Bramble Jack

There stands a mound of mossy stone

That folks around call Bramble Tor.

It gazed down on a stann'ry town

Atop a heather mantled moor

Where, after dusk, the Big-Hat Lad

  Would often go explore.

He always wore a feathered cap

Passed down from his departed dad.

Soon everyone in town forgot

What other names he may have had.

The folk around just knew him as

  'Our little Big-'At Lad!'

Now Big-Hat knew from fairy tales

That, when the moon was full and bright,

The lustrous moss 'round Bramble Tor

Would glow with wisty, green-gold light.

He dreamt he'd claim a Pisky hoard

  By digging there at night.

He did not heed when he'd been told

That, once the ragged sun slid down,

He must not walk the mirey moor

But mind the dry-stone walls of town.

Lest he, like father, heedless, step

  In sucking bog and drown.

This night is clear. This moon is full.

 The mist lies thick as cotton wool.

  A lad who's out to claim a prize

   Is watched by ancient, coal-black eyes.

The mournful golden plovers' song

Had followed him through purple gloam

But as the chill of night set in

He lost all sense of where he roamed.

Then, all about was silent mist

  And not one hint of home.

He stumbled on the sedge and fell

And tumbled hard on stony frost.

The Big-Hat Lad began to cry.

He sobbed in darkness, 'I am lost!'

The darkness softly whispered back,

  'I'll help you, for a cost.'

The mist revealed a spindly man

With beetle wings and bony back.

He smiled with shining needle teeth

And glossy eyes that glittered black.

He made a nimble courtly bow,

  'They call me Bramble Jack.'

'Now, I would gladly guide you home

And even safely walk you back.

I could become your teacher, child.

What say you, then, to all of that?

I only ask a token price:

  That feather from your hat.'

With outstretched needle-fingered hands

The misshaped man was drawing near.

The Big-Hat Lad rose from the ground

And choked his swiftly rising fear.

He took the feather from his cap

  And, eyes closed, offered, ''Ere!'

He waited, wincing, holding breath

Then in his hand the lad felt brass

Replace the feather in his grasp.

He opened eyes to compass glass

With gleaming needle pointing west.

  'What trick be this?' he asked.

'No trick at all,' said Bramble Jack

And with an old professorial air

Explained the working of the needle,

'It points you home from everywhere.

And if holding it, you call for me,

  You'll find I'm waiting there.'

Bramble Jack is very fair.

 His beetle heart beats full of care.

  He only asks a little thing:

   A feather from a goose's wing.

Then in a blazing golden flash

The black-eyed beetle man was gone

And Big-Hat Lad, now feeling brave,

Resumed the quest he'd set upon.

He held the compass gift in hand

  And deeper, journeyed on.

For hours he searched for Pisky moss

Then suddenly began to feel

A stabbing, gnawing hunger pain.

How long past seemed his meagre meal!

He held the compass, closed his eyes,

  said 'Jack, let's make a deal.'

He turned and saw the bramble man.

Relieved, he said 'I need to eat!

For I be fairly starving, Jack.

Will you please conjure something sweet?'

Jack smiled his needle smile and said,

  'Dear lad, I have a treat.'

He flickered shiny beetle wings

And flitted to a blackberry patch.

He whirled around the thorny vines

And with a flash he made a snatch

Then held aloft a bramble root

  As though a fisher's catch.

'What trick be this?' the Hat Lad asked.

'No trick at all. Observe the root!'

He whipped the vine around him thrice.

It started budding glowing shoots

That turned to pinkish flower blooms

  And then… a wealth of fruit!

'A single berry from this arch

Will keep you full and strong and warm.

You'll learn the words to work the spell.

If you agree this pact is sworn:

A single drop of blood will do.

  A little prick of thorn.'

The lad agreed and pricked his thumb

And gave the blooded thorn to Jack.

Then gorged himself on endless fruit

And marvelled at the easy act

Of fleecing fey, then cunning thought...

  'Let's make another pact.'

That's contracts two. He's nearly through.

 He's close, but there's still work to do.

 A tummy full. A teeny price.

   Has he the wit to bargain thrice?

'I came out 'ere to find a prize:

The treasure underneath the moor.

But now I reckon all that work

Is more 'n I might bargain for.

So now, I say: reveal your trove,

  'ee Jack of Bramble Tor!'

'What trick is this?!' cried Jack, surprised.

'No trick. This deal will be the same:

'You'll trade with me for worthless things.

For gold this time we play the game!'

Jack drummed his chin and leaned in close:

  'Then, give to me… your name.'

The sun is up. The lad is back.

 He hauls a bulging treasure sack.

  His form returns home from the moor.

   But where's that lovely hat he wore?

'We'll 'ave to call 'ee somethin' else,'

they said, 'As 'at-less come 'ee back.'

'Sirs, I collect new names like berries,

I claimed more than I can track.'

He smiled and made a courtly bow,

  'But you may call me… Jack.'

***

When folk today climb Bramble Tor

They sometimes like to stop and pose

For pictures by an odd-shaped rock

Where golden mossy carpet grows.

It half resembles some young lad.

  His big hat softly glows.