Adventures of Hamish and Mirren

by Moira Miller

  After that came another knock at the door, then another and another, until at last the whole house was full of Wee Folk all falling over each other, kicking over buckets of water, knocking over ornaments and generally creating a shambles in the tidy little kitchen.

  Mirren stared in horror.

  She raced into the bedroom and shook Hamish, but he was deep asleep. The harder she shook him, the louder he snored. It was as if he slept the sleep of the enchanted.

  “Please,” she begged the Wee Folk. “Please will you stop!”

  “Aye, well,” said one of the old ladies. “I wouldn’t mind a wee cup of tea about now.”

  Mirren quickly stirred up the fire and set the kettle to boil.

  “I’ll just have the buttermilk,” said the little old man who had arrived first.

  “Try some of the shortbread,” screeched another voice. “It’s not bad – considering.”

  Before Mirren could stop them, the Wee Folk had eaten and drunk everything they could lay their hands on. Even the porridge that Mirren had put to simmer for breakfast by the side of the fire had gone.

  And no sooner was it finished than they went back to work with a will, scrubbing and polishing like mad things. One wee woman grabbed the big wooden bucket in which the curtains were soaking and started to scrub down the cupboard with them.

  “No – no!” howled Mirren, trying to pull the bucket away, but the wee woman held on tightly.

  “It’s no trouble, lassie,” she screeched. “I like to see a job well done.” She dunked the curtains back in the dirty water, soaking herself and Mirren, and went on scrubbing.

  Mirren was desperate. She had to stop them somehow before they ruined her little home – but how?

  “Hamish’s mother!” she whispered to herself. Like many old people Hamish’s mother seemed to know more about the Wee Folk than most.

  The old lady lay on her back, a big white frilly nightcap pulled down over her hair, and a soft knitted shawl about her shoulders. Mirren shook her gently.

  “Eh – eh… two plain, two purl…” muttered the old lady. Mirren shook her a little harder. The old lady snuffled like a hedgehog and turned over on her side.

  “Please, mother, wake up,” hissed Mirren. “It’s the Wee Folk. I can’t get rid of them.”

  Hamish’s mother sat up and pulled the shawl tight around her shoulders. She listened as Mirren told her what had happened.

  “Aye, well, if you did your spring cleaning in the daytime like the rest of the world…” said the old lady. Mirren sniffed into her handkerchief.

  “I can’t get them out of the house,” she wailed. “They won’t go until they’ve finished.”

  “We’ll soon see about that,” said Hamish’s mother. “You slip out the back door, and stand on that wee bit hillock over by the hawthorn tree. Then when I wave you’ll shout – as loud as you can, mind now.”

  “But what do I shout?” asked Mirren.

  “I’m coming to that,” said the old lady crossly. “You’ll shout, ‘Dun Shee is on fire!’ Shout three times, loud and clear. That’ll soon get them out.”

  “But why? What’s Dun Shee?” asked Mirren, perplexed.

  “Bless me,” said the old lady. “Don’t you know anything? Dun Shee is the name they have for their own Fairy Hill where they live. If they think it’s on fire they’ll be out of this house quicker than you can wink!”

  So Mirren did as she was told. She crept quietly out of the back door and climbed the wee hillock. Around her the night sky was dark and still – even the stars slept. Behind her, from inside the cottage, she could hear the crashing, banging and yells of the Wee Folk.

  Mirren took a deep breath and shouted at the top of her voice, “Dun Shee is on fire! Dun Shee is on fire! Dun Shee is on fire!”

  Out they rushed, falling over each other in their hurry. Screeching and squawking like hens with a fox after them, scattering brooms, buckets and dusters as they went. The tumbled off up the hill in a great noisy green whirlwind.

  Mirren waited until she was sure the last one had gone. She ran back into the cottage, bolted the door behind her and pushed the big kitchen table across the front to jam it shut.

  “It worked!” she panted. “They’ve gone. We’ve done it.”

  “Aye, but they’ll be back, mark my words,” said Hamish’s mother. “And they’ll be ill-pleased when they find we’ve tricked them. But we’ll be ready for them – we’ll be ready.”

