He says, ‘My father had an old white horse and to tell you the God’s honest truth, laddie, I wasnae very fond o taking the auld white horse. Me and her were only young things. I went to my father and I asked him, “Father, would you lend me your old horse for a week to go up in the glen?” ’ You see, that’s what the travellers did. When a young couple got married, maybe the son or the second oldest son or the third son, if they had no money and didn’t have anything, they came to their father and asked for a wee shot of his pony and cart for a week. They would never swap it away. But they could gather scrap with it, collect rabbit skins or sell baskets with it. They could travel for weeks with it and camp around the district, maybe be gone for a month, and they saved every penny. They came back and gave their father back his old horse, and they took good care of it while they had it, seen that its feet were all right and fed it well, gave it plenty to drink, brushed it and looked better after it even though it wasn’t their own, but because it was their father’s, see! And I’ve known travellers, sister, to have horses in the family for ten to fifteen years, one horse. And that horse was never parted with. The woman could take it, it was tender, quiet, good. I knew a man who had five sons, now this is the truth. And everyone of these sons had borrowed this old horse and got his start, got his beginning by getting a loan of it for a week!
So he said, ‘Me and Lizzie borrowed wir father’s horse. And I got her a basket of clothes pegs and two-three bits o swag for masel, like laces and pins.’ Because the both of them hawked, you see. They didn’t depend on each other. If she didn’t make a shilling or two, he could do it. And the main thing then was rabbit skins because they were light. A hundred rabbit skins is only two or three pounds. And there was a great demand for them in Aberdeenshire at that time. In Aberdeen these furriers needed rabbit skins.
So he says, ‘The father lent us the old pony and we just took a bit o canvas to make a tent.’ And what they did at night-time, being in the summertime, they just put the shafts of the cart up and pulled the bit of canvas over the shafts, covered the whole cart and made their bed under the cart between the wheels – enough for a young couple – which I’ve done myself many times. So their destination was up Glen Muick. And it’s a long, long glen, a weary, weary glen, you know! So, they’d been up Glen Muick for three days and they were getting on fine, oh, doing well! She was selling and getting two-three shillings, and he was getting rabbit skins galore! And they were collecting non-ferrous metals, copper and brass and that. It wasn’t worth much, but you got it for very little. And they stayed in one part – a bend on the road and an old bridge. Across from that was the ruins of an old chapel or an old mill. So, being there for two or three days with the pony tethered every night, the grass was getting kind of short. But the idea was you always kept the best bit of grass for the last, the day before you shifted. Because the horse had a journey to make home. You never took the horse and tied it straight to your tent the first night. You tried to get the horse to eat all the grass round about the part where you could see it, and keep the last wee piece of clean grass close to the tent for the night before you moved, if you were only on a journey. Different if you were staying for a long time, or a one-night stay. You would put the pony beside you like the old man in Inverness did. But anyway, the pony had eaten all the grass round the place.
And this night Hector said, ‘We’ll take the pony, we’ll shift in the morning.’ So they brought the pony in close to the tent – well, it wasn’t a tent, only the cover over the shafts of the cart. And they had an outside fire of sticks which they cooked on. And Hector smoked a pipe, even in his younger days. Lizzie, she smoked cigarettes. He said, ‘I must hae fell asleep. And the first thing I heard was the horse’s feet on the road. So I nudged Lizzie wi my elbow. “Lizzie, I’ll have tae rise. The pony’s awa doon the road and prob’ly it’ll go a long way.” ’ If a pony got on the road it wouldn’t stop, because the glen was fenced off and all the way down were dykes. And it’s a hard thing if you waken up in the morning and your pony’s gone. You’ve got to walk miles to collect it. Now a horse keeps going when it gets loose. It’ll travel for miles during the night till it gets to an open gate where there’s a good field of grass. It’ll probably go in. But if there’s no gates or anything, it’ll keep going on. That’s why travellers used to keep a bicycle. If your pony got loose you could jump on the bike, follow it and try and turn it. But Hector didn’t have an old bicycle of any kind. He knew he had a long walk if his pony got on the road that night.
