by Moira Miller
“Grand idea,” said Hamish. “And make it long enough so that my feet don’t stick out at the bottom of the bed!”
***
On Monday morning, as soon as Hamish had left for the high pasture, Mirren set to work.
The fleeces were tangled and matted and she sat by the fireside with her two wooden carding bats, pulling the wool backwards and forwards through the spikes, teasing out the knots. Mirren brushed and pulled, brushed and rolled until at last she had baskets full of fine soft fluff, all ready for the spinning.
On Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday Mirren sat at her spinning wheel, drawing the white fluff into a strong thread. She twisted and spun the thread onto wooden bobbins. And as each bobbin filled with the soft thick strands of wool, Mirren replaced it with an empty one. She sang as she spun:
“Hurrum, hurrum,
Turn, wheel, turn,
Spin a bonny bobbin,
Turn, wheel, turn.”
Day after day the wheel turned, until at last all the bobbins were full.
Then Mirren lit a fire in the farmyard and set on it a huge iron cauldron full of water. She gathered together mosses and roots and as she stirred them in, the water turned a rich orange colour.
“We must dye the wool,” said Mirren. She took the bobbins and with the help of Hamish’s mother wound the yarn into loose hanks. When the pot was steaming and bubbling gently, Mirren stirred in the hanks and left them to soak in the orange coloured water.
When she judged that the first batch was ready, Mirren fished it out of the hot water with a stick and spread the hanks to dry on the spiky fingers of the gorse bushes on the hillside behind the house. And so she went on winding, dyeing and spreading the golden orange wool to dry in the sunlight.
It was while she was spreading out the third batch that Mirren noticed that some of the first hanks seemed to be missing.
“The wind must have taken them,” she thought. But it was a still, warm, windless day.
“Perhaps Hamish’s mother has them,” thought Mirren. But the old lady shook her head. She had been dozing in the sunshine by the door.
Mirren counted the hanks of wool on the bushes again. There were fifteen.
“I will leave them tonight,” she said. “And in the morning we shall see what we shall see.”
In the morning there were only seven hanks on the gorse bushes where the fifteen had been – and there were some long pointed footprints by the bushes.
“So-ho,” said Mirren. “Now who could this be, I wonder?”
She washed and dyed and spread out a few more hanks of wool, but then instead of going back to her work she hid behind the low stone wall of the garden, and watched and waited.
At first nothing happened. The morning wore on and the sun rose high in the sky. Then just as Mirren was beginning to wonder if it was not after all a great waste of time, a small figure sneaked down the hillside and crept over to the bushes.
She was twisted and bent with straggly hair that tumbled over her face. She wore shoes with long pointed toes and an old dirty green cloak.
She was quite unmistakeable.
“Grizelda Grimithistle!” whispered Mirren. The nasty little witch who had stolen their milk was now stealing Mirren’s carefully spun wool.
Mirren watched as Grizelda lifted some of the hanks and tucked them under her cloak. Picking up her skirts she crept back into the thick bracken that covered the hillside above the cottage, and disappeared.
“Hmmm!” said Mirren. “We’ll soon see about this!” Pulling her shawl round her shoulders and lifting her petticoats, she followed Grizelda.
Over rocks and streams went the old witch, her long pointed feet squelching through the boggy places, with Mirren following, carefully behind. Grizelda stumped on, turning now and then to look back. Mirren, flitting from bush to bush, followed her to the top of the hill, then dropping down on her hands and knees she peered through the long grass.
Beneath her, in a cleft in the hillside, was a small dark cave. By the entrance, on a wooden stool, sat Grizelda. She was knitting with a huge pair of wooden pins and Mirren’s orange wool. As she knitted she chanted to herself:
“Clicketty clack, clicketty clack,
It’s a fine warm blanket that I’ll make
And little does Mirren ken, the fool,
That it’s me has stolen all her wool.”
She rocked about on the stool, howling and cackling with laughter.
