by Moira Miller
“I’ve never tried it myself,” she whispered, “but they do say that if you can find out the name of a wee witch then she’ll have no power to cast a spell over you.”
“Then we must find her name,” said Mirren, “and send her back where she came from.”
But that was not so easy. For days she and Hamish went round their neighbours asking if anyone knew of the old woman. They found that although she had stolen eggs from this one, and butter from that, nobody could help. They, none of them, knew who she was.
“We’ll go down to Camusbuie,” said Hamish. “There may be someone in the village who can help.” But even old Biddy who kept the shop, and knew all the gossip before it happened, was no help at all.
And every day the wee old witch came back to fill her bucket with stolen milk.
***
At last Hamish’s old mother had had enough. She liked nothing better than rich creamy milk with a plate of porridge and she was missing it very much.
She put down her spoon with a bang on the breakfast table. Hamish and Mirren jumped.
“I’ll soon sort this out,” she said. Pulling her shawl tightly round her she stamped out to the byre.
“Here, Mother!” shouted Hamish, running after her. “She’ll do something terrible!”
“Just let her try!” sniffed Hamish’s mother. She slammed open the byre door and there, sure enough, sat the wee old witch. She was perched on the old milking stool, rocking gently from side to side and crooning a strange song as she milked the wee cow into her big bucket.
“Out of there, you!” screamed Hamish’s mother. “You can’t even milk a cow properly. Look at the way you’re doing it – all back side hindmost. No wonder the poor beast’s upset!” She barged in, knocking the old witch off her milking stool.
Hamish jumped back out of the way as she rolled over at his feet in a dirty green bundle.
“How dare you!” howled the old witch, her feet waving in the air. “I’ve been milking cows for three hundred and forty-nine years. Are you trying to tell me I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“Just that,” said Hamish’s mother firmly. “Now get out of the way and let me get on with it.”
The wee old witch staggered to her feet, her face purple with rage, her straggly hair stuck full of straw.
“I’ll turn you into a toad!” she screamed, struggling to get up again.
“Aye, well if you’re as good at that as you are at milking, I’ll not be too bothered,” said Hamish’s mother, calmly sitting down on the milking stool.
“Whigmaleeries!” shrieked the furious wee witch, gasping for breath. “I’ll make you sorry about this. I will that! You’ll live to regret this or… or my name’s not – Grizelda Grimithistle!”
There was silence.
Hamish stared at his mother, who smiled and nodded.
“Grizelda Grimithistle is it? Well, well, fancy that,” she said smugly.
Hamish roared with laughter at the sight of the wee witch’s face.
“Much obliged to you for telling us, Grizelda Grimithistle,” he said. “And now that we know, you’ll not be stealing any more milk.”
“You can forget the eggs and butter from down the road too,” said his mother.
The wee old witch was livid with fury. She screamed and stamped and spun round in such a temper that she rolled herself into a huge green ball. Still screeching and howling she whirled out of the byre and up over the hill, burning a path through the heather that is still there to this day.
***
Down in Camusbuie they said afterwards that her howls could be heard clear across the Seven Glens and the echoes rolled like thunder round the top of the Ben of Balvie all that day.
“I don’t doubt we’ve seen the last of Grizelda Grimithistle on this farm,” said Hamish’s old mother as she picked up the bucket of rich creamy milk for her porridge.
And so they had – well almost.
3.
Hamish and the Pedlar’s Pipe
Hamish and Mirren had been down in the village of Camusbuie for the day. Hamish had sold all his cheese and butter, and bought a fine new iron pot to hang on the hook over the fire. Mirren had sold her eggs and the soft woollen shawls that Hamish’s old mother had knitted during the long winter months. She had bought herself a red woollen skirt and they were singing as they marched back up the road home.
The path they took wound up from the village, round the heather-covered shoulder of the Ben of Balvie. The Ben was so high that there were days, even in summer, when the top was hidden in thick white clouds. But now the sun was shining and the Ben stood crisp against the pure blue of a cloudless sky.
