The wife made a cup of tea and he was sitting down in his chair, completely sad and broken-hearted because he loved this wee cow dearly … it was the only thing gave them milk on the wee island. They loved the solitude and peace and quietness of this island, that’s why they went there in the first place, because he could think about God and his sermons – he was a good man, a really good man. He said to his wife, ‘I’m really sorry … look what happened. Well, I’ll take a wee walk and walk aroond the shoreside, see if I can find the carcass o’ her, she was prob’ly carried away wi the tide.’ But as he went outside he thought he’d have a last look in the byre where he used to tie the wee cow up at night-time. He said, ‘If I only had left her tied in the byre, she’d be safe.’
Now he used to always fill a pail of water for the cow and carry it in. And before he had gone away, when he’d left the cow out on the grass, he’d carried the pail and left it outside – he remembered this – that he’d left the pail of water outside, because there was no running water inside the wee byre. When he walked out the door of the house, he looked at the door of the byre – the pail was gone! He said, ‘I remember I took the pail oot, and left the pail at the door when I let the coo oot!’
There was nothing to do – he walked to the byre, opened the door and walked into the byre – there was the wee cow standing, a pail of water at her head, a beautiful heap of hay in the wee heck at her nose and the bonniest wee calf you ever saw standing at her feet! And the chain was round her neck, she was tied up, tied up to the stall where he had tied her before. The minister stood and he looked, he was aghast. He ran into the house, called his wife and told her, ‘Come oot,’ he said, ‘I want to show you something!’
‘What is it?’ she said.
‘Come here, come here. I want to show you something! Look!’ he said to his wife. He opened the door of the byre and he showed her – there was the cow and there was the bonnie wee calf standing at her feet – there was the pail of water and there was the hay in her wee heck at her nose and the cow was as healthy as could be and so was the calf! He turned round and told his wife, ‘Look, there’s only one explanation,’ he said, ‘there’s only one explanation and you know as well as me … there was nobody on this island when me and you left.’
‘I know,’ she said to him, ‘Angus, there was nobody here when we left.’
He said, ‘There’s only one person responsible for this.’
She says, ‘I know.’
He says, ‘That was the Broonie.’
And that man spent all his days on that island, till he became an old man when he retired to Campbeltown. He believed, and he was a man of the cloth, nobody in the world could convince him otherwise, that it couldn’t have been anybody but the Broonie who tied up his wee cow that night on the island of Carra. And that’s the last of my wee story!
1 country folk's – non-travellers'
The Broonie’s Farewell
The Broonie can take any form if he wants to. But he doesn’t come to deceive people, rather to test them, so he comes in the form of the lonely old tramp with a ragged coat, the lowest form of life, who is thought of as nothing. It’s like God coming in another form. As a tramp he will get the person’s true personality, the person’s true feelings towards the lowest type of person you could ask for.
People were very privileged to be visited by the Broonie. And if he ever visited any place at any particular time, his visit was never forgotten. Word of it always passed down, from generation to generation, and this is where ‘The Broonie’s Farewell’ really came from. An old traveller man told me this story a long time ago when I was very young. He said it really happened, he was supposed to have been at the farm, away back in the highlands of Argyllshire near Rannoch Moor. I don’t know the name of the farmer in the story, but the Broonie didn’t care for anybody without a ‘Mac’ in their name. The Broonie was the patron spirit of the Macdonalds.
MANY many years ago there lived a small farmer on a hill farm in the West Highlands of Scotland. He and his wife had this wee farm between them. They were very poor off, they didn’t have very much to start with. But as years went by he became a rich man, and when he was middle-aged he had a wee son. The mother and father loved this wee boy dearly. And his mother was such a kindly woman, she couldn’t see anything going wrong with him; they gave up everything in the world they really needed for the sake of their son. And the son returned it every way possible, he was really good to his mother and father, helped in every way he could. If ever there was a job needing to be done about the place he would always say, ‘Daddy, I’ll do it.’
