This tale is based on the river Derwent, as it flows through Cromford. The name, Cromford, means ‘crooked ford’. The tale itself was created by folklorist Ruth L. Tongue. I say ‘created’ because I don’t believe it was a traditional tale at all. A full explanation of Tongue’s work and the basis for this tale follows at the end. Here, then, is my retelling of The Crooker …
Late one winter’s afternoon, a traveller was on his way to see his ailing mother in the village of Cromford. His path led him downhill from the hamlet of Lea and alongside the treacherous River Derwent. As the light started to fade, an old woman appeared from the wooded hillside to his right.
“Where are you going so late in the day, my deary?” Questioned the old woman. “The light will soon be gone and this is no road to be travelling during the hours of darkness.”
The young man was somewhat taken aback at the sight of the old woman. A curious thing she was, having appeared out of nowhere, clothed in green and clutching a posy of St John’s Wort flowers to her breast; flowers which were well out of season. The traveller held his, for his surprise left him momentarily mute.
“You are wise to hold your tongue to a stranger on a dark night.” Proclaimed the old woman. “But silence will not help you against Crooker! Here, take these flowers, as protection. A while ago you freed a bird from the fowler’s net. I knew that bird. Now when you see Crooker, show them to him.”
The traveller accepted the posy, marvelling at the freshness of the blooms and said, “Who is Crooker?” But as he looked up, the old woman had vanished, either into thin air or back into the woods, he knew not, so he continued on his journey.
As the land flattened out, he girded himself against the winter wind and pressed ever onwards towards Cromford. He had travelled but a few hundred yards when, out of the gloom, another old woman appeared, standing to the landward side of the road.
“This is no night to be travelling this road, as the light departs, none would normally dare, for it holds many dangers!” Like her predecessor, the old woman was dressed in dark green and she too clutched a posy of flowers to her chest. These were primroses, yet it was far too early in the year for them to be in flower.
This time, the traveller was prepared and spoke, “Thank you ma’am, but I must travel this road, to see my ailing mother, in Cromford.”
“Your determination and dedication deserve reward. Here, take these flowers and, when you see Crooker, show them to him. I remember you once freed a hare from a snare. I know that hare.” The young man took the primroses and looked up to the old woman, with the question “Who is Crooker?” on his lips, but the old woman had vanished and his question vanished into the wind too. The traveller continued upon his way, with the river making a menacing gurgling sound, as it rushed by to his left.
As he passed a small lane, to his right, once again an old woman appeared, standing in the gloom on the corner. Just like her sisters before, she was clothed all in green and held a posy of flowers, daisies, to her bosom.
“You risk much, young traveller, walking this road at night.” She said “So I have been told.” Replied the traveller. “But I must get to Cromford to attend to my mother. Perhaps you have some help for me, as your sisters did?”
“Indeed.” Smiled the old lady. “Take these and when you see Crooker, show them to him.”
“But who is Crooker?” Questioned the traveller. Ignoring his question, the old woman responded “Last year, you saved a vixen and her cub from a trap. I know the vixen and her cub well, and I thank you for it. So, I will give you more advice. Keep well away from the river, as far as you are able and be at the bridge and chapel shrine ‘ere the moon rises and shines upon the road.” And, with that, the old woman faded into the darkness.
Gritting his teeth against the biting cold, the traveller set off along the Cromford road. Despite the old woman’s warning, it was nigh on impossible for the traveller to avoid the river, flowing, as it did, hard by the roadside. Though it was a clear, moonlit night the sky had the look of a gathering storm. He pressed on down the road, as the gurgling and crashing of the river became louder and louder. The gibbous moon cast shadows through the skeletal tree limbs and onto the road surface before him, as if they were all grasping claws, reaching to rip and rend.
The roaring of the river seemed to take voice, crying “Hungry! Hungry!” And the shadow limbs began to reach out for him, impossibly overtaking his very own shadow. “Crooker!” Hissed the young man, as he turned and cast the posy of daisies behind him. There was a great splash, amidst the roaring and gushing of the river and he swore he heard the river roar “Giiiiiiiiive!” The shadows seemed to recede somewhat, but the creaking of tree limbs and roaring of the water continued to create an unholy cacophany. The traveller ducked his head and picked up his step, as, once more the shadows grasped for him. This time, without sparing a glance behind, he cast the posy of primroses over his left shoulder. Again, there was a mighty splash and the river roared anew, “Giiiiiiiive!”
Though he was winded beyond measure, the young traveller set to running as fast as he was able. He was in sight of the bridge, when the shadow of a great, gnarled and crooked ash tree reared up before him. With a mighty heave, he cast the posy of St. John’s Wort at Crooker; it cried out with the unearthly sound of a forest of creaking, screaming branches. With the last of his strength and courage, the traveller launched himself at Cromford Bridge and collapsed outside the door of the chapel thereon and fell into an exhausted swoon.
