‘Aye, two miles is a fair way to row, so I’m for waiting a while too,’ the second brother agreed, his arms tired.
The youngest lad, who was only sixteen, was happy to do what his brothers told him. They rowed up the tiny inlet to a rocky cove with a small beach and landed their boat in the sheltered bay. From the sea, this was the only way onto the island. Here they were surrounded by the high cliffs they had climbed in search of gull’s eggs when they were younger. Driftwood had collected at the waters’ edge.
‘We’ll have a fire here, and wait for the seals to arrive.’
The middle boy moored the boat, while the others collected wood and made a fire.
‘It’s awful queer though,’ the oldest mused, ‘there’s usually a hundred or more of the creatures around here at this time, all lazing about the rocks.’
The brothers sat around their fire in the sheltered bay for a while. They smoked and went over their plan some more. Suddenly, the youngest lad sat up straight and turned to look behind him. ‘What’s that I hear?’
‘It’ll be the seals coming in for the night. Get ready boys.’ His older brother replied.
‘No, I hear voices ... human voices!’ The young lad strained his ears.
The brothers were puzzled. No one ever came to the island – well, very rarely. There was so little access; only seals and birds lived here.
A person came into view, walking up over the rocks and stepping onto the grass. He was tall and broad, a mature man with greying hair. Behind this man, many more people appeared, a whole tribe of them walking onto the beach. They surrounded the boys and their fire. The brothers’ jaws fell open – where had this colony of people come from? There must have been one hundred and fifty folk standing about them – old men and women, young ones, children, teens, toddlers and mothers carrying babies.
They were talking amongst themselves in a strangely accented mixture of Gaelic and English. But what puzzled the brothers most was the way these people were dressed – they were all wearing strange, brown furry coats and leggings, and some had hats and mittens made of thick, brown pelt.
The large, grey haired man stepped forward and spoke directly to the three brothers, ‘We know why you came here tonight. You came to club our children to death and to smash the skulls of our mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters with rocks and stones. You came here to murder us.’
The three lads jumped to their feet, shocked and frightened. The strangers were talking and muttering, ‘That’s them. Aye they’re the ones, as would kill us wi’ clubs and stones.’
The eldest boy spoke, ‘Excuse me sir, but we did not come here to kill you. We came here to kill the seals that steal our fish. We’ve never seen you before in our lives – who are you?’
The large man spoke, ‘We are the seal-people. This is our island and our fish. We are the seals you came here to kill. The elders and I have had a meeting and agreed that we will do exactly to you, what you had planned to do to us.’
The lads noticed that each of the seal-people had a club or rock in their hands. The three young men were terrified. The seal-folk were between them and their boat; there was no way to escape other than up the cliff.
‘Please,’ begged the eldest lad, ‘we didn’t know that you were anything more than animals ...’
An old, croaky voice shouted out from the beach, ‘Wait a minute now! Stop a moment kinfolk! Here, let me through.’ An elderly, white-haired man, small with age, pushed carefully through the crowd, stepping right up to the tall leader.
‘What is it grandfather?’ The large seal-man asked kindly.
‘Friends and family, you must stop this. Just wait a minute and let me speak.’ The old man smiled around at his kinsmen and women and they stopped talking to listen to him.
‘I missed the elders meeting earlier. I was away collecting driftwood!’ The old man waved the fine plank of sea-bleached oak-wood that he had in his hands. ‘We must spare these foolish boys’ lives. I know what they came here to do to us, but let me tell you why we must let them go free ...’
The big leader nodded, stepped aside and let his grandfather, in his shabby brown seal-fur coat, step forward to speak.
‘When I was a young seal, just a pup learning to hunt food for myself, I was caught in their father’s net. I’d foolishly put my head and flippers in to bite a fish, and had become completely entangled. I would have died in that net if the boys’ father hadn’t pulled me out and set me free. So you see kinsfolk, I and many of you, my children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, wouldn’t be here today if their kinsman had not been so good and kind to me. He saved my life and I owe it to him to save his sons’ lives too.’
