The Pool of St. Branok Read Free

pleasant house close by, called Pencarron Manor. They had come to the district some years ago, bought the place and started working the mine.
    The superstitious miners used to leave a didjan, which was a piece of their lunch, in the mine for the knackers in order to placate them and stop their wreaking some mischief which was very easy to do in the mine. There had been some fearful accidents and there were several widows and orphans who had lost their breadwinner to the old Scat Bal. They, like the fishermen, took notice of signs. They could not afford to ignore them.
    “They are naturally fearful,” said my mother. “One understands it. And if it means giving up a little of their lunch in order to buy safety this is a small price to pay for it.”
    I was very curious to hear more of the knackers. They were said to be dwarves—spirits of those Jews who had crucified Christ. My mother did not believe in them. It was easy for her. She did not have to go down the mine. But she was very interested in superstitions.
    She said: “How they would laugh at us in London. But here in Cornwall they do seem to fit sometimes. It’s the place for spirits and strange happenings. Look at the legends there are … all the wells that give special qualities … all the stories of the piskies and the unexplained mysteries. And then, of course, there is Branok Pool.”
    “Oh yes,” I said, round-eyed and eager, “tell me about Branok Pool.”
    “You must be careful when you go there. You must always have Miss Prentiss or someone with you. The ground’s a bit marshy round the pool. It could be unpleasant.”
    “Tell me about it.”
    “It’s an old story. I think some of the people round here actually believe it. They’d believe anything.”
    “What do they believe?”
    “That they hear the bells.”
    “Bells? What bells?”
    “The bells that are supposed to be down there.”
    “Where? Under the water?”
    She nodded. “It’s a ridiculous story. Some say that the pool is bottomless. In that case, where could the bells get to? They can’t have it both ways.”
    “Tell me the story of the bells, Mama.”
    “What a child you are! You always want to know everything.”
    “Well, you said that people should try to learn as much as they can.”
    “Of the right things.”
    “Well, this is one of them. This is history.”
    “I’d hardly call it that.” She laughed and put a lock of my hair behind my ear for it had fallen out of the grip of the ribbon which was meant to be holding it back. “Long ago, it is said, there was an abbey there.”
    “What! In the water?”
    “Not in the water then. That came after. At first when they built the Abbey they were all very good men, very religious; they spent their time praying and doing good works. It was when St Augustine brought Christianity to Britain.”
    “Oh yes,” I urged, fearing it was going to stray into a history lesson.
    “People came from far and wide to visit the Abbey and they brought gifts with them. Gold and silver, wines and rich foods, so that instead of being poor the monks all became rich. And then they took to evil practices.”
    “What were those?”
    “They loved their food. They drank too much; they had wild parties; they danced and did all sorts of things which they had never done before. Then one day a stranger came to the Abbey. He brought them no rich gifts. He just went into their church and preached to them; he told them that God was displeased. They had turned their beautiful Abbey, built to serve Him, into a den of iniquity, and they must repent. But the monks by this time were too much in love with their way of life to give it up, and they hated the stranger for warning them. They told him to leave without delay and if he did not go they would drive him away. He would not go and they brought out whips and sticks which in the past they had used to chastise themselves which was supposed to make them holier—though I could never see why. They turned