Anyway, he got word this night to go to some place in Mull where there was a woman ill. And he set off with his servant – each of them had a horse – and they were going past a house there. And what were they doing in the bam of this house but there were girls there working at luadh, that’s in English waulking cloth. And it was quite a sight to see, and the doctor and his servant stopped to listen to the songs they were singing, for they used to sing a variety of songs for waulking . . .
And the servant said, he said admiringly: ‘Hasn’t that girl a good voice?’ said he.
‘It’s very good,’ said the doctor, ‘over a black toad.’
And he explained to the servant that there was a toad – she had swallowed a toad drinking water – there was a toad inside her. ‘It won’t be long,’ said he, ‘until they send for me.’
And it was not long until the doctor was sent for. He examined the girl closely and carefully, and he told them to put on a good peat fire. They did. And he said to the girl, ‘Sit by the fire.’ He asked them had they any meat in the house.
‘Yes,’ said they. Wires were got and a lump of meat was put on the wires to roast in front of the fire. Then he asked them to bring in a basin of water. The basin of water was set down on the hearth-stone, and he himself was sitting beside the girl.
The meat began to roast, anyway, and there was a fine smell through the house. But what should happen to the girl but she began to feel sick, and she told the doctor, ‘I’m sorry,’ said she, ‘but I think I’m going to be sick.’
‘Ach,’ said he, ‘that’s quite all right.’
And the girl began to vomit, and she vomited up the toad, and the toad fell into the basin of water, and the doctor caught it just like that!
‘How do you feel now?’ said he.
‘I’m fine,’ said she.
‘Yes,’ said he, ‘that’s the thing that was making you ill. Any time you are in Mull to cut peat, mind and watch how you drink the water. There are no toads in Tiree at all,’ said he, ‘but there are plenty of them in Mull.’
And that girl was fine after that. But the Rahoy Doctor had the Black Art too. He had the Black Art too. That’s something nobody has today . . .
86 William MacDonald
THE DANCING REAPERS
THERE WAS A FARMER or maybe a landowner in Brae Lochaber once, and his name was MacGregor, and he was supposed to have the Black Art – to know magic. But anyway he was away this time – he had left home on some particular business, and when he had settled everything he had to do he was on his way home, and he was passing the house of a farmer thereabouts, and it was about midday and he was pretty weak with hunger, and he said to himself that he would go in and ask . . . see if he could get a bite of food to eat, to help him on his way home.
He went in, and there wasn’t a living soul in the house but the farmer’s wife, and she . . . had her sleeves rolled up and she was so busy . . . as busy as could be, working to get the bread baked. He told her he was hungry, cold and weak and that a bite to eat . . . he needed a bite to eat.
‘Oh, I can’t give you food just now,’ said she to him, ‘I’m so busy,’ said she, ‘with the reapers out in the fields,’ said she, ‘busy cutting oats there,’ said she, ‘with it being such a fine day, and they’ll be home in a minute for their dinner,’ said she, ‘and if there isn’t . . . I must have the bread ready before they come and I can’t give you a thing.’
‘Right enough,’ said he. He turned on his heel and out he went, and as soon as he was out of the door the farmer’s wife sprang into the middle of the room and began to dance and this was the song she was singing:
‘A ’fear mór hath a thàinig bho’n iar
Dh’iarr e biadh’s cha d’fhuair e mìr.’
‘The big grizzled man who came from the West
Asked for food and got not a bit.’
But anyway at dinner-time, when . . . dinner-time had come, they realised the people who were reaping in the field, that they had . . . had no word to come in for their dinner, and the farmer told the maid – she was working at the oats with them – to go home and see what was holding up dinner, why they hadn’t got it. She went home, and the farmer’s wife was dancing in the middle of the room there and singing, and she went in and sprang alongside the farmer’s wife [dancing] and singing the same tune:
‘The big grizzled man who came from the West
Asked for food and got not a bit.’
They were . . . They realised that the girl who had gone home, the messenger who had gone home had not come back, and another girl was sent home. She went inside and she too sprang into the middle of the room singing:
‘The big grizzled man who came from the West
Asked for food and got not a bit.’