The seal-people murmured and nodded their heads in agreement. The old seal-man turned to the three lads. ‘We see the fish you catch in your nets, and they are our fish, here to feed our children. There are many other places, away from here, where you can catch plenty of fish, but this is our home. You must go and fish in other waters.’
The grey-haired man put his hand on his grandfather’s shoulder. ‘We will do as you wish grandfather. One good turn deserves another.’ He turned to the boys and said sternly, ‘We will respect grandfather’s wishes and let you go, but if you bother us in the future, I cannot promise your safety in these waters.’
The seal-people stood aside, letting the lads return to their boat. The boys rowed as fast as they could all the way to shore, full of fear that the seals might change their minds. When they got back to the house, they went in, looking as white as ghosts and trembling with adrenaline. Their father looked at them curiously.
The oldest of the three broke the silence. ‘We went to see if we could land any night fish near seal island father.’
‘Oh aye,’ the old man replied, ‘and did you have any luck?’
‘N-no ...’ the youngest stammered, his voice still shaking.
‘No, father,’ the eldest said. ‘We’ve decided the waters are too rough there. From now on we’ll just leave that place to the ... seals.’
‘Aye, we’ll find new fishing grounds, father,’ the middle boy said carefully, ‘and leave the island to your seal-folk.’
Their father smiled and nodded. ‘Aye lads, there’s plenty o’ fish in the sea for all of us.’
NOTES: This was a story told to the late storyteller and traveller, Duncan Williamson. Since Duncan met the crofter who told him this story in the late twentieth century, the cod have almost disappeared from the waters around the west coast of Scotland. Ever-growing demand from the human world has left fewer and fewer fish for the creatures that inhabit the sea. This magical story illustrates the need to live in harmony with our fellow creatures, and manage the earth’s reserves for everyone, human and animal alike.
EARTH
13
THE BLAEBERRY GIRL
(IRELAND)
One summer’s day, a young girl was sent by her Gran to pick the blaeberries that were ripening on the bushes on the hillside behind their cottage. The girl took her bucket and ran happily up the hill for it was a fine, sunny day and she loved blaeberries.
She made her way from bush to bush. ‘One for the bucket.’ Ping, the blaeberry hit the bottom of the bucket. ‘And one for me.’ She popped a sour sweet berry into her mouth.
‘Two for the bucket.’ Ping. ‘And two for me.’ Another sweet sour berry went into her mouth.
‘Three for the bucket.’ Ping. ‘And three for me.’ Up and up the hill she went, filling her bucket and filling her belly.
The sun was beating down and her mouth was dry from the sourness of the berries, so when she came to a little bubbling stream, she knelt down, cupped her hand and took a long drink of the cool, clear water. As she leaned over the stream, she heard a jingle of music behind her. She turned around, but there was nothing to be seen.
Once again she leaned over to take a drink. Once again she heard music but when she whirled around, the music disappeared. This girl always listened to her Gran and h
er Gran was a very wise old woman, so the girl had a fairly good idea what, or I should say ‘who’, was playing the tune.
She leaned over the stream one more time, but she didn’t fill her hands with water. Instead, she waited and listened.
Sure enough, the tune started up again. She reached around behind her back and grabbed at the sound. Something wriggled and squirmed in her fist. Carefully, she turned around and looked at it, or I should say ‘him’, for it was an ugly wee man with a snaggled, knotted beard. He was wearing a tiny, old-fashioned suit of tweed. It was, in fact, a leprechaun.
‘Unhand me, you monster!’ shouted the little man. Although his shout was not very loud, as he was small enough to fit in the girl’s hand.
As I’ve said, the girl always listened closely to the stories her Gran told, so she knew that leprechauns always keep a pot of gold buried somewhere nearby. She also knew that leprechauns must always tell the truth, although they can never be trusted.
