Scottish Borders Folk Tales

by James P. Spence

  Margaret, his wife, stopped where she was an glowered at her husband straight in his eye, an in front o the whole company she said, ‘Ye will live tae rue those words.’ The laird in turn didnae ken what had come ower his wife, an was fair taken aback as hae never kent she had such a fire aboot her.

  Later on that night the laird decided tae go oot tae get a bit o fresh air an sober up, so off hae went on his horse. But before hae’d gone very far the night grew suddenly derker an caulder an hae started tae hear the rummle o thunder approaching. As the thunder grew louder an the doonpoor got heavier, hae found himself drawn in a particular direction, as if by some unkent force. By this queer force hae was brought tae a wee cottage. Hae quickly tied up his horse an went tae caw at the door in an attempt tae get oot o the rain. It was a bonnie young woman that answered, an the Laird o Littledean was immediately transfixed an enchanted by her. It turned oot that the young woman lived there by her self.

  Thereafter, whenever the laird left hame hae would somehow find himself at the young woman’s hoose. Very soon the twae o them were very guid friends, an nae so long after that they became lovers. Now being the sort o fella that just did whatever suited himself, it didnae take very long before word got oot aboot the laird lavishing his attentions on this young lass, an it wasnae very long after that that his wife Margaret found oot aboot the affair. When she did she decided that she would face up tae the other woman, an she got together a pickle o her friends tae help her. (The Border folk took an awfie dim view o any ‘other woman’ that was trying tae break up a marriage. When such a woman was caught she would have the sore humiliation o being tethered tae a pole an hoisted up, then paraded through every toon an village roond aboot, then clashed in the closest stretch o water.) The agitated women gathered roond a thick o trees an moved slowly inwards, leaving nae a bush upturned an nae a ditch unchecked. In spite o this nae trace o the lassie could be found. The only life they came across was yin or twae birds that wheeched oot o the bushes an flapped through the trees, an also a hare that zigzagged aboot on the lookoot for somewhere undisturbed tae hide.

  Later on that night, after hae’d been drinking with some o his nae-guid friends at twae or thrie o the local howfs, the laird was riding hame tae Littledean when a throng o hares started tae chase after his horse. The poor creature was fair gliffed by the hares as they lowped an danced in front o its eyes, an so it took off like the living wind. But nae matter how hard that horse ran the hares still kept up, lowpin an dodging.

  By now the laird had his sword oot an was swinging it up an doon an roond aboot in an attempt tae scare the hares off an maybe slow doon his startled horse. But on the horse went through the moonlit forest. Finally, with a wild slash, the laird managed tae slice off the paw o yin poor hare. The blooded paw flew up intae the air an just happened tae land in the pocket o his jacket.

  Then when they came tae the village o Midlem, a common meeting place for witches frae miles aroond in those days, the hares gave up their chase.

  Yince the laird got back hame, fair gliffed by his queer encounter, hae told his Margaret aw aboot it. Tae prove what hae was saying tae her, that it wasnae just the drink talking, hae went tae fetch the blooded hare’s paw. But when hae came back hae didnae carry a hare’s paw in his hand at aw, but a woman’s hand, which was still moving as if still alive. In a blind panic the laird took a knife tae the hand, stabbing the palm o it a fair pickle times, before taking it away an clashing it intae the River Tweed.

  In the early oors the following morning, the hand turned up again at Littledean. This time hae tied it intae a bag alongside a heavy stane an went an threw it intae the widest stretch o the Tweed. Then on his way back tae Littledean the laird thought hae saw the back o his lover, an so hae shouted oot tae her. When she birled roond, however, her face was aw covered in lines, as if the bonnie lassie hae’d kent had aged aboot seventy year.

  Then she raised her right arm. The arm ended at the wrist in a bloody stump. The hand was missing. The laird was fair gliffed at the sight an rode off back hame as fast as hae could. But when hae got back tae Littledean the scunnersome hand was there before him tae welcome him hame. This time hae grabbed the wriggling thing, took a set o tongs an thrust it intae the fire till it roasted in the flames.

  The next morning the servants found the laird deid in front o the fire. There were derk marks aboot his thrapple as if hae had been strangled. Indeed those that saw the body reckoned that the laird had been throttled by a hand. The disembodied hand, perhaps having done its work, was never seen again.

