Folk Tales of Scotland

by William Montgomerie

  ‘Take the advice of the filly,’ said the Queen. ‘She’ll tell you what to do, and all will go well.’

  The young King set out on his journey. His shaggy filly would overtake the March wind before her, and the wind behind her could not catch her. At the mouth of dusk and lateness they came to the castle of the King of the Oak Windows.

  ‘This is the end of the journey,’ said the filly. ‘I will take you to the Sword of Light. The King is now at dinner and the Sword of Light is in his room. There is a knob on the end of it, and when you catch the sword, draw it softly out of the oak window. Take it without scrape or creak.’

  The young King came to the oak window where the sword was. He took hold of it, and it came softly as far as the point. Then it gave a screech.

  ‘We must go, and hurry now,’ said the filly. ‘The King has heard us taking the sword.’

  When they had gone some distance, the filly said:

  ‘Stop now! Look behind you!’

  ‘I see a herd of brown horses coming,’ said the young King.

  ‘So far we are swifter than they,’ said the filly, as they rode on.

  When they had gone a good distance, she said:

  ‘Look now! Who is coming?’

  ‘A herd of black horses, and one black horse with a white muzzle, galloping madly with a man riding him.’

  ‘That’s my brother, the best horse in Erin. Be ready, when he passes me, to take the head off his rider, who will look at you. The sword in your hand is the only sword that can take off his head.’

  As the man on the black horse with the white muzzle rode past, he turned to look. The young King drew his sword and cut off his head. Thus died the King of the Oak Windows.

  ‘Leap on the black horse,’ said the filly. ‘Gallop as fast as he will take you. I will follow!’

  The young King leaped on the black horse, and reached his castle before dawn.

  ‘I must see the Gruagach today, to find out if my spells are broken,’ he told his Queen.

  ‘The Gruagach will ask you if you have the Sword of Light, and how you got it. Say that if it had not been for the knob on its tip you would not have got it. He will stretch out to see the knob on the sword, and then you will see a mole on the right side of his neck. Stab it with the point of the sword. The King of the Oak Windows was his brother, and the death of the two of them is in that sword.’

  The Queen kissed him, and he went to the Gruagach, at the same place as before.

  ‘Did you fetch the sword?’ asked the Gruagach.

  ‘I did,’ said the young King.

  ‘How did you get it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have got it but for the knob on its tip.’

  ‘Let me see it!’

  ‘It was not part of the bargain to let you see it.’

  ‘How did you win it?’

  ‘By the knob on the tip of it.’

  As the Gruagach lifted his head to look at the sword, the King saw the mole on his neck. He was quick and he stabbed the mole with the Sword of Light. The Gruagach fell down dead.

  When the young King of Easaidh Ruadh returned home, he found his guards tied back to back. His wife and his horses had vanished.

  ‘A great giant came and took your wife and horses,’ said the guards.

  ‘Sleep will not come to my eyes, nor rest to my head, till I have my wife and my horses again.’

  Saying this, he followed the track of the horses. Dusk and lateness were coming when, by the side of the green wood, he saw a good place for a campfire, and decided to spend the night there.

  There the slim dog of the green wood found him. He blessed the dog, and the dog blessed him.

  ‘Your wife and your horses were here last night with the giant,’ said the dog.

  ‘That is why I am here,’ said the King.

  ‘You must not be here without meat,’ said the dog.

  The dog went into the wood, caught and brought a hare and a rabbit, which they cooked on the fire and ate together.

  ‘I’ve half a mind to return home,’ said the King. ‘I’m afraid I’ll never find that giant.’

  ‘Don’t lose heart, you’ll succeed,’ said the dog. ‘But you must not go without sleep.’

  So the young King stretched out beside the fire and fell asleep. At the end of his watch, the dog said to him:

  ‘Wake up, young King. Eat some food to keep your strength. Remember, if you are in difficulty, call me.’

