I sat down last week to write this months FTC and… nothing. There wasn’t a thought in my head that could be coaxed in to even a single interesting sentence, let alone an article. I remembered a celtic tale about a storyteller who ran out of stories. He was under obligation to tell stories to the king every night for five years and the king was, of course, threatening to cut off his head if not appropriately entertained. Finding himself one story short he wandered in the garden trying to remember some tale as yet unused and finally fell asleep on a bench. Although lacking in coherence, the resultant stress induced nightmare provided his yarn for the night and saved his life. I wondered briefly if I might scoff some hefty cheese before bedtime and get away with a similar ruse.
Fortunately, as I was reading one of my Christmas presents last night, a beautifully put together book of Turkish folk tales, I found a story which rather surprised me. It featured a man whose dream led him to great riches. Nothing surprising there as dreams in folktales are frequently premonitions that, if heeded, bring rewards or at least prevent catastrophe. The surprising thing was just how closely it followed the plot of a well known English folktale. Well, of course there is nothing really surprising about finding a different version of the same story in both Europe and the Middle East. So what was it that I did find surprising? I’d better tell you the story.
The English version features a poor pedlar who lived in the village of Swaffham in Norfolk.
One night he had a dream in which he was told to go to London Bridge and there he would meet someone who would lead him to great fortune. Off he trotted eking out his few remaining coins through the long walk and three days of hanging around on London Bridge getting steadily more despondent. On the last afternoon before he would be forced to return home, a shopkeeper from one of the shops on the bridge came out and said “I’ve been watching you wandering about for three days getting sadder and more sad. What, pray tell are you doing here?” The pedlar told him of his dream and the shopkeeper patted him on the shoulder saying “Ahh! Dreams! You shouldn’t listen to them. Why, I had a dream myself the other day that there’s a chest of gold coins buried under the roots of a tree in the garden of a pedlar who lives in Swaffham, but you don’t see me dropping everything to go and starve digging a pointless muddy hole in Bloomin’ Norfolk! Go home and get on with your life.” The pedlar thanked the shopkeeper for his kind advice, returned to Swaffham and found the treasure in his garden just as the man had said. He rebuilt the church, to the joy of all his neighbours, and lived happily ever after.
This story, called “The Pedlar Of Swaffham”, has never been attributed to any other place in the UK. The pedlar even has a name, John Chapman, and is immortalised on a massive sign in the town. Obviously, with such strong material evidence behind it the English version is the original and the Turkish version was borrowed in an exchange during the crusades. Except that the Turkish protagonist also has a name, Murat Usta, and the Anatalyian mosque that he paid to have built is named Muratpasa after him.
So there I am, thoroughly surprised that two near identical tales should both have left behind such indisputable physical results in such specific geographic locations. Are the double-prophetic-dream stories just a cover up for wealth gained in a less scrupulous fashion or should we be paying more attention to our nocturnal adventures?
Here’s wishing you all sweet dreams.