  We dinnae ken what happened tae the laird’s guid wife Margaret, but I’m thinking that it must have been some sherp glower that she had fired at her man after hae’d sorely insulted her in front o aw his friends, tae so trauchle him intae making such efforts tae try an sober himself up that night. That, o course, set up a whole chain o events that saw aboot the laird’s demise. With such a fire within her, I’m thinking that Margaret would have shaped a far better life for herself than the yin she’d had with the Laird o Littledean.

  8

  A BORDER WIZARD

  MICHAEL SCOT

  Some time in the thirteenth century there were three young men frae the North who decided tae journey doon tae Edinburgh tae learn tae be stanemasons. Now at yin point they had come ower a particularly high hill, thought tae be yin o the Grampians. Nae sooner had they gotten ower an were sauntering doon a lower slope then far up the hill a muckle white serpent spied the three men. Weel it reared up an curled itself intae the shape o a wheel an came wheeching doon towards them at an awfie lick. Michael Scot was left standing by himself, as his twae friends made off like the living wind. The thing was that Michael was feart o nothing living nor deid. So hae just glowered at it as it threw itself intae a coil at his feet. Then it raised itself up in tae the air till it towered ower him. It opened its jaws tae a mooth full o teeth, slaivers an forked tongue. It hissed as it pulled its heid back, in readiness tae strike the fatal sting.

  But Michael gave it such a wallop with his stick that the serpent was split in three afore it kent what had happened. An by then, o course, it was stane deid by Michael’s feet. Hae then ran off tae catch up with his twae friends.

  It was late by the time they reached a toon, so they immediately sought oot a howf for somewhere tae rest their heids. On speaking with the landlady Michael’s twae pals were fair bursting with the adventure o what had happened tae them with the white serpent. Michael for his part said very little. As the auldish, squarely built woman listened she held a steady gaze. There was mair brightness present in her eyes than the candlelight o the room could offer. ‘Are ye sure that the serpent was deid? It’s nae ordinary serpent ye ken. Yin time there was a brave fella that cut it in twae, but at the hinderend it crawled doon tae a burn an managed tae join itself back together again, on accoont o the healing waters. Aw serpents dae this after bein cut by folk. On the other hand, if a man has been stung by a serpent, an manages tae get himself doon tae the burn afore the serpent the man will be cured an the serpent will die.’

  ‘Ye have a braw knowledge o the mysteries,’ said Michael in wonder.

  ‘Mind what I say though, for when the serpent has healed itself it’ll come after ye.’

  ‘Ach, dinnae fash yersel on ma accoont, I’ll nae be crossin that high hill again.’

  ‘It disnae matter whether ye do or ye dinnae, thon serpent will come after ye wherever ye gone. It will search ye oot.’

  ‘How can Ah protect masel? Have ye any advice on that?’

  ‘There’s only yin thing ye can dae aboot it. Ye have tae go back tae the place ye slew it, find the middle bit, an bring it back here tae me. I will deal wi it for ye.’

  An so it was, the very next day Michael Scot left his pals in their beds an hae set off early tae that place below the hill. On searching aboot the grass hae soon came across the slairgit tail, an then hae came across the slairgit middle section, but nae matter how hard hae looked hae could find not a si
gn o the serpent’s heid. This suggested tae him that the wise woman had been right in what she had told him. So withoot further ado hae lifted up the still-quivering middle section, slung it ower his shoulder an set off back tae the howf afore the night could faw.

  When Michael Scot got back tae the howf an handed ower the still shoogling middle o the serpent tae the landlady, she was that pleased that she made the grandest dinner for him an his pals. She treated them mair or less like royalty. Weel, being full o dinner, full o drink an full o cheer it wasnae long afore his twae friends took tae their beds. Michael stayed put where hae was, because hae was curious as tae why the guid-wife had treated them so weel, an had been so cheery when hae had handed ower the bit o the serpent. So hae pretended tae be in pain, an so went tae sit in the kitchen, claiming that the heat o the fire there might soothe his pains. Hae sat in a chair by the fire an asked the landlady if hae could just sleep there by the fire, tae which she agreed. So whilst hae pretended tae sleep she put the length o serpent in a muckle pan an put that pan on the fire. After a bit the meat in the pan started tae frizzle an the woman came through frae the other room tae check the meat. She lifted the lid an looked in. Then she took her finger an dabbed at the serpent meat. At the very same time the cock that was on the roof o the hoose crawed a near deafening craw. Michael was gliffed. Hae couldnae but help but open his eyes.