They went in one by one, and at last the farmer was left by himself reaping out in the field. He went home, and he was still wondering what could be wrong, so he didn’t go inside at all, but he peeped through the window, so. Everyone . . . his wife and . . . the maids and the young men and everyone was out there on the floor dancing to:
‘The big grizzled man who came from the West
Asked for food and got not a bit.’
They were turning and reeling there, and seemingly you never in your life saw such a dance. ‘Heavens,’ he said to himself, ‘there’s something wrong here today,’ said he. ‘I won’t go inside at all,’ said he.
He set off then and went over to a house not far away, and he asked the housewife there if she had seen anybody that day, or if anyone had passed on the road that day or anything . . .?
‘Such and such a man passed by,’ said the lady to him, ‘and I saw him pass.’
‘Oh well, if you did,’ said he, ‘he caused me this trouble,’ said he, ‘and I’ll have to go after him.’ He went into the stable and brought his best horse and leapt on its back and saddled it [sic!] and off he set in pursuit of the . . . of MacGregor. Oh, he caught up with MacGregor then, and said . . . he begged him to release the people who were dancing in the house.
‘Well,’ said MacGregor to him, ‘when you go back,’ said he, ‘you must look,’ said he, ‘on the lintel above the door, so,’ said he, ‘and you’ll find an oaken pin,’ said he, ‘stuck in there – what they call a magic wand,’ said he, ‘and you must pull it out, so,’ said he, ‘and maybe that will release them.’
He went back and stabled his horse and went in, and . . . he found the magic wand in the lintel above the door right enough, and he gave it a tug, and when he did every last one of the people who had . . . been dancing collapsed on the floor, they fell on the floor there in a dead faint. They spent three days and three nights lying there before they could move a muscle.
87a Tom Moncrieff
THE BORROWED PEATS
THERE WERE ONE occasion a woman had started to churn the milk . . . Usually when they started to churn they were not only lookin for the butter, but for the kirn milk, or Scotch cheese, which was the curds, and to produce that, when the butter was removed they had to pour in hot water into the buttermilk, to produce the curds; so they always hung a kettle over the open fire to heat water, to have it ready.
Now it happened, when this woman had started to churn her milk, a neighbour woman whom she suspected of havin sinister intentions came in and asked if she could get some kindling, because her fire had gone out. And she insisted that she should give her some coals from under the kettle. So she gave her the coals, but she ‘plunged and plunged the kirn in vain’ after that, and nothing – no butter came.
Now it happened that a packman came in, a pedlar – and they usually knew all the country gossip and all the leegends about witches and so forth – he asked for a drink. And nobody in those days would ha’ given a man water if they had buttermilk – buttermilk, or blaand, which was the whey produced after the kirn milk had been made, was the favourite drink, and a very good drink it was too, especially the blaand. However, she had none at the time, so she dipped the cup into the churn, took
out some o the milk she’d been tryin to churn and handed it to him. The packman took a mouthful or two, and then he said, ‘Well, gödwife,’ he says, ‘ye’re no gettin the göd o yer milk!’
She says, ‘No, I know it.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘do you suspect anybody?’
She said, ‘Weel, the neighbour wife has just been in an gotten colls oot o anunder the kirnin waater.’
He says, ‘Did you gie them to her?’
She says, ‘Yes, she insisted that I should gie them.’
He says, ‘Weel, ye’re gien awaa yer luck.’ He says, ‘If she comes again, tell her to tak them tae hersel, and then.’ he says, ‘hadd the kirn staff as hard ipo the bottom o the kirn as ye can, an,’ he said, ‘döna let her awaa till she gies you back what she’s taen.’
A few days later she was tryin tae kirn again, as usual gettin nothing. In came the neighbour wife and she said, ‘Lass, my fire is gaen oot again,’ she says. ‘Could thu gie me twa colls?’
She said, ‘Yea, tak them to theesel.’
‘Na, na,’ she says, ‘thu gie me . . .’
