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1 Fras – squall and shower of rain combined.
Witchcraft
The witches who went fishing with a sieve
In Loch Slapin in the Isle of Skye there lived in the village of Slapin a fisherman and a tailor, and they were great neighbours. Their wives were famous witches. One day the fisherman was out all day and he came home in the evening very, very tired, and so he lay down on the bench and fell asleep. And during his slumber who came in but the tailor’s wife, and they had a strong talk, and their talk was where would they go fishing to-night. At this period Donald woke up, and slowly he was paying attention to the ladies who were making ready to go to fish, and he was very much amused and very inquisitive to find out what they were going to take with them, and lo and behold, the fisherman’s wife asked the tailor’s wife, ‘What will we take with us?’ And the tailor’s wife replied, ‘We shall take the sieve with us.’
Well, now they were talking away and at last they had everything in readiness to go, and at this moment Donald, lying on the bench, ‘woke up’ and he asked where were they going. And they said to him, ‘You had better lie down and sleep till we come back.’ ‘Ach,’ says Donald, ‘I had better go with you.’ What interested Donald was when he heard they were going to fish with a sieve, and he insisted that he would get away with them. They point-blank refused him, and they were standing on the floor, the three of them, all ready to go down to the boat. And Donald thought it was a name they had for his new boat, but when they arrived on the beach before they went out they made Donald finally promise that whatever would happen while they were out fishing, he had not to say one single word and especially he had not to use the word of the name of God. And Donald said, ‘Anything you tell me,’ he says, ‘I will agree to it.’ Immediately when they heard that they took out the sieve. ‘And you will also tell us when we have plenty of herring ashore,’ they said, and Donald said, ‘Yes, that I will do.’
And then immediately they put to sea from the water they became two rats and they moved away gently from the shore and went in a little distance and here came a shoal of herring. A voice from the sieve rolled out, ‘Have you got plenty of fish?’ And Donald said, ‘No, not yet.’ Then they moved out to sea and there came more this time of herring ashore. And they rolled out, ‘Is that enough, Donald?’ Donald said, ‘Not yet.’
At this stage they moved out further, and then a huge shoal came and the beaches were covered. And a voice from the sea rolled out, ‘Is that enough, Donald?’
And Donald replied, ‘Yes, thank God!’ – and down went the witches and they were never seen again.
The little witch of Sleat
On the point of Sleat a daughter and her father were one day working on a croft in the early days of summer, and, lo and behold, they saw a ship on the water up past the south end of Eigg. Immediately after, they looked again, and the ship was going to the bottom, and before they stopped looking at it it disappeared out of sight. And he says to the little girl – she was only young – ‘I wonder,’ he says, ‘what was the matter with that ship?’
‘I did that,’ she said.
‘What?’, said the father.
‘I did that,’ she said.
‘And who taught you to do such a horrible thing as that – to founder a ship and a crew?’ said he.
‘Oh, my mother,’ she said.
Do you know what he did? He got a spade and killed her instantly when he heard that her mother did teach her it, and he killed the mother and the daughter, and there was nothing said about it. Skye was terrible for witches in those days.
[Neighbouring districts are often reproached with witchcraft in oral tradition.]
The Barraman who was bewitched by the woman to whom he gave grazing for her cow
One time there was a fisherman living in Tangusdale, near the loch there, Donald was his name, and his crew were one of the best crews in the island of Barra. During the spring, say March, April, May, June, they were out fishing, and the last fortnight in June and the first fortnight of July they used to go to Glasgow with their fish, fish oil and general cargo. And as there were no steamboats in those days running between Glasgow and the Isles, they did that service with a boat that was built on the Island of Barra.
Donald had a neighbour by the name of Mary, and Mary had a cow, and she had no croft, and before Donald left she asked him could he give her grazing for the cow during his absence in Glasgow, and as soon as ever he came back, if he considered it the thing to do, she would remove the cow off his croft. And he agreed.
One fine summer day they started from Castlebay at sunrise and put out four oars – there was not a breath of wind and they were rowing and singing to themselves most of the day until they got a fine breeze in the evening, and then they put up the two sails and she was going very nicely.
They made for the Crinan Canal, and after arriving at Crinan they proceeded up the Firth of Clyde and landed on the Broomielaw, Glasgow. It did not take them a long time to dispose of their cargo and they sold the whole lot. Then they started to purchase hemp for making lines, hooks and sailing twine for reeling the hooks and all the other commodities, including tobacco, sugar, tea and a jar of whisky, and some clothes on a small scale. Except shirts, all the clothes they were needing came from the wool which was carded, spun, woven and even tailored and made on the island.
