Dedicated tae my wonderful son, Angus
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks tae Andy Hunter for recommending me tae The History Press an putting useful story sources ma way. Thanks tae Bob Pegg an Ian Stephen for their helpful advice. Thanks tae Stanley Robertson, Iain Stewart o Serenity Scotland, Robert Spence (ma father), Jeanie Spence (ma mother), Angus Rylance (ma son) an Donald Smith for their inspiration an generosity o spirit ower the years. Thanks tae Graeme Stuart for his patience an know-how in technical matters, an thank you tae Forbes Morrison for taking the photograph o me for the back cover.
CONTENTS
Title
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Foreword by Donald Smith, Director of the Scottish Storytelling Centre
Introduction
Note on the Illustrations
Note on the Language
1 Some Stories for the Bairns • Ainsel
• The King o the Birds
• The King an the Miller
• The Lochmaben Harper
2 The Black Bull o Norraway The Black Bull o Norraway: An Alternative Version
3 The Ootlandish Knight
4 The Laddie that Kept Hares
5 The Waters o Life
6 Whuppity Stoorie • A Woman o that Name
• Whuppity Stoorie
7 A Weave o Witches • By Rubieslaw
• Deloraine Farm
• The Phantom Hand
8 A Border Wizard • Michael Scot
• The Devil’s Tune
• Michael Scot goes tae Rome
9 O Horses an Hills • Canonbie Dick
• Tam Linn
10 The Son o a Tailor • The Son o a Ghost
• Thomas the Rhymer
• The Ghost that Danced at Jethart
11 What’s Yours is Mines • The Doom o Lord de Soulis
• Airchie Armstrong’s Oath
• Muckle-mou’d Meg
12 Sleekit Goings-on • Robbie Henspeckle
• The Tryst
• The Twae Blacksmith Apprentices
13 Some Weel Kent Characters • The Gaberlunzie Man
• Dandy Jim
• Midside Maggie
14 O Love an Revelation • The Vigil o Lady Jean Douglas
• A Priceless Ring
• The Angel Doctor
• The Jethart Fiddler
• The Minister’s Dog
Glossary
Bibliography
Aboot the Author
Copyright
FOREWORD
The Scottish Borders have a continuous tradition of folklore, second to none in the islands of Britain and Ireland. This has been expressed in ballads and songs, stories and novels, poetry, plays and the visual arts. But the greatest legacy is in the landscape itself, and in a distinctive combination of history, myth and imagination that continues to animate people’s sense of their own environment in what is still called the ‘Debatable Lands’. The borders keep shifting, from folk to fairy to legend to fantasy to poetry to dream, and back with a bump to Mother Earth.
James Spence is himself a Borderer, and a storyteller, translator and poet. He is imbued with the culture and landscape of his home country. He is well read in the sources and traditions, but more important he is part of a living inheritance. James Spence speaks and writes naturally in the Scots Borders rhythms, and he is a sure guide to the ‘Debatable Lands’, past and present. He handles description, dialogue, humour and the uncanny with equal assurance.
One of the pleasures of my role over thirty years has been to see new generations of storytellers come to the fore in the practice of this oldest of all artforms. James Spence is a storyteller in his prime and in this carefully selected collection he offers a bumper harvest from his native ground. I am delighted to commend this ideal introduction to the narrative lore of the Scottish Borders.
Donald Smith
Director of the Scottish Storytelling Centre
INTRODUCTION
When I was a wee laddie I loved tae go roaming ower the fields, doon Howdenburn, an up through the woods, on the lookoot for likely places tae build gang-huts. Places where me an ma pals could go an play an shelter frae the dreich elements. The locations needed tae be oot o the way places, hidden frae view, so that folk wouldnae come across oor gang-hut, an either wreck it or chase us, or both.