“Well!” said Mirren. She was just about to jump up and go storming down to the cave when suddenly she stopped… and thought.
Everyone knows that fairy knitting is the finest in this world or any other. There is a magic woven into the stitches, and secret patterns. A blanket knitted by the Wee Folk is a thing to hold and treasure indeed, and to pass on to your children and their great-grandchildren, for it will bring sweet sleep and good fortune to whoever owns it.
Mirren remembered all this and, remembering it, slipped off quietly back down the hill, leaving Grizelda to knit her blanket.
***
All next day Mirren sat carding more wool and trying to think of a way to trick Grizelda into giving her the finished blanket, and at last the answer came to her.
Before she spun the wool she went out to the farmyard and, putting on her fine white Sunday gloves, she picked a huge basket full of stinging nettles. As she spun the wool onto the bobbins Mirren bound in the green stinging leaves. Then she dyed the wool as before and left it to dry in the sun.
“Now, Mistress Grimithistle,” said Mirren, “help yourself – please do.”
Sure enough when she looked again next morning the wool had gone.
***
Two days later Mirren crawled through the long grass to peer down at Grizelda again. All the hanks of orange wool had been knitted up into a huge square blanket and the old witch was just finishing off the last corner. As she worked she chanted to herself:
“Clicketty clack, clicketty click,
I’ve stitched my blanket warm and thick.
With spells and magic woven right
To hap me through the winter’s night.”
Then pulling the wool through the last stitch Grizelda threw down the wooden pins and shook out the big orange square. As Mirren watched, the witch pulled off her dirty old green cloak and wrapped the blanket round her bent shoulders.
“Ooo-ouch,” howled Grizelda.
“Yeeee-eeech,” squealed Grizelda, dancing about in pain. She threw the blanket on the ground and stamped on it angrily.
“That’s gey rough wool,” she snarled, poking at it with a long pointed toe. Then she lifted the blanket again, shook it hard and wrapped it round her shoulders again.
“Aaaa-oooo!” yelled poor old Grizelda, as the nettles stung her back. Tearing the blanket off she hurled it away down the hillside.
“I don’t know what kind of sheep they have,” she snarled. “But I’ll not trouble to steal their wool again!” She grabbed her cloak and stamped off into the cave.
Mirren tiptoed from her hiding place and trying not to giggle too loudly, bundled up the blanket and hurried home.
Once again she put the big iron pot on the fire, filled it with water, and pushed in the blanket. Then she took a stout stick and sang as she stirred and pounded:
“Stir and row, stir and row,
That will make the nettles go.
Grizelda’s knitting soon will be
Safe and warm for Hamish and me.”
And sure enough the green stinging-nettle leaves floated to the surface of the water, leaving the wool soft and smooth. Then Mirren carried the blanket to the gorse bushes where she spread and stretched and smoothed out the tiny fairy stitches with the dream charms and sleep spells knitted through the wool.
***
In the evening, when the blanket was dry and warm, and perfumed by the wild flowers of the hillside, Mirren carried it carefully into the cottage and laid it on her bed.
When Hamish came home
she told him and his mother about the trick she had played on Grizelda Grimithistle.
“I would never have thought of that myself,” said Hamish’s mother smiling, and shaking her head. “My, Mirren, but I think you’re the cleverest one of us all.”
“Did I not tell you that?” laughed Hamish, hugging Mirren and dancing her round the kitchen.
And in the tiny white painted bedroom the fairy blanket glowed like the sunset of a perfect summer night, so that ever after Mirren and Hamish knew sweet sleep and enchanted dreams.
Hamish and the Fairy Gifts
7.
Hamish and the Fairy Bairn
It all started one wild night in January. A storm had raged all week, howling round the top of the Ben, and tearing through the trees around the farmhouse, as if to rip them out of the ground. Rain and sleet filled the burn to overflowing, until the water crashed down off the mountainside, roaring like a savage beast.
On the wildest night of all Mirren’s baby son was born, and the floodwater of the Balvie Burn washed away the little wooden bridge, leaving the farmhouse cut off from the village.