His mother would say, ‘No, son, just dinna hurry yourself, take your time and jist help your daddy whenever possible.’ So it came a Saturday afternoon. By this time the laddie was about eleven years old. The old woman was sitting in the kitchen and she said, ‘Can youse two men no find a job fir yoursels? Because I’m gaun to bake.’
And the father said, ‘Come on,’ to the laddie, ‘that’s a sign that me and you are no wantit!’
So they walked out of the house and he said, ‘Daddy, what are we gaunnae do?’
‘Well, son, I’ll tell you what we’re gaunnae do,’ he said. ‘We’ve got everything done, hay’s all cut, so we’ll need to go in and clean up the barn because it’s gettin kind o’ tottery. I’m beginnin to fa’ ower things in the mornin when I go in there.’
‘All right,’ said the wee laddie, ‘I’ll go and get a wheel- barra, Daddy, and we’ll clean out the barn.’
So the wee laddie got a wheelbarrow, hurled it into the barn. And the man’s picking up old bags and all kinds of stuff, he’s putting it in the barrow. But hanging behind the door of the barn inside was a coat and a pair of breeches and a pair of hose. They were covered in cobwebs. The wee laddie reached up. ‘Okay, Daddy,’ he says, ‘here’s some old clothes.’
‘Oh no, son,’ he says, ‘no, don’t touch that!’
‘Why, Daddy,’ he says, ‘it’s only old rags.’
‘No, son,’ he says, ‘it’s no rags. While your mother’s bakin we’ll keep oot o’ her way … and we hevnae much tae dae in here, we’re nearly finished … sit doon there and I’ll tell ye a wee story.’ So the farmer took a pitchfork and raked up a bunch of hay, he made a seat. ‘Now,’ he said to the wee boy, ‘sit doon here, son, and I’ll tell you aboot that coat, breeches and the hose ….
‘Many years ago, long before you were born, when me and yir mother cam here, this place was pretty run doon and we didna have very much money. I got it at a very cheap rent. We cam up here and we work it away hard, both your mother andme, and tried tae make this place intae a kind o’ decent fairm. Well, we hadna been here for over a year and things was really tough.
‘And one night late, about the month o’ October, yir mother and I were sittin doon tae a wee meal, an we didna hae very much at that time, when a knock cam to the door. And your mother said, “Go and see who that is at this time o’ night.”
‘So naturally I went oot, and there standin at the door was an auld man.’
‘What kind o’ man, Daddy?’ the wee boy said. ‘What kind o’ man was he?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘he was just an ordinary auld man, but he wisna very big and he had a white beard. But he had the two bluest eyes that ever I saw inmy life. So I asked him what he wanted.
‘He said, “I’m just an auld man and I thought you mebbe have some work, or cuid gie me shelter for the night.”
‘So your mother shouted tae me, “Who is it, John?”
‘It’s an auld man luikin for shelter.’
‘“Well,” she said, “bring him intae the kitchen!”
‘So I said, “Ye better—”
‘“No, no, no,” he said, “I can’t come intae the kitchen.”
‘The old man wadna come into the kitchen even though yir mother cam to the door. An she coaxed him, but he wadnae come, in any way. So wi yir mother being a kind- herted sowl, she asked him, “Are ye hungry, auld man?”
‘“Oh,” he said, “I’m hungry, yes, I’m hungry.”
‘“Wad ye like something tae eat?”
‘“Oh, I would love something tae eat. Cuid ye give me a bowl o’ porridge an milk?” And naturally, that’s what me an yir mother wis haein that night – porridge and milk.
‘So yir mother filled a big bowl and I carriet it oot tae him and gied it tae him in his two hands. And I tuik him intae the barn, I said tae him, “There auld man, ye can find shelter fir the night-time.”
