Sookin' Berries

by Jess Smith

  ‘You had better get out of her forest and back to your swamp, if you know what’s good for you,’ the little fairies all shouted. They shouted so loud, both oaks awakened and shook their heavy branches, which in turn woke up the wise old owl.

  ‘What is going on in our peaceful forest?’ he asked angrily.

  ‘Helgalum has arrived back on earth, and is trespassing again!’ said both trees in unison.

  Realising that at any minute news of her arrival would reach the Queen, Helgalum pulled a black cloak over her humpy shoulders, lifted her basket of herbs and mushrooms, and slunk off into the undergrowth, muttering, ‘Can a poor old witch not get a rest in this place?’

  ‘You go and rest in your swamp,’ shouted both oaks, watching her disappear.

  When the Queen heard that Helgalum had come back, she posted extra guards at every entrance to her forest kingdom, and told everyone to be watchful of the foolish old witch and her naughty ways.

  Helgalum may have been old, but foolish she certainly wasn’t. She wanted those trees, and was willing to wait until she could work out how to get them. Trees could not be touched by her magic, and she didn’t have normal human energy to cut them down, so she had to find a way to cause problems.

  After a while tossing on her crow-feathered mattress, as outside her cottage creatures of the swamp howled, a brilliant thought came to mind. She would break the harmony between the trees. If the trees didn’t get on, then the Queen would have them sent to the swamp’s forest, where all naughty trees were sent. Once they were in there, Helgalum would have power over them and she would pay the swamp men to cut them down. And as she sat in bed resting her pointy chin on knobbly knees, she knew just what to do.

  Troggle, the tree on the right, gently tapped his twin, Friggle, to wake him up. The sun was shining, the birds singing happily. Both gave their large branches a gentle shake, then wished the birds, squirrels and old owl a bright good morning, before stretching up towards the warming sun.

  Down below, an elderly lady who was gatherering sticks smiled and said, ‘What a lovely day it is, and my goodness, what a handsome pair you are.’ She was, of course, referring to the oaks, who smiled and nodded in agreement.

  As she stooped down to pick up some broken twigs, the old lady whispered to Troggle, ‘But you are the best-looking.’ She then walked around the other side and paid exactly the same compliment to Friggle, and then wandered off.

  Now, everyone in the forest knew not to pay compliments to anyone else – Her Majesty forbade it. It was her rule that no one was better or worse than any other in her kingdom, all were equal. So when the trees began to argue about who was the best-looking, word soon reached her ears. There were stories about how Troggle would shake his branches violently at Friggle, trying to break his branches. This resulted in poor mother birds losing their precious freshly built nests. Then she heard that old owl had almost fallen to the ground head-first, because Friggle had stretched too high attempting to stop Troggle getting sunshine. The trees shouted and roared so much that not a single squirrel, bird, rabbit, deer, badger, hoppy frog, fox or any other kind of creature would go near them. Soon the Queen and her fairies decided the bickering was causing disharmony, and it had to stop.

  As she arrived at the entry to the forest, a dreadful sight met the Queen’s eyes. Broken branches lay scattered among piles of fallen green leaves, scratches zig-zagged each of their trunks.

  ‘Look at the state of you,’ she screamed at them – she was very angry. All through the usually peaceful forest, the whispering and murmuring from tree-tops to rabbit burrows spread like wildfire. ‘What is going on here?’ she asked, pointing her silver wand at each of the oaks.

  ‘I am very handsome,’ said Troggle, proudly, ‘but Friggle won’t accept the fact.’

  ‘That’s a lie! Everyone knows I am much better-looking than you. On the right I grow, sun to rise and rain to flow.’

  ‘That’s rubbish! I face left towards the east, and on the sunshine do I feast.’

  Troggle grinned cheekily at his twin, who said, ‘Whatever!’

  The Queen was not amused, but she could see this was not the normal way for her creatures to behave. Someone must have started this, and it didn’t take much thought to know who. ‘My children, what has caused such puffed up pride between you both? Has there been a stranger sneaking around?’