Neither Hamish nor Mirren cared. She lay happy and cosy in the big bed, cuddling her new baby in his soft knitted shawl. Hamish sat by her side, stroking the baby’s soft ginger curls.
“Do you think he’ll want to be a farmer or a fisherman, Mirren? Should I make him a wee wheelbarrow or a fishing rod?”
Mirren laughed.
“Bring me his cradle first,” she said. “I think Torquil will be needing that more than a barrow just now.”
The baby was to be christened Torquil after Mirren’s father, the Laird.
Hamish had spent the summer evenings making a sturdy little cradle of fresh sweet-smelling pine-wood. Mirren and the old lady had filled it with soft knitted blankets, and for weeks it had stood ready and waiting by the fireside in the kitchen. As Hamish bent to lift it he looked across at his mother who was staring gloomily into the flames.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are you not happy?”
“Och, I’m fair delighted for the pair of you,” she sighed. “But it’s just my wee grandson I’m not sure about. If you had only made that cradle out of rowan wood when I told you, then the Wee Folk...”
“That’s just havers,” Hamish laughed. “There’s no Wee Folk coming into this house. I’ll see to that.”
She sighed, ignoring him. “And that bairn with the red hair. The King’s colour. The very thing they prize the most. I tell you, Hamish, he will not be safe until he is christened in Camusbuie Kirk, and that will not happen as long as the bridge is down.”
“I’ll mend the bridge as soon as may be,” said Hamish. “In the meantime wee Torquil will be quite safe with Mirren.”
“Hamish! What ever are you thinking of, saying the bairn’s name out loud like that. And you standing by the fireplace.” His mother was quite shocked. “Do you not realise They are up there, round the chimney stack, listening for that very thing so that they can call the wee one to them?”
Hamish just shook his head and laughed and took the cradle through to the bedroom.
***
Late that night Mirren woke up. Wee Torquil was crying for his feed so she stirred the fire in the kitchen to a warm glow and sat in the big chair singing softly to him. As she sang, the wind dropped to a soft moan, and through it came another sound, echoing down the chimney. A strange, sweet music:
“Torquil, Torquil, son of Hamish,
Come away, come away.”
The baby turned towards the fireplace, holding out his tiny hands. Mirren leapt instantly to her feet, bundling him tight and safe in the shawl. The strange, sweet music was all around her, filling the room.
“Mother,” she called. banging on the old lady’s bedroom door. “Mother, come quick!”
The old lady padded through to the kitchen in her long white nightdress, pushing her spectacles up onto her nose. She stopped in the doorway suddenly, hearing the tiny voices, and seeing Torquil’s bright little eyes turned towards the fire.
“I knew it,” she said. “They’re after the bairn. Havers indeed! You just wait till I have a word with our Hamish. If he had made that cradle out of rowan wood when I told him to, there would have been none of this.”
“Mother, what can we do?” begged Mirren as Torquil began to howl loudly and to wriggle and kick in her arms.
“We’ll just have to find a way to stop them coming down that chimney,” said the old lady. She poked about in the basket of dry sticks by the hearth and at last pulled out a little sprig of fir tree, still with the green needles on it.
“A wee trick I learned a while back. This may hold them for a bit.” She pushed the twig through the links of the heavy black iron chain that held the kettle over the flames. The moaning in the chimney changed to an angry howl, then died on the wind.
***
Over the next few days, the Wee Folk tried all the tricks they knew to sneak in and take away the baby. Hamish’s mother went round and round the cottage searching for ways to stop them.
She unravelled a red ribbon from her best petticoat and tied it around the cradle. Then she sent Hamish out into the storm to cut branches from the rowan tree to nail above the front and back doors of the cottage.
For three days and nights the wind raged and the voices moaned in the chimney. Each night Hamish, Mirren and the old lady took it in turns to sit by the cradle, keeping a wakeful and watchful eye on Torquil. Sometimes the baby would waken and, howling loudly, reach out a little hand towards the door.
