by Moira Miller
“You want me to bring it along?” he said, picking up the rope.
Scarcely waiting for him, the bird darted out of the garden, along the path between the fields and away from the farm. Hamish staggered behind, trying to loop the rope around his shoulder, tie his bootlaces and keep up at the same time. The robin bobbed from stone to stone on the dusty road. Every now and then he turned to look back and see that Hamish was following.
***
At the edge of the wood, the robin stopped and sat as if waiting.
“Well, then, what now?” said Hamish. He looked around him. It was quiet and still in the grey early morning, a fine rain had begun to fall and the wind caught the high clouds, tossing them across the sky. He shivered, and scowled at the robin.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” he grumbled. “There had better be a good reason or it’s no more crumbs for you this winter, I can tell you.”
As they stood glaring at each other, another bird, a young chaffinch, appeared on a branch above their heads. The robin nodded briefly and bossily in his direction, stretched his wings, and flew off back down to the farm. The chaffinch waited to see that Hamish was watching and then, flipping from his branch, flew off into the forest. “Weet, weet. Dreep, dreep.”
His cheeky, chirpy voice echoed back through the trees.
“I can see it’s weet for myself, thanks,” muttered Hamish, pulling his jerkin tight around him. He struggled through the soaking undergrowth of the wet woods, following the bird’s song.
“Weet, weet. Dreep, dreep.”
Showers of raindrops fell from the leaves as the chaffinch fluttered through them, spraying Hamish, soaking his curly hair and running down the back of his collar.
“An’ I’ll thank you to stop dreeping on me too!” he shouted. But the chaffinch bobbed on, leading the way.
“Wait for me, will you?” Hamish shouted, then lost his footing and slipped, slithered and tumbled down a muddy slope into a soft, squelching bog.
“Oh – no!” he gasped, hauling himself to his feet. His boots were firmly stuck in the sticky mud.
“I can’t go on,” he yelled. “And if I get out of here I’m going home again. You can sort out whatever it is yourself.” The chaffinch bobbed around his head, chirping loudly.
“I’m telling you, I can’t move,” snapped Hamish furiously. “I’m stuck in the mud! So it’s no use you carrying on like that. You’ll have to go back and get Mirren. She can pull me out with this rope.”
And it was quite true, the harder he struggled, the deeper his boots sank in the mud.
“Help!” he shouted. “Help!” But there was no one in the wood to hear him. He pulled, and he heaved, and he shouted louder. And still no one heard him. The chaffinch fluttered around in a panic and then, swooping off, vanished among the trees. “Fushionless featherbrain!” shouted Hamish, hot and bothered and wrestling helplessly with the mud.
“Lose two boots,” called a calm voice above his head. “Lose two boots.”
He looked up as a large grey pigeon flapped noisily to a landing on an overhanging branch.
“What do you mean?” he demanded. The pigeon cooed softly:
“Lose two boots,
Lose two boots.”
Hamish looked down at his two big feet stuck in the mud.
“Och, I see what you mean,” he said and, untying his shoelaces, he stepped out, leaving his boots firmly stuck in the mud. “All very fine, but here am I in my socks and what happens now?”
“Soon, soon,” promised the pigeon flapping noisily around his head. “Soon, soon.” He headed off, up the slope.
“Aye – right,” sighed Hamish. “I suppose I’ve come this far. I might as well carry on and see what’s to do.” He plodded on, feeling his way carefully over the uneven ground in his wet woolly socks, following the crooning pigeon.
“All very well for you, you can fly. My feet are frozen,” he grumbled as he clambered up out of the thick wood, towards the high lonely pine trees.
On a branch above his head, the pigeon waited, watching nervously.
As soon as he saw Hamish leave the trees, the bird spread his soft grey wings and, as if almost afraid to be out of the shelter of his own woods, vanished again among the green leaves.
***
Hamish stood, alone, at the foot of the rocky slope. Here and there on the way to the summit tall pine trees tossed their tops in the brisk spring wind.