‘No,’ she says, ‘A’m t’reshin at this kirn an I haena time, so thu’ll just hae to tak them to theesel the day.’
Well, reluctantly she reached into the fire wi the tongs, and then the wife put the kirn staff on the bottom o the kirn, and the witch roared oot – she says, ‘Oh my Loard, thu’s burnin me. I’m roastin.’
‘Oh,’ she says, ‘thu can roast till thu gies me back what thu’s taen.’
So she started an muttered her – some sort of a rhyme, an she says, ‘Oh, it’s aa right noo.’ An . . . ’course the wife let her go, an the kirn fill’t wi butter.
87b Nan MacKinnon
THE BORROWED PEATS
YES, I HEARD ABOUT a tailor who was working in a house one day as they used to do in those days: when someone had clothes to make they fetched the tailor to the house. And the tailor came to stay in this house and he was working away at the clothes. And the housewife, she was churning.
Well, what happened was that one of the women from next door came to ask her for a burning peat from the fire, and she said: ‘My fire,’ said she, ‘has gone out,’ said she. ‘Could you let me have a peat?’
And she picked up the tongs and took out a peat, and when she had gone out with the peat the tailor got up and took another little peat out of the fire and put it in a tub of water.
Well, now, it wasn’t long till the very same woman was back again asking for another peat and: ‘That one went out on me,’ said she. ‘Could you let me have another one?’
And the housewife gave . . . She let her take another peat, thinking nothing of it, and the tailor went again and took another peat out of the fire and put it in the tub of water.
And she came back again a second [sic] time and said it had gone out on her – she’d have to get another one. Anyway, the tailor did the same again when she had gone: he put another peat in – he put it in the tub. And she didn’t come back again.
And the housewife said to him: ‘Why,’ said she, ‘did you put the peat in the water?’
‘Didn’t you suspect anything yourself,’ said he, ‘or did nothing strike you [as odd]?’
‘No, indeed, it didn’t,’ said she. ‘I had no idea what she was up to.’
‘Well, I know,’ said he, ‘what she was up to. There’s not a single scrap of the butter you had in the churn there,’ said he, ‘that she wouldn’t have taken away,’ said he, ‘if she had got away with a peat. And if she ever comes back again and does the same thing,’ said he, ‘you do,’ said he, ‘what I’ve been doing,’ said he, ‘and she can’t do you any harm.’
There you are now.
88 Nan MacKinnon
MILK IN A TANGLE
A FAIR LOT OF PEOPLE came across from Barra to Vatersay one time, and there were women among them too and a good lot of young lads. And the milk cows were on the beach. And the young lads noticed when they were on the beach that there was one woman there who had a black tangle [seaweed stem] behind her back, and she was holding it at both ends. And she stood on the beach with it, and they noticed when they crossed back that she still had it and she was holding it by both ends just as she had been when she was over in Vatersay.
And one of the young lads said to another, ‘What now,’ said he, ‘has she got there?’
‘It can’t be anything good anyway.’
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said he, ‘cutting that tangle in half.’
He sneaked up behind her anyhow, and he took a knife to the tangle and cut it in half. And the shore was flooded with milk across on that side [of the ferry]. She had got the cows’ milk in the middle of the tangle and held on to it by both ends, but she lost every drop of it.
ROBBERS, ARCHERS AND CLAN FEUDS
89 Malcolm Robertson
THE GIRL WHO KILLED THE RAIDERS
IN THE DAYS OF cattle-raiding, long, long ago, there was a family up at Cladach a’ Chaolais – a man, his wife and two doughty daughters. This spring day the sky was threatening, it looked like snow, and the father said to his daughters that they had better drive in all the cattle before night came, for it was looking really bad. There had been flurries of snow the day before this. The girls set off and when they got out to where the cattle were, the first thing they noticed was that a bonny red heifer of theirs was missing. They began looking for it, and they found tracks in the snow that had fallen the day before, and they saw a place where a cow had been driven into a bog and they realised at once that this was the work of raiders. The elder girl said to the younger, ‘You go home with the cattle, and I won’t come home till I find the red heifer, wherever it is, if it’s not been killed.’
