Free London Folk Tales by Helen East

Byzantine Empire, as well as Alfune, one the wisest men of Christendom; they planned it together so it became a place where all could meet in brotherhood, and peace. The church was built with a priory on the south side, and a hospice for the poor beside it, and Rahere named it all St Bartholomew’s. Even the Kings Fair that continued there every year was then called after the saint.
    Rahere himself was the first prior, and he also presided over much of the healing that took place in the hospice. And even after his death, they say, the sick were healed, the blind could see, and the lame were made to walk again. Today you can still feel the strength of his spirit in the church. Some claim they have seen his ghost, too, by the altar. As for his hospice, it was moved and rebuilt elsewhere as St Bartholomew’s Hospital. But even in this altogether different modern world, it remains a place that anyone in need of healing can go to, without having to pay.

7
W ITCH W ELL
    Ding Dong Bell, Pussy’s in the Well
    What she does there
    No one can tell.

    Once upon a time, when pigs spoke rhyme, and London was a small place in anybody’s mind, there were wells all around the town. Shepherds Well to Streatham Wells, Sadler’s Well to St Chad’s Well, Woodford Wells to Bagnigge Wells, St Bride’s or Bridget’s Well, Mossy Well or Muswell, Clerks Well to Camberwell, Briton’s Well or Cripplewell. Some had fresh water, good for drinking, and there were always queues of children, women and water-carriers. Some had sweet water, good for healing, and people came to cure their sore eyes and stiff legs and sad hearts. Others again had scummy water that was good for hiding, and people came with all sorts of dark secrets, and threw bodies, bones, and even babies down there.
    Now, in that long ago time when wells were all round and witches were as commonplace as apples, there was a man whose wife died, leaving him with a little girl. She was bright and willing but he couldn’t manage on his own, so he married again before too long. His new wife had a daughter too, much of an age as his own, so that would be company for the child, he thought, as well as a mother to care for her.
    But sadly it was the worst sort of company and no caring at all, for the new wife hated her stepdaughter from the moment she first clapped eyes on her, because her own child seemed as heavy and slow as a toad beside her. And mother and daughter between them made sure that young girl had such a hard time of it, it was a wonder she didn’t run off altogether. But she was always hoping that somehow she might please them, and befriend them, and so she kept on trying. They made her work so hard, she was almost spinning in her sleep, seeing to the fires, cleaning the floors, cooking the food, mending and making all the clothes. She never had a moment to sit still.
    Even when she went to get water from the well, and was waiting for the bucket to drop down to the bottom, she had to take out her spindle and spin. But that was a pleasure too, for her, because that little wooden spindle was one thing she still had left from her dead mother.
    Then one day she was at the well, spinning while she peered into the dark depths to see if the bucket was full, and, ‘oh dear!’ the spindle slipped out of her hand, and fell down into the water. The poor girl was beside herself. She could not go back without her spindle, and so she jumped into the well after it.
    To her surprise she found that, instead of landing in water, there was soft green grass beneath her feet. She looked about, and saw she was in another world altogether. There were fields all around her, with a little path running through. But right beside her was a well just like the one above, and on the little wall around it sat her spindle, safe and sound. So she slipped it into her apron pocket, and set off on her way.
    She walked and walked and walked, but saw no one. Not even a bird or a bee. Then suddenly she heard a