by Jess Smith
Apart from her with the pointed nose passing every so often, he’d seen neither hide nor hair of a living soul come past his wee tent on the field at the opening of the forest, and that was exactly how he liked it. He’d long since decided the strange old herb-gatherer was a witch, and wouldn’t even spend a minute in conversation with her.
It was many years gone that he had come upon this heaven of a place to work for the farmer who owned the very land he dwelt on. And from that day to this he’d worked the soil, never feeling the need to travel on as his ancestors did before him. A quiet man, was Purney, who enjoyed his own company along with the birds and creatures that lived within the neighbouring forest. Nothing meant more to him than his perfect peace and quiet, just to watch a red squirrel nibbling at some crumbs he’d scattered on the ground was enough contentment for this worker of the soil.
One day, not long after he’d seen out the summer, her with the pointed nose came by, as she was prone to do, and gave a wee nod before scuffling away on two big cloth-covered feet. Suddenly she slowed her pace, stopped, turned and came back. ‘You’ve company,’ she said, then dashed off and was soon concealed by fir and beech tree.
‘Company? What the hell is yon auld witch muttering about now?’ Purney laid aside a knife he was sharpening with a ruggle stane and walked to where he’d a view of the winding farm road. Sure enough, heading in his direction was a big muckle lorry. Dark green it was, and covered by a khaki-coloured tarpaulin. He watched it change direction and trundle towards the farm, where it came to a crunching stop. A big, gruff-looking, bearded man with a belly that hung like a jelly pendulum over a leather belt, stepped down. Purney watched as the wild man conversed with the farmer, then they both turned and stared up towards him. He wondered why the farmer should be pointing in his direction, but oh, dearie me, he didn’t have long to wait for an answer. The fat man went behind his lorry wheel, reversed and headed for Purney’s wee haven. All manner of reasons for his actions jetted back and forth in Purney’s mind while he waited and watched the lorry turn the last bend and soon grind to a halt feet from him.
‘What brings ye, my man, have ye news for me?’ Purney asked in hesitant tones.
The green lorry man ignored him as he stumbled down and went round to the back of his vehicle and lifted the back flap. Next instant poor old Purney near had the breath leave his body, as bairn after bairn jumped like freed zoo monkeys from the lorry. There, in front of his very eyes, he watched the gruff man erect a massive tent. A woman pushed a rosy red face into his and said, ‘where’s the water?’
Purney took it she was looking for the burn, and pointed over to the fountain he’d dammed with stones. Without a word of thanks she thrust a battered pail into the pool and filled it to the brim. In no time his small campsite was overflowing with unruly children and flea-ridden, mangy hounds. Soon they had a roaring fire going, with sparks shooting everywhere; some landed on his wee tent and sent shivers of fear through his old bones. Why were these unruly folks thrust upon him? The only thing for it was to see the farmer, who told him, ‘you have been getting a wee bit bent-backit, Purney, and wi’ me purchasing three more fields I need extra hands. I thought you’d be pleased, seeing as they’re tinker folk like yerself.’
‘How long have ye fee’d them for, farmer?’ he enquired.
‘Och, I though they’d be fine company for ye, Purney lad, so I said as long as they were content they could stay.’
Purney, rather than say a word against his own kind, pulled his bunnet back over his head and headed home. When he got there, two big lads had removed his guy rope, resulting in his tent leaning dangerously in the direction of his fire. ‘Ye stupid buggers, my tent has been in this spot for thirty years, now why did ye dae that?’
He watched them laughing and mocking him, and that was after he’d had words with the parents. Purney went into his tent, and for the first time in his life allowed the day to waste away without a cup of tea. All night long he lay listening to the noise and unruly behaviour of his new neighbours from hell. The biggest lads fought over a knife, while the mother and father cursed and swore at each other over him taking more of the bedcovers than her. And just to cap it all, the hounds had caught a rabbit and were tearing each other to pieces for a feed at it.
Purney had to find a way to get rid of this wild bunch, and before morning a plan began to form in his head. However he had to gain their trust, especially the two teenage sons; this is the age when people are most susceptible to suggestion.
