Jessie's Journey

by Jess Smith

  ‘This rock you mention, wife,’ I asked, ‘why has it put the fear o’ death into yourself?’ She paid no heed to my question; instead, turning to my mother, she grabbed her hand, held it tight in hers and warned her that we must go back, pack up and move at once. Mammy rose to her feet, and said, ‘We’ll be going nowhere until there is good enough reason.’ She went on to tell this disturbed old islander that she’d been chased by countless numbers of landowners, farmers, policemen, angry drunkards and so forth. ‘Now, if a stone was all that threatened our peaceful haven on Arran’s shore it would hardly make us move so much as a dish, never mind pack up and go.’

  ‘There’s a hidden danger to you all, especially little children. Have you any?’

  When Mammy told her she had a six-year-old the woman shook her head and screamed, ‘For the love of the dear Saviour, I beg you, leave that evil place!’

  Whatever it was that held our old friend in dread, one thing was certain, my Mother had to find out. How could she expect everyone to move the campsite without good reason?

  The old woman, bent with stiffened bones, rose silently from her seat, put the kettle back on the shiny black range, cut another few slices of gingerbread, arranged them on a little plate and handed me a large chunk of treacle toffee. ‘Right,’ she said, looking at us both, ‘this story has never passed my lips before to another living soul. Take heed at the calendar over by the brass horse tack.’ At once my mother and I scanned the wall, eyes falling on an old calendar hanging from a painting of two Scottie dogs.

  ‘Now, lass, tell me what is today’s date,’

  ‘Twenty-first of June,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, the eve of the Summer Solstice,’ said she, sitting back on her dark green armchair of faded brocade. Pushing a small frayed cushion into the small of her back, she began.

  Kate Rathlin never set foot on Arran, so why is her curse here, on that very rock a hand’s throw from where you now stay? Well, the world first heard of her appearing one cold night at a Romany campfire in Ireland, during the early part of the fifteenth century. No one knew how she got there, or where she hailed from, but gypsies accepted strangers with a warm hospitality and seldom questioned the lonely visitor. Soon, though, it was to their dismay they gave her a friendly place at the fire, because within no time she was bullying the women and bossing the men. An ugly woman who stood six feet tall, with a belly too fond of strong drink, she became feared and hated by her unwitting hosts. One night, while she lay in a deep sleep after days’ drinking, they silently packed and moved away, leaving her lying near a lochside.

  Word spread across the land to avoid Kate Rathlin, the violent drunkard, who some say must have been a child of Satan! Being fairly young she longed for companionship—of the opposite sex, of course—but with her ever-growing reputation this came only from people of her own kind. So it was to the rat-infested underworld of low lives she found herself more and more drawn. One dark night, while in a black mood, she throttled the life from a fellow who took more than his share of the demon bottle. After realising her awful deed, she took herself as far away from that town as her wretched legs would travel.

  No one heard of Kate from that day, and soon it was thought she was dead. But this was not the way of it. In the depths of a bleak moor near Ireland’s rugged east coast she continued to simmer her hatred of mankind. The desolate and savage regions of her new home claimed the woman as their own, and soon she found new companions: the thunder which rolled across lowering dark skies, fierce winds that forced her back to straighten and the shadows she befriended when the sun’s light faded. They gave her strength; she felt better, stronger than she’d ever done. But oh, how she longed for beauty.

  One fateful night thunder rolled and lightning gleamed across the sky. With shadowy friends dancing in a frenzied fury round about, she threw her hands up towards the charged elements and demanded that ‘You, Lucifer the Prince of all Demons, you of darkness, keeper of Cleopatra’s Asps and Pandora’s Box, give me a body no man can resist!’ In a deep mood of despair the wretched woman fell onto the sodden ground and there she lay in troubled slumber until a shrieking seagull awakened her. It was dawn, and all around nothing stirred amongst low mist and wet grass. Slowly rising from her grassy bed, she glanced briefly into a rain-filled hole. A reflection stared back at Kate Rathlin of such beauty that she turned instantly to see who stood behind her. There was no one! Again, deeper into the pool she looked, this time almost touching the water with her nose. Yes, it was herself, but how, when? She drew a finger across the reflection, instantly distorting it, but the water stilled, and yes, she of great beauty was there. The Lord of Darkness had heard her prayer and answered it! Ugly Kate Rathlin was gone, and in her place was a creature more beautiful than she herself had ever set eyes on.

