Twelve Great Black Cats

by Sorche Nic Leodhas

  “Have the lads redd the place up, Geordie man,” said the laird. “We’ll make a bit of a green here, with benches where folk walking by may sit for a while and rest. Have them gather up the stones of the shielings and build a cairn of them. I’ll be having a metal plate made to tell what happened here, and we’ll fix the cairn in memory of what happened here.”

  The laird looked sadly at the deserted scene. “Och, Geordie,” he said. “I’d not have had it happen, even if it cost all of Kennaquhaur to keep it from being done.”

  Geordie shook his head. “I was here when it was done,” he said. “’Twas a wicked thing. Aye, a terrible wicked thing. Auld Jeanie died that night of the shock, ye ken.”

  “There’s Auld Jeanie’s apple tree, there,” the laird said. “It could do with a bit of pruning. Och, the apples it bore were the best that grew in all the land. When I was a wee bairn in leading-strings I often had one of Jeanie’s apples for a special treat. And there’s that old well beside it. I’ve had no draught of water as clear and cold as that from Auld Jeanie’s well since I had to run away from Kennaquhaur.”

  “The well is nae sae good, the now,” said Geordie. “The lid’s fallen in and the well’s choked with twigs and leaves and the like. I’ve given it no care at all. Nobody ever comes to the place. Seems like folk took a scunner against it after the shielings were burned. When they come by on the road they hasten on, eager to get by, as if they feared some evil might be lurking here.”

  “A-weel, we’ll soon sort that out. Get your men at it, to redd up the stones and have them look to the well,” the laird told him.

  “Aye, I will so,” Geordie promised. “We’ll be at it early the morrow’s morn.”

  When the morrow’s morn came, the laird, when he had broken his fast, sat down to work. He had thought to have a good long morning looking over the ledgers and papers for the ten years he’d been away. He had no more than started when word was brought to him that Geordie wanted the laird to hasten down to the burnt shielings because there was something there that he must see. So the laird laid aside his work and rode down to the place.

  Geordie and some of his men were standing together by the well looking down upon something on the ground at their feet. When the laird alit from his horse and walked over to them, they moved aside, so that he could see what had held their eyes. Laid out upon the ground in the semblance of a man were the bones of a skeleton, and beside them a pitiful heap of tattered rags, buttons, and bits of leather, like snaps and belts, crowned with a heavy gold ring, with its stone dulled with dirt, and a silver-mounted riding crop.

  “’Tis the factor!” Geordie told the laird, in a whisper. “I knew him at once by his ring. I remember the way the diamond flashed when he laid hold on Auld Jeanie and tore her away from the door. Och, we hunted for miles around, all over the countryside, and all the time, God help him, he was here within the well!”

  “I was out with the searchers,” said one of the men. “But we never thought it aught like this. We were looking for a man riding a great black horse.”

  “Och, aye,” said another. “Who would ever be looking for a man on a horse in a well?”

  “Auld Jeanie’s curse!” said Geordie. “The auld cailleach’s curse lay upon him. It must have happened the way she said. There he was in the well, and he could not get out. The well has gone dry now, but there was water in it then, maybe up to his knees. He could feel it, but when he grew thirsty, he could not get at it to bring it to his lips, because the well was too narrow for him to bend down or stoop. And when he grew hungry there were branches above him heavy with apples, all within sight, but he could not reach up and pluck even one. And he must have called for help, but no one would hear, for no one dared travel over the road that passed by the shielings, the road that he had closed himself. He was not a God-fearing man,” said Geordie. “Cruel and hard he was indeed. But I could never have found it in my heart to wish him such a fate.”

  “Aye, so! It was the auld cailleach’s curse,” they all agreed. “Och, well, he brought it upon himself.”

