He says, ‘Jack, who’s helpin ye?’
Jack says, ‘Na, na, naebody’s helpin me. I wis only once pals wi a collie dog,’ he says, ‘that’s aa.’
So he says, ‘Well, well, Jack.’
But the third task . . . ye ken, I canna exactly mind . . . Oh yes, the third task was to clear the ants in a wood – ay, he’d tae clear every one oot in the half an ’oor. An . . . ye know ants, there millions o it, they’re uncoontable, ye can’t clean ants. So . . . he takes Jack out next mornin, the same proceedins again . . . an he says: ‘Ye’ve got to clean all this ants, Jack, I’ll give ye half an hour. If you can do that, Jack, I’ll give you as much money as you can carry, any o my daughters for your wife, and your freedom, Jack, an,’ he says, ‘my castle, if ye need it – if ye want it – I’ll gie ye your freedom.’
‘Well,’ Jack says, ‘freedom means a lot to me. I’ve an auld mither,’ he says, ‘at hame,’ he says. ‘She’s workin with the pigs, and,’ he says, ‘I’d like to help her tae.’ But Jack looks at this wuid, an he says, ‘My God, this’ll take some clearin.’ But of coorse, she did the job for him again.
So he says, ‘Jack, you are clever. Now,’ he says, ‘Jack, come to my house,’ he says, and he gives Jack a lovely meal this time, an no tricks. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘Jack,’ he says, ‘I’ve got you,’ he says, ‘four bags of gold here,’ he says, ‘an in each bag, the money’s near[? uncoontable],’ he says, ‘and,’ he says, ‘you’re past bein a rich man,’ he says, ‘Jack. You’re very wealthy,’ he says. An he says, ‘I’ll take you to the stable,’ he says, ‘and gie ye the pick of my . . . my horses . . . I keep all mares,’ he says, ‘and they are lovely horses, Jack.’ An he says, ‘You can have whatever horse you want.’
So Jack says, ‘Weel, weel,’ he says.
But Jack’s pickin his gold (an the Green Man o Knowledge is walkin along in front o him), when he hears the voice o the girl again, sayin, ‘Jack, take the old mule – Jack, take the old mule.’
So he says, ‘Well, well,’ he says.
So he gaes intae the stable, an he’s stan’in, ye see, an he’s lookin – an they were lovely beasts, oh, there nae doot aboot them, loveliest beasts that he’d seen. There a grey meer, an he could see the fire in her eyes – fit a lovely meer. An there anither meer, this clean black meer, an he could see the fire in her eyes. So Jack looks at them, and he looks at this wee scruffy-lookin animal o a mule, an he says, ‘My goodness, fit ‘m I gaunna dae wi that?’ He says, ‘My God, she hisnae been wrang yet,’ tae hissel. ‘I better take a tellin.’ He says, ‘My God, it’s a sin to throw this gold ootowre its back.’ An he looks at this meers . . . He says to the Green Man o Knowledge, ‘I’d like that wee dunkey, it’s fast enough for Jack.’
‘Oh, my goodness, Jack,’ he says, ‘you wouldn’t take that?’ . . . He says, ‘It would disgrace ye goin through the country, Jack.’
‘Ach,’ Jack says, ‘I’m nae good tae disgrace, I’m nae worriet. I’ll take that wee mule.’
‘No, no, Jack,’ he says, ‘I wouldn’t allow ye to take that, ye’ll take one of this mares.’
So Jack’s newsin awa, an he straps his gold on tap o the mule’s back. An he’s newsin awa, an he looks at it, an the wee mule’s stan’in wi nae rein or nothing else, so he’s ower his leg, an it wis nae bother, ’cause it wis only a wee thingie, just draps ower its back and he’s away, an he’s aff his mark an this wee mule could rin. ’Is wee donkey or mule or whatever it wis, but it’s rinnin, an Jack says, ‘My God, take it easy, lassie, nothing’ll catch ye.’
She says, ‘Jack, you don’t know my people,’ she says, ‘they shall catch me if I don’t hurry, Jack.’
‘Aw, Lord, lassie, they’ll never see ye – take your time, deemie, ye’ll jist kill yersel hastin.’
She says, ‘No, Jack, I must run, and run hard.’
Jack says, ‘Take your . . . but, God,’ he says, ‘hurry up, there he’s ahin us.’ An here, they’re jist at the back o his neck. An he says, ‘Run harder.’
So she’s rinnin, but she says, ‘Jack, I haven’t got the speed for him.’ She says, ‘Jack, look in my left ear,’ she says, ‘an you shall see a drop of water,’ she says. ‘Throw it over your shoulder, an ask for rivers, lakes and seas behint you, and a clear road in front o you.’