“Aye, that bairn has his father’s voice, right enough,” said the old lady. “The noisiest child in Camusbuie, but we must be careful. They’re still after him for all that.”
***
On the fourth evening the wind died back, there was a glimmer of sunset out over the sea and the black clouds rolled away from the top of the Ben. The weather was lifting and with it the raging water of the burn settled to a thick brown hurlygush.
“I’ll mend the bridge in the morning,” yawned Hamish. “Then we can take wee Torquil down to Camusbuie Kirk for the christening.”
“I’ll not be happy until then,” grumbled his mother. She shook her fist up the chimney. “Away you go, back to your own folk, you little devils!” A tiny giggle floated down to them. “Impertinent craturs!” she grumbled. “You be sure and lock up properly tonight, Hamish. I’m away to my bed.”
But Hamish was tired and although he remembered to push the door shut, he forgot to slip the heavy iron bolt into the hasp.
Late that night, when everyone was asleep, the wind suddenly arose in a last furious gust. The door crashed open sending sparks flying up the chimney. The cat flew, squalling, from the hearthrug, and the enamel milk jug toppled off the table and rolled with a clang across the floor. The old lady struggled out of bed. Hamish jumped up, with Mirren close behind him, and together they managed to slam shut the door against the storm. Only wee Torquil lay peacefully in his cradle by the fire as if nothing had happened.
“Fancy him just sleeping through all that!” said Mirren.
“Aye, just fancy,” said the old lady doubtfully, peering into the cradle.
***
Everything seemed quite normal when Hamish set out early next morning to mend the bridge. But that evening when he returned he found Mirren still sitting by the cradle, looking worried.
“It’s very odd,” she whispered. “He hasn’t cried all day.”
“Thank goodness for that,” said Hamish, flopping into a chair. “Maybe we’ll all get some sleep tonight.”
And indeed the baby slept right through until morning when Mirren went to lift him for his feed.
“It’s really very odd,” she said. “His eyes were blue, but they seem to be green now. They do say a baby’s eyes change colour sometimes. Is that right, Mother?”
“Aye, it can be,” said the old lady, warily.
***
During the next few days, while Hamish
mended the bridge, his mother and Mirren watched the baby uneasily. He lay, still and silent, and the little bright eyes watched them in a knowing, clever way. At last the old lady, who had been sitting thinking, put down her knitting and studied him closely.
“I’m beginning to wonder if the Wee Folk are maybe away with our Torquil right enough,” she said.
“Oh no, Mother, surely not, we were so careful.” Mirren stared at the baby, with his little, bright, green, shining eyes, and grew suddenly uneasy.
“If they had taken him,” she said in horror, “how could you tell?”
“Oh, that’s not so difficult,” said the old lady nodding her head wisely.
She went to the cupboard and brought out a large jar of her homemade jelly, dipped in a little silver spoon and touched it to the baby’s lips. He set up such a howling and screeching that the china dogs on the mantelpiece rattled and Hamish, hearing the row from down at the bridge, dropped his hammer and came running.
“I thought as much,” nodded the old lady. The screaming baby sat up suddenly in the cradle, his tiny face quite purple with fury, and the ginger curls straight up in spikes all over his head. “That’s no human child. They’ve taken our wee Torquil and left us a fairy bairn in his place.”
“But how can you tell?” wailed Mirren above the din.
“Because a fairy cannot abide the rowan tree, and that was rowan jelly,” said the old lady triumphantly. “Our wee Torquil loved it. I fed him the odd spoonful – just in case.”
“Mither!” protested Hamish, but Mirren stopped him.
“It’s just as well she did, Hamish, or we’d never have known. But how are we to get rid of this creature and get our own wee bairn back?”
“I’ll soon see to that,” said the old lady.
She quickly slipped another spoonful of the jelly into the baby’s mouth. He screeched even louder, shot out of the cradle, flew three times round the room in a furious bundle of blankets and out through the open door.