  ‘Ah thought ye were asleep,’ said the guid-wife.

  ‘Weel Ah have tried, but Ah cannie really sleep for the pain.’

  ‘Weel, whilst ye’re waken ye can be o use tae me. Keep an eye on that pan an see that it disnae burn. Gie me a shout when it’s right cooked, but be sure an nae touch the meat afore I do.’

  ‘Fine, I’ll dae that for ye.’

  ‘After ye let me ken when the meat is ready I’ll cure yer trouble.’ With that off went the landlady for a lie doon. So hae watched the meat cooking away till hae deemed that it was ready. Then hae did what she had done. Hae took his finger an gave the meat a poke. But lo an behold the meat burnt his finger, so hae immediately stuck it in his mooth. Nae sooner had hae done so than the cock on the roof let oot the awfiest craw. It was that loud that the guid-wife woke up an screamed.

  New light an knowledge coursed through Michael, like a brisk wind through a field o long gress, foretelling o future events, revealing magic cures, filling him with aw sorts o wisdom an the ability tae read folk’s minds. After his heid had stopped birling with aw this new knowledge, an hae could focus on what was in front o him, his eyes rested on the muckle landlady. She sighed sadly, ‘Ye didnae caw me through when the meat was ready when Ah askit ye?’

  ‘It was me that slew the serpent. It was me that had the right.’

  ‘Ah dare not tell ye off for the powers ye have aboot ye now. Howts, ye can even make the fairies lowp tae yer commands. Aw Ah ask o ye now Michael is for yer friendship.’

  ‘That’s easy granted,’ smiled Michael, ‘withoot yer wisdom Ah wouldnae have had aw this knowledge, an Ah would have been stuck wi thon serpent on ma tail.’

  The wise woman had many questions for Michael, an so they sat up together till dawn. Michael found that hae could answer each question.

  After they aw had breakfast an the three friends were preparing tae leave, the guid-wife gripped Michael by the sleeve, ‘Here now, mind an dinnae forget me. Ye owe me a lot ye ken.’

  ‘I shall never forget what ye have done for me, ye can be assured o that.’ Michael smiled at her, an with that turned an made off doon the road with his twae pals.

  The three men walked aw day till the sun went doon an the gloaming came in its place. Yin o the men said, ‘Weel there’s not a hoose in sight Ah doot we’ll just have tae sleep in the heather tonight.’

  ‘Not a bit o it,’ said Michael, ‘we’ll sleep in Edinburgh tonight.’

  ‘But Edinburgh’s still a day’s walk away,’ said yin o the friends.

  In answer Michael laid his staff on the ground. ‘Let the three o us sit oorsels on this staff an then we’ll see how we fare.’ The other twae men didnae ken what tae make o this, but had seen enough on their journey with Michael tae just go along with it. So they got themselves doon. When they’d settled themselves on the staff Michael said, ‘Right then, hold on tight.’ Nae sooner had hae said this than the staff was off like a streak o lightning. As they sped through the gloaming air Michael’s pals hung on for dear life. As they travelled on high in the sky it started tae snow. The men were fair chittering with the cauld as they soared higher than Ben Nevis. Night was fawing an the stars started tae pierce through the murk yin by yin. Eventually the staff began tae descend, an Michael brought it doon on the ootskirts o Edinburgh, so they wouldnae draw attention tae themselves.

  By an by they walked intae toon, saying nothing tae each other. As they were walking beneath a lighted lantern a man coming in the opposite direction was aboot tae pass when hae stopped tae stare at the three friends. ‘Why dae ye glower at us strangers?’ asked Michael o the man.

  ‘Weel, there is not a sniff o snow in the air tonight, but just look at aw the snow on yer shoulders.’ Aw o a sudden the man took tae his heels, thinking that hae had been talking tae fairies or wizards, the very ilk o folk kent nae tae have anything tae dae with.