The sun was pushing itself into the sky like a giant yellow fan, birds began to tweet and sing from the crow to the wren, and Purney breathed the air—his air, not theirs but his. He looked over at the dirty brown dome tent and wondered about the awful smell and mess of filthy bodies about to gatecrash his heavenly space. Well, he’d be waiting for them. They could take any bit of God’s earth they wanted, but not his!
The mother rose first, crawling like a snake from beneath the flap. ‘Someone get this fire on for me, or ye’ll eat raw sausages.’ Purney watched a stirring from within the canvas, as the gruff with the jelly belly followed his woman from the hole. He then picked up a stick and hit the tent side, shouting, ‘come on, big yin, an’ gather sticks for the fire.’ The oldest boy crawled out, rose and threw Purney a look, marched across and blatantly helped himself to a pile of tidy piled sticks he’d stored against the dyke. Grabbing a handful he shoved a fist into his face and said, ‘ye dinna mind me helping maself, dae ye?’
‘Be my guest, laddie. By the way, are you thinking on going into the wood today?’
The lad threw Purney’s sticks over for his father to start a fire, and asked why he should bother where he was going, that day or any other day.
‘Well, seeing as you folk are new to these parts, I’d best warn you about the dead man lying half buried in the forest.’
‘Who killed him?’ was the only response the boy gave, before adding, ‘ye’d think him no very good at murder if he wisnae able tae bury a decent grave.’ With that he kicked a toeful of dust into Purney’s face then strutted off.
He’d not get much from him, but he was, after all, the oldest, it was the younger two who’d be more likely to listen. Purney watched them eat, and thought the dogs had better manners. Soon the boys, with catty firmly clasped in unwashed hands, set off into the forest to seek out birds and squirrels, to see how many they could shoot down. Purney followed them. When he thought them far enough out of earshot of the rest he called out, ‘you lads, I hope you remember not to go near the undergrowth.’
Curiosity roused, they asked why. ‘He disnae like being disturbed from his sleep, some folks claim they’ve been chased by him.’ Purney deliberately sat down and the boys came over. ‘Thank God,’ he thought, ‘maybe now I’ll get some fear intae them.’
Watching their eyes grow wider with every word he went on and on about the ‘dead man’. ‘In the darkest night some say his black hands lift up the corner of tinkers’ tents at the spot where young lads like you sleep. Once a family of travelling people came and camped just down the road a bit. I heard screaming in the night and went to see the folks next morning, and all that was left was a dead dog and a flattened tent. Oh, a bad do, right enough!’
The boys were by now showing signs of genuine fear, so he laid it on like syrup. ‘They say he can conjure up thunderstorms and forked lightning, and an old man was struck once leaving a smoking pile of ashes on the scorched ground. A bad do, right enough, you wouldn’t catch me creeping under the brush bushes.’
The older of the two had heard more than he’d wanted, so grabbing his brother by the collar, he shouted that he was going to get his father and big brother to skelp Purney for frightening them.
No sooner had they ran off screaming, when jelly-belly Daddy, red-faced Mammy and bully brother came storming into the forest. ‘Come here, you,’ shouted the belly, ‘I’ll tank the face aff ye for shanning ma laddies.’
Poor Purney, it looked as if his pla
n had backfired, as a kick from one landed on his leg and a slap from another came hard upon his neck. Just as he thought they were about to skin him alive, a voice from behind a tree had them fall silent.
‘Have any of you people been into this undergrowth here?’ It was her with the pointed nose. She cautiously approached with those big cloth-covered feet and added, ‘it’s the dead man’s fingers, they’ve been moved. Have you got them?’
Red-faced Mammy let out a scream and said, ‘we’re biding aside a deevil and a witch, come on, let’s pack and get tae hell oot o’ here!’
Jelly-belly, bully-brother and the rest from hell took off in the direction of the mother.
Purney could hardly believe his luck. By the time he’d arrived home the invaders were trundling down the windy road and were never to bother his tranquillity again. They’d left a mess, but in no time he’d got it tidied and soon all trace was gone. That afternoon, as he sat warming himself at a bright fire, the pointed-nose one came by and for the first time he spoke to her. ‘Excuse me, dear lady, but how come you heard me tell those lads about a dead man in the undergrowth?’