‘Well,’ the farmer said, ‘I put him in the barn, an believe it or not what I’m gaunnae tell ye, that auld man stayed wi me fir six months and I never saw a harder worker in my life! I had practic’ly nothing tae dae round the place. He was up, first thing in the mornin he startit tae work, tae the last thing at night he was still workin. He had everything about this place prosperin like it never prospered before. I never lost an animal of any kind, I had the greatest crops that ever I cuid ask for and I cam in an offered him wages, but he wouldnae have any. Or he wouldnae come intae the house, all he wanted tae do was sleep in the barn.
‘Well, after workin fir about six months yir mother took pity on him. And one night she sat down special hersel and made him a pair o’ breeches cut doon fae mine and she knittit him a pair o’ hose. And one mornin when she cam oot wi his bowl o’ porridge, she brought them and placed them beside his bowl. Later in the morning when I cam oot, the coat, the breeches, and the hose wis gone, an the bowl was empty – his auld breeches and his coat wis hung behind the door. And there they’ve been hung, son, fir over eleven year. And remember: someday this farm will pass on tae you but promise me, as long as you own this place, ye’ll never part with these breeches, or that coat or thae hose!’1
‘No, Daddy,’ he said, ‘I never will.’
And when the man passed on and the young laddie got the farm, the breeches and the coat and the hose hung behind the door till it passed on to his son. And that’s the last of my wee story.
1 The breeches the Broonie left in the barn were short, just came below the knee, the hose was pulled up to meet them. They laced down the side of the leg and were made of corduroy. They hung at the back of that door for years and years, and were never allowed to pass away from that place. You’re not to pay the Broonie, you see. You can thank him, but the minute you pay him, you’re finished. He wouldn’t take any money, and when the farmer’s wife left the clothes down beside his bowl, he thought, ‘That’s your payment – we’ve nae mair use for you’ … he was gone! So that’s why the old man told the laddie to hang on to the coat, he thought maybe the Broonie might come back.
Selkie Painter
There are many tales and legends told about the seal-folk or selkies, as they are called by some people in the Western Isles. It is their belief that seals have the power to turn themselves into human beings for a certain length of time. Seal-folk are supposed to help you, do good things for you. They’ve never been known to do anyone any evil! So the story I’m going to tell you is about an old woman and a seal.
MANY years ago on the West Coast there lived an old fisherman and his wife. They had this wee cottage by the shoreside. The fisherman used to set his nets, and what fish he and the old woman couldn’t use he took along to the village and sold. The old woman kept a couple of goats and some hens; she used to sell eggs and goats’ milk in the village. In the small village where they stayed there was only one post office, a hotel and a small police station, and everybody knew everybody else. But they never had any family – the old folk lived pretty well by themselves. The old man only had one enemy, the seals. He hated the seals because they used to tear his nets and eat the fish. He couldn’t stand seals in any way.
And he was always getting on to the old woman and telling her, ‘That’s another seal Mary,’ he would say, ‘that’s another good fish destroyed by these seals again, these animals! They’re making a terrible mess of my nets. I wish to God they would clear out and never come back. I hate these terrible beasties!’
But the old woman, she was a kindly old cratur. She said, ‘Well, John, you know they have to live just the same as everybody else.’
In her spare time the old woman used to gather seaweed, the dulse that comes in with the tide – these big thick stems of seaweed that break away with the heavy storms, with the working of the sea. And the old woman used to collect these big thick tangles and stack them up to dry. When they were dry a man used to come and buy them from her. He sent them away to the towns to get made into perfume or whatever.
One day the old woman was down on the beach. She was as usual gathering seaweed and putting it out on the beach to dry, when she came over behind this rock. The first thing she saw was a wee baby seal, a new-born, two or three days she thought it to be. So she bent over to pick it up and said, ‘Poor little thing.’ She looked all around her to see if its mother or any other seals were about before picking it up, but she never saw another seal. So she thought to herself, ‘I think maybe I’d better leave it.’ She just left it and walked away a wee bit … then she took another thought. And she walked back, picked it up. She had one of those rubber aprons for keeping her legs dry for picking up the seaweed, so she lifted up the apron and put the baby seal in it, held it in front of her and walked home.