So he dug into Lizzie with his elbow again and said, ‘Lizzie, the horse is on the road. I’ll have tae go and catch it! I hope you’ll no be feart till I come back.’ ‘No,’ she says, ‘I’ll be all right.’ So he said, ‘I got up. And I pulled on my trousers, and I oot tae the road. The pony was loose, it was away. Now I heard its feet in the distance, and I ran as hard as I could but I couldnae catch it. I couldnae overtake it! So I wis a wee bit feart that Lizzie would be feart by hersel, because it was a waste glen away oot o the district. The nearest hoose was miles away. So my love fir Lizzie overcome the love fir catchin the horse. So I hurried my way back and said, “If I’m gaun after the horse I’m takin her wi me!” So I hurried back tae the wee campin place and I said, “Lizzie, the horse is awa doon the glen. You’ll have to come wi me ’cause I’m no leain ye.” She got up and put on her claes and I took her by the hand. Me and her follaed doon the road. We heard the horse’s feet in the distance and we ran and we ran and we ran and we ran as far as we could go. But we couldnae catch up on the horse. Well, we must hae went for two or three mile.’ Now I swear, sister, this old man told me this for the God’s honest truth, and he’s dead in his grave, for God pleases, and I wouldnae tell the lie aboot him.
‘But,’ he said, ‘we couldnae catch it. So the best thing we could do is turn back. So we turned back and we cam hame tae the wee place where we were stayin. And I was angry, really angry, see! Lizzie says to me, “Hector, we’ll never gaunna get awa fae this place in the morning. God knows how far that horse’ll go. It’ll prob’ly go all the way back tae the main road which is about fifteen mile tae the foot o the glen! And God knows where it’ll go tae!” And I was real angry! Noo I had an auld knife in my pocket fir makin baskets, a bit o a table knife. I put my hand in my pocket and I took oot this auld knife. I said, “Lizzie, look, dae ye see that knife? If I could get that white wanderin spirit the night, the spirit, that wanderin spirit o Glen Muick, I’d pit my knife intae it tonight!’ At’s gaunna gie me a lang walk in the morning.” And I lookit roond and Lizzie couldnae speak. She – the hands was going. But I said, “What’s wrong wi you lassie, what’s wrong wi you lassie?” Her hands was goin like that, shakin. And she was dumb, couldnae speak. I said, “What is it? What’s wrong wi ye?” And I took her and I pit her sittin doon. She pointed tae me that way, but she couldnae speak she’s so terrified. And I lookit roond and there it was comin – the spirit. It was dressed in a white robe from head tae foot and I couldnae see nae face or nothing. And it was floating that way and its feet wasnae touchin the ground and it was comin, comin close and closer and closer. Right tae where I was standin. Well, the fright I got when I seen this thing – I ran in alow the float and I gathered all the blankets and I wrapped ’em roond my heid. And I cuddled Lizzie and buried my face, cuddled her in and buried my face in the blankets. My body was goin like that, shakin. And I shakit fir the fright till God’s daylight in the morning, till it was clear. And it was aboot two hoors before Lizzie got her voice back wi the fricht she got.
‘She says, “Hector,” when she did come tae hersel, “Hector, dae ye no ken, I heard my faither tellin me lang ago that Glen Muick is haunted. And you said that, you called the spirit oot!” ’
‘But when God’s daylight cam again I was a man again, I wasnae feart nae mair. The birds was whistlin, it was God’s daylight, I wasnae feart or nothing. I’m no heedin aboot nae spirits or nothing. But I wis still thinkin aboot the fricht I got, my heart was still beatin
with the fricht I got. But in the morning we kindled the fire and made a cup o tea. I said, “Lizzie, come on, we’d better go and look for the old horse. This’ll be the last time I’ll ever be in Glen Muick as long as I live!” So after we made a wee cup o tea, me and her made wir way down the road and we were expectin to go a long way tae catch the old horse. But we hadnae went two hundred yards and there was the auld horse grazin in the corn inside the farmer’s field! It went through a gate in the field. And we took it back.
‘She said, “Hector, look, did you see onything last nicht?”
‘ “Lassie, what do you mean, did I see onything last night?”
‘She said, “Do you remember when you said if you had that wanderin spirit o Glen Muick, you’d put your knife in it? Hector, I seen it comin, it was floatin towards ye!”