‘I dinna ken onything about a deed man.’
‘But I heard you ask thon rough folk if they’d moved the dead man’s fingers.’
‘Aye, they’re ma favourite mushrooms, they grow at the foot o’ the beech tree and yon certain patch is always covered by brushwood. Now, if ye’ll excuse me, sir, I’ve a bunch o’ herbs tae gather before I go hame.’
Purney pushed his wool cap to the back of his head, scratched his temple and said, ‘Bloody mushrooms! Well, bless my soul. Cheerio, wife, maybe if tomorrow you pass, stop and share a bite tae eat with me.’
‘Well, seein’ as you’ve lost your neighbours I might just dae that.’ She smiled, and Purney was certain he saw a wee wink at the corner of her eye as she shuffled off back into the peaceful forest.
Far be it from me, folks, to speak ill of my own kind, but in all society there is good and bad, and that’s life!
Note: Dead Man’s Fingers, Xylaria polymorpha. With its blackish, club-shaped fruit-bodies, which often arise in clusters, this fungus deserves its morbid name. It is strange, though, that the experts declare it is inedible, yet pointed-nose said it was her favourite mushroom. It is also known as a delicacy to believers in Black Magic, when eaten with roasted raven!
33
FORGET US NOT
My last year at the ‘berry picking’ went out like a damp squib. Not a single friend or foe came to share our fireside. I stood on the same braeside where ‘Stone Nuts’ took my forceful kick the previous year, and scanned every inch of my beloved memory-laden berryfields. I doubted if we’d come back, and with that knowledge, knew life would never be the same again. Another brick in the traveller’s house of freedom crumbled. Tears rolled over my cheeks, leaving a salt trail of misery, and I couldn’t have cared who witnessed it.
Deep inside the pain was almost unbelievable. It was like Death himself visited my heart like a phantom surgeon to wrench out my roots. I could hear the Ancient Ones, those hardy craturs, my ancestors, calling me. I closed out the river of tears and heard them in my mind. ‘You had better believe the inevitable, lassie, Scotland doesn’t look kindly on the travellers. Only way to get on is to be ashamed of us.’
‘Never, as long as I live, will I deny my roots,’ I called back to them through the window of my mind. ‘I’ll never be a zombie!’
Every day I say a silent prayer for my people. This is for them.
A circle of tents snuggled into a secluded forest, it was a freezing January.
There was a woman with a newborn baby. The tiny bundle came into the world after two days of pain-wracked labour. The young mother was screaming at her husband. He took her baby, their first child, a beautiful boy. The poor little mite was blue dead. She bit into her horsehair mattress and heard the starving dogs eat her child. They hadn’t eaten for days, but now they were fed would be able to hunt for food to feed the members of that lonely circle of nomads forced to live on the edge of society.
The tinker children buried their innocent little faces into mother’s skirt. ‘Don’t look, my lambs,’ she warned them, ‘else this memory will stay with you all the days of your lives!’ Doing as she asked they closed their eyes, and didn’t see the men from the nearby village batter their father to death with hammers and axes.
‘Run, ma bairn, or the bad men will get you too.’ She ran as fast as she could, not faltering or turning to look back once. The bad men took turns doing things to mother, things that innocent young mind did not understand. Then they left her stone-dead on the bleeding grass. The child waited hours in the thick rye grass before going back. She sat all through the night holding mother’s cold hand, then at daybreak took a stone and hacked off a piece of mother’s flaxen hair to remember her by.
The old man came back from gathering sticks. An eery silence had spread itself over the moor and not even the dogs barked. With shaking legs he crept slowly towards his campsite. The sight that met his eyes had him fall upon the ground: they’d come visiting, the body snatchers. What could he have done, if he’d been there? Nothing! He piled his family’s bits and pieces and set fire to everything, then sat under a laburnum tree to wait for the scythe of death. It was well known amongst travellers that because of their non-registered existence they were easy prey for dissection-hungry doctors willing to pay whoever brought them good healthy specimens.