  For the rest of that day she did nothing except find pools of water to gaze upon this new-found beauty. That night, exhausted, but with more happiness than her miserable life had ever before afforded her, she lay staring up at the star-filled heavens, eventually falling into a deep sleep to dream dreams of love and marriage.

  ‘Daughter, awaken,’ called a voice in the night. ‘Rise and heed me.’ Kate rose up and stood like one possessed. ‘You are pleased with my gift?’ The voice spoke from every darkened inch of the night as if it were the dark itself which spoke.

  ‘You have given me life, Master, I am forever in your debt.’

  ‘I will need payment, my sweet loveliness. Will you do my bidding?’

  She did not, for one moment, hesitate. ‘Anything, anything,’ she called out.

  ‘On the eve of Summer Solstice, when the day is at its longest, bring me a sacrifice. A child no older than seven years and no younger than seven months. Continue to do this indefinitely, and your beauty will never fade, nor will you age!’

  For the next fifty years, children all across the country disappeared from their beds in the dim light of the year’s longest day, when a beautiful rich lady just happened to be visiting.

  Kate went from town to town beguiling men by the score. The moment eyes fell upon her beauty they were enslaved. The Devil kept his bargain, and she hers.

  Fate, however, was planning an end to those fiendish deeds, and this is how it happened. A man of great power and wealth met Kate at a fine ball one night and invited her to dinner. This grand fellow was guardian of his late cousin’s twin boys, aged five. When she laid eyes upon them, her instant thought was, ‘How rich a sacrifice, my Master would indeed be pleased if I brought him, not one, but two fine specimens.’ With the help of a six-foot deaf mute of immense strength, she stole the boys while the household slept. Using four swift stallions and a black coach (provided by her Master), the children were brought to a deserted beach nearby. Then, as the hour of solstice approached, the Devil took his prize.

  Now, as I said, fate waited. In the rocks by the shoreline where the fiends were, lay an old tramp who witnessed that terrible deed. He had in his miserable life seen many bad things, but nothing as awful as this. Fearing for his safety, he held his tongue and stayed hidden, then waited for the woman and her deaf companion to leave before escaping as fast as his aged legs could go.

  Several months later, after a foul night of ale-drinking, the old tramp found himself spending the night in a bleak jailhouse. Another like-minded vagrant shared the cell. The night was cold and long, neither could find any comfort on the wooden beds, so they spent the night talking.

  It seems the other fellow was no stranger to the premises, or the judge. Come the morning, he told our friend, ‘A fearsome man is the judge, because a wicked woman stole his charges, two five-year-olds. Although he employed the help of fifty men to scour the country, no sign has been found of them. His heart is sore and our sentence will be just as heavy because of it.’

  The old man said nothing until standing before the judge next day. Then, in a packed courtroom, our brave fellow told his Honour of the dreadful scene he had witnessed. As word after word came from his m
outh, the whole place fell into hushed silence.

  A voice from the back of the crowded court called out, ‘Tis the Summer Solstice Witch, I have heard of her!’ Her days then were numbered, the net was set for the ‘Devil’s daughter’.

  As she sat at some rich man’s dinner table, Kate did not realise that the red wine had been drugged. And it was before the same judge from whose care she had stolen the children that she duly stood. Because the courthouse was unable to contain the hundreds who came to see a real witch being tried, her trial took place outside in the town square.

  Thinking her Master would give her protection, she laughed and mocked those who spoke against her. The judge reminded her of the night she spent as his guest, and asked, ‘Why did you steal and murder the innocent children?’

  In answer she said, ‘All belong to Him’. By this she meant her Master, Lucifer.