Mirren ran through the long grass by the path, picking wild flowers. Meadowsweet and buttercup she gathered by the armful.
Suddenly she stopped and stood quite still.
“What is it?” called Hamish from the path behind her.
“Shhhh,” said Mirren. “Can you not hear it?”
They stood together on the quiet sunlit path. At first Hamish heard nothing, but then Mirren smiled.
“Listen,” she whispered. From far off, away beyond the happy chirping of the birds, came a strange little tune, silvery and clear.
The music was slow and gentle, and although it was far off, at the same time it seemed to be all around them. It whispered, dancing like the butterflies through the trees and the thick green grass. It was hard to tell whether the tune was sad or happy – or both. Mirren stood spellbound.
“My, it’s that bonny,” she whispered.
“It’s the Wee Folk,” said Hamish and he held tight to his new iron pot. Everyone knows that if you have something of iron about you then the Wee Folk are unable to weave their spells.
“No,” laughed Mirren. “It’s just a travelling pedlar. Look!”
Sure enough, round the corner of the path, down from the Ben came a strange figure.
He seemed tall at first, but then Hamish noticed he was not much bigger than Mirren. He wore a long brown swirling cloak that seemed almost to float behind him. A huge shady brown hat with a curling feather hid most of his face.
Under the brim of the hat they could see that his hair was thick and dark, and that his bright brown eyes seemed to dance and twinkle in time with his music.
The stranger was playing the haunting music on a thin silver pipe.
“Fine evening,” called Hamish. “You fair startled us. That’s a rare tune you’re playing.”
“Ah, it’s the fine flute, sir, that does it,” said the pedlar. He stopped on the path in front of them and smiled with his head tilted to one side. “I could sell you this for just one of those six gold coins you earned today.”
“How did you know about the gold?” said Hamish, but the pedlar ignored him and turned, smiling, to Mirren.
“It will make music to have your old slippers dancing on the hearthrug,” he said. “And the birds themselves will stop singing to listen.” He put the flute to his lips again and trilled a tune like a blackbird’s. Fine clear notes that tumbled over each other in sheer happiness.
“My, but that is bonny,” whispered Mirren.
“Here,” said the pedlar. “Take it, and welcome.”
Before Hamish knew what had happened he was standing with the pipe in his hand and the pedlar was off down the path with one of his gold coins.
“Just a minute,” Hamish shouted after him. “I can’t play this. Tell me – how do I make music with it?”
The pedlar turned back, laughing.
“That’s a gift that’s given to the man with a kind heart,” he called, “and the breath to blow clear through the Ben of Balvie.”
“Blow through the Ben?” shouted Hamish, angry now. “Yon’s not possible! Here you – give me my money back…”
But the pedlar had vanished, and although Hamish and Mirren searched high and low through the trees and along the path, all they saw was the dancing lace of the shadows. All they heard was the sweet song of the b
irds.
“Never mind, Hamish,” said Mirren at last. “Maybe you can learn how to play the wee pipe yourself.”
“Aye, maybe,” sighed Hamish. He put the pipe to his lips and blew, but the only sound that came out was a high piercing whistle that hurt the ears.
***
Night after night Hamish sat by the fire blowing at his pipe. Mirren tried as well. But there was no way they could make music as the pedlar had.
“Mercy on us,” screeched his old mother. “That’s more like a parcel of cats fighting in the barn! Put the thing away laddie, afore we’re all deaf.”
Sadly, Hamish put the little pipe in his pouch and forgot all about it – until some weeks later.
It happened that he was up on the slopes of the Ben of Balvie, bringing down his sheep, when he remembered the pipe again.
“It can hardly bother anyone if I play it up here,” he said to himself. The shining silver of the little pipe was dull, from having lain forgotten in his pouch. Hamish breathed on it, and rubbed it on his shirtsleeve.