That very night, the people of Cromford huddled around their fires, in their cottages and farmsteads, listening to the roaring river. Some said “Do you hear the river and Crooker calling? Do you remember the last time he roared so? We will be needing the priest tomorrow, like as not there will be another dead body to deal with!”
However, come the first light of dawn there was no corpse, but the weary and dishevelled traveller, kneeling by the chapel and praying. The river, now calm, babbled along under the bridge, just down from where the great ash tree stood, innocent in the morning sun.
Creating Folktales?
Some controversy surrounds the supposed sources of Tongue’s collections, with many claiming that she often recounted stories from her earliest childhood and rewrote them from memory alone; allegedly, ‘borrowing’ from other books too. Personally, I have no problem with that; storytelling is first and foremost an oral tradition and, personally, there are many aspects of folklore and stories that I cannot properly remember where or when I first heard them. Also, stories travel, with the characters and circumstances changing to fit their new home.
However, many modern critics have questioned the authenticity of Tongue’s writing, as its style and the creatures that appear in her stories often appear completely unique, which is almost unheard of; every folk tale I know of appears in different versions, in different places, somewhere. There are three things, for me, that put the authenticity of this tale into question: firstly, there is no record of this story anywhere that I can find, prior to Tongue recording it, at a picnic, in 1927. To me, this seems very suspect. Secondly, the name Crooker appears nowhere else. Personally, I think the name derives from ‘crooked’, as the spirit in question here takes the form of a crooked ash tree. Thirdly and finally, Tongue claims that the original name for the Derwent is ‘Darrent’. This is probably a mistake on her part, as ‘Darrent’ is more likely a colloquial rendition of Derwent, rather than an older, original name. Derwent derives from ‘Derw’ (oak) and ‘went’ (river), and would have meant a ‘river of oaks’, or similar.
Some controversy surrounds the supposed sources of Tongue’s collections, with many claiming that she often recounted stories from her earliest childhood and rewrote them from memory alone; allegedly, ‘borrowing’ from other books too. Personally, I have no problem with that; storytelling is first and foremost an oral tradition and, personally, there are many aspects of folklore and stories that I cannot properly remember where or when I first heard them. Also, stories travel, with the characters and circumstances changing to fit their new home.
However, many modern critics have questioned the authenticity of Tongue’s writing, as its style and the creatures that appear in her stories often appear completely unique, which is almost unheard of; every folk tale I know of appears in different versions, in different places, somewhere. There are three things, for me, that put the authenticity of this tale into question: firstly, there is no record of this story anywhere that I can find, prior to Tongue recording it, at a picnic, in 1927. To me, this seems very suspect. Secondly, the name Crooker appears nowhere else. Personally, I think the name derives from ‘crooked’, as the spirit in question here takes the form of a crooked ash tree. Thirdly and finally, Tongue claims that the original name for the Derwent is ‘Darrent’. This is probably a mistake on her part, as ‘Darrent’ is more likely a colloquial rendition of Derwent, rather than an older, original name. Derwent derives from ‘Derw’ (oak) and ‘went’ (river), and would have meant a ‘river of oaks’, or similar.
However, the tale does hold some authentic tropes from British myths and folktales. Firstly, we have the appearance of three ‘wise women’, who each help our protagonist. Three has always been a ‘magic’ number and three women in particular are common in mythology and folktales, such as the three norns of Viking mythology and, of course, the three witches of Shakepeare’s MacBeth. We also have some plant folklore, with each wise woman offering our traveller a posy of flowers; St John's Wort, primroses and daisies, respectively. St. John’s Wort has a venerable history as a plant for warding off witches and evil spirits, and also had the nickname of ‘Devil’s Flight’. The women also claim to be friends with a bird, a hare and a fox, which harks back to the belief that ‘wise women’ and rural folk in general, could talk to animals, as well as - in some cases - be able to transform into them too.
The story concludes with our hapless traveller making a mad dash for the shrine at Cromford Bridge, to avoid the clutches of Crooker, the crooked ash tree. Could this be another reenactment of the conflict between ancient pagan belief and Christianity? The ash tree is the magical tree of Germanic and Nordic mythology and the traveller only escapes when he finally reaches the Christian shrine at the bridge. We will, of course, never know, but it is a classic motif of the folktale.
The story concludes with our hapless traveller making a mad dash for the shrine at Cromford Bridge, to avoid the clutches of Crooker, the crooked ash tree. Could this be another reenactment of the conflict between ancient pagan belief and Christianity? The ash tree is the magical tree of Germanic and Nordic mythology and the traveller only escapes when he finally reaches the Christian shrine at the bridge. We will, of course, never know, but it is a classic motif of the folktale.