  It was a strange thing that when the laird sent a gentleman to London to tell the factor’s wife her husband had been found, she herself had vanished. Folk were vague about it; some thought she had gone to France; some heard that she had married again; some had almost forgotten her altogether. Geordie had no word from her after she went away, but as far as she had told him to do, he went on taking care of things. The factor himself seemed to have no kith or kin to claim him, so the laird bade Geordie put the man’s bones back in the well, and thus the well became his tomb. The stones of the burned shielings were gathered up, and the men built a cairn over the well with them, to mark his grave. A pleasant green was made, with flowers and young trees growing, and benches where weary foot travelers could sit and rest. Folk no longer hastened by nor feared that evil lurked in the place. The laird had a metal plate made and engraved to keep the memory of the burning of the shielings and of the auld cailleach’s curse in men’s minds forever-more.

  Maybe if you should be traveling up in the north of Scotland some day, and take the road across the estate of Kennaquhaur, you will stop and read the plate on the cairn yourself, and if it is the right season, pluck yourself an apple from Auld Jeanie’s apple tree. With the cairn to cover it, you’ll not fear to be falling into the well.

  The Shepherd Who Fought

  the March Wind

  IN the northern Highlands of Scotland, where the crofts are few and far between, there are shepherds tending their sheep on grassy braes, with only their faithful dogs to keep them company. Many of them will not lay eyes on the face of another living person for weeks on end.

  The hours are lonely and long and tend to go by slowly, so the shepherds turn to many pastimes to make the time seem to go faster while keeping their eyes on their flocks. Some play on the fipple flute, amusing themselves by piping old songs or making up new ones of their own. But too much piping taxes the breath, and that’s a fact.

  Some of the shepherds find a big flat stone from which they can keep their sheep in sight while they dance upon it, practicing the intricate steps of the old Scottish dances: jigs, strathspeys, flings, and reels; humming to the tunes that spur their feet, with the hope that a prize will come to them when they compete with the dancers next Gathering Day. But a man’s legs sometimes get awful weary. He cannot be at the dancing all the time.

  Then there are some who read books, wanting to improve their minds, or maybe leaf through their Bibles for wisdom and consolation. But it is not too good to pass the time reading, because a man gets his mind so caught in a web of printed words that he can very well forget that he has sheep to tend.

  Every shepherd has his own way of amusing himself in his hours of loneliness, but a lot of them will tell you that there is one way that is the best because it will not tax your breathing, nor tire your body, nor take your mind from your sheep. It’s useful, forbye, because you’ve got something to show for it in the end. What would it be? Och, knitting, to be sure!

  In the old days you’d find shepherds all over Scotland with their cleevs of woolen yarn, spun from the fleece of their own sheep, and their wooden needles, shaped and polished by themselves, sitting on their lonely hillsides with their sheep grazing peacefully about them, and all of them knitting away as if their lives depended on it. As they could knit, in a manner of speaking, with one eye on their knitting and the other on their sheep, nothing was neglected and their minds were at peace.

  There was once a shepherd up in northern Perthshire who was a champion knitter, and took great pride in turning out vests and trews and hose galore. He was maybe a little bit dress-proud, and liked whatever he was clad in to be the best to be had. The things he knitted were unco fine. You’d have to pay a terrible price for the like, should you be buying them from a shop.

  Do not think him a weakling because he was so good at knitting. He was not one of those wizened wee old fellows with a face brown and wrinkled like
a crab-apple in a Hogmanay punch. This shepherd was a braw young callant with yellow hair bleached lint-white by the summer sun, and curling above his brow. His blue eyes were dark and clear and honest, and his mouth, when not smiling, was always ready to smile. If he was not handsome, he was good to look at, and that, for a man, is enough.

  He stood well over the two-yard mark in height, and his weight was fourteen stone, every ounce of it strong muscle and hard flesh and sturdy bone. He could whip any man in Perthshire who would stand up to fight him, and maybe anyone in Scotland, too. He was proud of his family, himself, his sheep, and the land that gave him birth, and anything else that was his. In all the world or out of it there was naught that he feared.

  His name was Murdagh MacAlister, and though he was young he already had a croft of his own, with a tidy wee shieling on it. The house lay at the foot of the brae where he kept his sheep. Above the brae was a high moor with bens beyond it, and to the side was a long deep lonely glen.