  Both trees agreed that only an old stick-gatherer had come by. Then, as each thought about her visit, it occurred to them that she had whispered to each that he was handsome. Friggle and Troggle stared at each other, and in unison they said, ‘Helgalum!’

  ‘Yes, just as I thought, that nasty witch has plans for you both. She probably wants to burn you in her fire.’

  Everywhere in the forest the sound of an oohh! could be heard. The Fairy Queen knew that her oaks could not be left at the mercy of Helgalum’s schemes, so she decided to plant a new tree between them. This would stop them thinking only of themselves.

  She waved her wand in the air, and suddenly a tiny fir tree lifted its little head from the soil between Friggle and Troggle. A gentle breeze blew, lulling the new babe to sleep.

  ‘There now, that is done. I command you both to protect and nourish this little tree, that I name Gregba. If I so much as hear a whisper that you are not taking good care of him, then I shall personally see to it that you are chopped down and given as a present to Helgalum herself. Do I make myself clear?’

  The Fairy Queen lifted her wand and twirled it in the air. She didn’t do that unless she meant business. There was a shaking of branches and nodding of trunks in answer to her very serious command.

  For a week or two, peace reigned, much to Helgalum’s annoyance.

  Then something happened. Friggle and Troggle had a serious conversation. Gregba was growing. His prickly pine needles were making their trunks itch. If he grew as tall as they were, he’d steal their sunshine and rain water. He had to be kept small.

  The Queen wouldn’t hear of her new baby tree being uprooted, so it was up to them. They began to bully the sapling. The first thing they did was to join their branches above his head, to stop rain feeding his top boughs and to keep out the sun.

  Soon the sad little tree began to feel weak, but when he complained, the oaks would smack him with their powerful branches. They’d squeeze him with their trunks so he could hardly breathe. Before long, the life of Gregba hung in the balance.

  Helgalum, meanwhile, decided she could wait no longer. She summoned two swamp men and ordered them to take sharp saws and cut down the two oaks standing at the forest entrance.

  It was a very dark night, perfect for such a task. Thump, thump, went the heavy green feet of the monsters of the murky deep as they made tracks from the swamps to the forest. ‘Stop that thumping!’ Helgalum hissed. ‘Tip-toe,’ she ordered, ‘or I’ll turn you into puff-faced toads.’

  So, moving as quietly as possible, the evil threesome made their way towards the unsuspecting oaks.

  Gregba, though, wasn’t feeling well. He’d been bullied severely by both trees, and was nursing a sore branch when he saw the creatures approaching, led by the wicked witch. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, and began to shake with fear.

  He watched the swamp men measuring up the trunks of sleeping Friggle and snoring Troggle. Helgalum walked up and down whispering orders. It was then that the light from the full moon, high in the night sky, lit up the shiny saw. Teeth as sharp as eagle’s talons were placed silently against Friggle.

  ‘Oh dear, they’re going to cut down the trees, I must try and stop them!’ With his last remaining strength, little Gregba began flapping his branches against both oak’s trunks, screaming, ‘Wake up, the witch is here! Look out, you two, they are cutting you down!’

  Friggle yawned and opened his eyes. Troggle did the same. Then, when they saw both swamp creatures and Hegalum, they bashed and lashed and walloped them so hard that the swamp men were sent flying through the air to land in a monster puddle, sending gall
ons of sticky yukky mud squirting upwards.

  Helgalum screamed as she saw thousands of fairies converge on the spot where all the commotion was coming from. Seconds later, Her Majesty appeared. ‘You!’ she gasped, seeing the witch with big woodcutting saws at her feet. ‘Is there no teaching you?’ She lifted her wand stiffly above her head and said, ‘Moon, send a beam for Hegalum. Take her to your dark side, so that she will never find her way back to our forest.’

  Hegalum hated space, with its black holes and burning stars. ‘Oh lovely queen, if I give you my promise never to come into your kingdom again, will you allow me to go home to the swamp?’ She was on her knees, hands clasped tightly, begging to remain.

  ‘Well, perhaps there is a way you can stay on earth,’ said the Queen, swirling her wand above Hegalum’s head. ‘Green as moss and round as moon, turn the witch into a spoon!’

