Yorkshire Subterranean Society

Which little men and which Black Lake you are wondering? Does it suggest some YSS venture? Perhaps, perhaps not, though the story which I am about to recount does have some parallels with at least one branch of our society.

I was reminded of the story during a recent working weekend at the School. There was quite a merry gathering, mainly merry committee members - amongst whom were members of the Cave Diving Group. In the course of a merry musical soiree at the Helwith Bridge Inn with the ‘Black Sheep’ flowing well, soothing throats made rough and sore with numerous choruses of ‘Fine gal you are! and with tongues loosened in their sockets I heard or thought I heard, imagined perhaps, the strangest of tales about little black men singing songs down by Galway Bay; or was it about cave divers in black wet suits singing songs by Malham Tarn as they went about their business? Come to think of it, it could have been about politicians and independent school headmasters in shiny black PVC, drinking jugs of punch. Who knows - who cares, after eight pints of barley wine I was beginning to loose track of events but later on the Hungarian legend of the Black Lake came back to me with remarkable clarity.

This story could easily have taken place in the Dales but according to legend it took place in a black lake in a green valley dotted with small farms and pleasant homesteads among the Carpathian Mountains.

The valley folk believed that the lake was enchanted and inhabited by a company of little black men who, for some reason unknown to humankind, were always anxious to entice passers-by to enter the deep, dark water with them. Usually on some beautiful evening, when the light of the sunset fell upon the lake and changed the dark water to rose and gold, the little men would swim to shore, perch themselves on the broken rocks and huge stones and chant their weirdly sounding song:

Whenever this song was heard the children of the valley fled in fear from the lake as fast as their little legs could carry them. But there is always one who has to be different, one who is bolder or crazier than the rest. For years young Lauro had wished to take up the little men’s offer but had never been in the right place at the right time. One evening, however everything fell into place. He heard the little men chanting and, rushing down to the shore of the lake, he saw a dozen or more lithe, dancing little men with coal black shining skins and twinkling black eyes, hopping and jumping from stone to stone and singing as they sprang to and fro: and, guess what Lauro did? You’ve guessed it, straight in he went - without tanks, goggles, anything. He felt himself floating down, down, down, to the bottom of the lake, (neutral buoyancy?), until at last the little dark figures led him to the entrance of a cave of pure gold.

From within this cave a voice cried out, “Enter, enter. You are the first mortal who has not feared to come hither and claim the magic gift from the Queen of the Lake. For many years I have awaited the coming of a brave mortal, worthy to take from my hands the magic axe.”

Lauro took it wonderingly. Wouldn’t you? It seemed too small to be of much service but its blade was bright and sharp and he felt sure that it must have some special powers of its own. And he was right. The Queen of the Lake went on to say that he need not even trouble to carry the axe with him on his travels; all he had to say when he needed the axe was, “Axe of the Black Lake come to me.” and it would appear at once and with its aid he would become the mightiest of men.

After all that, it was back to the surface ASAP. Saying farewell and thanks to the queen, Lauro gripped the handle of the axe between his teeth and struck out and upwards, (no mucking about with decompression), and was home in front of a lovely warm fire with a cup of tea in next to no time.

The rest is history. He slew dragons, killed fierce lions and knocked off all kinds of pestilent creatures. Eventually he became a very-important-person and married a king’s daughter, in preference to the king’s son, and, after one or two hiccups they lived happily ever after.

So, caves of gold and magic axes, it sounds as though the cave diving group could be onto a good thing. If you fancy it contact You know who?

Afterthought

I suppose the Twenty-first Century equivalent of a magic axe would be a Hilti drill with everlasting batteries and an ever sharp bit. Keep listening for that sound of music Alan!

N.J.W