An uncanny, eerie scream rang out, shattering the peace and echoing down the rocky glen. High above his head, gliding on the wind, hung a huge magnificent bird. It swooped down, blotting out the sun for a second, and then soared again, towards the pines. Its weird call rang out, sending other smaller birds hunting for shelter.
The great osprey called again and again and Hamish, hearing the fear in its voice, forgot his wet feet and climbed on, following the bird’s vast shadow.
High on the mountainside stood a solitary pine, the tallest – and the last – of the old forest. Ancient as the hillside, it had been the osprey’s home for many years. As a child, Hamish had watched, year after year, as the new chicks learned to fly. His father and grandfather before him had made the same climb, to watch the same nest, each summer.
“What ails you?” called Hamish, as the bird swooped and cried repeatedly. And then he heard the frightened voices of the chicks and saw that the old branch on which their nest was built had split in the winter gales and hung limply, swinging loose.
The little cradle of sticks rocked dangerously, like a lifeboat in a storm.
“Wait you now, I’ll soon see what can be done,” shouted Hamish. Looping the rope tighter around his shoulder, he wrestled his way up the tree, scraping his hands and face against the rough bark. As he climbed, he heard the tiny chicks weep-weeped in alarm and their huge mother hovered above.
Hamish hauled himself up at last onto a high branch beside the nest, threw the rope across, catching the broken branch, and tied it tightly around the split wood.
“Hold fast,” he shouted against the wind that whipped the treetops. “Hold fast and I will see what I can do.”
He swung out, dangling dangerously above the drop and, pulling the rope tight, anchored it safely to the tree trunk. Again and again he looped it. At last, when it seemed to him that the nest was firmly wedged, he fastened the rope in three tight knots.
The terrified weep-weep of the chicks instantly became a hungry cry for food. Tiny beaks opened wide as they forgot their fear. The mother bird, seeing Hamish climb back down the tree, settled in the nest to feed them.
Hamish stood beneath the pine tree, watching for a time to make sure that the nest was quite safe. Then, realising that he too was hungry and had missed his breakfast, he turned to leave.
“I’ll bring wee Torquil up to see you next year,” he shouted. “But I’m thinking by that time you’d do better to build a new nest in a safer place.”
The great mother osprey spread the feather-fingers of her wing-tips wide and circled the sun above his head. Her high joyful whistle of thanks rang out down the glen.
12.
Hamish and the Fairy Gifts
With the spring came long soft days and milder evenings. Hamish and Mirren worked hard to dig and plant and sow the seeds that would give them food for themselves and their animals through the summer and the next long winter.
One evening, when the young grass was growing sweet and fresh and the garden around the farmhouse was glowing with daffodils, Hamish stopped to lean over a gate and look around him.
“Aye,” said his old mother from the farmhouse door. “It’s a fine sight. A real credit to you for all your hard work. I think it’s time you had a break and we held a welcome party for wee Torquil.”
Mirren thought it was a wonderful idea. She planned it over tea that night.
“We’ll have everyone up from the village, and my father will come – and my sisters…”
“Do they have to?” groaned Hamish. Mirre
n’s sisters argued all the time about how fine they were and who had the most money.
“Yes, of course we do!” said Mirren. “And then there’s your cousins from over the Ben and everyone from the village. And what about you, Mother? Who would you like to ask?”
“Ah well,” said the old lady. She had been waiting for just that moment. “That’s what I was thinking. There’s one or two that I think we really ought to invite.” She nodded wisely, winked one eye and tapped the side of her nose. “You will know who I mean, Hamish.”
“Och, Mither!” Hamish sighed, knowing just what she had in mind. “You can make all sorts of trouble inviting the Wee Folk in. Let’s keep it for ourselves.”
But his mother was having none of it.
“The Wee Folk were here before us and will still be here long after,” said the old lady firmly. “Torquil must learn to live with them in peace and, besides, you will see the wonderful gifts they bring. I tell you, Hamish, they must be invited. You just leave it to me. There will be no trouble at all.”