He took a deep breath, put the pipe to his lips, and blew. But though he blew until his face was red as the sunset and there was no puff left in him, the little silver pipe only squeaked and howled as before.
“Good gracious, laddie, what a caterwauling,” came a voice behind him.
Hamish spun round, and came face to face with a wee old woman. Smaller than his own mother, but plumper, she stood in the heather with a large round bundle wrapped in an old green shawl at her feet.
“Where did you come from?” said Hamish. “I don’t mind seeing you on the path.”
“Aye, well seen that,” said the old woman. Then she smiled at him. “You look like a big strong lad. Before you blow yourself clean to bits, I’d be much obliged if you could give me a wee bit help. I’ve been on a visit to my grandson and now I find I’m locked out of my house.”
“No trouble,” said Hamish. “You lead me there, and I’ll soon get you in.”
“It’s this way,” said the wee old woman. “Follow me.” She picked up her skirts and set off climbing towards the top of the Ben.
“And bring my bundle with you!” she called back.
“Aye, right,” laughed Hamish, swinging it up onto his shoulder. His knees buckled as he almost sank under the weight.
“How did you ever manage to lift this?” he gasped, amazed. But the wee old woman was away, striding ahead of him. Hamish hoisted the bundle onto his broad shoulder and set off after her.
Higher and higher they climbed up the rocky slope. There was no sign of house or cottage but the wee old woman marched on so Hamish had to follow. Up among the mist and clouds they climbed. With the damp striking cold through his shirt and the bundle becoming heavier and heavier, Hamish stag-gered to a halt, panting.
“Guidsakes, laddie,” fussed the old woman, coming back down through the mist. “Pick up your feet will you. We’ll never get there this night!”
Wearily Hamish dragged the bundle up again and stumbled on. At last, just as the last of his strength had gone and he knew he could climb no further, the old woman stopped and turned to him.
“Right, laddie, we’re here now,” she said. “Set it down, careful mind! There’s things in that shawl that all the riches in the world could never buy.”
Hamish gently lowered the bundle and stared around. In front of him the bleak rocky mountainside vanished into the mist. To the right a great slope of small stones and gravel swept down like a waterfall of rock, and to his left rose a sheer cliff face.
“Are you sure this is where you live?” he gasped, amazed.
“Do you think I don’t know my own front door?” sniffed the old woman indignantly. “Now you take out that pipe, laddie, and blow. Blow as long and as loud as ever you can.”
Hamish took out his silver pipe, drew in a deep breath, and blew.
He blew a fine high piercing note that could have been heard clear over the Ben and down to Camusbuie. The note echoed up the hillside and rang back off the rocks, louder and louder, as if it would never stop.
And in the high clear ringing tone of the flute, the rocks in front of Hamish seemed to melt away. The grey towering cliff face dissolved into a deep cave lit by a soft green shimmering light.
Hamish stopped blowing, and stood open-mouthed as the echoes died around him.
The wee old woman nodded, picked up her bundle as if it had been light as a feather, and stepped into the cave. Around her, shadowy silvery figures came and went, flitting soundlessly.
The woman who turned back to Hamish was no longer old. She was young, and beautiful, and smiling.
“Aye, we did right to give you that pipe,” she chuckled. “You’ve a kind heart and the breath to blow clear through the Ben. Now away home with you and blow your pipe. Blow it for all the world to hear.”
The green light of the cave faded. Hamish blinked, and found himself staring at the grey rocks. A wisp of cloud trailed across the cliff face, and the sun broke through, warming his back.
He turned then and ran, leaping from stone to stone, slipping and sliding, panting for breath. Away from the cloud-wrapped top of the Ben he ran, back down the mountainside.
At last he tumbled onto the grassy slope above the path that led to home, and lay panting. The sun, breaking through the patch in the clouds, suddenly shone down on Camusbuie, the loch and his tiny white house far below.