By the time she walked home to the wee cottage at the shoreside, her oldman had pulled up the boat. He was back and in a rage again: the seals had been at his nets, made holes in them and ate most of his good fish. The old woman came walking up, ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Mary, you’re back again.’
‘Aye, John, I’m back.’ She said, ‘You look terrible. What’s wrong?’
‘Och,’ he said, ‘it’s these seals! I’ll have to get a gun and shoot them.’
‘You know, John,’ she said, ‘I don’t like you shooting seals.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘what else can I do? They’re making a terrible mess of my nets – we’ll have to do something about them.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘come on in anyway and we’ll have a cup of tea.’ So they walked in. She had her apron rolled up in front of her.
He looks. ‘Mary, what’s that you’ve got there?’
She says, ‘John, it’s a baby seal.’
He said, ‘What! Have you got a baby seal? You mean to tell me you’ve brought back a baby seal, here to this house, to me, when you know I don’t like these animals!’
She says, ‘John, it’s lost its mother.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘woman, you keep it away from me or it’ll lose more than its mother. Because you know I hate these things. What are you going to do with it anyway?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘John, I thought, seeing it lost its mother, that I would try to rear it up for a wee bit till it gets strong enough and then put it back in the sea.’
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘but you’d be better to take a walking-stick and hit it at the back of the neck! If you make it strong enough and big enough, it’ll just go back to the sea and be one more to eat the fish in my nets.’
‘Oh well,’ old Mary said, she was a kindly soul, ‘if that happens, it happens. But I’m not going to do anything to the baby seal.’ Away she went and got an old creel and she put some straw in it. She put the baby seal down by the fire and went round by the back of the shed where she milked a goat. She had a teat and bottle for feeding young goats; she filled it full of goats’ milk and fed it to the baby seal. The baby seal sucked the bottle of milk and lay contented by the fire.
So the old man, he’s sitting and he’s watching the seal; and old Mary’s sitting at the other side of the fire. ‘Now, woman, you know that I don’t like these animals,’ he said, ‘and I just can’t have you having it here!’
‘Well, John, what amI going to do with it?’ she said. ‘You know fine I want to keep it warm.’
‘Ach,’ he said, ‘keep it warm – put it out in the shed beside the goats!’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not putting it out in the
shed beside the goats. It’s staying by the fire; it’s only a little baby.’
But anyway she won her way; the old woman kept her seal. Old John carried on as usual and old Mary carried on as usual, doing her jobs; and time passed by. But within three or four months the seal grew and it began to follow the old woman every place, every place the old woman went. It followed her to the shore and followed her back, just like a dog. It loved the old woman dearly. But the old man – he couldn’t stand this seal, he hated it! He couldn’t look at it.
Time passed by and in came the spring of the year. Now the seal was nearly full grown, and Mary loved this seal like she never loved anything else in her life. One evening they were both sitting at their supper when they heard a knock at the door.
Mary said, ‘John, did I hear someone knocking at the door?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘there’s someone at the door; go and see who it is.’
So Mary goes to the door. She opened it and standing there was a young man in his twenties, a nice-looking young man in his twenties.
‘Hello young man,’ she says. What is it? What can I do for you?’
‘Well, ma’m,’ he said, ‘to tell you the truth, I came up from the village and they told me … I’m looking for a, a room to rent … and they told me in the village that sometimes you and your husband rent a room to people for two or three weeks in the summer-time.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘we do, we really do that. It’s only both ourselves here, we stay, just me and my husband, we have no family of our own and we’ve got a large house; sometimes we do let a room. But don’t let me have you standing in the doorway – come in!’ So she took the youngman in, to the kitchen fire.
She told old John, ‘John, this is a young man here who has walked up from the village and he’s wondering if we could rent him a room for a few weeks.’
The King and the Lamp Page 12