‘I will let you go, if you tell me where your pot of gold is hidden,’ said the girl.
The leprechaun tried his best not to speak, he sputtered and pressed his hand against his mouth. His face began to turn a particularly strange sort of bluish-red colour. As I’ve already told you, leprechauns cannot lie, and that includes lying by not saying anything.
‘Over there, under that blaeberry bush,’ said the leprechaun, finally, through gritted teeth. ‘Now put me down.’
The girl shook her head. ‘There are lots of blaeberry bushes over there. You are going to have tell me exactly which one has the pot of gold underneath it.’
She took the leprechaun over to the nearest bush. ‘Is your pot of gold buried under this bush?’ she asked.
The leprechaun’s face turned scarlet. Reluctantly he shook his head.
She carried him to the next bush and asked the same thing. He shook his head again. They went from bush to bush until finally they came to one that was in the middle of the hillside. This time, the leprechaun nodded his head.
Just to be sure, the girl asked him again, ‘Is your pot of gold buried under this bush?’
‘Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!’ he spluttered angrily. ‘Now put me down!’
The girl was about to set his little feet back on the ground when she had a thought. In order to dig up the gold, she would have to fetch a spade from the cottage. ‘I will put you down,’ she said, ‘if you promise not to move your pot of gold.’
By this time, the leprechaun’s face was the colour of a boiled beet but he said, ‘I promise not to move my pot of gold.’
She had another thought. ‘You have to promise not to move the bush either.’
The leprechaun looked at her crossly, but he said ‘I promise not to move the bush either. Now let me go. This is most undignified.’
She looked at the bush again. How would she be able to tell which bush it was when she came back? They all looked more or less the same.
‘I will put you down, if you take the blue ribbon from around my pony-tail and tie it around the bush.’ She held the leprechaun up to her head so he could untie her ribbon. Looking extremely grouchy indeed, he tied the ribbon onto a branch of the bush.
She lowered him towards the ground. ‘And you must promise not to untie that ribbon,’ she said as his feet touched the ground.
‘I promise not to untie the ribbon,’ he said.
She released him from her grasp.
Pop! He disappeared.
The girl ran down the hill to fetch the spade, daydreaming all the away about all the nice things she was going to buy with her pot of gold. She’d have so much money she could even pay someone to pick blaeberries for her!
Carrying her shining spade, she walked back up the hill. She hadn’t gone far when she saw the bush with her ribbon on it. She dug it up, roots and all. No pot of gold. She dug deeper and deeper. Still nothing!
She paused to stand up and wipe the sweat off her forehead. That’s when she noticed that the blaeberry bush next to this one also had a blue ribbon tied to it, and so did the next one, and the next one, and the one after that. In fact, all the blaeberry bushes on the hill had ribbons on them!
But the girl wasn’t ready to give up. She dug up first one bush, then another, and then another, until more than half of them were lying with their roots in the air. The girl never did find that pot of gold and the blaeberry bushes? It took them many years to grow back and their berries never did taste as juicy and sour sweet as they did before she met that leprechaun.
NOTES: Blaeberries are found all over the British Isles as well as in Europe, and are variously known as bilberries, whortleberries, whinberries, hurts, myrtle blueberries, and fraughans. They are closely related to North American blueberries. When telling this story, you can invite your audience to pick the berries with you, counting ‘one for the bucket, one for me. Two for the bucket, two for me,’ and so on.
14
STOLEN BY FAIRIES
(ENGLAND)
Long ago, the Weardale valley, in County Durham, was known to be full of fairies. People said that they lived in the little caves that go back under the hills. On moonlit nights they held their fairy celebrations in these hillside crevices and underground palaces. On rare occasions, men coming back late at night from the pub would see the fairy people dancing by the rocky outcrops. But more often, folk only heard them playing their otherworldly musical instruments, singing and laughing – their melodic voices gurgling in time to the flow of the streams running down the hillside. Sometimes, people coming home through the dale on dark nights disappeared, vanished! Many believed it was the fairies who took them away. The little people were secretive and sometimes spiteful creatures who couldn’t stand being seen by humans. Folk who discovered their hiding places could be spirited away – stolen by fairies – gone from the human world for ever.