  They blessed each other, and the King departed. In the time of dusk and lateness he came to a great precipice. He made a fire there, and warmed himself by it. There the falcon of the grey rock found him.

  ‘Your wife and horses were here last night with the giant,’ said the falcon.

  ‘That is why I am here,’ said the King.

  ‘You must not be without meat,’ said the falcon.

  Away she flew, and returned with three ducks and eight black cocks. They set out the meat and ate it.

  ‘You must not go without sleep,’ said the falcon.

  So the King stretched out beside the fire and fell asleep. In the morning the falcon set him on his way.

  ‘Remember, if you are in difficulty, call me!’ she said.

  At night, the young King came to a river, and a good place for a fire. There the brown otter of the river found him.

  ‘Your wife and horses were here last night with the giant,’ said the otter. ‘Before midday tomorrow you will see your wife. But you must not be without meat.’

  The otter slipped into the river, and came back with three salmon. They prepared the fish and ate it.

  ‘You must not go without sleep,’ said the otter.

  So the King stretched out beside the fire and fell asleep till morning.

  ‘You’ll be with your wife tonight,’ said the otter, ‘and if you are in difficulty, call me!’

  The King went on till he came to a rock. Looking down a cleft, he saw a cave, and in it his wife and two horses. He could not see any way of reaching them, but when he climbed down he found a good path at the foot of the rock, which he followed and soon joined her inside the cave.

  After they had greeted each other, his wife made some food for him, and hid him behind the horses.

  ‘I smell a stranger within,’ said the giant, when he returned.

  ‘It is nothing but the smell of horse-dung,’ said she.

  When the giant went to feed the horses, they attacked and nearly killed him. He was just able to crawl away.

  ‘The horses looked like killing you,’ said the Queen.

  ‘If I had my soul in my own keeping, they would have killed me,’ said the giant.

  ‘Where is your soul, my dear?’ asked the Queen. ‘I will take care of it.’

  ‘It is in the bonnach stone,’ said the giant.

  In the morning, after the giant had gone away, she decorated the bonnach stone. In the time of dusk and lateness the giant returned home. He went to feed the horses, and again they attacked him.

  ‘Why did you decorate the bonnach stone like that?’ said he.

  ‘Because your soul is in it.’

  ‘I see that if you knew where my soul was you would give it much respect,’ said the giant.

  ‘I would,’ said the Queen.

  ‘My soul is not in the bonnach stone,’ said he, ‘it is in the threshold.’

  Next day she decorated the threshold. When the giant came home and went to feed the horses they attacked him again.

  ‘Why did you decorate the threshold like that?’ said he.

  ‘Because your soul is in it.’

  ‘I see that if you knew where my soul was you would take care of it,’ said the giant.

  ‘I would,’ said the Queen.

  ‘My soul is not there,’ said he. ‘There is a great flagstone under the threshold. Under the flagstone there is a ram. In the ram there is a duck. In the duck there is an egg, and in the egg is my soul’.

  Next day, while the giant was away, the young King and his Qu
een raised the flagstone and a ram escaped.

  ‘The slim dog of the green wood could soon bring the ram to me,’ said the King. At once the slim dog came with the ram. When they opened the ram, out flew a duck.

  ‘The falcon of the grey rock could soon bring me the duck,’ said the King.

  At once the falcon of the grey rock came with the duck. When they opened the duck to take out the egg, the egg rolled into the river.

  ‘The brown otter of the river could soon bring me the egg,’ said the King.

  At once the brown otter came with the egg in her mouth. The Queen crushed the egg, and the giant, coming home late, fell down dead.

  On the way home, the young King and his Queen passed a night with the otter of the river, a night with the falcon of the grey rock, and a night with the slim dog of the green wood.

  THE RED ETIN

  N Falkland Palace, the young Prince James was tired of his lessons.

  ‘That’s enough, for now,’ said David Lindsay, his tutor. ‘Shut your books and I’ll tell you a story about Fife.’