Now they took a day or two for themselves, and they would have been going to the pictures, only I suppose there were no such things to go to at that time! Then they started for Barra again. They sailed down the Clyde and they were very happy, and they reached Crinan homeward bound. They got through the canal and then they sailed up and up until they got to the top of the Sound of Mull, and it was about sunrise and the wind was blowing about east-north-east – quite favourable to cross the Minch to Barra.
Donald was feeling very happy and so he said to another member of the crew – Donald his name was too – ‘Donald’, he says, ‘fetch that jar of whisky.’ And he served a dram all round and then he got one himself. He took up the glass and said. ‘Here’s your very good health, boys,’ he said, ‘and good luck to us and a good passage, and I hope before the sun kisses the western ocean of the shore of the Island of Barra to-night that we will be ashore on our dear island.’
They all agreed with Donald, and felt in very good order. One of them says, ‘Ah, Donald,’ he says, ‘we would better have another one.’ And Donald said, ‘When we are past Muldonich we will get another one.’
Then the wind dropped and there was not a breath at all. Shortly, you know, they heard the roll of the waves between them and Barra, and here there was just a gale of wind coming down from the west-north-west, and immediately they turned round and went into the harbour at the north end of Coll – it is called Bàgh Còrnaig. They went in there, and through the night the wind abated. Next day they made a start and at the same time when they reached the same spot here came the gale dead between them and Barra. Now, mind you, this was in August, and they kept on trying this until latterly they decided to take the cargo ashore and put it into one of the barns of the men of Còrnaig. And nobody seemed to know what was the matter.
The time was going on and the harvest came, and they did not get across. The potato lifting started and they did not get across. Latterly it got on to the beginning of winter and they did not get home. Then the season for the cèilidhs started and they used to follow the neighbours as they would go to the different houses.
They followed the neighbours one night into a house and the fire was in the middle of the floor, and the men came in and sat down. They began to tell the stories, and one was in the middle of a story when the horse belonging to the crofter came home. And he was well covered with hailstones.
Well, Donald was sitting very close to the old lady of the house and she appeared to be very old indeed, and her hair was turning brown with the colour of the peat-smoke – and she spoke to herself when the horse came in with the shower and she said, ‘O
h, you dim horse, isn’t the cailleach who is in Barra to-night playing havoc when you came home and had to take shelter under the roof.’ Still the gale was blowing outside.
Donald whispered to her. ‘Mistress,’ he says, ‘I would like very much to have a talk with you.’
‘Well, so would I, Donald,’ she said, ‘I would like very much to have a talk with you. And Donald, when the others go away,’ she says, ‘you stay behind and have a talk with me.’
Later he said, ‘Well, boys, I am not going with you just now. I know my way home and I will sit here with Mistress MacLean.’
Now the coast was clear and the interview began, and she said to Donald, ‘Well, Donald,’ she says, ‘you are a kind-hearted man, and you gave grazing to the cow of the widow, Mistress So-and-So. And it is her,’ she says, ‘that is keeping you wind-bound on Coll. And if you take my advice, and follow the instructions I give you, I will see you before sunrise ashore on Barra.’
Donald was delighted with the news and the remedy to get home.
‘I am going to make a thread for you,’ she said. ‘First of all I will get my cuigeal (distaff)’ – and she got hold of the cuigeal and she spun about a fathom of thread and she put one knot on it, and then another, and then she put another on it, three in all. And she told Donald, ‘Donald,’ she says, ‘I am now after completing the thread, and under the shade of this thread and in accordance with the instructions I am going to give you, if you follow them you will be ashore in Barra before the lady gets out of bed. Muster your crew,’ she says, ‘and tell them to put everything in the boat.’
The crew were still outside waiting for Donald, and he said to them, ‘Well, look here, boys,’ he said, ‘I am after having an interview with this old lady inside and she made up for me a snaithlean, and if we follow the instructions she gave us we will be in Barra before Mistress So-and-So gets out of bed. You get ready the boat and I will be down after you.’ Then Donald went in to bid goodbye to the lady.
He went aboard and said to the crew, ‘Well, boys,’ he said, ‘these are the instructions I got. She told me, the lady, when it was dead calm, to loose one of the knots, and to put up the two sails and then she says if I was complaining that I would carry more sail I could loose the second knot, but on no account to loose the third one – because, “If you do,” she says, “it is doubtful if you will ever smell the shore – there will come a hurricane after that.’”
They started from the shore and at the time they were rowing; and they let go one of the knots and they got a nice breeze, and it was a late moon and it was getting late at night, and when they caught sight of Muldonich they said to themselves, ‘Well, we will loose the second knot.’ And they did, with the result that they found a rattling breeze – so much so that Donald was feeling inclined sometimes to ask them to reef the sail, but as he felt in a hurry to get ashore in Barra before the lady got out of bed, he did not.
