Thistle and Thyme

by Sorche Nic Leodhas

  “You can leave the rest to me,” said he with a grin. “You’ll not be going to Edinbro’ in the morn!”

  When the night came, what with packing and getting ready for the next day’s journey, all in the castle went to bed early, being tired out. The laird locked the door of his daughter’s room lest the lass take it into her head to run away during the night.

  Early the next morn, the maid came up with the lass’s breakfast tray. Since the door was locked, she had to put the tray down and go fetch the key from the laird’s room.

  “I’ll come with you,” the lass’s mother said to the maid. So she got the key from under the laird’s pillow and unlocked the lass’s door. When she opened the door and went in, she screamed and fainted away. The maid behind her looked to see why, and the tray dropped out of her hands. The laird heard the racket and came running. He rushed into the room, and there was his wife on the floor, and the maid, with the tray and the dishes and all at her feet, wringing her hands. He looked at the bed. His daughter wasn’t there!

  “She’s flummoxed us!” said the laird. “Where can she have gone to!”

  He and the maid got the laird’s wife into a chair and brought her to. The first thing she said was, “Have you looked at the bed?”

  “I have!” said the laird grimly. “The pawky piece! She’s got away. The bed’s empty.”

  “My love,” said his wife weakly. “’Tis not empty.”

  The laird went over to the bed and his lady came with him. The bed was not empty, though his daughter was not in it.

  In her place, with its head on the pillow and its forelegs on the silken coverlet, lay a wee white dog!

  “What is that dog doing in my daughter’s bed?” shouted the laird. “Put the beastie out in the hall at once!” And he made to do it himself. But his wife caught his arm.

  “I do not think it is a dog,” she said. “I very much fear the wee dog is our daughter.”

  “Havers!” the laird said angrily. “Have you all gone daft?”

  But they pointed out to him that the doggie was wearing the blue silk nightgown that her mother’s own hands had put on her daughter last night. And hadn’t the maid braided her young lady’s hair and tied it with a blue satin ribbon? Well then, look at the wee dog’s forelock all braided and tied the same. ’Twas plain to see that someone had put a spell on the lass and turned her into a dog.

  “Nonsense!” said the laird in a rage. “Are you telling me I do not know my daughter from a dog?” And he strode over to the bed. But when he leaned over to pluck the animal from the covers, it looked up at him. The laird looked back in horror, for he saw that the eyes were his daughter’s own, and the grin on its face was uncommonly like his lass’s own wide naughty smile. And around its neck was the golden chain with the locket he’d given her long ago, that she’d worn since he put it there.

  But the laird would not admit it. ’Twas all a trick! So he made them search the room from corner to corner and in every cupboard and press. He looked up the chimney himself and got himself covered with smuts, but all he saw was the blue sky above the chimney pot. She was not in the room. She couldn’t have got out the windows. She couldn’t have gone through the door, for he’d had the key to it. So it all came to this—the wee dog in the bed was his daughter.

  He went over to have another look and as he bent down, the little dog chuckled with his daughter’s own pleased chuckle and patted him on the cheek just as his daughter used to do. That settled it.

  “Och, you wee rascal!” said the laird, never being able to find it in his heart to be angry with his daughter. “Now what are we to do?” There was one thing that was certain and sure. They’d not be going to Edinbro’ that day. So a messenger was sent to the second cousin twice-removed, to tell him that he needn’t be expecting them. The servants were told the lass was down in bed with some sort of an illness, and nobody but her maid was to be let come into the room lest they catch it. That was enough to keep them all away.

  The laird had his own physician come from Edinbro’ though his wife told him ’twould do no good at all. He made the man promise not to tell what he saw, then took him into his daughter’s room. The doctor looked and shook his head. Then he looked at the dog again and rubbed his eyes. “’Tis strange!” he muttered. “I do not see a young lady. I see naught but a wee white dog.”

  “You see a dog because there is a dog!” shouted the laird.

  “’Tis an optical delusion! Begging your lairdship’s pardon, your lairdship’s daughter is not a dog,” insisted the doctor.