  No sooner had she said that than there came a sound like a great rushing of wind and a pounding on the door.

  “Let us in, Mirren. Let us in!” called the voices. “We’ve not done yet, and you’ll not keep us out.”

  “Go away!” shouted Mirren. “Oh please go away!”

  But the voices went on calling, kicking and pounding on the door.

  “Let us in!” echoed the voices down the chimney. Hamish’s mother stirred the fire to a blaze and piled on more peat, stirring up the smoke. Outside there was coughing and sneezing – and then silence.

  “What are they doing do you think?” whispered Mirren.

  Suddenly the broom jumped up from the rug and swept round the room in a mad dance.

  “So that’s the way it’s to be,” said Hamish’s mother. “Mirren, fetch some of those big iron nails that Hamish used to mend the fence. Hurry now.”

  Mirren found the bag of nails and the big hammer.

  “Right now,” said the old woman. “The Wee Folk can never cast a spell where there is cold iron. You put a nail in the handle of that broom.”

  But that was easier said than done. The broom jinked and jouked around the furniture, behind the cupboards, and even into the bedroom. Mirren chased after it, climbing over the bed, and still Hamish slept on, snoring gently. At last she trapped the broom in a corner of the kitchen.

  “Quickly!” she shouted. “The hammer.” She held on grimly as the broom danced madly round the room, dragging her with it. Hamish’s mother grabbed the handle and in the end it took the two of them to get it down onto the floor. They sat one on each end while Mirren banged in a nail.

  The broom lay still and quiet and as ordinary as it had ever been.

  Mirren sat on the floor, puffing and panting. Before she had time to catch her breath, however, the dusters started up. They flew round the room, rubbing and polishing everything they touched – the table, the cupboard, the mantelpiece.

  “Get off!” screeched the old lady as they flew at her like great coloured seagulls. Mirren leapt and jumped, trying to catch them. The clock was polished so hard it chimed thirteen times, and still they flew round and round the room.

  “The kist!” shouted the old woman, catching one of the china dogs as it fell from the mantelpiece. “Get them into the kist! It’s made of rowan wood, and the Wee Folk’s magic can’t abide that.”

  The dusters by this time were rolling about beneath the big cupboard, fighting like a pair of cats. Mirren poked at them with a knitting pin.

  “I’ve got them,” she yelled, grabbing a handful of cloth. The old woman opened the lid of the big rowan-wood chest and Mirren stuffed two of the dusters in. The third duster, twisting out of her hand, flew crazily round the room above their heads.

  Mirren swiped at it with the broom. The old woman stood on the stool and screeched at it to come down immediately. The duster flapped round cheekily, just out of reach.

  At last Mirren managed to jump high enough to grab a corner. She pulled it over to the chest, opened the lid just a crack and, stuffing it in, flopped down breathless on top. In the quiet room the only sounds were the old clock and her gasping breath.

  ***

  Outside, the night was over.

  The early morning filled the sky with a clear pearly blue. The cockerel called from the yard and the cows mooed softly to each other in the byre.

  Far off in the distance the gentle sea lapped on the beach, and down by the village a dog barked as the first threads of smoke snaked lazily up from cott
age chimneys.

  “Have they gone?” whispered Mirren hoarsely.

  “Aye,” said the old woman, “but they’ve had their fun.”

  Mirren and the old lady flopped down in the chairs by the fireside, exhausted, as the early morning sun creeping through the windows lit the tiny kitchen, and filled the bedroom with brightness.

  Hamish woke at last, stretched and yawned.

  “My, that was a rare sleep,” he called through to Mirren as he dressed. “I don’t know when…”

  And then he stood – and stopped, and stared.

  He stared at his mother and Mirren, sound asleep on either side of the cold fireplace.

  He stared at the empty porridge pot tipped on the floor.

  He stared in amazement at the sink full of dirty dishes and the little kitchen, usually so tidy, and now such a shambles.

  “Mirren,” he gasped. “What on earth have you been doing all night?”

