Sookin' Berries

by Jess Smith

  There was no hesitation among his dearest companions. The moment that he met death, it would not be alone. The Pharaoh was far too weak to argue, and the moment that Father Time touched his heart, all of his earthly companions swallowed their vials of poison. The whole of Egypt fell silent as each of the deceased was carried behind their master on earth, to be with their king in eternity.

  Once they were on the other side of death, their pain and fear was gone. They danced and laughed in the knowledge that no more would they worry about the young Pharaoh’s health; he would never know pain again, and on his journey in the other world they would be with him, as they wished.

  The road they travelled seemed endless, but in that place time did not exist, so how long they’d been on their journey was anyone’s guess. Every way has an ending, though, and when they saw dancing yellow lights far ahead, they rejoiced in the knowledge that they were soon to be at their destination.

  On and on they went, until the light became so bright it almost closed their eyes. When the young Pharaoh saw his parents and grandparents, and his companions were reunited with their dead relatives, there was a time of merriment and wonder. Questions were asked and answered, and comparisons between the vibrant living world and the elusive other one ran off their tongues like morning dewdrops under a hot sun.

  For a short time, all was peaceful, then one day a stranger came into their midst. He was a man of great height, with long, white, flowing hair and wings of an eagle. He came with news from the Almighty Spirit. ‘Friends, the Great One has instructed me to put you all to sleep. A time of change is coming. His instructions must be obeyed.’

  When the young Pharaoh heard this news, he called out in anger and frustration. ‘I have spent all my life on earth in a state of pain and half sleep. Surely it is unjust to rob me of this new life. Here I am with all my loved ones, and now I have to sleep again.’

  He felt a surge of sadness overwhelm him. His friends all rushed around to comfort and shield him.

  ‘Can we not go and speak with the Great Spirit?’ one asked the winged man.

  ‘Yes. It is a time and yet again a time to reach his home without walls, but he is just, and will give you an audience. I have to go now, so if you are all of one mind, then please follow me.’

  Without hesitation the Egyptians were once more embarked on a long journey. This time they went with uncertainty. What would the Great Spirit decide?

  If there were days and nights in that world, then hundreds must have passed before they came to a place of such colour and beauty that they all thought they were in a dream. There were greens of sun-kissed forests, blues of ocean and sky, red of perfect sunsets, yellow of springtime blossoms. ‘Is this heaven?’ asked the young Pharaoh.

  ‘It is the place of perfection and peace,’ answered the winged man.

  ‘Does the Great Spirit whom we seek live here?’

  Suddenly every colour came together and began circling around them. Winged ladies dressed in flowing silks and satins danced to unheard of music, all keeping perfect time. It was a scene like no other; there were hundreds of them. It was the most beautiful, amazing sight.

  ‘Who has come to my place?’

  There was no person to be seen, but the voice carried into every ear. Shaking in anticipation of being in the presence of the Great Spirit, the young Pharaoh whispered nervously, ‘I have come, oh One of all things living and dead. My life on earth was a time of pain and worry. To soothe aching muscles and bones my physicians fed me sleeping potions. Oh Greatest One, why do I have to sleep here in this other world, when I did nothing but slumber in the old one?’ His companions gathered round, saying nothing, but nodded in unison.

  For a time no word came, until once more the winged ladies danced around in their rainbow silks, as if heralding their master’s voice.

  ‘What kind of love is this I see?’ the voice asked.

  ‘We are simply friends, one for all and all for one,’ came the answer.

  ‘I cannot send you back, surely you are aware of this. Once the cord of life is cut, it cannot be remade. But I have not met such overwhelming gratitude to a ruler from his slaves.’

  ‘Oh no, my Lord, we are friends. I am a Pharaoh by birth, nothing more than that. Together we lived, as one we died.’

  A crescendo of trumpets, harps and singing filled the air; once more the winged ladies danced and flew through a heaven of wonder. And when they had finished, they folded their wings, hung down their heads and the music quietened to a whisper.

  ‘I shall grant your request,’ said the Great Spirit, ‘But to do so, I have to change a few things.’