  “’Tis my daughter.” the laird roared. “And she is a dog. So be off with you!”

  Well, the maid and his wife were right. The doctor was no use at all. He went back to Edinbro’ and wrote a learned paper called “Remarkable Manifestation of Hallucination in A__shire,” which was read by learned societies all over the world, but didn’t help the laird at all.

  Then the maid suggested they send for an old wife she’d heard of. The old woman came with herbs and powders, but all she could do was tell them the lass had been bewitched. How to take the spell off, she didn’t know at all.

  The laird tried a gypsy woman next, but all that got him was the loss of a silver comb she must have slipped into her pocket. It wasn’t missed until after she’d gone away.

  The laird was fair distracted, her ladyship took to her bed, and the maid went about in tears from morn till night. All the servants in the castle said it must be a mortal illness the young lady had on her and they tippy-toed and grieved as they went about their work.

  The maids carried the news to the village, and the gobha’s son soon heard all about it. If he thought his heart was broken before, it was twice as bad when he thought the laird’s daughter might be about to die. For if she were living, at least he’d have a chance to lay his eyes on her now and again. He felt he couldn’t be expected to bear it.

  He was hammering away at a bit of metal his father had told him to make a brace of, not even noticing the iron had gone cold, when a shadow fell across the door. He looked up and there was the strangest sight he’d ever seen in his life. A wee bit of a man was there all dressed in green from his neck to his heels, and his shoes and his cap were red. He was mounted on a horse so small it could have stood under the belly of any horse the gobha’s son had ever seen before, but it was the right size for the wee man in green.

  The gobha’s son stared, while the wee man got down from his horse and led it into the shop.

  “Gobha,” said the wee man. “Can you shoe my horse?”

  “I’m not the gobha,” said the lad. “I’m the gobha’s son and I can shoe your horse. ’Twill take me a while, for I’ve ne’er shod a beast so small before and I’ve no notion of the size the shoes must be.”

  “’Tis no matter,” said the wee man. “I’ve time galore. I’ll sit and gab a bit with you till the task is done.”

  So he made himself comfortable in a corner beyond the forge, and crossing his knees with an easy air, he started to talk to the gobha’s son.

  It was plain to see that the lad was in no mood for talking. The wee man said the weather had been fine for the time of the year. The lad said only, “Aye. Is it?”

  Then the man in green said the fishing was good, he’d heard. To that the lad said happen it was. He wouldn’t be knowing.

  Then the manikin tried him on the fair in the market town over the hill, but the gobha’s son only sighed and said nothing at all.

  It was taking a long time, as he said it would, for the horse’s hooves were small beyond believing. Shoe after shoe had to be thrown back because they were all too big. But at last he got a set that would fit, and putting the horse where the light fell best, he started to put the horseshoes on its feet.

  I’ll get you talking yet, my lad, the wee man said to himself.

  So, when the gobha’s son started to put the shoe on the wee nag’s foot, the manikin said, “Have you e’er seen the bonny daughter of the laird up at the castl
e?”

  The gobha’s son jumped as if he’d been stuck with a pin. But all he said was, “Aye.”

  The wee man waited until the lad finished putting the first shoe on. When he picked up the second leg and started to fix the second shoe to the hoof, the wee man asked, “Has anyone told you that she’s mortal ill?”

  The gobha’s son gave a great big sigh, but all he said was, “Aye.”

  He finished with that shoe and went around to the other side of the wee horse. When he looked to be well started on the third shoe, the man in green asked, “Have you no been up to the castle to ask about the laird’s bonny daughter?”

  The gobha’s son shot him a glowering look “Nay,” said he.

  That took care of the chatting between the two until the horse was nearly shod. As he was about to fix the last nail in the last of the shoes, the man in green said, “Would you be knowing what ails the bonny young lady?”