***
The day of the party grew nearer. The invitations were written and sent out to the family and the people in the village. The old lady went up the hill herself to see the Wee Folk.
Then for weeks on end she and Mirren scrubbed and polished until the house glowed.
From early morning on the day of the party the kitchen was warm with the smell of fresh baking. Every cupboard and tabletop was piled high with scones, oatcakes and crisp buttery shortbread. Mirren set out cheeses, meat and thick slices of fruit cake. The big black kettle was filled and set to boil by the fireside, and they waited for the guests to arrive.
First to appear was a large farm cart with Mirren’s father and her two sisters. Her father, the Laird, sat up at the front, chatting happily to everyone they passed. Her two sisters, in the back, could be heard arguing even before they crossed the bridge to the farmhouse.
“What do you mean, my dress looks cheap? I can tell you it cost a great deal more than that rag you’re wearing.”
“Oh! Is that so, well let me tell you, sister, dear…”
“A right pair of greetin’ teenies,” grumbled the old lady.
Mirren shook her head, laughing, and went to admire the gifts they had brought for Torquil. Her father gave his grandson a beautiful silver cup. Her sisters had each brought a silver plate. They were furious.
“Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you were going to give the baby.”
“Well, you might have let me know. Mine is finer, anyway. Much more expensive than yours.”
“Oh no it’s not!”
“Oh yes it is!”
“We’ll ask Mirren which she prefers…”
Mirren was fortunately saved by the arrival of a crowd from the village, who came laughing and singing across the bridge to join the party.
Halfway through the afternoon, as she was passing cups of tea around the crowded kitchen, Mirren bumped into Hamish handing out platefuls of cake.
“It’s grand, isn’t it?” he said, smiling down at her rosy face.
“It is that, and have they not brought some lovely presents for our wee Torquil?”
The chest by the wall was piled high with soft woollen blankets and clothes for the baby.
“It’s all gone very well – so far,” said Hamish. “And there’s no sign of…”
“Shhhhhh!” said Mirren. The happy chatter in the kitchen gradually died away and they all stood listening as the wind carried a little tune down the path from the Ben. Torquil, in his cradle, kicked his tiny feet and gurgled happily. The old lady leapt to her feet.
“I knew they would be here,” she said triumphantly, throwing the door open. She stepped out, followed by Hamish, Mirren and the others, to an amazing sight.
***
Down the path from the Ben came a strange procession. At the head, leading them all, marched a slim figure in a long green cloak and huge shadowy hat. He played on a little golden flute, and his thin fingers danced on the pipe in time to the haunting music. Behind him came a crowd of tiny figures, dressed in green. Some thin, some fat, some young, some old, the Wee Folk skipped, bounced, rolled or flew along the path to the farmhouse.
“Come away, come away,” said the old lady. “And right glad we are to see you. Mirren, food for our guests, quickly now.”
Mirren and Hamish fetched out platefuls of meat and cheese, cake and shortbread, and no sooner had they put them down than the Wee Folk, kicking and shoving, had cleared the food and were calling for more.
“Manners like pigs!” sniffed Mirren, but the old lady hushed her with a glance.
“Let them have what they will,” she said. “And let them hear nothing against themselves. Fetch some more cake now.”
So Mirren and Hamish went on carrying out platefuls of food and it did seem strange to Mirren that, however much she carried out, there always seemed to be plenty still in the kitchen. At last it seemed as if the Wee Folk had had enough. They lay around on the grass, laughing and joking, belching and burping rudely. The piper laughed and stepped up to the old lady.
“It is a fine feast you have given us this day,” he said. “And in return we must honour our pledge of the Fairy Hansel. We would have you take this gift for the child.”
He clapped his hands and two little fat figures came forward, trundling between them a large, empty, wooden flour barrel. They set it upright in front of the piper, placed the lid on the top and staggered off into the grass, laughing. Hamish and Mirren stared, a strange gift for a new baby, indeed. The man smiled, as if reading their thoughts.