‘ “I seen it, lassie! What do you think I buried my head in the cloots for?”
‘She said, “Hector, that’s the thing my faither used to tell me about. That was the Wanderin Spirit of Glen Muick.”
‘So we made wir way back doon the glen and I got my father on Old Meldrum Green. And I gied him his auld horse back. And frae that day to this day never again did ever I hae a white horse, or never again did I go back to Glen Muick.’
And the old man’s dead in his grave for God pleases, sister, and I swear that’s the God’s honest truth the old man told me. He called the horse the ‘Wanderin Spirit o Glen Muick’. He was angry with the old horse. He didn’t know a word about the legend, never knew about the Spirit of Glen Muick, no way in this world. Now people don’t believe that there are such things in this world as the supernatural, that really happen to folk. And you never even give it an understanding until it happens to you! And the thing is, when it does happen to you, you don’t think you’re going to get anybody else to believe it. And when it happens to somebody else, you really think they’re only telling a tale. Now I remember my auntie who was my mother-in-law. She told me this wee story.
And she says to me, ‘Brother, you’ve got to be careful about horses.’ You know, she was a good horsiewoman! Because she’d had horses all her days, and her man was a great horse dealer. He was known far and wide. He just looked at a horse and he could see through it. This was the father of the cousin who had taught me so much. He was a great horsieman. Big Willie Townsley could make a set o harness from an old wellie boot, a fisherman’s wader. And he was unique in horse trade of all description. Everybody knew big Willie for his horse dealing. You know, he was as game a man that ever you met. And she says to me, ‘Do you believe in evil?’
‘Ah well,’ I said, ‘Auntie, it all depends what you mean. Everybody gets an experience o evil through time.’
But she says, ‘Some things are hard to believe. But I’m goin to tell you a wee story. Your uncle had many experiences. Because I believe that only certain types of people that these things really happen to. When they tell you about it, you think that they’re only making up the story, but it could really happen. He went to the market and he bought this horse. It stood all alone and nobody was interested in it. And it was a beautiful horse, a beautiful animal. It was a mare and about fifteen hands high. He was stayin in Madderty just outside o Crieff.’ Now the people wouldnae go ahead and tell you the exact way it happened if it didnae happen. ‘And,’ she said, ‘it was in a stall in the market. And he bought it for very little. It was cheap.’ Why other people didn’t buy it, sister, nobody really knows. And he fetched it back. He didn’t have any cart to drive it home. When you bought a horse in the market you didn’t get a harness or anything. So It was a long walk to Madderty, about fifteen or sixteen miles. But if you’ve got a good pony you don’t mind walking with it to fetch it home. You couldn’t hire a truck in these days. You had no money. You just had to walk it like I’ve done myself many’s the time.
When he came back to his wife, my auntie, God rest her soul, he says to her, ‘Ha-ha! I got a guid ane the day. A right guid horse the day. And I got a bargain.’ He had his supper, had his tea, whatever he had to eat, maybe little or muckle, nobody knows. But it was in the wintertime, sister, and in the wintertime travellers had to find meat, food for their horse, and it doesn’t matter where he got it. Suppose he had to steal it or walk for miles at night to a farmer’s shed or take a bite, hay, for his horse. No traveller would go to his bed, he couldnae sleep if he thought his horse was hungry. Because this is what he depended on. His horse was his life.
So he says to my auntie, ‘I’ll have to go and look for some meat for this horse.’ The travellers always kept a bag and they would go to a stack, a farmer’s haystack in the field. In these days when the farmers cut hay there were no balers or anything, and they built big haystacks, left them in the field. It was a simple matter o just walking in and pulling the hay out and filling your bag, taking it home to your horse. I’ve done it hundreds of times. It was stealing, but it wasn’t stealing to us. Because we knew we were doing good for the animal. Because the animal couldn’t steal for itself, so we had to do it for him. In fact, we were only getting food for the beast which we thought was no sin. And big Willie knew the horse was hungry. And he gathered this hay and took it back, a nice bag of beautiful hay. He tied the horse up beside his tent, filled a nice pail of water, left it beside the horse, and left the beautiful hay beside the horse.