  In a flash Hegalum turned into a spoon. She was taken by the fairies and given as a gift to the underwater King of the Swamps. He too had become fed up with her tricks, and was delighted now to be able to sup his soup with a brand new shiny spoon.

  From that day, all was peaceful in the forest. And as for the two bullying oaks, well, they were so grateful to tiny Gregba for saving their lives, they spent every moment catching the rain and sunshine and feeding his trunks and branches. They were like doting parents, much to the pleasure of Her Majesty, Queen of the Forest.

  9

  THE CURSE OF SCOTLAND

  Here is another story about the aftermath of the Battle of Culloden, when the Jacobites under Bonny Prince Charlie were defeated in their attempt to overthrow King George II. According to many tellers of this tale, the events described in it really happened.

  After the battle, the victorious Duke of Cumberland decided to go to the house where Bonny Prince Charlie had stayed on the day before the battle, and to sleep in the Prince’s bed. This would show who now held power in the land. A large mansion on the outskirts of Inverness was where this took place, and here the story unfolds.

  To tell the whole story it is necessary to go back to the night before the battle, to a room where the Prince and his generals were playing cards.

  A sharp breeze had picked up wandering sea spray and was blowing it inland and onto the moorland around the house. Somewhere not too far off, an owl hooted. Folks called his hooting the song of silence, because it was a signal that the big eyes of the night predator had detected food. This was likely to be a mouse, a vole or a poor wee garden warbler. Every little creature stopped and stiffened, hoping and praying the talons of the old owl would not sink into their vulnerable necks, hence the silence that followed his call.

  Prince Charlie peered from a window on the first floor into the darkness and listened. ‘It’s quiet out there,’ he said softly. The horizon bristled with young tree-tops like tiny pyramids, prompting him to add, ‘If only they were soldiers.’ He’d been informed by his advisers that many Highlanders would come to swell the numbers of his army. A great force of strong men would arrive on Culloden Moor, that was a certainty, and would chase the Duke of Cumberland back across the border. Charlie thought that he’d be flying his banner as he marched into Edinburgh next week, as soon as they’d won the war in Scotland.

  One of his trusted generals called to him, ‘Come away, Sire, from the window. There are unseen enemies who’d put a hole in you with a fair-aimed gun filled with lead. See, we have a pack of cards, let’s play awhile.’

  No matter how much his trusty advisors encouraged him, his heart felt heavy-laden. Ever since an earlier attempt on his life back in Crieff, when he’d been rushed out of the Drummond Arms and into Ferntower House, he’d felt a sense of foreboding, and it could not be shaken off. He was no fool; he’d seen the mountainous terrain where the battle would be fought and seen how many Highlanders and others who were faithful followers of his cause would make up his army. He knew that a fight against the mighty Duke’s well-fed, well-equipped troops would be no pushover. Oh, his men had plenty of heart, but stamina in war comes from decent meals. His men hadn’t eaten for days, or slept either. But next day’s battle would decide once and for all what path Scotland would travel.

  ‘Sire, I say again, will you partake of a quiet game of cards?’

  The Prince smiled and said, pointing to the solitary candle lit in the centre of the table, ‘Indeed, but what of this light? It’s barely a flicker. I can hardly see your faces, let alone a card.’

  ‘It will help to while away the hours, Sire,’ answered his General, sitting astride a wobbly-legged chair. ‘Who will be able to find sleep this night?’

  ‘Who indeed, my friend? Now deal my hand, and if tomorrow I lose, tonight I shall win.’

  The Prince seemed cheerful, but he was deliberately hiding the inner turmoil of his heavy heart.

  A gentle spotting of rain tip-tapped on the window. The Prince had had a grand run of pontoon – seven, eight, nine, ten, jack and queen, all cards in the same suit. Everyone laid their cards down; the Prince, raising an eyebrow, smiled and said, ‘I will see you all.’ He leaned over to spread his cards on the table, but one slipped from his grasp and fell into the darkness below the table. ‘Oh my! Don’t anyone say a word,’ he ordered, ‘until I have retrieved my card.’ He looked for the card under the table, but it was nowhere to be seen. Lifting the table they all searched for it by the flickering candlelight, but it had gone.