  The Prince shut his books, leaned his elbows on the table, rested his chin on the palms of his hands and gazed at his tutor.

  ‘Some say it happened in Ireland but, as I heard it, the story begins in Auchtermuchty, just up the road from here.’

  Well, just north of here, there were two widows who were having a hard time of it.

  ‘Look here,’ said a neighbour to the first widow’s son, Andy, as they looked at the thin crop of oats. ‘You’ll not make much of that poor soil. You should leave home to make your fortune. Then you’ll be able to support your mother when she’s old.’

  So Andy went home and said to his mother:

  ‘I’m tired of scratching that ground of ours. The soil is too poor to feed the oats and kale, so they’ll not grow and feed us. I’m off tomorrow to seek my fortune.’

  His mother was angry. She thought he was deserting her. However she agreed to bake him a bannock for the journey. She gave him a dish to fetch water from the well. But when he got there he saw that the dish was cracked. He filled it and ran back to the house with it hoping the water would not drip away. All the same, the dish was only half full and the bannock his mother baked was very small.

  ‘Will you take half a bannock with my blessing, or a whole bannock with my malison?’ asked his mother.

  Andy looked at the small bannock and said:

  ‘The whole bannock, mother.’

  This annoyed his mother still more, and she said:

  ‘You’ve slighted my blessing for a piece of oatcake!

  May my malison follow wherever you go,

  And blast you from top to toe!’

  So the lad went off without his mother’s blessing.

  Now, before he left Auchtermuchty, he called on the second widow’s son, Rab, and left his shining pocket knife with him.

  ‘Keep my knife till I come back. If it stays bright and sharp, I’ll be alive and well, but if it turns rusty and blunt you’ll know I’m in trouble. Then you’ll come and look for me?’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Rab. ‘I’ll stay at home a while longer to help my mother, but if your knife turns rusty, I’ll look for you and try to help you.’

  So Andy went on his way. On and on he went till he met a man herding a flock of sheep.

  ‘Whose sheep are these?’ asked Andy.

  ‘They belong to the Red Etin of Ireland,’ said the shepherd.

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ said the lad, and went on his way singing a song his mother used to sing as she worked in the kitchen:

  ‘The Red Etin of Ireland

  Aince lived in Bettigan,

  And stole King Malcolm’s dochter,

  The King of fair Scotland!’

  Then Andy met a man herding swine.

  ‘Whose pigs are these?’ he asked.

  ‘They belong to the Red Etin of Ireland,’ said the swineherd.

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Andy, and sang his mother’s song:

  ‘He bends her and he binds her,

  He lays her on a band;

  And ilka day he dings her

  Wi’ a bricht siller wand.’

  On he went till he met a man herding goats.

  ‘Whose goats are these?’ he asked.

  ‘They belong to the Red Etin of Ireland,’ said the goatherd, ‘but look out if you’re going that way, for you’ll meet some strange beasts. They’re not sheep, they’re not swine, and they’re not goats. I’m warning you, look out!’

  So the lad went on his way, singing his mother’s song:

  ‘It’s said there’s ane predestinate

  To be his mortal foe;

  But that man is yet unborn,

  And long may it be so.’

  He sang to keep his courage up. Soon he met the strange monsters. They were not sheep with a shepherd, nor swine with a swineherd, nor goats with a goatherd. They were TERRIBLE! Each of them had two heads and each head had four horns, and there was no one herding them. They were so hideous the lad ran for his life. He saw a castle, and ran to it for shelter from the terrible monsters. He knocked on the door and went in. An old wife was sitting by the kitchen fire.

  ‘Where do you come from?’ said she.

  ‘From Auchtermuchty,’ said the lad. ‘I’m a poor widow’s son and I left home to seek my fortune.’

  ‘You’ll need your mother’s blessing for that.’

  ‘I got a malison instead of a blessing,’ said Andy.

  ‘That’s bad,’ said the old wife. ‘This castle belongs to the Red Etin of Ireland, and he’s a real monster. He has three heads, and he’ll be here any minute. But hide in that corner yonder, and I’ll not give you away!’