  He lived alone but it did not trouble him, for he was out with his sheep on the hillside night and day. He had Balach the dog, the spunky wee sheepdog that guarded the flock for him, and he and Balach loved each other like brothers. With Balach the dog, and his sheep and his knitting, Murdagh made do very well. Every now and then when he felt the need of a change of scene he’d send for an old shepherd who had given up sheep tending as a steady job, but didn’t mind taking on Murdagh’s sheep for a day or two.

  Then Murdagh would go down to his shieling and don his fine linen shirt with the ruffles and his finest kilt, and buckle on his wide leather belt. He’d put on his velvet jacket and his silver-buckled shoon, and fasten his plaidie on the shoulder with his brooch, arranging the folds so that they would show the tartan at its best. He’d hang his sporran from his belt and tuck his sgian-dubh into the top of his stocking, then he’d put on his bonnet with the badge at the side, and Murdagh MacAlister was ready for town.

  He’d walk the long miles of the road and stride into the town with his back straight, and his chest out, and his chin up, and his hips twitching to give the proper swagger to the kilt, and every lass he passed would turn her head to look after him and sigh, and say, “Ochone! Were he but mine!”

  For two or three days he would carouse about the town, drawing after him a band of callants as wild and carefree as himself. Then, when the town was all but torn to pieces with their antics, he’d suddenly slip away and leave them. Back up the long road he’d go, to the shieling, lay off his fine clothes and put on his old ones, and go back to sitting and knitting and tending his sheep.

  He’d sit on a stone that he’d always sat upon and he’d look about him, at the blue sky (when it wasn’t murky) and at the green leaves fluttering on the trees. He’d look at the heather blooming on the moor above the glen, and at the bens, bare and blue and misty, beyond. He’d listen to the lark, rising to sing in the cool fresh air, and to the burn with its peat-brown clear waters chuckling over the stones. And Murdagh Mac-Alister would say to Balach the dog, “O Balach mo chu, what could be better than this?” And Balach the dog would poke his cold damp nose against Murdagh’s hand to show that he agreed.

  There came a day in March, with the lambing time over and the young lambs racing each other over the brae under the watchful eyes of their dams, when Murdagh sat on his stone in the sun knitting, with Balach the dog at his side. The day was mild and fair, with springtime slipping timidly but surely into the world. Murdagh’s heart was easy in his breast.

  Suddenly, down from the bens and over the moor the wild March wind rushed by, roaring through the trees and tearing the young new leaves off in handfuls, letting them fly behind him as he came. The lambs, greeting, ran to shelter themselves against the sides of their dams, and the ewes drew close together in a huddle to keep themselves safe.

  But the March wind danced lightly over their backs and, racing up to Murdagh, seized the bonnet from his head and tossed it up toward the sky. Murdagh leaped up to catch it, but the March wind snapped it out of his hands and sped off with it so fast that Murdagh could not catch up with him. In a trice, the March wind and Murdagh’s bonnet were out of sight.

  It was only Murdagh’s third-best bonnet, but it belonged to Murdagh and he liked it. He did not take it kindly of the March wind to steal it away. But it was gone and there was naught to be done about it. However, in March, a man was not wise to go out in the weather with his head uncovered. So Murdagh left Balach the dog to tend the sheep for a while until he went down to fetch from his shieling his second-best bonnet.

  When he came back he sat down on his stone and went on with his knitting, and he had to knit twice as fast to make up for the time the March wind had wasted him that day.

  The next day a misty rain kept falling and clouds hung heavy over the bens. Murdagh, to keep out of the mizzle, sat knitting in the wee doorway of the wee shepherd’s bothan set against the wood. The March wind never came near that day.

  The morn of the day that followed dawned bright and fair with the sky high and blue. The lambs played about on the green brae again and Murdagh sat knitting on his stone. He finished the stocking in hand and laid it in the flat creel that sat on the ground by the stone. There were three pairs of hose in the basket, now, and Murdagh was very well pleased. He picked up his needles to start to knit a new pair of stockings but before he could begin the wild March wind came whistling and shouting shrilly down from the bens. He hurtled over the high moor and took a wild turn through the glen, then racing up behind Murdagh, he snatched the second-best bonnet from Murdagh’s head and carried it away with him over the moor and back to the bens again.

