Origins and setting
“The Brewery of Eggshells” is a Welsh wonder tale of the Tylwyth Teg—the Fair Folk—belonging to the great family of changeling stories known all across the Celtic lands. Its constant elements are a mother whose thriving twins turn wan and uncanny, a neighbour (or wise man) who suspects fairy mischief, a sly test involving brewing in eggshells, and the changelings’ fatal boast—an ancient-sounding cry that gives them away. Once unmasked, the Fair Folk must return the true children.
The tale
There was once a young mother living in a stone cottage at the edge of a Welsh hill—broom at the door, peat on the fire, and a cradle by the hearth with two fine twins. While her husband was away at the hay, she kept her babies warm and merry, and all was well until one afternoon she stepped out—no longer than it takes to fetch water from the well—and left the cradle to the glow of the embers.
When she came back, the babes lay as before, but something in them was not as before. Their faces, once rosy, had turned wizened and yellow; their eyes, once bright, were sharp as thorns; and from that day they wailed night and day, sucking and never satisfied, thin as reeds yet heavy as sin to lift. They would not grow, would not smile, would not baptise properly (some tellings dwell on this), and seemed to know things no infant should.
A neighbour—an old man who knew the world on both sides of a hedge—watched the harried mother and shook his head.
“Woman, your children are not your children,” he said softly.
“Saints preserve us—what do you mean?”
“The Tylwyth Teg have been by your fire. Those are changelings in the cradle.”
She crossed herself, near to tears. “What can be done?”
“Set a trick to them,” said he. “They are ancient and proud; they cannot keep silent if they see folly never seen before. Do as I say, and you’ll have your own again.”
The brewing in eggshells
He told her to gather eggs, crack them neatly, and save the shells. The mother did so, laying a score of half-shells on the hearthstones like tiny kettles. In each she put a drop of water, a crumb of malt, and the least pinch of hops—just enough to make a show of it. Then she stooped and blew the peat to a bright fire, setting the shells to steam and sputter as though a brewery were at work.
The two “babes” lay still at first, watching with those sharp old eyes. She went on with her play, stirring each eggshell with a splinter, sniffing and nodding like a busy housewife. She even called out in a loud voice, “Well, well—this will make ale enough for the reapers at harvest!”
At that, one of the creatures propped itself on an elbow—no babe’s motion at all—and croaked:
“I have seen the acorn before the oak,
I have seen the egg before the hen;
But never—by hill or glen—
Saw I beer a-brewing in an eggshell!”
The other chimed in, wagging a finger thin as a twig:
“I am older than the mountain’s bones,
Older than the wind’s first tread;
Yet never till this very day
Saw ale drawn out of eggshells!”
“God save us, they can speak!” cried the mother, and the old neighbour—who had slipped in to watch—nodded grimly. “That’s the boast I told you of. They’ve betrayed themselves.”
The return
No sooner were the words out than there came a whistling round the chimney, a sound like a flock of starlings turning. The door clicked, though no hand touched it, and a cold draught ran across the floor. A small voice, thin as frost, called from outside, “Bring them!”—and another answered from the dark, “Bring them back!”
The fire flared blue. The two changelings gave a screech that would have curdled milk, leapt from the cradle, and shot up the chimney, scattering soot like black snow. In the same breath—so the mother swore—a soft weight fell into the cradle once more, and there were her own two boys, pink and drowsy, as if they had just waked from a long sweet sleep. One yawned; the other stretched; both rooted for milk as ordinary babies do.
The mother gathered them to her breast, laughing and crying together. The neighbour laid the tongs across the hearth—iron displeases the Fair Folk—and said, half to the fire, half to the night, “Take your old men’s imps to your hollow hills and leave Christian children where you found them.”
After that, the cottage stood quiet again. The twins grew as they should, with no more of the elder-look about them, and the only brewing thereafter was in honest kettles for honest folk.
Iconic lines and moments
- The neighbour’s recognition: “Woman, your children are not your children.”
- The set-piece of the trick: a row of eggshells steaming on the hearth like tiny cauldrons, the mother’s pretence of brewing ale “for the reapers.”
- The changelings’ fatal boast (in many forms), e.g.:
- “I have seen the acorn before the oak, / I have seen the egg before the hen; / But never saw I beer brewed in an eggshell!”
- Or: “I am older than the mountain’s bones, yet never saw ale drawn out of an eggshell!”
- The sudden reversal: a whistle of wind, a rush up the chimney, and the true twins laid back in the cradle.
Thus ends “The Brewery of Eggshells”: a hearth-side wonder in which clever make-believe breaks a fairy glamour, the proud betray themselves with their own ancient tongues, and a mother’s cradle is set right by a row of absurd little pots that never brewed a drop—but told the truth all the same.
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