So he throws it ower his shouther; he says, ‘Gie’s lakes, seas, and . . . so on, behint me, but,’ he says, ‘give me a clear road in front o me.’ An he looks behind – ‘Aw,’ he says, ‘lassie, take your breath,’ he says, ‘there’s nothing but seas, they’ll never get through it,’ he says, ‘they’ll be droon’t.’
She says, ‘Jack, you don’t know my people.’ She’s rinnin harder, see? And . . . no, I was gone through my story. This meers wis her sisters, changed into meers and if you killed them, it didna mean you wouldna have to kill them necessarily again.
So he says, ‘Ah, ye’re safe enough, lassie, jist take your time.’
She says, ‘No, Jack.’ An he looks ahin him, and they’re ahin him again, an the Green Man of Knowledge on tap o one o their backs, one o his daughters’ backs, and they’re rinnin.
So she says, ‘Look in my left ear, Jack, an ye’ll see a spark . . . a stone.’ She says, ‘Throw it over your shoulder, Jack, an wish for mountains, hills and dales behind you, and a clear road in front of you.’ So he does the same again, and the same happens, so he jist tells her to take her time again, but na, she winnae listen, she jist keeps batterin on. But as sure as truth, they’re just ahin him again, within any time.
So she says, ‘Jack,’ she says, ‘I love you, and,’ she says, ‘I will destroy my people for you. But,’ she says, ‘Jack, it shall put a spell on me for a year, an you too. An,’ she says, . . . ‘look in my left ear an ye’ll see a spark o fire.’ She says, ‘Throw it behind you, an ask for fire, hell an pits behind you, an a clear road in front of you.’
So he did this, an he looks roond, and he sees her people witherin in the fire, an dyin, see? Whatever happened aboot it, he seen them jist witherin awa in the fire.
So she turned intil a woman again, and he . . . jist stands on his feet . . . haudin his gold in his hands. And she says, ‘Jack,’ she says, ‘now, because of that,’ she says, ‘I must leave ye for a year.’ She says, ‘One year from today I’ll come for ye.’
‘Ah,’ he says, ‘lassie, I’ll be waiting.’
She says, ‘Jack, let nobody kiss you.’ She says, ‘If your mother kisses you,’ she says, ‘if anybody kisses you,’ she says, ‘ye’ll forget the whole affair, Jack, forget the whole proceedings. You’ll remember nothing aboot where you’ve been or what you’ve done.’ She says, ‘Jack, don’t let nobody kiss ye.’
So he says, ‘Weel, weel, I’ll let naebody kiss me if it’s that important, but,’ he says, ‘I’ll see ye fin ye come onywey.’ He wisna gaun to worry ’cause he’d plenty o money.
So he hauds awa hame: ‘God Almichty,’ he says, ‘I’m nae far fae hame – that’s my mither’s place doon there.’ So he’s ower the palins, an here’s his auld wife’s place.
‘O,’ she says, ‘Jack, my peer loon,’ an she’s trying to kiss Jack.
‘Na, na, mither, I want nae kissin an slaverin,’ he says, ‘I want naething to dee wi that. No, no, stop it.’ So he would hae nae kissin. But he went intae the hoose, and here’s his big collie dog, an his collie dog jumps up on his chest and gies him a big lick. That wis hit, in the instant he forgot aathing.
So Jack’s plenty money, an he’s . . . nae ‘Feel Jack’ now. He’s ‘Sir Jack’, an this, an that – money maks aa the difference. It even maks feels gentlemen. But . . .
So Jack’s bocht a big place, and he’s working awa within twa-three months, an the miller’s dochter’s a gey wenchy deem, an he throws an eye at the miller’s dochter, see, an him an the miller’s dochter’s engaged to get mairriet. So Jack’s a business man, he’s aye intae business, an gettin a lot o payin work, an that; he mebbe couldnae write his name, but he jist put his cross, an worked
awa wi’t like that, ye ken.
But . . . So, he wis jist gettin mairriet, a year tae the day he cam hame. So . . . the nicht o his weddin, Jack’s aafae busy, an there aa the guests there, but Jack’s, ye ken, aafae busy – wi his papers an things like that, I suppose, an he’s in his room. So a poor tattered and torn girl – but a bonnie quyne – comes tae the back door, and asks for a job, see? So they says, ‘Whit can ye dee?’