In ma contemplations o aw these hidden places, under fallen tree trunks, under rhododendrons an other bushes, up trees, inside auld sheds, on building sites, in fields o hay, I also considered the hills, o which there are many in the Scottish Borders. So whenever ma family went for a run in the car I would gaze at such hills as we passed by, an dream aboot them. It occurred tae me that there was such a vibrancy in those grassy slopes, that they seemed tae shimmer full o life, that there had tae be a way tae get intae the hills themselves. Whether folk dwelled there permanently or whether they just visited, like us bairns playing, I couldnae say, but I felt sure that there was a way in. It would be great, ye’d be cosy away frae the wind an rain, an ye could spy on anybody passing. I never told anyone aboot this notion, but I guess that when we’re bairns we aw have such magical ideas.
Little did I ken then that oor ancestors, if their stories are anything tae go by, also contemplated dwellers in oor dear green hills. So maybe in ma gang-hut exploring I was not only deepening ma relationship with nature, but also tapping intae a sense o the ancient tales o the Borders. So many o the stories here involve hills, an when looking at the stories o the region it’s hard tae ignore the Eildon Hills, above Melrose, the location for both Thomas the Rhymer an Canonbie Dick. Not only that, so many o these stories take place within a fifteen-mile radius o these legendary hills. I find this remarkable that such treasures are frae such a small an maistly rural area.
In this collection there are stories o fairies an folk living in the hills, stories o knights, wizards, heroes, heroines, reivers, magic, o epic quests, o love an great characters. There are also quite a few stories aboot witches, an these witches are as varied in character as any folk. Some are up tae nae guid, some are merely mischievous, some are revered like royalty. As we consider such stories, it feels as if there is a conversation running atween these tales, frae their differing perspectives an views. These stories also reveal the beliefs o folk long ago, when they were mair in tune with nature. It was common for folk tae believe that witches could turn intae hares, an that horses had second sight. We might not share such beliefs today, but I hope we can still appreciate the magic an wisdom that these tales hold. These stories span the centuries, frae way back in the mists o time tae local tales o characters frae mair recent times.
I’ve arranged this book with the earliest appearing first, then doon through the ages till we reach the early 1900s. This shows how the nature o stories has changed as folk’s beliefs an challenges have changed. I’ve also started off with some stories for the bairns, an generally increasing the suitability age range as the book progresses, where the chronology allows. For those o a mair sensitive nature, ye might find the first half o the Doom o Lord de Soulis story too derk; indeed it gave me the creeps writing it. Forby that, yer imagination will provide the pictures frae these stories that are right for ye.
Every guid story has a music, an it’s up tae the storyteller tae allow that story tae play through them. The rhythms may alter, at times, as the storyteller reads the needs o the audience in their eyes, as hae is telling. Even nowadays, in oor lives an oor stories it is often oor music, steeped in the natural world as it is, that help tae bring aboot resolution, or at least provides great comfort. The Scottish Borders is steeped in folk music, none mair so than with the fiddle. Not so long ago
there would have been fiddle makers in gey near every village, let alone the number o fiddlers going aboot. Inevitably such music an music makers find their way intae a fair number o these stories. Some o oor great tales o the past have been preserved by the music o the Border Ballads, o which I’m delighted tae include the world-renowned Tam Linn, Thomas the Rhymer, as weel as the Ootlandish Knight.
As a storyteller in modern times ye rarely get a chance tae tell long stories, so it was only when compiling this book I paid them any heed. These ancient tales are o muckle great quests. I’ve been amazed tae discover how powerful these stories are. Though I dinnae always understand every bit o the symbolism, I find these tales tae go deep intae what it is tae be human. These stories are steeped in meaning for us, we can get something new frae them whenever we go back tae them. I’ve decided tae include twae versions o The Black Bull o Norraway tae show how stories are constructed, as weel as how stories can evolve in different ways, an in a sense become a different story.
The King o the Birds is thought tae come frae Scotland an Ireland. However, I’ve told this story so many times that I have developed a few elaborations o ma ain, an therefore feel justified in including it in this collection.
