And this was what happened next.
The poor, distressed creature – for it was now to be pitied, even although it was a great, cruel, awful Mester Stoorworm – tossed itself to and fro, twisting and writhing.
And as it tossed its awful head out of the water its tongue fell out, and struck the earth with such force that it made a great dent in it, into which the sea rushed. And that dent formed the crooked Straits which now divide Denmark from Norway and Sweden.
Then some of its teeth fell out and rested in the sea, and became the islands that we now call the Shetland Isles; and a little afterwards some more teeth dropped out, and they became what we now call the Faeroe Isles.
After that the creature twisted itself into a great lump and died; and this lump became the island of Iceland; and the fire which Assipattle had kindled with his live peat still burns on underneath it, and that is why there are mountains which throw out fire in that chilly land.
When at last it was plainly seen that the Mester Stoorworm was dead, the King could scarce contain himself with joy. He put his arms around Assipattle’s neck, and kissed him, and called him his son. And he took off his own royal mantle and put it on the lad, and girded his good sword Sickersnapper around his waist. And he called his daughter, the Princess Gemdelovely, to him, and put her hand in his, and declared that when the right time came she should be his wife, and that he should be ruler over all the Kingdom of Orkney.
Then the whole company mounted their horses again, and Assipattle rode on Go-swift by the Princess’s side; and so they returned, with great joy, to the King’s Palace.
But as they were nearing the gate Assipattle’s sister, she who was the Princess’s maid, ran out to meet him, and signed to the Princess to lean down, and whispered something in her ear.
The Princess’s face grew dark, and she turned her horse’s head and rode back to where her father was, with his nobles. She told him the words that the maiden had spoken; and when he heard them his face, too, grew as black as thunder.
For the matter was this: the cruel Queen, full of joy at the thought that she was to be rid, once and for all, of her stepdaughter, had been making love to the wicked Sorcerer all the morning in the old King’s absence.
‘He shall be killed at once,’ cried the monarch. ‘Such behaviour cannot be overlooked.’
‘You will have much ado to find him, your Majesty,’ said the girl, ‘for more than an hour since he and the Queen fled together on the fleetest horses that they could find in the stables.’
‘But I can find him,’ cried Assipattle; and he went off like the wind on his good horse Go-swift.
It was not long before he came within sight of the fugitives, and he drew his sword and shouted to them to stop.
They heard the shout and turned around, and they both laughed aloud in derision when they saw that it was only the boy who grovelled in the ashes who pursued them.
‘The insolent brat! I will cut off his head for him! I will teach him a lesson!’ cried the Sorcerer; and he rode boldly back to meet Assipattle. For although he was no fighter, he knew that no ordinary weapon could harm his enchanted body; therefore he was not afraid.
But he did not count on Assipattle having the sword of the great god Odin, with which he had slain all his enemies; and before this magic weapon the Sorcerer was powerless. And, at one thrust, the young lad ran it through his body as easily as if he had been any ordinary man, and he fell from his horse, dead.
Then the courtiers of the King, who had also set off in pursuit, but whose steeds were less fleet of foot than Go-swift, came up, and seized the bridle of the Queen’s horse, and led it and its rider back to the Palace.
She was brought before the Council, and judged, and condemned to be shut up in a high tower for the remainder of her life. Which thing surely came to pass.
As for Assipattle, when the proper time came he was married to the Princess Gemdelovely, with great feasting and rejoicing. And when the old King died they ruled the kingdom for many a long year.
PART THREE:
WANCHANCY APPARITIONS, SECOND SIGHT, WITCHES
TAM O’ SHANTER: A TALE
Robert Burns
‘Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke.’
(Gavin Douglas)
When chapman billies leave
the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet;
As market days are wearing late,
An’ folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An’ gettin fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae nicht did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonny lasses).
O Tam! hads’t thou but been sae wise
As taen thy ain wife Kate’s advice!
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum
A blethering, blustering, drunken
blellum;
That frae November till October
Ae market day thou was na sober,
That ilka melder wi’ the miller
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That every naig was ca’d a shoe on
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday.
She prophesy’d that, late or soon,
Thou wad be found deep drown’d in Doon;
Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the
mirk
By Alloway’s auld haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen’d, sage advices
The husband from the wife despises!
But to our tale: – Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi’ reaming swats, that drank
divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo’ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi’ sangs and clatter;
And ay the ale was growing better;
The landlady and Tam grew gracious
Wi favours secret, sweet and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E’en drown’d himself amang the nappy;
As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,
The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white – then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow’s lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches, Tam maun ride;
That hour, o’ night’s black arch the
key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in
As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.
&nb
sp; The wind blew as ’twad blawn its last
The rattling show’rs rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d;
Loud, deep and lang the thunder bellow’d:
That night a child might understand
The Deil had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glow’ring round wi’ prudent cares
Lest bogles catch him unawares:
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was ’cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman
smoor’d;
And past the birks and meikle stane
Where drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane;
And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn
Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn;
And near the thorn abune the well
Where Mungo’s mither hanged hersel.
Before him Doon pours all his floods,
The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods;
The lightnings flash frae pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll:
When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze
Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi’ tippenny we fear nae evil,
Wi’ usquabae we’ll face the Devil!
The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s
noddle,
Fair play, he car’d na deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonish’d
Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d,
She ventur’d forward on the light;
And vow, Tam saw an unco
sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent new frae
France;
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the
east,
There sat Auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim and
large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl
Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl.