  They all gasped, and turned to the Pharaoh in anticipation of what proposals were to be made.

  ‘I shall create another world, one between here and the earth. Together you shall live there, and once a year, at the midnight hour of the summer solstice, I will allow you a minute to go onto the earth, to taste berries, to smell flowers and to drink water from a river’s source. One last thing, I have to reduce your normal size. In this new world, I am sending you as tiny people; no taller than a mouse. Will you accept this?’

  There was no question or protest. Each one lined up with eyes closed, and together they waited.

  When at last their eyes opened again, the colours and silks of the winged ladies were gone.

  A brand new world, with all it contained, was now theirs; to play in, laugh, sing, tell tales and live in harmony forever. As promised, from their small world, at the exact hour of the solstice, they flooded back to the earth they had left behind to smell flowers, jump upon the heath, hold hands and dance beneath rings of toadstools. Just sixty seconds, that’s all the time they had. But that was enough for them, because in their world time was of no consequence.

  Bendy finished his tale with a smile.

  ‘That is the best tale I have heard in many a day,’ I told him with a gentle pat on his shoulder.

  Old Bendy looked behind and said, ‘Was that a fluttering of cloth-wings that brushed my cheek a minute ago? Best get to bed before we are annoyed to death by those pesky bats.’

  I didn’t think we’d get much bother from them, because the fire had died down to a blink, and Loch Marla’s breezes had been replaced by a ghostly mist which was already rolling around our ankles.

  As I moved closer to the fire, my boot caught the old billycan, spilling its dregs over the embers. Whoosh! Up and into the quiet night went a spiral of hissing steam. All around, from every broken wall of the ruined castle, came dozens of maddened bats diving head first into our bodies. We each punched the darkness, fighting with our fists the eerie menacing crowd that had encircled us. Bendy screamed, and before I knew what was happening, the poor old fellow keeled over, clutching his chest.

  Hitting out at the bats, one of which had bitten a tiny chunk from my chin, I quickly bundled old Bendy up the steps of his caravan and into his beehive-shaped home. The poor old fellow’s cheeks were turning from apple-red to a grey hue.

  Inside the wagon and to the left was a bolted-down table, a single chair and a small stove. A neat bed was positioned at the back, and it was there I laid him down. On the right was a large kist covered with a brocade cushion, which from its dowdy appearance had seen better days. I sat on it and asked Bendy if a cup of tea would be welcome.

  His lips quivered as he shook his head. It took him a few moments to find a sense of composure before he spoke. ‘I’m glad I have company on this night, Chapman. There’s not much breath left in this old body. Do you think it is midnight?’

  I searched for a candle, and found one stuck by blobs of melted wax onto a brass lid, partly hidden behind a small pot-bellied vase containing three wooden flowers.

  Bendy began to seem agitated; he stretched his neck upwards like a strangled hen reaching for its last breath.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  I knew by the moon’s position in the night sky that the solstice was less than ten minutes away, and told him so.
He pointed to the chest, touched my hand and whispered, ‘There’s a metal cup and shaving brush in that kist on which you sit. Put a little hot water in it. Me shaving soap is in the cup too. I need to look me best, Chapman. He’ll soon be here.’

  Now, I’m not usually so obedient to anyone, never mind an old stranger who’d just happened to come my way. But there was a gasping, gurgling sound coming from his chest. Living all my life under the star-strewn sky, I knew when death waited in the shadows. In minutes the shaving was finished, and Bendy lay silently waiting.

  Something tore at my imagination, maybe the storyteller in me, I don’t know, but Bendy’s staring eyes, and his calmness as he waited for his lungs to give their last breath, didn’t seem right. I’d seen death on many an occasion, and never was it welcome. Even dogs fight for that one last suck of air. I leaned over and whispered, ‘Who is coming for you?’

  ‘You’ll see in a moment!’

  An old mantel clock lay hidden under a crumpled towel which muffled its ticking. I took the towel away. As if by magic my eyes were drawn to the minute hand as it moved stealthily to touch the number twelve. Twang, the hour struck midnight – the summer solstice had come!

