon at a gentle pace, so unlike his wild autumn ride. There was nothing there but the old barrow with its guardian stones and beech trees.
Cissy clambered over the long grass and into the cool dark chamber in the mound. ‘I have found something!’ she said, and emerged clutching three old horse shoes. ‘Shame they are not made of gold!’
‘But they wouldn’t be,’ George replied laughing, ‘they are Storm’s’.
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This is a modern tale based very loosely on fragments of English folklore. The 'dragon hill' is the hill of the White Horse at Uffington and the long barrow is Weyland's Smithy.