  Yes, there was no doubt she was guilty, but what would be the manner of her punishment? Some said she should burn, others insisted she be drawn and quartered. All day long forms of punishment were discussed, but something became obvious. Who would be brave enough to take on the Devil? Who could carry out the punishment? An elderly holy man who’d been listening came forward with a solution. ‘Put her to sea, where God himself will carry out the punishment!’ So, grateful and relieved, the Judge agreed this idea was the best. Into a small skiff three strong men placed Kate’s tightly mummified body. Before they pushed her out to sea, a plague bell was secured to the boat, warning all to steer clear of it. A calm fell across the water. All watching thought the Devil was protecting her, and fell to their knees in fervent prayer. Soon, though, the waves began to grow higher and stronger, and to the great relief of all Kate Rathlin’s coffin disappeared from sight. All night long the Devil and the good Lord fought over her soul.

  As the Isle of Arran came on the horizon, Lucifer swiftly carried the evil seafarer to her safe shores. But with one last giant wave the Lord lifted the boat up and threw it against jagged rocks further up the coast. Her remains were never found, but some said a strange bell rang for days on that fateful spot.

  ‘And that spot is the rock where we are camped?’ I asked.

  ‘The very one,’ answered the storyteller.

  Hair rose on the back of my neck.

  Mammy thanked our host, lifted her basket, grabbed my hand and said a swift goodbye. We went so fast down the little path we almost knocked a young woman from her bike. ‘Sorry,’ both she and my mother said in unison. ‘We were in sharing tea with the old lady and forgot the time,’ blurted Mammy.

  The lass propped her cycle against the white-washed wall and said, to the surprise of both of us, ‘I see Granny’s been telling one of her tales. Which one was it?’

  ‘Kate Rathlin,’ I instantly said. How could I ever forget that name?

  ‘Oh goodness, you mustn’t let her frighten you like that,’ she laughed. The lass then enlightened us about her granny’s art of story-telling. There was the hill walker whom she had told that Kate haunted Goat Fell. Poor man, and to think he came all the way from Devon to climb the hill. Then there was the American couple, who went home thinking Kate stalked their hotel bedroom. ‘I could go on all day,’ she said, ‘but I can see you’re in a hurry.’ With that we all said our farewells, and I, for one, was more than pleased that we had met the old dear’s grand-daughter, I can tell you. If we had not, sleep would have been nigh-on impossible for me.

  When we arrived back, another surprise awaited us; tents were packed up and vans on the road. ‘What’s this, then,’ asked Mammy, ‘the curse of Kate Rathlin?’

  ‘No, the curse o’ the bloody midgie,’ answered my father, scratching furiously at the nape of his neck. Yes, of course it was her time. Worse than any witch was wee Mrs Midgie. A hundred to one, if her hunger was on her, then you became dinner!

  Exhausted, we at last found a spot facing out toward the open sea with a fine breeze to keep midgie away. That night as I lay in my tent, with the door open, I watched a violent thunderstorm raging across the ocean; thankfully it never reached Arran. Before Mr Nod took hold, a nagging thought crept into my mind: just where did the name ‘Kate Rathlin’ find its origin?

  Sister Shirley (Charlotte) believed her art of poetry came from Rabbie, the ‘Bard’, Burns. He and our paternal Granny shared the same surname. ‘Rabbie was one o’ oor lot!’ Shirley exclaims many times. And if you read some of her works in verse and song I think you may agree. This is the poem she penned for me to accompany ‘Arran Summer’.

  Ouch!

  If like a’ campers, the bracken beckons,

  Pray, dinna hurry tae bare yer wee bum.

  For Ladicus Midgecus truly reckons

  Tae gaither her cronies, an hae some fun.

  If, fur some reason the wind should drop,

  Pray dinna tarry where a midgie frolics

  On yer facet she’ll land and wi’ help fae her friends,

  She’ll agonisly chew her way doon tae yer hollyhocks.

  If at two in the morn when the rain is intense,

  I sorely advise tae secure one’s defence,

  For she’ll try like a bear tae invade yer domain,

  And ye’ll ne’er anticipate how, where, or when.

  If a sheet o’ pure gauze, sown up like a sack,

  Disna act as deterrent tae Midecus Mack

  Then dinna stay put, for ye’ll feel but pain

  She’s much faster than you, an’ ye’ll lose the game.

  If efter the thunder an’ lightnin hae scampered,

  Pray don’t emerge till the sun stays tae play

  This is guid sound advice fae a camper wha gits butchered

  Tae feed Ladicus Midecus meals everyday.