They got inside the loch at Castlebay – and in fact they got in between the castle and the shore, and Donald said to himself, ‘Well, now,’ he says, ‘I am going to test what actually was the strength in the witch at Coll who did us famous, and who prohibited me from untying the third knot.’ And he did it, and a gust came from the northwest which threw the boat, the cargo and the men on the shore – and if he had loosed that when he was on the sea, very probably Donald would never have been seen again.
He had to walk out of the boat and go home. And when he arrived the lady got up and she came to Donald – she had the brass face to come and tell Donald, ‘Well, Donald,’ she said, ‘I am very glad you have come.’
And he said, ‘Get out of my house,’ he says, ‘you witch, that kept me in Coll since July last.’ And he swore at her upside down and told her to clear her cow out of sight, and clear out herself and no sympathy or kindness or comfort would he ever show her. From what I am told, the lady left the village and sold the cow, and had no more to do with Tangusdale or Donald.
Note on the second edition
After having been rejected by several publishers, Told by the Coddy was published privately in an edition of two thousand copies in March 1960. It is therefore with great pleasure that I record that within a year the demand for it has justified the printing of a second edition.
The Coddy is the only Hebridean storyteller I have known who told his tales with almost equal fluency in both Gaelic and English. I say ‘with almost equal fluency’ because, as was natural, his style was superior in his native language; but of course only the bilingual reader will be able to compare the two. I must take the opportunity to make clear again that the stories in this book represent the Coddy’s ipsissima verba as taken down in shorthand by Miss S. J. Lockett in English, as one or two reviewers seem to have been uncertain whether or not they were translations. But in any case, there is no one living who can take down Gaelic in shorthand, and there would have been no point in the tales being taken down in Gaelic shorthand when a wire recorder was already available for the work.
Practically everything that was taken down from the Coddy is included in this book. I have added the Gaelic texts of two more of the stories, which I have transcribed from my wire recordings I made in 1950, to this edition, so that readers may get a further impression of his Gaelic style. It can be seen from these that his English versions are not verbatim translations of these stories so much as the retelling of them in a different language.
J. L. CAMPBELL
Isle of Canna
30 January 1961
Mac Nìll Bharraidh3 Mac Na Banntraich, Agus am Boc Sealtainneach
(faicibh taobh 39)
Bha mac Banntraich uaireigin dha’n t-saoghal a’ fuireach ann am Miu’alaidh. Cha robh aig a mhàthair ach e fhéin, agus nuair a rachadh Mac Nìll a Mhiu’alaidh, bha e gabhail beachd uabhasach math air a’ ghille. Thuirt e fhéhin r’a mhàthair: “‘S fheàrr dhut,” ars esan, “an gille thoirt dhomh, agus togaidh mi fhìn e ’sa chaisteal, agus bidh e air a bhiadhadh, agus bidh e air a chur air dòigh, agus nì mi duin’ eireachdail dheth.”
“Dà,” ars ise, “Mhic Nìll, cha n-eil agamsa ach e fhéin, do mhic no do nigheanan, agus is cruaidh le m’ chridhe gun dealaich mi ris.”
“O ge tà,” ars esan, Mac Nìll, rithe, “ged a dhealaicheas tu ris, chì mi fhìn air do dheagh-chumail thu, agus bheir thusa dhomhsa ’n gille.”
“O, falbh an diu mar a tha thu,” ars ise, “ach an ath-latha thig thu, bheir mi dhut e.”
Co dhiù an latha bha’n seo, cha robhe fad’air falbh, agus chaidh Mac Nìll a Mhiu’alaidh, agus thug e ’n gille dha’n chaisteal. Cha robh e an uair sin ach òg,’s nuair a dh’fhàs e suas ann am bliadhnaichean, bha rud ann a bha Mac Nìll a’ faicinn gu robh fior-choltas an deaghghille, agus gur h-e duine sgoinneil a bha dol a bhith ann.
Thòisich iad an sin mu dheireadh, e fhéin’s Mac Nill, ri carachd, agus là dha na laithichean, bheil thu faicinn, cha seasadh Mac Nill turus dha idir. Chaidh e sìos air a h-uile turus aige. Bhuail an seo rud eile ann an ceann Mhic Nill, ’s thuirt e ris fhéin:
“Tha,” ars esan, “am fear-sa dol a dh’fhàs cho làidir, agus ghabh e ormsa cheana, agus gabhaidh e air iomadach fear eile a bharrachd orm; ach fhad’s a bhios mise beò, ’s math learn gur h-ann agam fhin a bhios an urram gura mi as treise am Barraidh, agus,” ars esan, “bho’n a chuireas mise a thogail creiche a’ bhiurlainn ‘s an criú, cuiridh mi innt’ e,” ars esan, “agus bàthar a h-uile duin’ aca. Agus sin mar a chuireas mi crioch air Mac na Banntraich.”