‘Go and stand in the corner, you’re a waste of my good teaching skills.’
‘Tinky, tinky, cold bum, yer mammy canna knit, yer faither kicked the polisman an’ is lying in the nick.’
‘Please, miss, I can’t sit here beside her, she’s a dirty tinker. I’ll catch a disease, my mother said.’
‘Wullie, how can we get the tar and feathers frae aff the bairn?’
‘Please, Mammy, don’t send me back to that horrible school.’
‘I’ve been asked to inform you that the school nurse said she hasn’t enough liquid paraffin to treat your children’s lice. Please don’t send them to school.’
Then, just when I thought my heart would burst with sadness I saw the weddings, the music and the laughter. Storytellers and balladeers entertained with pipers and box players. The hot summers with happy-faced bairns running and playing upon heather-thickened moors. Cutting bracken and maggot-scouring the sheep. Children seeing how long they could string the daisies before one separated the chain.
No, my ancestors, I’ll never forget you. This is my pledge to you. You can take this Traveller off the Road, but you’ll never take the road off this Traveller.
Scotland’s Outcasts
Ye canna sleep them awa,
They’ll aye be here in the morning.
Ye canna dream them awa,
They’ll surely turn up wi’ yer dawnin.
Ye canna expect them tae go,
Or scarper ower the heather,
They widnae abandon the show
They’re joined tae you forever.
Ye canna just sweep them aside,
They are here like an oncoming tide.
Ye canna just wish them away,
Ach, ye widnae anyway.
Sometimes they’re sullen an dour,
But they’re nae hidden treasure.
They’ve nae misgivings, they’re sure,
They’re travelling folks forever.
If a spanner were tossed in yer works,
They’ll stand firm: ‘Esprit de Corps’.
They’re the essence o’ what yer aboot,
Ach, they canna just sling their hook.
They’ll ne’er shake hands wi the deil,
For they’re yer bells, yer steeple.
So never doubt how they feel,
They’re Scotland’s travelling people.
They’re the grandest show on the road,
Forced to carry this cumbersome load,
Their facet is your visage too,
They’re th
e splendid part o’ you.
Tae the watery skies abune,
Tae oor hallowed glens within,
Tae oor ancestors steeped in past,
Here’s tae Scotland,
They’re still yer outcasts.
Charlotte Munro
34
CRIEFF, THE FINAL FRONTIER
When I read about Crieff in bonny Perthshire it is mostly described in terms of tourism. Fair enough—a fine picture is painted, and justly so. But when I think of this little town nestling in the foothills of the Grampian mountains I see the whole face of Scottish history being changed, or how it would have done if the folks who used to live here took a different route. Why? Well if you’ve a cuppy, then sit yourself down and listen to this.
After the great upheaval of the Reformation, France and the Stuarts had one great plan between them: to seek the throne of England. If it was in their hands then Rome could claw back her Catholic states, which were disappearing daily.
Prince Charles Edward Stuart (who my friend Mac didn’t believe was monarch of anywhere) was their last hope. Aided by France, he tried to land an army of French soldiers in England in 1744, but his fleet was lost at sea during a storm.
The next year, 1745, France could no longer render military aid to Charles, so with only seven men he landed on a small island on the west coast of Scotland.
He certainly was an able lad, however, for by August he’d collected a large army of mainly Highland clansmen. He made for Perth, then Edinburgh, and while there, proclaimed himself King at the Market Cross. On 21 September he attacked Sir John Cope at Prestonpans, and quickly cut through his army, leaving them fleeing from the field of battle. Triumphantly he marched on, taking recruits as he went, and soon his army consisted of 6,000 men. After defeating Cope, Charles marched on to England, reaching Derby without opposition. He’d heard many places were still strong in Jacobitism. But to his great disappointment he found that his support was weak, and to proceed any further south would have been folly. Anyway, word reached him that the Government had dispatched two armies, one on either side of the line of his advance, while a third was retained to defend London. There was nothing for it, then, but to retreat to Scotland.