  I heard a creaking sound and tore my eyes from the face of the clock to see, skipping and dancing in the wagon door, a line of the tiniest people I had ever seen, each one no bigger than my thumb. I rubbed my eyes. Was this real? Was Bendigo a magician? Was I about to wake up and find myself sitting at the fire, sipping tea and listening to snoring bats?

  Transfixed I watched as the throng of little people formed into two lines. Running as fast as he could, a man wearing gold cuffs and a large necklace filled with every precious gem there is, leapt from my foot onto my knee, and from this vantage point skipped across my shoulder to land gently on Bendy’s chest. It was easy to see that this was the regal Pharaoh my companion had told me about. I was definitely in the company of a wonderful illusionist, who was not only faking death, but had conjured up a vision of tiny people. It was easy to see that his story contained hidden hypnotic words, and I was being hypnotised.

  ‘Come now, Bendigo, we’ve only a few seconds!’ The supposed once great king of Egypt summoned my friend to rise from his bed, and of course he did. I sat back without a word, and watched this mystical magician, who thought he was still in control of my mind, shrink from normal to miniature size. He waved goodbye, and went off with his tricksters out of the caravan door and into the night.

  I followed him out there into the darkness, but there was no sign of anyone. I laughed loudly, and called to him, ‘The best storyteller in the world, that’s what you are Bendy, me old pal. You can come back now. I was well and truly fooled there for a moment. Whoever heard of a Chapman wool-eyed?’

  I waited, but apart from the ever-growing mist and one lone bat fluttering above my head there was nothing to be seen, my old friend stayed hidden. ‘He’ll let me simmer a while before his shaky legs come wandering back,’ I told myself, yawning at the same time. Hour followed hour until sleep rendered me unconscious. I woke early to the swooping, not of bats, but of sand martins eagerly feeding on the clouds of midges who in turn were happily feeding off me.

  ‘Bendy,’ I called, stepping into the wagon, ‘why did you let me sleep on the cold ground without a cover?’ Everything was exactly the same as I’d left it. Where had he gone?

  Down at the loch side, as I refilled my billycan, I scanned every corner from tree-lined shore to high hills, and searched inside and outside the castle ruins. I even saddled up the old grey mare and searched for miles. All day and on into the night I searched, but Bendy had completely disappeared.

  More and more puzzled by events, I built a fire and cooked some small trout which I’d guddled in the shallow water. Then, after I had eaten, a thought came to mind that I hadn’t checked underneath the wagon. Dropping onto my knees, I crawled between the wheels, and what I found there convinced me for the rest of my life of one thing – Bendigo was no illusionist! In soft sand, a perfect line of tiny footprints went from below the steps, under the wagon and ended at its edge!

  What had been to me a fine piece of trickery was in essence the point blank truth. There are indeed little people, and how Bendy knew of them is a secret he never divulged. But as you ponder my story, think on this – who else knows of them, where have they come from, and is the word as we know it, FAIRY, really PHARAOH?

  ‘Well, my friends, thank you for the hospitality, most welcome as always.’

  Young Sandy stood up, wide-eyed and breathless at having heard such a wondrous tale, and said, ‘Chapman, what did you do with the old man’s caravan?’

  ‘Now, that’s the strangest thing, because next day, before I packed my things to take to the road, I woke to a pile of smouldering ashes where the caravan had been. The beehive wagon had mysteriously burned as I slept. On my travels I have heard that gypsies burn all that is left by their dead. I did bring one thing to show you though.’ Everyone followed the Chapman outside to see, happily grazing on the hillside, an old grey mare with plenty of good ploughing left in her shanks.

  7

  FOXES SHOULD BE FREE

  We will visit the Chapman again later, but for now I want to share a lovely story with you about how, when we do a good turn, it sometimes is appreciated and returned in kind.

  Several years ago my feet were weary. I’d advertised on the oral grapevine for travelling people’s stories. I sought life stories, personal events memorised for sharing, moral tales with an aaahh factor. From the rugged coastline, where sea winds batter the walls of John o’ Groats, to Galloway and Dumfries in the Borders, came phone calls, emails and letters. I trekked from retired church beadles to tale-keepers among old farmworkers, recording and noting as many stories as I could.

