From Thomas Crofton Croker's 'Fairy Legends of Wales', included in his third volume of Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland, first published in 1828. The story was collected by a female correspondent in Glamorganshire, who heard the tale from Davidd Shone. It concerns Rhys ap Morgan, a farm servant from Llwyn a Ffynon, who was enticed away to a fairy dance for a year. After his rescue he soon sickened and died...
About seventy years ago, there were two farmer's servants living at Llwyn y Ffynon: I knew them both well. They were returning from their work one line evening at twilight, and driving their little mountain ponies before them, weary with having toiled all day, carrying lime for their master's use. When they came down into a smooth plain, one of the men, named Rhys ap Morgan, suddenly halted.
"Stop," said he to his companion, Llewellyn, "do stop, and listen to that enchanting music; that's a tune I've danced to a hundred times. I cannot resist it now. Go, follow the horses ; I must find out the musicians, and have my dance; and if I don't overtake you before you reach home, take the panniers off the horses. I'll be with you presently."
"Music in such a spot," replied Llewellyn, "in such a lonely place! What can you be dreaming of? I hear no music; and how should you? Come, come, no nonsense; come home with me."
He might have spared himself the trouble of this remonstrance, for away went Rhys ap Morgan, leaving Llewellyn to pursue his homeward journey alone. He arrived safely, untacked the little horses, completed his day's work by despatching an ample supper, and was retiring to rest without any anxiety about his companion, Rhys, who, he supposed in his own mind, had made this music a pretence to go to the alehouse, which was five miles off. For, reasoned Llewellyn to himself, how could there be the sound of music in that lonely spot, remote from any dwelling?
The next morning, when he found that Rhys was still missing, he reluctantly told their master that he must have assistance to attend the horses, for that Rhys was not yet returned. This alarmed the farmer and his family, for Rhys was a very steady fellow, and had never before played the truant, although he was notoriously fond of dancing. Llewellyn was questioned and cross-examined as to where he had parted from him, and how, and why, and all about it; but to no one could he give what was considered to be a satisfactory answer. He said that music had allured him, and that he had left him to join the dancers.
"Did you hear the music?" inquired his master.
Llewellyn replied that he had not; whereupon it was resolved that the alehouse should be searched, and that he should be sought for everywhere. But it was all to no purpose; no information was received of him; there had been no dance in the whole country round; not a sound of music had met the ear of any one; and, in fine, not the slightest trace of the lost servant could be made out.
At length, after a strict but fruitless inquiry, suspicion fell on Llewellyn. It was supposed by some that he must have quarrelled with Rhys on their way home, and perhaps had murdered him. Llewellyn thus accused, was taken up and confined on suspicion. He vehemently protested his innocence, although he could give no clear account of the affair; and things remained thus for a year, when a farmer in the neighbourhood, who had some experience in fairy customs, shrewdly suspected how the matter stood, and suggested, that he and several others should accompany Llewellyn Walter to the very spot, and at the very same time where he said that he had parted from Rhys ap Morgan. This proposition was agreed to, and when they arrived at the spot, which was green as the mountain-ash (Cerdin), Llewellyn stopped.
"This is the very spot," said he, "and, hush! I hear music; melodious harps I hear."
We all listened, for I was one of them; but we heard nothing.
"Put your foot on mine, Davidd," said Llewellyn, whose foot was at that moment upon the outward edge of the fairy circle. I did so, and all the party did the same in succession, and we all instantly heard the sound of many harps in full concert, and saw, within a circle of twenty feet in diameter, countless numbers of little figures, the size of children of three or four years old, enjoying themselves vastly. They were going round and round the ring with hands joined. I did not perceive any varied figures in their dance; but as they were going round, we saw Rhys ap Morgan among them. Llewellyn at once seized hold of his smock frock, and twitched him out of the circle, taking great care himself not to overstep the edge of their ring; for once you are inside it, you lose all power over yourself, and become their property.
"Where are the horses? Where are the horses?" said Rhys impatiently.
"Where are the horses, indeed," said Llewellyn, "where have you been? Come, answer for yourself, and account for your conduct. Clear my character, which your absence has cast the reproach of murder upon."
"What stuff you talk, Llewellyn! go, follow the horses, my good fellow, while I finish my dance; for I have not yet been above five minutes dancing. I never enjoyed a dance like this; oh let me return to the dance," said Rhys.