  ‘Well, that is a pity, because without it I cannot win this hand.’ He dismissed the card players, saying it was very late. All should have a night’s sleep and be refreshed for the battle.

  One of his generals, Hector MacKay, a faithful Irish follower of the Stuart cause, was a very superstitious man. Although he said nothing at the time, the night’s card game left him deeply fearful about the oncoming battle. The card that had been lost was the nine of diamonds, and nine was an ominous number in his part of Ireland – a signal of doom.

  As we know from history, the fight was indeed lost. Prince Charles Edward Stuart escaped and fled to France. Culloden Moor, where the fallen Highlanders and others who had rallied to the Stuart flag found their graves, was to be the final battlefield on British soil. The date was 16 April 1745.

  But as I said at the beginning of this story, to the victor goes the spoils. In Cumberland’s case, his desire was to lodge in the same houses as his foe. The night after Charlie had escaped, the Duke slept peacefully in the bed the Prince had occupied before the battle. The next morning he assembled all his troops to give them their orders. He summoned his generals. ‘From this day forward, I will not tolerate any wearing of the tartan. Everyone must learn to speak the King’s English. And most important, I command that you take enough men, go forth and kill every Highlander you meet – the old, women and children – spare no one. Set fire to the land; torch every house you see. Once and for all, the clans must be dispersed.’

  A general named David Bowles Prentice stepped forward and said, ‘It is a bold thing you ask of us, Sir, but I will not carry out such a dire order unless you write it down and sign it.’

  Cumberland was in no mood to be disobeyed. ‘Mr Prentice, you will do as I say!’

  Prentice was, however, a soldier of the King, and there were rules which had to be observed. He repeated his request, adding that in the service of the King, protocol must be adhered to.

  ‘Oh, very well, get me a pen and paper,’ ordered Cumberland. But there was nothing left in the house, not even a cup or saucer. Even the bed had been stripped and was gone. The house had been ransacked; the looters had left it bare.

  He shouted at his waiting generals to forget about written orders and to get on with it. He was tired of Scotland and wanted to go home. But they, like Prentice, said that they would do the job, but only once they had it in writing. In a fit of temper the Duke hurled away his chair and thumped his boot hard on the floor. This disturbed a square of carpet, revealing something underneath. He bent down and retrieved the lost nine of diamonds. ‘This will do
,’ he shouted. And there on the card he scribbled the order, ‘Kill them! Signed by his hand, Duke of Cumberland, second son of his Royal Majesty.’

  From that day to this, the nine of diamonds has been referred to as ‘The Curse of Scotland’.

  10

  THE PROUD HIGHLANDER

  Scotland has a wonderful collection of old tales about the last battle ever fought on her soil, and here is one more. This tale is from a time when travellers went under the name of tinkers – workers of tin. It is said to be a true story.

  Culloden was covered in a mist of grey; spirals of smoke from deserted camp fires curled up to meet a heavy rain-laden sky. The camps of rudely constructed branches and bracken had served as makeshift homes for the Jacobite soldiers, who had travelled hundreds of miles to face the mighty army of King George. He had a massive force of well-fed, disciplined soldiers, while the Jacobites were underfed and disciplined only by their hearts. They were a sad and hungry assortment of men and boys who had carried the banner for the Stuart crown. The ambition of Bonnie Prince Charlie to take over the throne of Britain now lay defeated, crushed and blood-spattered. It was buried forever beneath the bodies of his dead and injured followers.

  High in the sky above the dead and dying, several buzzards circled over the easy prey, while sobbing kinsfolk trod softly among carnage of the battle, searching for loved ones. To witness such a sight, after embracing such a lost cause, reduced the strongest men to miserable wrecks.

  On the edge of the moor, two young tinker girls were gathering firewood, when they heard moans coming from a clump of bracken. When they investigated, they found a badly injured Highlander. He had obviously crawled among the young ferns, and lay there waiting for death to end his suffering and blot out the memory of the defeat.