She says, ‘I can cook, I can clean.’ She says, ‘I would like’ –
An he says, ‘Oh, I’ll take you on at the weddin, tonight. Help us to cook an clean an aathing, and for a couple o days efter the weddin, and then ye’ll have to go.’
She says, ‘Yes, that’ll do me fine, thank you.’
So she’s washin dishes, an scrubbin awa, ye ken, an they’re waitin on the preacher – but the preacher’s takin a gey while, ’cause he was comin on horseback at that time, ye see, an it was a gey bit fae the . . . fae a village – an the preacher’s takin a good while. An they’re gettin aa impatient, the guests, ye ken; they’re gettin – did ye ever see . . . gettin uncomfortable sittin – and they’re aa walkin aboot newsin.
So she says, ‘I believe I could smooth the guests a little, an pass away the time for them, because I can do a trick,’ she says. ‘I have a wooden hen and a wooden cock, and they can talk, they can pick, and,’ she says, ‘everything.’
‘Oh,’ they says, ‘that’s great, we’ll hear it.’
So she goes ben, an ye can imagine her amongst aa this well-dressed folk wi a, mebbe an aul white torn skirt on her, gey ragged lookin an things, amongst aa this well-dressed kino folk. An she’s doon this two birds, a cock an a hen. So she scattered some corn, but Jack jist comes oot to watch yin tee, ye see. But Jack’s stan’in watchin and the cock picks an looks at her, an the hen picks an looks at the cock, and the hen says to the cock, ‘Do you remember me, Jack?’
An the cock looks an says, ‘Remember you? No, I couldn’t say I do remember you.’ So the cock gaes on pickin.
She says, ‘Jack, do you remember the Green Man of Knowledge?’
‘The Green Man of Knowledge? Oh no, I don’t remember him.’ So the cock gaes on pickin.
She says, ‘Jack, do you remember me, the woman you love?’
He says, ‘Ah . . . no, I’m sorry, I don’t know you.’
She says, ‘Jack, do you remember when I killed my own people for you, Jack?’
An the cock looked an he says, ‘Yes, I do remember you.’
An Jack says, ‘It’s you, deem! It’s you, lassie, is’t?’ He’s aye recollected the deem. So the weddin wis cancelled, and he mairriet her, an they lived happily ever after.
That’s the end o my story. But there a gey lot o cuttin done, ye ken, or I’d never managed to tell it aa – in twa nichts!
11 Mrs MacMillan
LASAIR GHEUG, THE KING OF IRELAND’S DAUGHTER
THERE WAS A KING once, and he married a queen, and she had a daughter. The mother died then, and he married another queen. The queen was good to her stepdaughter. But one day the eachrais ùrlair came in, and she said to the queen that she was a fool to be so good to her stepdaughter ‘when you know that the day the king dies, your share of his inheritance will be a small one to your stepdaughter’s share’.
‘What can be done about it?’ said the queen. ‘If my stepdaughter does well, I will get a share.’
‘If you give me what I ask,’ said the eachrais ùrlair, ‘I will do something about it.’
‘What would you want, old woman?’ said the queen.
‘I have a little saucepan, I only put it on occasionally: I want meal enough to thicken it, and butter enough to thin it, and the full of my ear of wool.’
‘How much meal will thicken it?’
‘The increase of seven granaries of oats in seven years.’
‘How much butter will thin it?’ said the queen.
‘The increase of seven byres of cattle in seven years.’
‘And how much wool will your ear hold?’
‘The increase of seven folds of sheep in seven years.’
‘You have asked much, old woman,’ said the queen, ‘but though it is much, you shall have it.’
‘We will kill the king’s greyhound bitch and leave it on the landing of the stairs, so that the king thinks that it is Lasair Gheug who has done it. We will make Lasair Gheug swear three baptismal oaths, that she will not be on foot, she will not be on horseback, and that she will not be on the green earth the day she tells of it.’
The king came home, and saw the greyhound bitch on the landing. Roared, roared, roared the king: ‘Who did the deed?’
‘Who do you think, but your own eldest daughter?’ said the queen.
‘That cannot be,’ said the king, and he went to bed, and he ate not a bite, and he drank not a drop: and if day came early, the king rose earlier than that, and went to the hill to hunt.
In came the eachrais ùrlair. ‘What did the king do to his daughter last night?’ she asked.
‘He did nothing at all, old woman,’ said the queen. ‘Go home, and never let me see you again after the rage you put the king in last night.’
‘I will be bound that he will kill his daughter tonight,’ said the eachrais ùrlair. ‘We will kill the king’s graceful black palfrey, and leave it on the landing of the stairs. We will make Lasair Gheug swear three baptismal oaths, that she will not be on foot, she will not be on horseback, and she will not be on the green earth the day she tells of it.’