’S ann mar sin a bha. Thànaig a’ bhiurlainn a dh’ionnsaigh a’ chladaich am Bàgh a’ Chaisteil, agus an déidh dhasan an gairm, Mac Nìll, leis an dùdaich a bha ri gairm orra (chaidh iad innte.) Agus bha am bàgh geal le stoirm an iar-thuath, agus ged nach ligeadh an t-eagal dhaibh a ràdh, cha robh duine air bòrd a bha deònach falbh.
Agus ’s e Mac na Banntraich an gille-tòisich a bh’innte, agus, “seo a nis, ma thà,” arsa Mac na Banntraich, “beannachd leat, mo charaid Mhic Nìll” – agus rug e air chùl dùirn e, ag
us shiab e air ’na broinn mar gun deanadh e air gille beag. Nis, dh’fhalbh iad a mach o’n bhàgh, agus cha robh iad fada nuair a dh’iarr Mac Nìll orra tilleadh. Agus thuirt Mac na Banntraich ris: “Cha till sinn idir; ma tha i fiadhaich agaibhse an dràsd, tha i pailt cho fiadhaich againne, agus,” ars esan, “’s e bhios ann, cumaidh sinn oirnn.” Agus chum iad orra gus an deach iad ann am fasgadh Sloc na h-Iolaire ann an cúl Maol Dòmhnaich, agus thòisich iad air a h-iomaireadh ann a shin gus an deach an t-sid’ uabhasach a bh’ann a sin seachad. Nuair a chaidh, dh’aontaich iad tilleadh a staigh a Bhàgh a’ Chaisteil a rithist, agus chaidh iad air tìr, agus ghabh iad an tàmh, agus thug Mac Nill biadh is deoch is càirdeas dhaibh, ged a bha e dol ’gam bàthadh an dé reimhe sin.
Nist, bha an ùine dol seachad, agus dh’fhalbh Mac Nìll an sin, agus chuir e mach fiadhachadh dh’ionnsaigh a h-uile duine bha air ùir Alba’s nach robh, agus aims na h-eileinean, Sealtainn, ’s as gach àite, chaidh a chur mu chuairt gu rachadh a mach fiadhachadh air son fear a rachadh ris a shabaid. Fhuair e fiadhachadh, agus ’s ann a Sealtainn a fhuair e fiadhachadh, duin’ ainmeil a bh’ann a sin, nach robh riamh a leithid ‘na fhearann, air an robh am Boc Sealtainneach. Chuir e mach am fiadhachadh. “Théid mi riut,” ars esan.
Nist, thànaig an latha a chuireadh air leath air son na sabaid, agus thachair iad ann an Sealtainn. Bha eagal gu leòr air Mac Nìll a’ falbh, agus thuirt e ris fhéin: “’S fhàerr dhomh Iain Mac na Banntraich a thoirt learn, air eagal ’s gun dean e dad orm.” Agus dh’fhalbh Iain comhla ris. Rànaig iad Sealtainn, agus thuirt Mac Nìll, nuair a chunnaic e tighinn e, “Nist,” ars esan ri Iain, “ma chì thu mise a’ cur mo làmh air mo chùlaibh dà uair, tuigidh tu gur h-e an t-am agad fhéin a dhol a staigh, agus a dhol eadar mi fhìn agus am Boc Sealtainneach.” Ach gun sgeul fhad’ a dheanamh dha’n té ghoirid, no té ghoirid a dheanamh dha’n té fhada, thòisich an t-sabaid, agus an t-sabaid gharbh, agus mu dheireadh chunnaic Mac na Banntraich Mac Nìll a’ cur a mach a làimh’, agus ghabh e beachd air agus chunnaic e sin a rithist air a dheanamh. Ghabh e uige agus sheas e eadar am Boc agus Mac Nill agus thuirt esan ris, “Seasaidh mis’ thu,” agus thòisich an uair sin a’ chòmhrag agus an cath a b’fhiach cath a gh-ràdha ris. Cha robh Mac na Banntraich fada gus na chuir e ’n gaisgeach air a dhruim fodha, agus chuir e glùn air an uchd aige, agus dh’iarr am Boc fathamas, ligeil leis éirigh ’na sheasamh, agus gun deanadh iad rérite.
Tales from Barra Page 16