Eschewing spiritual solace and observation of the sabbath for more material,
disrespectful pleasures, he was fishing in the river, ignoring the disapproving
glances of the churchgoers. As the morning turned into afternoon with not a single fish taking
his bait, however, Lambton's mood darkened, and he cursed aloud with blasphemous abandon at his ill
fortune.
As if bidden by theis profane outburst, a ripple shivered across the river's surface. Moments later,
the young man felt something tug sharply at his lin, but it was not a fish. When he hauled it up
out of the water, he thought at first that it was some form of aquatic worm or leech, small yet
elongated, with slimy black skin. Then it raised its head and looked at him, and even the brash
Lambton caught his breath in horror, for his unexpected catch had the head of a dragon-and the face of a devil.
Its jaws were slender, brimming with long needle like teeth, and evil-smelling fluid oozed
from nine gill-like slits on either side of its neck; but all that Lambton saw were its eyes. Like icy
coals they glittered, snaring his own in a glacial, mesmeric trance, and as he gazed heplessly into
them, all the sins of his wasted youth danced in their malevolent darkness, like mocking wriaths.
John Lambton had initially planned to keep whatever he caught, but all he wanted to do now
was rid himself of this loathsome creature, and he lost no time in casting it down a nearby well.
From that moment on, he was a changed person, seeking redemption and salvation for his former
misdeeds, a mission that led him a few years later to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. And so
he left the village and his castle far behind, but he also left behind a monstrous manifestation of his
former wickedness.
Unknown to Lambton, his vaptive had thrived within the well's gloomy confines, growing
steadily and stealthily larger and ever more powerful. One morning, some of the villagers
from Washington spied a strange trail, glistening with acidic slime, that led from the well to a hill
close by. intrigued, they followed the trail, and a terrible sight met their eyes.
So huge that the coils of its snakelike body enfolded the hill nine times, a hidious limbless
dragon of the type known as a worm or orm lay basking in the sunshine. Livid slime seared the
grass under its body, and poisonous vapor spiraling out of its mouth withered the leaves on the surrounding trees.
Thus began the Lambton worm's grisly reign of terror, during which it laid waste Washington's
once verdant countryside, devoured livestock and even small children, and turned the villagers into
captives within their homes, frightened to set foot outside their doors lest they encounter their
land's deadly despoiler. In desperation, with an ancient gesture customary when plagued by a maarauding
dragon, they attempted to pacify the monster with an offering of milk.
A huge trough was filled with fresh milk and placed in the courtyard of Lambton Castle, where it could be readily
seen by the worm. As expected, the creature rapidly slithered forth and lapped up the offering. For the rest of that day and
all through the night, it remained passively wrapped around its chosen hillside retreat; but when no milk
was forthcoming on the following morning, it rampaged in fury, while the terrified villagers cowered in their
houses. So from that time onward, every cow in the village was milked exclusively to provide a daily tribute sufficient to satisfy the worm.
Every so often, a few villagers braver than the rest attempted to dispatch their serpentine enslaver with sword or lance.
But even if they succeeded in slicing the beast in half, the halves immediately joined together again, yielding an
intact, highly irascible worm that rarely gave its attackers the opportunity either to repeat their
ploy or to flee the fray.
Years passed by until at last John Lambton returned home. He was horrified to discover the worm's baneful presence
and determined to rid his land of the evil that had been inflicted upon
it by his own youthful decadence; so he sought the advice of a wse old
witch. she informed him that he would only succeed in killing the monster if he wore a
special suit of armor, with sharp blades all over the surface, and if
he confronted it in the middle of the river where he had originally caught it.
There was, however, a price to pay for success. After slaying the worm, he must also kill the next living thing he met.
If he failed to do this, the Lambton lineage would be cursed, and for nine generations
no heir to the Lambton estates would die in his bed.
Heeding all that the witch had told him, John Lambton at once
arranged for a suit of spike-adorned armor to be prepared for him and
set forth in it to engage in battle with his dreadful foe. By swift and subtle
swordplay, he enticed the worm into the fast-flowing water of the River Wear.
Once there, the worm seized him in its coils; but the more it sought to crush
him, the more severely the razor-sharp blades on Lambton's suit sliced into its body.
Aided by his sword thrusts, the blades eventually sliced the worm into several
segments and, before they could recombine, the river's current bore them away.
Thus was the fearsome Lambton worm destroyed.
Rejoicing, the young man returned home to Lambton Castle, but although he
had vanquished the worm, its curse lingered. His old father, ecstatically happy
to see that his son had survived his formidable encounter, was the first living
thing to run to greet him. When he was this, John Lambton became pale with fear,
knowing that if he was to secure the safety of his descendants he must kill his own
father-but he simply could not do so. Instead, he killed his most faithful dog,
in the hope that his sacrifice would be enough, but it was not, and for the next nine generations,
every heir to Lambton Castle met a tragic end.
Although the worm had gone, forever after the legend of this terrible serpent dragon would be associated with the name of Lambton.