With the exception o a few mair recent stories, the tales in this extensive collection have been shaped by many hundreds o folk telling them ower hundreds o years. As such they belong tae everybody that wishes tae tell them, particularly those with a love o the Scottish Borders. In this collection I’ve done ma best tae convey the language, humour, magic an lore o the region. Ma exploration o these wonderful stories has only increased ma appreciation for the Scottish Borders. There is a richness an a depth o wisdom in this collection that surprised even me, which leads me tae believe that these stories will appeal tae everybody that appreciates the power o folk tales.
James P. Spence,
2015
NOTE ON THE ILLUSTRATIONS
I used tae draw an paint a lot in ma schooldays, so it’s been a fantastic thing for me tae get back intae the drawing. What with the sheer the amount o illustrations I had tae produce, I have become mair skilled than I ever was back then. Drawing angles has become intuitive tae a large extent, rather than have tae line them up with the straight edge o a pencil. With the landscape illustrations, even though I was only working frae photos, when concentrating on the likes o foliage o trees it felt as if I was reaching right oot intae nature itself. I dedicate the illustrations tae ma dearly departed mother, Jeanie (née Aitchison) Spence, who was far better at drawing than me.
The following illustrations were inspired by the fantastic wood engravings o eighteenth-century Northumbrian artist Thomas Bewick: The King an the Miller, The Lochmaben Harper, The Waters o Life, Whuppity Stoorie, The Phantom Hand, The Devil’s Tune, The Son o a Ghost, The Tryst, The Twae Blacksmith Apprentices, The Gaberlunzie Man, A Priceless Ring, The Angel Doctor.
LOCATIONS
By Rubieslaw – Ruberslaw, near Hawick.
Deloraine Farm – Yarrow Valley, near Selkirk.
Canonbie Dick – Bowden Moor, in the Eildon Hills.
Thomas the Rhymer – The Eildon Hills, near Melrose.
The Ghost that Danced at Jethart – Jedburgh Abbey.
The Doom o Lord de Soulis – Hermitage Castle, near Newcastleton.
Midside Maggie – The Lammermuir Hills.
The Vigil o Lady Jean Douglas – Neidpath Castle, near Peebles.
The Jethart Fiddler – Kelso Bridge, Kelso.
The Minister’s Dog – Horn’s Hole Bridge, atween Denholm an Hawick.
All illustrations are the copyright o James P. Spence.
NOTE ON THE LANGUAGE
I have written this book mostly in English, but have tried tae keep tae the rhythms an ways o saying things in ma native Border Scots. I have also peppered the text with fine Scots words for atmosphere, authenticity an greater meaning. The vast majority o Scots words are spelt just how they sound. I have included an extensive glossary at the back o the book for when it’s needed, but hope ye will have little use for it. I hope that ma Scots usage enriches yer reading experience when exploring these amazing stories.
1
SOME STORIES
FOR THE BAIRNS
AINSEL
Parcie was a young laddie who lived with his mother in a stane cottage somewhere in the Borders. Although they didnae have very much in the way o possessions, at night-time when Parcie an his mother settled doon at the fireplace, there could hardly have been a mair peaceful place in the world.
As they sat up with only the yin candle on the table tae light them, Parcie’s mother would tell him aw sorts o magical stories an the wee lad would gaze in wonder intae the fireplace, making aw sorts o braw pictures in his heid oot o the flickering flames tae accompany the stories. But then, aw too soon his mother would stop an let oot a deep breath an say, ‘Right then ma lad, it’s time ye were away tae yer bed.’ But o course the laddie was just wanting tae hear mair magical stories frae his mother. Every night his mother had an awfie struggle getting the laddie away tae his bed. At the hinderend she would just put her foot doon an Parcie would reluctantly trail off in a huff tae his wee box-bed.
But yin particular night, having listened tae aw his mother’s braw stories, the laddie wouldnae budge. Maybe Parcie was mair thrawn an awkward than usual this night, or maybe the laddie’s mother was mair tired than usual, or maybe it was a combination o both circumstances, but his mother finally said, ‘Right then laddie, on yer ain heid be it. If the fairy-wife comes an takes ye away it’ll be naebodie else’s fault but yer ain.’