  The three men sought oot lodgings for themselves, but by morning there was nae sign o Michael’s twae friends. They had fled before Michael had awoken. Hae smiled, ‘I bear them nae ill will. It was time they were on their way, an I prefer tae be on ma ain now.’

  Michael soon became a famous builder. Mind ye, did hae nae have a big advantage ower aw the other builders? Ye see when hae was building a hoose, come night-time hae would just caw in the fairies, an they would dae the maist o the work for him.

  Yin time when Michael Scot was travelling away up north making for Inverness hae came tae a flooded river. As the ford couldnae be crossed a number o travellers had stopped on the banks unable tae go any further. ‘It’s an awfie pity there’s nae bridge,’ said yin o the men tae Michael.

  ‘Weel, it so happens Ah’ve come here tae build a bridge, an the workers that’ll build it will dae it the night.’ The men that overheard this proclamation just burst in tae kinks o laughter. An the straight face that Michael had on just made the whole thing aw the funnier.

  However, when the men woke the next day, nae matter how hard they rubbed their eyes they couldnae scrieve away the image o that bridge. There it was, clear as day. An when they tried it with their feet, an then wi the hooves o their cattle an their horses, the bridge remained there. The bridge remained there when the astonished an speechless folk had crossed ower the river on it. The bridge remained where it was for many many years after that. Indeed, for aw I ken it might still be there. But what didnae remain where it was was the news o Michael’s incredible feat. News o Michael’s bridge was properly ignited in Inverness, an soon spread far an wide.

  As time went on, Michael’s fairy workers wanted mair an mair work, an if on any given night the wizard couldnae come up with enough work for them they would get intae the maist awfie mischief. This meant that everything roond aboot would finish up upside doon an inside oot. It didnae dae tae let their wee hands faw idle at night. ‘Work! Work! Work!’ was their motto an their persistent chant as they worked away like the chirruping o so many crickets – an if guid work wasnae tae be done, bad would just have tae dae in its stead.

  Yin day aroond this time, in an effort tae gie the fairies a task beyond their powers, Michael instructed them tae close off the Inverness Firth an cut off the sea. By the sheer volume o water that the river carried by night an by day hae reckoned that the task would be beyond even them. However, by morning the River Ness was close tae bursting its banks. Michael quickly sclimmed a hill an looked towards the sea. Frae there hae could see that the fairies had nearly finished their work, having laid oot twae long promontories which jutted across the Firth. Not till the tide turned did the waters eventually subside. That night hae asked the fairies tae open up the Fi
rth again by destroying the promontories. The moon was up that night, so when a holy man came along hae was able tae see the fairies working away like stoor in a gale. The man was that feart that hae promptly fell tae his knees an started praying for aw hae was worth for the protection o the guid lord. Immediately the shoogly muttering o the holy man caught the lugs o the fairies an they fled in a trice. This meant that what remained o the promontories was left with lots o bits jutting oot like crab claws. Yin such bit became kent as Chanery Point, an on the opposite peninsula now stands Fort George. This was an ideal position tae build such a fort in order tae prevent enemy boats sailing in tae Inverness.

  Even though the fairies were unable tae complete this task they still showed up the following night with their ‘Work! Work! Work!’ an Michael had tae think o an impossible task tae keep them working throughoot the night, an therefore keep them oot o mischief. ‘Away an make me rope ladders tae reach aw the way tae the back o the moon, made oot o sea-sand an white foam, otherwise kent as millers’ suds.’

  Although they put their aw intae the task, the fairies couldnae complete this job, an so it was that Michael was at last free o the fairies. However, the residue o their work can still at times be seen in wreathes o foam an ropes o twisted sand at the seaside today.

  Michael Scot was kent as a great scholar, as weel as an architect an a builder. Hae devised a metal conical hat so that if any masonry should slip frae owerheid hae would be protected by the hat. Alas, yin day hae deemed fit not tae wear his conical hat on a particular building site, an a stane came doon an killed him ootright. That conical hat became kent as a wizard’s hat, evolving intae the image that we’re aw familiar with today. Michael Scot’s reputation spread intae England an Europe, an it’s thought that Scotch Corner is named in memory o him.