  Mirren stirred, then settled herself more comfortably in the big chair.

  “Spring cleaning,” she muttered – and went back to sleep again.

  5.

  Hamish and the Sea Urchin

  The weather had been wild and stormy for days. The wind played a mad dance in the trees around Hamish’s farmhouse and whistled down the chimney into the fireplace so that the flames flickered and jumped unevenly round the bottom of the iron kettle.

  Every night, as they lay snug in bed, Hamish and Mirren listened to the sea roaring on the rocks.

  “I don’t like it,” whispered Mirren in the dark.

  “Och, it’s just the spring tides,” said Hamish. “It happens every year. The tide comes up further and further each day – but then it goes out further as well. One day it’ll go out as far as it can and then after that it will come back to being the same as always. You’ll see, Mirren, don’t worry. Go to sleep.”

  Mirren lay and listened to the huge waves crashing on the rocks and tearing at the seaweed on the shore, and she pulled the big blanket up over her head and went back to sleep.

  ***

  Early next morning she yawned and stretched.

  After the days of stormy weather the sun was shining again, the wild screaming wind had gone. Everything was still. There was no sound – not even the waves crashing on the beach.

  Mirren leapt out of bed and ran to the window.

  “Hamish, come quick!” she called. “The sea’s gone. It’s not there any more. What’s happened? Hamish, wake up, you dozy lump. What’s happened?”

  Hamish climbed out of bed sleepily and came to the window. Before the house, instead of the silver sheet of the loch stretching away between the hills to the distant shimmering blue line of the sea, there was only sand. Miles and miles of shining wet sand.

  “My, the tide’s fairly gone out this time,” said Hamish, scratching his head. “There’s rocks out there I’ve never seen before.”

  “Fancy that,” whispered Mirren.

  “Nobody’s ever set foot out there,” said Hamish. “I’ve a mind to do it myself before the tide comes back in, just to say I’ve walked down the loch.”

  “It isn’t safe,” grumbled his old mother over breakfast. Hamish laughed and took a stout walking stick from the basket by the door.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she grumbled, stumping back to her chair by the fireside.

  ***

  But Hamish was away, striding out across the wet sand, stopping now and then to look at the things the sea had left behind as it swept out of the loch. He picked up a pretty pebble and put it in his pouch for Mirren. Then on he went again, across the wet firm sand, leaving footprints where no footprints had ever been seen before.

  Out towards the middle of the loch where the sand was softest lay a clump of black weed-covered rocks. Hamish clambered over the slippery surface, searching in pools and cracks for the tiny plants and sea creatures normally hidden in the depths of the cold blue loch.

  “Ach, drat it!” came a voice from behind a rock.

  Hamish straightened up and looked around. There was not another soul to be seen, and no other footprint but his own on the smooth wet sand.

  “Och, for goodness’ sake!” came the voice again, squeaky and grumpy like a bad-tempered old man.

  “Who’s there?” called Hamish, searching around the rocks.

  “Who do you think? You daft gomeril!”

  Hamish walked right round the rocks. There was nobody in sight. He stopped and looked about him, thoroughly puzzled.

  “Mind where you’re putting your great big feet!”

  Hamish looked down, and there behind the rocks lay a huge sea urchin. It was easily the biggest sea urchin that Hamish had ever seen. His great rounded grey and pink shell was covered with crusty knobs and spikes.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Hamish. “I didn’t see you lying about down there.”

  “Obviously not,” grumbled the urchin. “That’s the trouble with you folk that have feet. Think you can put them anywhere. Ech – humph!” The sea urchin tried to move himself along the rock, but only managed to roll over onto the sand.

  “Are you – eh – in trouble?” asked Hamish politely.

  “Well you don’t think I’m sitting around here for fun, do you?” said the sea urchin rudely. “The tide’s gone out and left me high and dry. High and dry! I’m trying to get back to the water.”

  Hamish stood up and, shading his eyes with his hand, peered down the loch to the faint blue line of the sea.

  “You’ve a fair wee bit to go,” he said. “Here, let me give you a hand.”