  Although this new campsite was breezy, it in no way made a difference to the warmth of the Atlantic. We still swam early morning and lived in our cossie skins, building sandcastles and wee villages filled with a community entirely made up of crabs. Big red ones were the police, wee green ones were women, brown were men and the tiny green ones were kids. Sea urchins, scallop shells and flat shiny stones were used as furniture. Cockles and mussels acted as family pets. This wee play village existed in tranquillity until Neptune sent his salty water racing in to claim back its inhabitants. Until, that is, the tide came in again, and we would gather up a whole new community.

  After tea each night, Cousin Wullie, guitar over his shoulder, walked out to a rocky island, where he’d sit serenading the shiny silkies (seals), who just loved his music.

  As I watched my mother and her sister-in-law wander off for their usual evening stroll, a thought pestered me. Why did they not swim?

  I approached Uncle Wullie. ‘Women are a mystery to me, lassie,’ he said. ‘Haven’t a clue why they won’t go in the water.’ I reminded him that, although still young, I too was a woman. A wry smile spread across his face. ‘Aye, but you haven’t mastered the art yet,’ was his answer.

  There was not much help there, so it had me sharing a flat stone with my father, asking him the same question. ‘Well, lass,’ he said, ‘beneath those blouses, skirts and cardigans, is a finely concealed coat of armour. Not for keeping the enemy out, but the enemy in.’

  Annoyed, I asked him not to speak in riddles, and I still remember his face going uncomfortably red as he explained the meaning of his words.

  ‘They wear a contraption called stays, or corsets to be correct, made up of bones, tight satin, miles of laces and endless hooks and eyes.’

  ‘God, Daddy, why?’ I asked, still in the dark.

  ‘Because Betty Grable wore the blasted things in the pictures. And if thon wee waist she had was the result of corsets, then every woman between the world’s two poles just has to wear them.’

  ‘But why should they stay out of the water, Dad?’

  ‘Have you any idea how long it takes to get the blasted things on? No? Well, the best part o’ an hour.’

  I felt sorry for them, and told him I was going to tell them so.


  ‘Don’t you dare, lassie. If they find out we’ve been discussing the secret garments then it’s me who’ll suffer, not you.’

  Not willing to expose their secret, and put my father into Mam’s bad books, my lips were sealed, but it seemed a pity that they should spend all these weeks on Arran without a dook.

  Yet this situation was about to change. Call it fate if you like; I called it oor Wullie not thinking. See what you think.

  It was evening; the men were quietly cracking at the fire. The older girls had sneaked away to meet their Yanks. Us youngsters were, as usual, playing on the beach while Mammy and Jessie were on a wee stroll. After learning a new pop ballad on his wee tranny, Cousin Wullie, guitar over his shoulder, was off to serenade the silkies from his favourite rock. Now, this ballad of his was on the quiet side, meaning his audience were unable to hear it—well, so he thought. So off he took himself to a more advantageous position. The receding tide exposed one or two rocks and it was from here that the maestro went to work, singing and strumming to a small band of seals who, may I add, did indeed enjoy my cousin’s act. Now, I know you might think me a penny short of a shilling, but you should’ve seen the way they encircled him, wee wet noses sniffing the air and honking away good style. They were having a ball, and so was tonsil-warbling Wullie. What he failed to notice, however, was that at that point the back-rolling tide halted and came quickly in again! Soon his dangling size-tens were immersed, followed by the lower legs. It was not until he opened his eyes and saw the frothy water walloping onto his thighs did our lad realise something very precious was about to be ruined, namely the guitar. God, he thought, not that two-toned Elvis replica of magnificence.

  A wild scream from the bold balladeer had everyone on red alert. ‘Ma geetar’s gonna get soaked. Da, Ma, help!’

  His father called out that if he held it above his head he’d make it to the shore.

  ‘Too risky, I’ll slip for sure. Help, Mammy!’ Now, when all seemed lost, six-foot Wullie needed his Ma. She heard her laddie’s desperate calls from the wood where she and my mother were strolling, and like a rabid banshee her skirt was up above the knees and she was sprinting to the rescue.