“Strange indeed,” he said. “But to your son we make the gift of a meal kist that will never be empty so long as he shall live.”
Mirren lifted the lid to find that the barrel, which had been empty, was full to the top with fine white flour.
“Wonderful,” she breathed. “Our thanks will always be to you and yours…”
As she said the words, the procession in front of her dissolved in the air, leaving only an echo of laughter floating on the wind and Mirren and the others gasping in astonishment.
A call from the shore brought them reeling to their senses. They turned to see a small group of figures, dressed in sleek dark clothes, standing on the shingle beach beneath the farmhouse. Their leader held up a hand in greeting.
“The Seal Folk!” said Hamish, recognising the man whom he had cured, and he stepped forward to welcome them. They were happy enough to see him again, but would not come up to his house. Indeed they would not leave the damp sand and stones of the beach between the tides, but they were happy enough to accept a little of the food and drink carried down to them. At last, when they had had enough, their leader held up his hand for silence.
“It is a fine feast you have given us this day,” he said. “And in return we would have you take this gift for the child.” He clapped his hands and two young men stepped forward, dragging from the water a silver fishing net, as fine as cobweb and sparkling like sunlight. Their leader smiled.
“To your son we make the gift of a fishing net that will never be empty, so long as he shall live.”
Hamish bent to pick up the net, and suddenly found that it was filled with plump silver herring. He laughed and shook his head in amazement.
“How may we ever thank you?”
But the Seal People had already turned back to the sea, wading out and vanishing with hardly a ripple.
“What a wonderful day this is indeed for our Torquil,” said Hamish, turning to his mother. “It seems that you were right.”
As the old lady smiled and nodded, the air was suddenly shattered by a piercing shriek.
“I know that voice,” Mirren wailed. “Grizelda Grimithistle!”
***
Down the road and into the farmyard whirled a green, evil-smelling cloud, which settled slowly to uncover a dirty little witch with spiky hair and a greenish face. It was indeed their old enemy, Grizelda Grimithistle.
“Thought you would invite the Wee Folk to a party and miss out Grizelda, did you?” she screeched. “We’ll soon see about that.”
“Mother!” Hamish was furious. “I thought you said it would be safe to invite them. You said there would be no trouble.”
“Och, there will be no trouble. None at all,” laughed Grizelda. “I’ve just come with a wee gift for the bairn. Let’s have a look at him.”
Before anyone could stop her she had pushed forward to the cradle.
“Ach, horrible!” she sneered, poking Torquil with a long dirty finger. “I hate small boys! But I’ve a present all the same.” She reached down into the pocket of her dirty old coat, took out some green dust and sprinkled it on the baby.
“Here! Stop that!” shouted Mirren, shoving her aside. But it was too late. Grizelda took a deep breath, spread her dirty hands wide and shouted the magic spell:
“Eeerie-feerie, tapsalteerie,
Cover his face with — measlie spots!”
“No!” Mirren’s horrified shout rang out as Grizelda vanished, leaving only the foul smell behind her. In the cradle Torquil started to wail and rub at the itching red spots that appeared on his face.
“Whit’ll we do?” wailed Hamish. “Mither, don’t just stand there. You started this. Do something.”
But for once the old lady was quite at a loss.
Nothing helped. Torquil cried louder and louder and his poor little face under the ginger curls was very soon covered in red measle spots.
Mirren picked him up and tried to comfort him. Everyone crowded round with a suggestion.
“Dab the spots with milk!”
“Rub them with butter!”
Suddenly, in the middle of all the fuss, the door swung open and there stood a small round figure.
“The old woman from the Ben of Balvie!” said Hamish, stepping forward to meet her.
The little woman was plump, with a rosy face and bright dark eyes. She too was one of the Wee Folk, and Hamish had met and helped her once a long time ago.
“Indeed,” said the old woman. “I’m sorry to be late for your little party. But it’s just as well I came, by the look of it.” She lifted Torquil from Mirren’s arms and looked at his scarlet puffy face.