  “Aye, well, as long as they’re not as clumsy as your feet,” grunted the urchin ungraciously.

  Hamish bent to pick him up. The sea urchin was quite taken by surprise, he had never been handled before, and shot out all his bristles.

  “Yee-ouch!” yelled Hamish, dropping him and stepping back quickly.

  “Clumsy big tumshie,” snorted the sea urchin. “You’re worse than a walrus.”

  “It’s your own fault,” said Hamish, feeling a bit peeved. “Can you not fold up your spikes or something?”

  The sea urchin sniffed, but he folded his spikes back flat against the shell. Very carefully, Hamish picked him up in his two hands and set off across the sand. He picked his way slowly round the wet rocks, past the pools. As he went the sea urchin moaned and complained all the time.

  “Och, be careful, will you,” and, “Mind what you’re doing, you great gormless lump!”

  “I’m trying to help but you’re not making it very easy,” snapped Hamish.

  He hurried on, aware now that the tide would soon be turning and the sea would come back in to fill the loch again. Once he slipped on a patch of seaweed and nearly fell. The urchin, shaken up, pushed out all his spikes again.

  After that Hamish took off his big blue knitted tammy and, carefully lifting the sea urchin into it, carried him like that the rest of the way.

  Down to the beach and the water’s edge he walked, where the wind was lifting fresh, and the green sea waves tumbled in over each other, crisp and creamy white.

  The tide had turned and was starting to come in again.

  “Right, laddie,” came a muffled voice from the blue tammy. “This’ll do fine. Just leave me here, and off home with you afore the sea catches you. Quickly now!”

  Hamish turned and looked back up the loch to where his wee farm cottage stood, a tiny white speck on the green hillside. Already the sea was washing in over the sand around him, trickling and gurgling round the rocks at his feet, filling up the pools and rippling over the sand. In no time at all he would be cut off.

  “How do I get back?” he asked. “That tide is coming in fast.”

  “One good turn deserves another I suppose,” said the sea urchin grudgingly. “Follow the sands. They’ll take you home. Just listen to them – and follow your big feet!”

  Hamish stood and listened. Above the sound of the sea and the gulls crying in the wind, he could
hear another sound.

  There was a soft, gentle singing that seemed to come from around his feet.

  “It’s the sands,” said the sea urchin. “They’re aye covered with the sea, but they belong to the land. They’ll take you back to it. Goodbye now, and thank you. You’re not a bad lad – in spite of your big boots.”

  Hamish watched as the wee waves lapped around and over the sea urchin, welcoming him home. Then he turned and walked back across the sand, following the sweet wild singing little tune. Sometimes it seemed to come from his right, sometimes it was to the left of him. But always it was ahead, leading him through the rocks and pools, back towards the white cottage on the hillside. And as he walked the sea rippled in behind him.

  ***

  At last Hamish stepped from the sand to the seaweed and rocks of the beach beneath his own two green fields. He turned and watched as the water washed away his last steps from the place where no man had ever walked before.

  And as he watched, the tumbling waves curled back leaving a beautiful seashell lying at his feet.

  It was pink and white, rounded to the shape of Hamish’s two big hands, with a smooth rippling pattern, like the waves on a summer sea.

  Hamish shook out the water, held the shell to his ear, and listened. Far away, as if from a great blue distance, there came to him the sound of the singing sands, leading him home safely to Mirren.

  6.

  Mirren and the Fairy Blanket

  Spring had come early to Camusbuie.

  Hamish had dug over the warm brown earth, and he and Mirren spent long days working in the garden by the cottage planting cabbages, carrots, turnips and bright summer flowers.

  There was only one task left now before summer came, and that was the shearing. Each year the heavy grey winter coats that had kept the sheep warm through the dark freezing months had to be cut short. This done, Hamish took the sheep back up the hill to the high summer pasture while Mirren prepared the fleeces and spun the wool that would make warm clothes for the next winter.

  “This year,” said Mirren as she washed the thick soft fleece, “I shall make us a fine new blanket that will hold us warm and snug through all the long cold nights.”