"Five minutes!" repeated the enraged Llewellyn. "You must explain the cause of your absence for this whole year. This foolish talk of yours about five minutes won't answer for me; so, come you must."
He took him by main force. To all our questions he could say nothing, but that he had only been absent from the horses five minutes, and that he was dancing very pleasantly; but of the people with whom he was he could give no account whatever; they were strangers to him, he said. He could answer no questions as to what he had eaten, or where he had slept, or who had clothed him; for he was in the same dress as when he disappeared, and he seemed in a very desponding way; he became, 'sad, sullen, and silent,' and soon took to his bed, when he died.
"And," continued the narrator of the tale," the morning after we had found Rhys, we went to examine the scene of this extraordinary adventure, and we found the edge of the ring quite red, as if trodden down, and I could see the marks of little heels, the size of my thumb-nails." He repeatedly compared the size of the heels to his thumb nail.
(Croker used an asterisk to note: It is almost needless to point out the similarity between this and the Scotch tradition, related from Stewart, in the Brother Grimm's Essay, at p. 16 of this volume. There is an ancient Welsh ballad called "The Old Man of the Wood," in which like The Adventures of Porsenna, alluded to in the first volume of this work, at p. 303, second edition, years roll away as moments.)
There's a Llwyn y Ffynon farm in Gwynedd but, given the collator's location, it's probably more likely it was in or around Glamorganshire. Google brought up a farm in Glyncorrwg that is now better known as Willow Springs, for example. Anyway, if David's story were true, the events would have taken place c. 1755. No obvious candidates abound...
David Shone then related another event he had been involved with:
"I lived as a servant in a farm-house in Ystrad-fellta, where a young woman, named Polly Shone Rhys Shone, was in the habit of coming to sew. She was employed in the neighbourhood as a sempstress. Well, it happened that I was coming home one night with William Watkin, a fellow-servant, and we perceived a light coming to meet us, which we soon discovered to be a corpse-candle.
I cautioned my companion not to stand in its way (knowing the danger of such temerity), but, said I, "follow my instructions; station yourself here with me;" and we placed ourselves upon a bridge over a brook, through which the road passed, and we lay down and turned our faces towards the water, and there we clearly saw the reflection of Polly Shone Rhys Shone, bearing the corpse-candle upon the ring-finger of her right hand, and the other hand over the light, as if to protect it from the wind.
We remained motionless in this position until the reflection vanished, and then we walked home sad and sorrowful; although we could not believe that it was Polly; for what should she do in that church-yard? That was not her burying-place. But, however, sad thoughts we had, although we said nothing on our return, though repeatedly questioned why we looked so mournful. In a week after we heard that poor Polly had been suddenly taken off, and her corpse passed that very road, to be buried in that same church-yard."
(Croker noted: The Welsh, like the Irish, are singularly attached to the burial-place of their family, and adhere to the spot where their forefathers were laid with an extraordinary tenacity. A labourer will request to be carried to the grave of his ancestors, though his death-bed may be fifty miles distant. Every Easter, Whitsuntide, and Christmas the relatives of the departed are busy white-washing the head and foot-stones, and planting flowers on the graves: they also listen at the church-door in the dark, when they sometimes fancy they hear the names called over in church of those who are destined shortly to join their lost relatives in the tomb.)
Finally, David related a story that had been passed down by his mother, who had been told it by some unknown third party:
My mother, once upon a time, was in the habit of receiving money from the fairies; and near our house there was a well, and near it a green spot, celebrated for being the scene of many fairy exploits. Whenever my mother went to the well, she would find upon the stone, above the water- spout, a new half guinea. Once I was bargaining about a pig, and my mother, to prevent farther contention, brought her little bag of gold forward, and gave me a new half guinea. I was frightened when I saw a poor woman like my mother possessed of so much money, and I entreated she would tell me how she came by it.
"Honestly," said she; "I remember the very word."
"Oh, mother," said I, "tell me where you got it; to whom would you trust your secret, if you do not confide in your only son?"
"Well, if I must, I must," said my mother. She then told me, and most unfortune, poor woman, for her was the disclosure; for from that moment the donation ceased. Often did she attend the well; but, alas! in vain. Not a farthing did she find from that time."