Hamish picked himself up, brushing the grass from his clothes.
“I doubt I must have been dreaming,” he said, shaking his head. It would have taken hours to climb the Ben, and above his head the sun was still high in the sky.
He laughed and set off to walk down the grassy slope. As he went he took the silver pipe from his pouch, put it to his lips and blew.
By the time he reached the cottage his fingers were skipping on the little flute to a tune that would have made your old slippers dance on the hearthrug.
Even the very birds in the trees had stopped singing to listen in wonder.
4.
Mirren and the Spring Cleaning
It all started because Mirren was in a bit of a bad mood.
She had been working on the farm, and in the byre, and what with one thing and another had not been able to make a start on the spring cleaning in the cottage.
One night, when Hamish’s old mother had gone off to bed early, he and Mirren were peacefully toasting their toes in front of the fire. Hamish yawned and stretched. Mirren, who had been fidgeting in her chair all evening, suddenly jumped up.
“If I don’t start now,” she said, “it’ll never get done!” She grabbed the broom and swept the rug so hard that great clouds of dust flew up around her. Hamish sneezed and the cat shot off under the corner cupboard.
“Here Mirren,” panted Hamish, between sneezes. “It’s far too late for that. Nobody does a spring cleaning at bedtime.”
“Stuff!” said Mirren, lifting the rug and shaking it.
“Aaaaaaaa-chooo!” Hamish gave a sneeze that rattled the china dogs on the mantelpiece.
“You can sit there till the cows come home if you like,” said Mirren. “But this spring cleaning is going to get done.”
Hamish sat on by the fire for a time as she polished and dusted around him. He shifted his chair three times so that Mirren could sweep underneath it. When she rolled up her sleeves and filled a bucket of water Hamish decided that he had had enough.
“I think I’ll leave you to get on with it,” he said, tiptoeing through the puddles. “I’m away to bed.”
But Mirren heard never a word. She was scrubbing and polishing as though her life depended on it.
She took down all the curtains and left them to soak in a tub of clean water. She shook up the old patchwork cushions until the feathers flew like a snowstorm. She scrubbed and rubbed at the best copper kettle until her own face was smiling back, round and golden brown, with the one wee dimple where the kettle had a dent in it.
It was while she was poli
shing the face of the old wag-at-the-wa’ clock that Mirren suddenly realised that the time was almost midnight.
In the big bedroom Hamish was snoring softly, while in the wee room at the back his old mother muttered something to herself in her sleep, turned over and settled down again.
Mirren looked around her. There still seemed so much to be done. In the quietness of the night the big clock chimed twelve. Mirren dried her hands, stretched her back, and sighed.
“Oh that someone would come,
From land or sea,
From far or near
With help for me.”
Now at midnight that is a dangerous thing to do, for the Wee Folk are always around somewhere – and always listening. And that was just the sort of invitation they could never resist.
No sooner had Mirren said the words, and the twelfth chime still echoing round the little room, than there was a knock on the door.
“Mercy on us!” Mirren jumped. “Who can that be at this time of the night?”
“Open the door to me, Mirren my lass,” came a strange voice. “You begged for help and the time that I have will be yours alone.”
Mirren opened the door, just a crack, and came face to face with a fat little man.
His untidy white beard half hid a face that was crinkled and brown like a walnut. He hitched up his baggy brown tunic, and before Mirren could say another word had shoved open the door and stepped into the cottage.
“Aye,” he said, glancing round and pushing up his sleeves. “We’ll soon have you set to rights, lass.” He grabbed the bucket of water and set to, scrubbing the floor all over again.
“Here, stop, I’ve done that…” Mirren started to say when there came another knock at the door. In barged two old women wearing green aprons and big wooden clogs. They snatched the cushions from the chairs and plumped and pulled at them.
“Stop it!” yelled Mirren, trying to grab the cushions. But she might as well have been talking to the clock.