The king came home, and saw the graceful black palfrey on the landing. Roared, roared, roared the king: ‘Who did the deed?’
‘Who do you think, but your own eldest daughter?’ said the queen.
‘That cannot be,’ said the king. He went to bed, and he ate not a bite, and he drank not a drop: and if day came early, the king rose earlier than that, and went to the hill to hunt.
In came the eachrais ùrlair. ‘What did the king do to his daughter last night?’ she asked.
‘He did nothing at all, old woman,’ said the queen. ‘Go home, and don’t come here again, after the rage you put the king in last night.’
‘I will be bound,’ said the eachrais ùrlair, ‘that he will kill his daughter tonight. We will kill your own son and heir,’ said she, ‘and leave him on the landing of the stairs. We will make Lasair Gheug swear three baptismal oaths, that she will not be on foot, she will not be on horseback, and she will not be on the green earth the day she tells of it.’
The king came home, then, and saw his son and heir on the landing. Roared, roared, roared the king: ‘Who did the deed?’
‘Who do you think, but your own eldest daughter?’ said the queen.
‘That cannot be,’ said the king. He went to bed, and he ate not a bite, and he drank not a drop: and if day came early, the king rose earlier than that, and went to the hill to hunt.
In came the eachrais ùrlair. ‘What did the king do to his daughter last night?’ she asked.
‘He did nothing at all, old woman,’ said the queen. ‘Go home, and don’t come here again, after the rage you put the king in last night.’
‘I will be bound,’ said the eachrais ùrlair, ‘that he will kill his daughter tonight. You must pretend that you are oppressed with ills and agues.’
Men leapt on horses and horses on men to look for the king. The king came. He asked the queen what in the seven continents of the world he could get to help her, that he would not get.
‘There is something to help me,’ said she, ‘but what will help me you will not give me.’
‘If there is something to help you,’ said he, ‘you shall have it.’
‘Give me the heart and liver of Lasair Gheug, the king of Ireland’s daughter,’ said the queen.
‘Well,’ said the king, ‘it hurts me to give you that, but you shall have that,’ said the king. He went to the squinting sandy cook and asked him if he would hide his child for one night.
‘I will,’ said the cook. They
killed a sucking pig, and they took out the heart and liver. They put its blood on Lasair Gheug’s clothes. The king went home with the heart and the liver, and gave it to the queen. Then the queen was as well as she had ever been.
The king went again to the squinting sandy cook, and he asked him if he would hide his child for one night again. The cook said he would. Next day the king took with him the best horse in the stable, a peck of gold, a peck of silver, and Lasair Gheug. He came to a great forest, unbounded and unending and he was going to leave Lasair Gheug there. He cut off the end of one of her fingers.
‘Does that hurt you, daughter?’ he said.
‘It doesn’t hurt me, father,’ she said, ‘because it is you who did it.’
‘It hurts me more,’ said the king, ‘to have lost the greyhound bitch.’ With that he cut off another of her fingers.
‘Does that hurt you, daughter?’
‘It doesn’t hurt me, father, because it is you who did it.’
‘It hurts me more than that to have lost the graceful black palfrey.’ With that he cut off another of her fingers.
‘Does that hurt you, daughter?’ said the king.
‘It doesn’t hurt me, father,’ said she, ‘because it is you who did it.’
‘It hurts me more,’ said he, ‘to have lost my son and heir.’ He gave her the peck of gold and the peck of silver, and he left her there. He went home, and he lay down on his bed, blind and deaf [to the world].
Lasair Gheug was frightened in the forest that wild beasts would come and eat her. The highest tree she could see in the forest, she climbed that tree. She was not there long when she saw twelve cats coming, and a one-eyed grey cat along with them. They had a cow and a cauldron, and they lit a fire at the foot of the tree she was in. They killed the cow and put it in the cauldron to cook. The steam was rising and her fingers were getting warm. They began to bleed, and drop after drop fell into the cauldron. The one-eyed grey cat told one of the other cats to go up the tree and see what was there: for king’s blood or knight’s blood was falling into the cauldron. The cat went up. She gave it a handful of gold and a handful of silver not to tell that she was there. But the blood would not stop. The one-eyed grey cat sent every one of them up, one after another, until all twelve had been up, and they all got a handful of gold and a handful of silver. The one-eyed grey cat climbed up himself, and he found Lasair Gheug and brought her down.
Scottish Traditional Tales Page 11