  Murdagh was terribly put out about it, and Balach the dog was the same. Murdagh shook his fists and swore like a trooper, and Balach the dog reared up on his hind legs and bayed. Now Murdagh would have to go down to the shieling again, and what with all the wind’s foolery he’d be getting behind with his knitting, to say naught of running out of bonnets. Still, a man could not go bareheaded in the chill spring air with always the chance of rain. So Murdagh left Balach the dog to tend to the sheep while he went down to the shieling to fetch his Sunday-best bonnet, which was the last he had.

  It was a bonnie bonnet, and all but new, and Murdagh thought a lot of it. He set it on his head at the proper angle, and took a peek at himself in the looking glass to see how it looked, and it looked fine.

  “This one,” he said fiercely, “the March wind will not be getting from me!”

  He went to the press and took out a linen napkin which he folded cornerwise. He put it on top of his bonnet, pulling it as tight as he could and knotting the corners under his chin. He jerked at the bonnet, back and front, but the napkin held it tight on his head. “Now let the March wind have a try at it!” he said, grinning. Then he went back to the brae. When he got to the stone he sat down upon it but he did not take up his knitting. Bolt upright he sat, with his shoulders square, and his arms folded on his chest.

  Murdagh could hear the March wind howling and stramashing around the bens and the moor. He sat waiting for the wind to get sight of his bonnet and swoop down and steal it away.

  It was not long he had to sit waiting. Down came the March wind, blowing with all his might, with the trees bowing humbly before him and the tall green blades of grass bending low. He came up behind Murdagh and gave a sharp tweak to the rim of the bonnet where it stuck out from under the napkin’s edge. Murdagh’s bonnet stayed as it was, for the napkin held it tight to Murdagh’s head.

  “Whee-e-e-e!” shouted the March wind, tugging away at the bonnet, and Murdagh, springing up from the stone, whirled himself about on the balls of his feet. He had his arms stretched out to keep his balance, and suddenly to his amazement he discovered that he had between his arms the body of a man, where he’d expected to find naught but air. He shut his arms and grasped the man as tight as he could. Murdagh could not see him, but he could feel the fellow’s rib cage, and the flesh of his arms as he braced himself against Murdagh,
trying to get away, and Murdagh could feel the beating of his heart against his own, as they grappled, breast to breast.

  “Hiero!” thought Murdagh. “So this is the stuff the March wind is made of! Well do they call him the living gale!”

  Murdagh’s heart leaped for joy. Fighting with air was one thing, and a thing that could make a man unco uneasy, but there was not a man in the world, seen or unseen, that Murdagh was afraid of, and that he couldn’t beat. Now that he had found out the March wind was a man, Murdagh would teach him a lesson he’d not soon forget.

  The March wind writhed and twisted, setting his strength against Murdagh’s, using every wile and trick he had command of, but he could not break Murdagh’s hold. If the March wind fought hard to get free, Murdagh fought harder to hold him fast.

  They struggled together on the brae, from the high moor to the kailyard above the shieling, and from the glen at one side to the wood at the other, and into the burn and out. The ewes gathered their lambs together and scurried with them to a far corner by the wood and crouched low with them under the cover of the bracken there. Balach the dog circled about the wrestlers, keeping out of the way but holding himself ready to dash in and help, should Murdagh give the word.

  The joy of the battle coursed hotly in Murdagh’s blood, and he shouted and laughed loud. He’d won many a fight before, but never one fought with an opponent he could not see! The March wind circled Murdagh’s waist with his arms, trying to lift him and throw him to the ground, but Murdagh felt with his knee till he found the back of the March wind’s knee, and tripped him so that he fell.

  All of a sudden the fight was over, and there was the March wind lying upon his back on the ground, and Murdagh sitting on his chest with his knees holding the March wind’s shoulders down. He had one of the March wind’s wrists in either hand, gripping them tightly to keep them out of mischief, and although the March wind kicked and heaved it did him no good, for with the whole of Murdagh’s heft on his chest, weighing him down, he was bound to stay where he was.