‘Howts, Mother, what dae I care aboot some auld fairy-wife?’ an Parcie stayed right where hae was by the fireplace. His mother sighed noisily again tae show she was fair cross with Parcie, then lifted up the candle an went through tae get ready for her bed.
The maist important thing tae be seen tae before Parcie’s mother went tae her bed was tae put a bowl o goat’s cream at the back door. Ye see, like at a lot o farms an cottages in those days, a brownie would come doon the lum at night tae sweep the floor, tidy everything up an make the whole hoose spick an span. An aw that the brownie wanted was a bowl o cream each night in return for the work.
The hoose-brownies were quite friendly, helpful critters, though they were awfie quick tae take offence at the slightest thing, imagined or otherwise. Woe betide the guid-wife that didnae mind tae leave oot the bowl o cream for her brownie. She would waken in the morning tae find very near the whole hoose upside doon, bahookie foremost, an at times inside oot as weel, if the brownie could manage it. What’s mair the brownie would never lend a hand tae put the hoose right again. In fact that brownie would never set foot in that hoose again.
However, the brownie that came doon Parcie’s mother’s lum each night always had a bowl o goat’s cream waiting for him. An so the brownie would just work away, quiet as a moose, at sweeping an tidying up the hoose every night, whilst Parcie an his mother were fast asleep in their beds. The brownie, however, had an ill-tempered auld mother, who seemed tae breathe vinegar for air, for nothing seemed tae please her, an she would fly off the handle at the slightest thing. This was the very fairy-wife that Parcie’s mother had spoken o before she’d went away tae her bed.
Now, at first Parcie was fair delighted, fair toorled tae have gotten his ain way, as hae sat watching the glinting o the embers in the grate. Hae’d never been up at this time before, an hae was up on his ain intae the bargain, an hae was still up whilst his mother was sound asleep in her bed. This was a great adventure. Hae felt like the captain o a ship sailing through the vast sea o the night, as hae kept watch an seeing tae it that they were steering the right course. An as hae gazed intae the fireplace hae wondered if the glowing embers would twinkle mysterious new stories, that had been somehow sucked oot o the vast derk night itself an doon the lum tae be glinted intae his willing heid. But after a while the glow in the fireplace began tae fade, allowing the derk tae creep intae the room. Then hae gave a
bit o a chitter as hae felt a sudden chill aboot his shoulders. Hae’d just started tae think how guid it would be tae be tucked up tight in his nice warm bed, when hae heard a lot o scratching an scraping coming frae up the lum. Next thing that happened was oot jumped the brownie intae the room. It was hard tae tell who’s eyes were the biggest, Parcie’s or the brownie’s, because neither had expected the other tae be there, an so the both o them got an awfie gliff. The brownie was dumfoondered tae see Parcie still up, instead o being fast asleep in his bed, an Parcie was dumfoondered tae see the brownie, an actual brownie, a skinny wee critter wi pointed lugs. For what seemed like a minute or twae Parcie an the brownie just gawped at each other with their mooths wide open.
Then Parcie managed tae find some words an cleek them on tae his tongue, ‘What’s yer name?’ hae asked the brownie.
‘Ainsel,’ said the brownie with a cheeky grin an a glint in his eye, ‘Ma name’s Ainsel. What’s yours?’
Parcie smiled back, understanding that the brownie was just joking as ‘ainsel’ meant own self, an decided that hae would be smarter still. ‘Ma Ainsel,’ hae said tae the brownie.
Then Parcie an the brownie started playing by the fireplace where there was still a wee bit o light an heat. Ainsel was a quick an lively critter, hae would sclim up on tae the sideboard then lowp doon, an neat as anything turn somersaults, heelstergowdie, aw ower the room. What fun the twae o them had, what laughs they had. After a while Parcie decided tae gie the embers a bit poke tae get a wee bit mair heat intae the room. Hae took the poker tae the grate an poked aroond a bit. However, in doing so a hot coal lowped oot the fire an landed on the brownie’s toe. What yowls an squeaks an squeals came oot o that wee brownie critter. Next thing was that this croaky auld voice started roaring fiercely doon the lum.
Scottish Borders Folk Tales Page 1