Free Oxfordshire Folktales by Kevan Manwaring Page A

statuette. I fished a pen out of the viscous yellowy water, low within its chamber: the ultimate ink-well. Sitting on a wooden seat carved from a stump, I contemplated the ‘stickiness’ of such places. It is fascinating how one narrative can inspire another, and how this accretion of narrative can draw visitors to a place, and enrich their perception of it, so that it is experienced with a ‘mythic filter’.
    How many more ‘rabbit holes’ have been inspired by Lewis? It has become a familiar point of reference in popular culture: for example in the film The Matrix , Neo is asked, ‘How far down the rabbit hole do you want to go?’
    What would St Frideswide make of it all? From Aelfgar to Alice, the Treacle Well has continued to flow – long may it do so.

Twelve
S PANISH W ATER
    ‘The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain…’ Lucy recited this to herself as she made her way, old milk bottle in hand, along with her friends and fellow villagers from Leafield, to the magic spring. The spring had been venerated in Wychwood by the folk of the forest for as long as anyone could remember. A good spirit was said to reside in it – as long as it was kept sweet – which could heal folk of all kinds of ailments: from eye to heart; from back to bowels.
    It was Easter Monday, and they were off to make ‘Spanish Water’. Lucy, the new girl in the village, felt a bit embarrassed, because everyone seemed to know what this meant except her. When she had asked her friends they had giggled, as though it was obvious and she shouldn’t be so foolish.
    The bluebells were out and carpeted the floor of the forest either side of the track. The clean Spring sunlight pierced the tangled canopy, budding with new growth. Lucy had always lived in the forest, although only in Leafield for less than year, and found the presence of trees comforting. They seemed to sing to her as she walked to and from school; as she played with her friends; as she sat with her Gran on her porch – they were the constant soundtrack of her life. She knew there was a big wide world out there – she was quite good at geography and could list the capitals of Europe; even knew a little bit of French and German – but she had never gone beyond Oxford, which had seemed like a teeming metropolis to her when she had visited it with her father once. She had developed neck-ache from looking up so much at the dreaming spires, which seemed to stretch to Heaven. They visited one of the churches, St Giles, and its fluted vaults seemed to mirror a forest grove in stone.

    Yet it was in Wychwood that she felt a true presence, though of what exactly she couldn’t say. This was her place of worship, where she often felt something – ancient, deep and sacred – in the wood, in the soil, in the stone. It was in her bones. And today she wasn’t alone, at least a hundred of the villagers processed to the old well, with their bottles, led by the local priest, Reverend Hartlake. In their Sunday best they made an odd sight walking through the forest in solemn silence. It was like some kind of dream.
    They passed Hatching Hill and Maple Hill; the long barrows between Slatepits and Churchill Copse; until they came to the small stone trough, half covered with a thicket and dripping with moss. There, from a little gap, the glittering water trickled out.
    The priest stepped onto a stone next to it and the parishioners bowed their heads in prayer. Reverend Hartlake was canny and knew he could not stop the villagers from continuing this questionable tradition, so he had made a point for many years now of coming along with them and giving it his official blessing.
    One by one they filled up their bottles, which took some time, but nobody seemed to be in a rush. When Lucy was finished she held the glass bottle up and it seemed to catch the sunlight – until the next in line coughed, and she moved on to make room.
    And then, holding their glass, now cool and dappled with droplets,