  The gobha’s son waited until he had finished his work and the horse stood with shoes on all four feet. Then he turned to the wee man and he said, “Nay!” He threw the hammer he’d been using aside and told the wee man, “There’s your horse all shod and well shod. Now will you take it and yourself away and leave me in peace?”

  The wee man stayed where he was. “Not yet!” said he with a grin. “Why do you not go up to the castle and cure the laird’s bonny daughter yourself?”

  “Cure her!” shouted the gobha’s son. “I’d lay down my life to cure her, the bonny young thing.” And he asked the wee man furiously, “How could the likes of me do any good when they’ve had the gypsy woman with her spells, and the old wife with her herbs and simples, and the best physician come all the way from Edinbro’, and not one of them could set her on her feet again?”

  “Whisht, lad!” the manikin scolded. “Would you have all the village running to see what the matter can be? To be sure, they couldn’t help her. But I know a way you could cure her. If you’d want to.”

  As soon as the gobha’s son heard that, he was at the wee man to tell him, so that he could run to the castle at once and cure the laird’s daughter of her illness.

  “Answer me this first,” the green manikin said. “Would you like to wed the bonny young lady?”

  “Are you daft?” groaned the lad. “Who ever heard of a gobha’s son wedding the daughter of a laird?”

  “’Tis not what I asked you,” said the wee man. “Look, lad! Would you like to wed her?”

  “Before I’d wed with anyone else, I’d just lay down and die!” cried the gobha’s son.

  “’Tis just what the laird’s daughter said about yourself,” said the wee man with a satisfied grin. “So, since you are both of the same mind, I’ll help you!” Then the wee green man told the gobha’s son what he and the lass had been up to.

  “Och, nay!” said the lad, “’tis beyond believing.”

  “It all started because she made up her mind to wed the gobha’s son,” said the manikin. “So let’s you and me be finishing it!”

  The wee man gave him two wee things, like rowan berries, as like the ones he’d given the lass as they could be.

  “Here’s the cure for what ails her,” he told the gobha’s son.

  The lad was all for rushing off to the castle at once, but the wee man held him back.

  “Will you be going up to the castle the way you are with your leather apron and soot from the forge all over you?” he scolded. “Och, they’d run you off the place e’er you got the first word in. Tidy yourself first, lad!”

  So the lad went and cleaned himself up and got into his Sunday clothes, and a fine figure he was, to be sure. ’Twas no wonder the laird’s daughter had set her heart upon him!

  “Go with my blessing,” said the wee man. “But remember! Don’t cure the lass till the laird has given his promise that you can wed her.”

  “That I’ll not!” said the gobha’s son. He squared his shoulders, and off he marched to the castle.

  The wee man got on his wee horse’s back and where he rode to, nobody knows.

  Things at the castle were in a terrible state. The laird was at his wit’s end. The laird’s wife and the castle servants had wept till the walls of the castle were damp with the moisture from their tears. The laird’s daughter was getting tired of being a dog, and beginning to fear that she’d ne’er be anything else for the rest of her life. She had snapped at the laird’s hand that morning because she was cross with him for not letting her wed the gobha’s son in the first place. ’Twas a weary day for the old laird.

  The gobha’s son walked up to the front door and asked to see the laird. He had such a masterful way with him the servants let him in at once. In no time at all there he was, face to face with the laird.

  The laird had left his manners off for the time. “Well who are you and what do you want?” he asked with a frown.

  “I’m the gobha’s son,” said the lad. When the laird heard who it was, he jumped from his chair and started for the lad, ready to throw him out with his own two hands. Because it was the gobha’s son who was at the bottom of all the trouble.

  The gobha’s son sidestepped the laird and said quickly, “And I’ve come to cure your daughter.”

  Och, now! That made a difference. Where the laird had been all wrath and scowls, he was now all smiles. He caught the lad by the arm and said, “A hundred thousand welcomes! Come, let’s be going to her then.”

  “Nay,” said the lad. “I must know first what I’ll get for it.”

  “Do not let that fash you,” the laird said eagerly. “Och, I’ll give you a whole big bag of gold. Or two if you like. Come. Let’s be at it!”