Coffins stood round, like open presses
That shaw’d the dead in their last dresses;
And, by some devilish cantraip sleight,
Each in its cauld hand held a licht –
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table
A murderer’s banes, in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks wi’ blude red-rusted;
Five scymitars wi’ murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled;
A knife a father’s throat had mangled –
Whom his ain son o’ life bereft –
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi’ mair o’ horrible and awefu’
Which ev’n to name wad be unlawfu’.
As Tammie glowr’d, amaz’d and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:
The piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew.
They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they
cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the
wark,
And linket at it in her sark!
Now Tam, O Tam! had they been
queans,
A’ plump and strapping in their teens!
Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie
flannen,
Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder
linen!–
Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair,
That aince were plush, o’ gude blue hair,
I wad hae gi’en them off my hurdies
For ae blink o’ the bonnie burdies!
But wither’d beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad
spean a foal,
Lowping and flinging on a
crummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.
But Tam kend what was what
fu’ brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench an’
wawlie,
That night enlisted in the core
(Lang after kend on Carrick shore,
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish’d mony a bonny boat,
And shook both meikle corn and
bere,
And held the countryside in fear).
Her cutty sark, o’
Paisley harn
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho’ sorely scanty,
It was her best and she was vauntie.
Ah! little ken’d thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi’ twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches),
Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches!
But here my Muse her wing
maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood like ane bewitch’d
And thought his very een enrich’d;
Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain,
And hotch’d and blew wi’ might and main
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a’ thegither
And roars out ‘Weel done, Cutty-sark!’
And in an instant all was dark.
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke
When plundering herds assail their
byke;
As open pussie’s mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When ‘Catch the thief!’ resounds aloud:
So Maggie runs – the witches follow
Wi’ mony an eldritch skreech and
hollo.
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy
fairin,
In hell they’ll roast thee like a herrin’!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin’,
Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman!
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane of the brig.
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest
And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie’s mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother’s son take heed:
Whene’er to drink you are inclin’d
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think! ye may buy the joys o’er dear,
Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.
ADAM BELL
James Hogg
This tale, which may be depended on as in every part true, is singular, from the circumstance of its being insolvable, either from the facts that have been discovered relating to it, or by reason; for though events sometimes occur among mankind, which at the time seem inexplicable, yet there are always some individuals acquainted with the primary causes of these events, and they seldom fail of being brought to light before all the actors in them, or their confidants, are removed from this state of existence. But the causes which produced the events here related have never been accounted for in this world; even conjecture is left to wander in a labyrinth, unable to get hold of the thread that leads to the catastrophe.
Mr Bell was a gentleman of Annandale, in Dumfriesshire, in the south of Scotland, and proprietor of a considerable estate in that district, part of which he occupied himself. He lost his father when he was an infant, and his mother, dying when he was about twenty years of age, left him the sole proprietor of the estate, besides a large sum of money at interest, for which he was indebted, in a great measure, to his mother’s parsimony during his minority. His person was tall, comely, and athletic, and his whole delight was in warlike and violent exercises. He was the best horseman and marksman in the county, and valued himself particularly upon his skill in the broadsword. Of this he often boasted aloud, and regretted that there was not one in the county whose skill was in some degree equal to his own.
In the autumn of 1745, after being for several days busily and silently employed in preparing for his journey, he left his own house, and went to Edinburgh, giving at the same time such directions to his servants as indicated his intention of being absent for some time.
A few days after he had left his home, one morning, while his housekeeper was putting the house in order for the day, her master, as she thought, entered by the kitchen door, the other being bolted, and passed her in the middle of the floor. He was buttoned in his greatcoat, which was the same he had on when he went from home; he likewise had the same hat on his head, and the same whip in his hand which he took with him. At sight of him she uttered a shriek, but recovering her surprise, instantly said to him, ‘You have not stayed so long from us, Sir.’ He made no reply, but went sullenly into his own room, without throwing off his greatcoat. After a pause of about five minutes, she followed him into the room. He was standing at his desk with his back towards her. She asked him if he wished to have a fire kindled, and afterwards if he was well enough; but he still made no reply to any of these questions. She was astonished, and returned into the kitchen. After tarrying about another five minutes, he went out at the front door, it being then open, and walked deliberately towards the bank of the River Kinnel, which was deep and wooded, and in that he vanished from her sight. The woman ran out in the utmost consternation to acquaint the men who were servants belonging tothe house; and coming to one of the ploughmen, she told him that their master was come home, and had certainly lost his reason, for he was wandering about the house and would not speak. The man loosed his horses from the plough and came home, listened to the woman’s story, made her repeat it again and again, and then assured her that she was raving, for their master’s horse was not in the stable, and of course he could not be come home. However, as she persisted in her claim, with every appearance of sincerity, he went down to the river to see what was become of his mysterious master. He was neither to be seen nor heard of in all the country. It was then concluded that the housekeeper had seen an apparition, and that something had befallen their master; but on consulting with some old people, skilled in these matters, they learned that when a ‘wraith’, or apparition of a living person, appeared while the sun was up, instead of being a prelude of instant death, it prognosticated very long life; and, moreover, that it could not possibly be a ghost that she had seen, for they always chose the night season for making their visits. In short, though it was the general topic of conversation among the servants and the people in the vicinity, no reasonable conclusion could be formed on the subject.
Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales from Burns to Buchan Page 12