And he’s always bragging all night about this horse to his wife, you know, ‘Ah, I’m no gaunna swap this one away for a while. I’m gaunna keep him, hang on to this horse. This is a guid horse. And I got it cheap. Noo I dinnae know why people couldnae hae bocht it.’ But the next morning he wakened up. The hay was still there. The horse had never touched one single bite, not one single bite! And it was fat. And the water pail was still full.
So he said to his wife, ‘Funny, that horse never ate nothing last night.’
Auntie said, ‘It’s prob’ly strange. It’s prob’ly a pet or something, and it’s used wi folk feedin it. Prob’ly in a couple of days, in a while, when it gets hungry it will eat.’ But he had that horse for three weeks, and that horse never had one single bite. He wouldn’t accept one bite from old Willie. Now this is the truth I’m telling you. I’m no making up any stories. And she’s gone, would God please her, and this is what she told me. He had that horse for three weeks and he coaxed it every way in the world tae get it to eat. But no. It wouldnae.
So he said to her, ‘woman, hoo is that horse livin?’ Now it wouldn’t even eat grass. Through the day it wouldn’t even graze with the wee bits of grass it got. Any horse will eat something when it’s hungry. But it wouldn’t take a bite, no way. So he says to the woman, ‘I doot there evil attached to that animal. Evil attached tae it! How it lives I don’t know.’ But they left Madderty and they shifted to another camping place. And they landed at Cat’s Corner before you go to Crieff, before you go to the smiddie. They landed in thon wee corner yonder, and there was no place to tether it out. He tied it close to the tent as he could. So he says to himself, ‘There’s nae use o gaun for meat to that. It’ll no eat nothing.’
Now by this time the old man had got himself a float. And he’d pulled it in close to the tent. With no other place to tie the horse, he’d tied it to the wheel of the cart, close up to it, to give the horse enough room to lie down. And God rest Willie, he smoked a pipe, my uncle, my mother’s youngest brother. And he was an awfae man to smoke during the night. If he wakened up through the middle of the night, the first thing he had to do was have a smoke. Now he had two wee boys at the time and they were sleeping at the back of the tent. And my auntie tellt me, ‘He got up and he gied me a dunt with his elbow.’
He said, ‘Listen, woman! Listen! Listen!’
She says, ‘What is it?’
He said, ‘Listen to the horse!’ The horse was chewing now! Crunch. And if you hear a horse eating at night-time, I don’t know if you’ve ever had the experience, it’s the nicest sensation in the world. It crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch. If you’re close to it, sister, and you
hear a horse chewing with his back grinders, it’s the most lulling sensation in the world. Travellers used to love to listen to it, lying at night-time with your horse beside your tent. It’s like somebody singing you a lullaby. But the minute he spoke it stopped. It stopped.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘upon my soul. I never fed it tonight. But I’m gaun oot to see what it’s eatin.’ And as low as your father, sister, I’m gaun to tell you the God’s honest truth. The old woman told me ‘He got up, and he went oot. Close to the cairt and he cam back in. [GASP] And he couldn’t speak. He was gasping. He couldn’t speak to his wife when he came back in.
She says to him, ‘What’s wrong?’ He-he-he lost his voice. It was a wee while before he came to himself.
He said, ‘Sh—, sh—’
She says, ‘What is it?’
‘The mort,’ he said. ‘The mort.’ Meaning, the woman.
‘What woman, what’s wrong with you, man?’ she said. ‘You gaun aff yir heid or something?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘When I went oot to the horse she was standin with an oxterfu’ o hay and she was haudin handfuls tae it and it was catchin it fae her and eatin it – oot o her hand.’ The horse was taking handfuls of hay and chewing them. And the minute they heard the voice, it stopped, like that. The next day he said, ‘That’s the end!’ He took it to Perth the next day and sold it.
Now that was the story from her. Whether this really happened or not, sister, I’m telling you the God’s honest truth. And she swears that that’s the God’s honest truth. The story was among travellers that this horse was a favourite, and this lady fell off. She’d had it for years. She fell off it and broke her neck, and she’d loved it from her heart. The horse wouldn’t eat from anybody but her. Her ghost came back and fed it at night. No traveller would buy it. That’s why it stood in the sale.
The Horsieman Page 34