  “’Tis not gold I want,” said the lad.

  “What is it, then?” the laird asked impatiently.

  “Your leave to marry your daughter,” said the lad as bold as brass.

  “Nay!” thundered the laird. “That you shan’t have.”

  “Then I’ll bid you good day,” said the gobha’s son, and started for the door.

  But he never got there. The laird was beside him before he laid his hand on the door knob.

  What could the poor old laird do? He had to give in and he knew it. So he did.

  “You can have her,” said the laird to the gobha’s son.

  The wee dog jumped from the bed and ran up to the gobha’s son the minute he and the laird came into the room. The lad took the berries from his pocket and popped them into her mouth and she swallowed them down. Before you could say, “two two’s,” there stood the laird’s daughter in the wee dog’s place!

  She took the lad’s hand in her own and she turned to the laird and said, “I’m going to wed the gobha’s son.”

  “Wed him then!” said the laird, not too unhappy about it since he’d got his lass back again. “But you’d better go tell your mother and the maids, so they can stop crying if you want the castle dried out by the time of your wedding.”

  So the pawky lass got her way in the end and married the gobha’s son. The laird was not ill pleased for he found his son-in-law as likeable a body as any he’d ever found. So he made him steward of his estates and a good one the lad was, too. So it all ended well and that’s all there is to tell about the laird’s daughter and the gobha’s son.

  St. Cuddy

  and the Gray Geese

  THERE WAS ONCE A GOOD SAINT AT MULROSS AND HIS name was St. Cuddy. If folks who have the notion they know better, tell you it was Cuthbert, don’t you be believing them, for the folks of his own place always called him Cuddy and if they don’t know, who does? It was this saint who had a great knowledge of birds and their ways and the manners of all wild things in the air or on the land or in the sea. The fame of his knowledge spread far from his own land to others in distant places. Great folks came to him to ask him things they didn’t know themselves about the birds and the beasts. St. Cuddy was a great one for tramping around the countryside and often even by night he’d be stravaging over the hills or along the shore, peeping into thi
s and poking into that and inspecting and examining to find out what the wild creatures were up to.

  The birds were what he liked best. ’Twas a marvel what he could do with them. He had such a way with the eider ducks that they’re still remarkably tame. Folks still call them Cuddy’s ducks. Loving the birds so dearly and knowing them so well, it is no wonder that when he got to Heaven they gave the flying creatures over to him, so he’s the saint that’s protector of the birds.

  It wasn’t just the birds St. Cuddy kept an eye on. He looked after people, too. When he was at home in his monastery, there was always a line of poor folks coming up the road to ask for help. Never a one of them went away empty-handed, and the kind word and the bit of good plain advice he gave them did them more good than the bundle of food they carried away, and they went home happier and wiser than they came.

  The kind words were for those that deserved them. Whenever he came across anyone that was doing anything he shouldn’t be doing, he had a whiplash to his tongue that could give a rare thrashing. And St. Cuddy never held back from using it when he thought it was needed.

  Well, being a great traveler, there wasn’t much that went on that didn’t come under his eye. What he didn’t see for himself, he was bound to hear about, for someone was sure to tell him. So, one way or another he learned about the greedy old wife.

  This old wife lived by her lone on her tidy farm, having neither husband nor bairn to keep her company. Her cow was sonsie, her sheep were fat, her henyard was a treat for the eye to see. But she was never one to share what she had. She was so greedy and close-fisted she was a scandal to all who knew her.

  She had a crafty way of getting out of giving anything away. When poor folks came begging she’d tell them, “Och, now! ’Tis terribly sorry I am! I’d give you somewhat sure but I’ve got a sluagh of poor kin and I’ve got to save whate’er I can spare, for them.”

  Then, when her poor relations came and asked her for help, she’d say, “Well, now, I’d give and gladly if I could. But more than what I need for myself must go to the poor, for they’re worse off than yourself.” That way neither the poor nor her poor relations got a thing and she could keep all she had for herself.