One spring morning, a farmer’s daughter was out playing on the hillside above the farm. She was filling her pockets with pretty wild primroses, when she heard the sound of the fairies celebrating their May-time revels. Curious to see the little folk, she crept around the rocky outcrop. There below, she spied them at the mouth of their cave. Delighted to see such beautiful creatures playing, dancing and singing, the child clapped her hands in joy and gasped out-loud, ‘Oh my, there they are ... the merry fairy-folk!’
Immediately the fairies fled back down into their secret dwelling under the hill, angry that a human child had seen them.
The little girl couldn’t wait to share this secret with her father and she ran back to the farmhouse to tell him. He listened quietly and carefully as she described the fairies’ May-Day dance on the hillside. He didn’t show his deep concern after he’d heard her story, instead he carried on as normal, without a word of worry to her. But after supper, when he had tucked his child up in bed and given her a goodnight kiss, the farmer put on his boots and hurried out of the house. He made straight for the wise woman’s cottage in the next village.
After he explained the situation to old Sara, she shook her head and said in a serious tone, ‘You are right to be worried. Indeed the fairy-folk will not stand for human interference in their private affairs. They will come for your daughter and try and take her away from you tonight, around midnight.’
The farmer pleaded with wise Sara for a charm to protect his dear child.
‘Well, you see, they cannot cast their magic and steal your girl away, if there is no noise to disturb their work. So what you must do is go back to your homestead and make sure it is completely silent. Especially when they come at the witching hour; at that time your place must be as quiet as can be – not a sound! If you can do this, your little one will be safe.’
The farmer thanked Sara for her wise words and galloped off through the dark night on his horse. All the way home, he thought about what was in his house that could make noise. As he jumped off his mare, he turned her and his plough horses out of their stables and into a far field – this would keep their hooves from clattering noisi
ly in the stalls. Then he went to his cows’ byre and took their chains and halters off, to prevent them clinking and clanging during the night. He bolted the door and went to his dogs, giving them a bucket of milk and basin of fresh meat for their supper. The dogs had never eaten so well in their lives and when they were secure in their kennel, each dog fell fast asleep. Next, he looked to his hen house. He covered the window with old sackcloth, to stop the moon from shining in and disturbing the roosting chickens. Finally, he went to the pigs and dumped as much straw as he could into their sty. Their snorts and grunts were soon well muffled under it. He fed them grain and bolted the door securely.
Then into his house he strode. First, he covered the birdcage with a blanket, so that the parrot would sleep quietly. Next, the kettle came off the hob in case steam should hiss from the spout. He kicked the logs from the fire and poured water over the embers to kill all sparks and crackling in the grate. Then he silenced the clocks in the house. He took off his heavy work boots, and sat in his woolly socks, as quiet as a mouse. He heard the church bells chime midnight in the village and soon the sound of tiny horses hooves came clattering over his yard. It was the fairies on their ponies. Up to his door they raced, but there they paused. They sensed that something was wrong, that there was no sound or movement anywhere about. The farmer held his breath for fear of being heard. Into his home, the fairy folk poured, through the keyholes and letterbox. Up the stairs to his daughter’s bedroom they flew to the sound of magical, miniature hooves. Silence everywhere. Then, suddenly, a dog began to bark!
The farmer leaped up the stairs, four at a time, but arrived at his little girl’s room too late. Her bed was empty, the fairies and child gone. There, at the foot of the bed was her pet dog, barking for all he was worth. The farmer had completely forgotten that the little terrier slept upstairs with his daughter. The creature’s senses had alerted him to the supernatural invasion, but too late to save the lass from the kidnapping. The farmer stayed up all night with an aching heart, wondering what he could do next.
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