  So Andy hid himself in the dark corner of the kitchen. Soon after, the Red Etin came in. One head with its two huge eyes looked into one corner, another head with its two huge eyes looked into another corner. The third head with its two huge eyes looked into the third corner, for the Red Etin knew a stranger was hiding somewhere in the kitchen, and he shouted in a hungry voice:

  ‘Be he from Fife

  Or be he from Tweed,

  His heart this night

  Shall kitchen my breid.’

  Then one of the heads with its two huge eyes looked into the fourth corner of the kitchen. The Red Etin saw Andy and pulled him out with its two great big hairy hands, and said:

  ‘I’ll ask you three questions. If you give me the right answers, I’ll not kill you and eat your heart. But if you can’t answer them, I’ll hit you over the head with this mallet. Now, my first question is: How many ladders do you need to reach the sky?’

  ‘I don’t know the answer to that,’ said Andy.

  ‘How long would it take to go round the earth?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Andy after a while.

  ‘What wood is neither bent nor straight?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Andy for the third and last time.

  So the Red Etin hit him over the head with the mallet and Andy changed into a stone statue, which the Etin lifted and stood up beside the other statues in the castle.

  Now, at home in Auchtermuchty, Rab the second widow’s son noticed that the knife that Andy had left in his care was dull and beginning to rust. He spoke to his mother about it:

  ‘Mother, our neighbour’s son must be in great danger. I’m going to look for him as I promised. Maybe I’ll seek my fortune at the same time, for we don’t make enough out of this poor soil to pay the rent.’

  His mother agreed, although she was sad he was going. She knew it would be hard work, looking after their croft without his help, but she agreed to bake him a bannock for the journey. She handed him a cracked pitcher and said:

  ‘Fetch water from the well and I’ll bake you a bannock. If you bring a full pitcher, I’ll bake a large bannock, but if there’s only a little water I can only bake a small bannock.’

  Rab filled the pitcher at the well, and ran back with it. By the time
he was half way, the pitcher was empty. All the water had run out through the cracks. As he went back to the well, a black raven flew overhead and croaked:

  ‘Clag it with clay! Clag it with clay!’

  Rab did as he was told. He took a handful of clay from beside the well and filled up the cracks in the pitcher. This time no water ran out of it.

  So his mother baked him a big bannock. She blessed him from top to toe, and watched him till he was out of sight. She hoped her blessing would protect him from danger. When she went back into her cottage she found that Rab had left her half his bannock for her breakfast.

  Rab walked on and on till he met an old woman. She begged him for a bit of his oatmeal bannock. He gave her half of what he had, which left him with a quarter of the bannock his mother had baked for him. In return the old woman gave him the wand she was carrying.

  ‘Take this wand,’ said she. ‘It is magic. You’ll soon learn how to use it in the Etin’s castle. I’ll get it from you when you come back this way. Till then, it’ll keep you safe.’

  Rab thanked the old woman and went on his way till he met a man herding sheep.

  ‘Who owns these sheep?’ asked Rab.

  ‘The Red Etin of Ireland,’ said the shepherd.

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Rab, and he went on his way singing a song he had learned from his mother. On he walked till he met a man herding swine.

  ‘Who owns these pigs?’ asked Rab.

  ‘The Red Etin of Ireland,’ replied the swineherd,

  ‘I’ve heard of him,’ said Rab, as he went on his way singing his mother’s song.

  Then he met a man herding goats.

  ‘Whose goats are these?’ he asked.

  ‘They belong to the Red Etin of Ireland,’ said the goatherd. ‘If you’re going that way, look out. You’ll meet some strange beasts. They’re not sheep, they’re not swine and they’re not goats. I’m warning you, they’re terrible.’

  Rab thanked the goatherd for his warning and went on his way, singing his mother’s song:

  ‘It’s said there’s ane predestinate