She set off, and she knew well enough where raiders used to ship the cattle they stole from that part of the country, out there by Eaval, and she made straight for the spot. There were no highroads in those days, but off she went as fast as she could over the moor till she got to Eaval. Just as she had thought, she saw a tent there, and she went into it, and there was a pot on a fire inside, and the fire had died down. She looked in the pot, and what was in it but black puddings fully cooked. She was hungry, and she cut off one of them and ate her fill of it.
She considered what to do for a while, and on looking around she saw a sword on the floor, and she seized it, ready to do battle with anyone for the heifer. Just as she was thinking everything out she heard a cow bellowing, and she peered out cautiously, and the raiders had come into view with a great herd of cattle. She stayed there, inside the opening of the tent, and she heard one of them say, ‘We had better tie up the red heifer before we go in to eat.’
‘Never you mind about the heifer,’ said another. ‘You go in and get food ready for us, and then we must be getting away once we’ve had a bite to eat, with the state of the tide.’
This man made for the tent, and as soon as he was right inside the tent he got the sword right on the back of his neck, and he fell dead on the spot without a peep. She dragged him over behind her. The people who were keeping an eye on the cattle began to wonder why the man who had gone in had not come out again, and they asked another man to go in. The same thing happened to him, and to one of them after another until there was only one left outside. He came over cautiously, for he had a strong suspicion that there was something wrong in the tent. He spotted her, and ran off down towards the coble, but the girl managed to hit him with the sword and cut off his ear. He pushed off the coble and got away with his life, and he went on board a great galley that was at anchor out in the bay.
After that she untied the red heifer and let loose every one of the cattle there. She got home late that night, with the sword still in her hand, and told her father what had happened.
‘You must seek the sanctuary of the church,’ said he, ‘as fast as you can, and if you manage to reach it before they come in pursuit of you, they won’t be able to touch you.’
She got to the place, and came home, and no pursuers or
anyone appeared.
One wild night over a year after that, her father heard a knocking at the door. He answered it, and there was a man there asking shelter for the night, if only sitting by the fire, the night was getting so bad.
‘Come in anyway, and we’ll see what we can do for you.’
Men wore their hair long in those days, and his had grown down to his shoulders. He got a bed, and he had such a good night that he said he would be glad if he could stay with them for a few days, until he got the horse he was looking for.
So he stayed. He went to look for a horse every day, and came back every evening to this house, where he had started to court the elder daughter. After a short while they agreed to get married, and the stranger bought the horse he wanted the next day, and got ready to leave a day or two after that. The girl was to go along with him, and in those days they had no means of transport but a cart or a horse, but they agreed that she should ride behind him on the horse. So she did, and they set off at daybreak, and kept to a track along by the Claddachs all the way. The wind was rising all the time, and when they were out by Bagh Mór, near Cnoc Cuithein yonder, didn’t a gust of wind lift up his hair on the windward side, and the girl was horrified to see that he had lost an ear.
‘Goodness,’ said she, ‘how on earth did you come to lose your ear?’
‘Oh, I assure you you won’t go too far, and you won’t be a lot older than you are now,’ said he, ‘before you know how I lost my ear.’
The horse was bridled with a bent rope, and he took her down from the horse and tied her hands and feet [with it]. He left her there and ran off to get his companions, who would have been waiting for him with a boat, whatever they were going to do with her. The horse was grazing near her, and she rolled herself over close to it to see if she could manage to put the knot on the bent rope tying her hands behind her back to the horse’s mouth, in the hope that he might cut through it. Then she got close to the horse’s mouth and raised her hands behind her back, and when the horse saw the knot of bent there he started to chew at it. At last he cut through the knot and freed her hands, and it didn’t take her long to get her feet free herself. Then she jumped on the horse’s back, and he found his way back to where he had come from, and she was home early in the evening. And she never heard nor saw more of the man with the one ear.
Scottish Traditional Tales Page 38