  My fingers grew stiff trying to keep up with some of my more sprightly tellers, who swore certain paragraphs were true, only to insist I change them because they weren’t sure. When walking with a certain shepherd who insisted he could only tell stories when gathering in his flocks, my legs got so lame I thought I’d walk forever bandy. It was the best feeling in the whole world, however, when I got home to the computer, and stories began falling methodically into place. All the aches and pains were worth it to me, just to know that those wonderful tales would live forever in the pages of my books.

  Here’s a tale that ticks all boxes regarding human/animal bonding. That age old moral saying comes to mind – ‘one good turn deserves another’.

  Izzy and her grandparents had been on the road for the best part of four months. With winter rapidly approaching, their burdens would soon be unloaded in a snug campsite in one of the honourable Mr Murray’s forests.

  For all of Wullie’s life, he’d worked during the winter for the kindly landowner, and although older now and slightly bent-backed, he’d a strong resolve. His duties would be to help on the grouse moors of Ochtertyre estate helping the gamekeeper control vermin, and many other tasks. This stately home was run for hundreds of years by the Murrays, who were closely related to the Dukes of Atholl, who in turn are related to the Queen. His wage would be five shillings a week, plus his fill of fowl and fish from the nearby River Earn.

  Izzy wasn’t the couple’s kin. They had found her wrapped in an old shawl laid by the busy roadside on the old A9. Today it’s a wider, faster road, and the babe in her swaddling clothes would almost certainly have been run over by a heavy goods vehicle. However, in the late nineteenth century, the traffic was only horse and carriage. Where she came from they never discovered. They simply lifted her up, held her close, and for twelve years never let her go.

  They were two honest and sober parents for her, and she was a lovely daughter for them. Her charm, which delighted them daily, was in her devotion to every living creature, even the rabbits that Wullie snared for their supper. She would skin and prepare the beasts, thanking them for the sustenance provided. Izzy only left their sight when meandering through the countryside where no harm could b
efall her.

  It was mid-November when they set up camp. Wullie wasted no time in reporting to the big house to be given his winter duties, which, along with his grouse-moor work, included shoeing horses, bagging fox-furs and deerskins for the market, snaring vermin – his workload was endless.

  As he headed down the rhododendron-lined driveway of the stately mansion, he heard a horse come galloping up behind him, and if he’d not leapt out of the way, he would most certainly been mowed down. The rider didn’t even apologise, but laughed and mocked him for being in his way.

  ‘Stupid stuffed pork pig of a man,’ he thought, eyeing a pair of well rounded buttocks. ‘Just as fat as the horse’s rear end, that one,’ he mused.

  The horseman gripped the reins and pulled the bit in the horse’s mouth tight into its chest, so that it snorted loudly. Wullie, who thanked God daily for Jenny his old cart horse, shouted out, ‘That’s no way to treat a beast of burden!’

  In a flash the rider dismounted, strode over to where Wullie stood, lifted a knotted leather whip above his head and struck the poor unsuspecting man over the shoulders. ‘I’ll have you thrashed to within an inch of your miserable life for such insolence!’ Clicking the heels of two calf-leather boots, he stared down at the whipped man, who was shaking violently. ‘What are you doing on private land anyway?’

  Wullie straightened his spine and tried hard not to show the fear welling up in his body. ‘Sir, I come here every year to work for Mr Murray. He allows me to winter my tent in the woods. We have been coming for many years, the wife and me.’

  Like a prowling dog the horseman walked round, eyeing him up. He leaned closer until both men’s noses almost touched. Wullie felt the hot breath on his face, then a spray of wet air. ‘Tent, a tinker? Well, filthy little vagabond, hear this and pay heed to my words. My uncle, your so-called Mr Murray, is in South Africa, and will be there for a considerable time. I am in sole charge of the land and everything you see. So go back to your filthy abode and shift from here, or, so help me, I’ll have you burned off!’