Now this fine forest was much admired, and there was one in particular who was very envious of Scotland’s great dark trees. He was the king of Lochlann and he wanted more than anything to destroy them. He would pace round his castle, overcast and gloomy as the winter sky, and he would lament his unhappy lot, ridden right through with jealousy as hot as any good peat fire.
It was his daughter, the princess, who had watched this curious pacing for years on end who finally came to find out the cause of his unhappiness. He explained that he wished to find a way to destroy the trees of the Scottish forest; and that wee princess, she was a practical lass, and she said there was nothing for it but to do it herself.
And so it was that she bade her father leave to find a witch to put her in the shape of a bird, and when he’d done that, and when she’d become a beautiful, pure white bird, she set out over the grassy hills of Lochlann to the deep fir forests that carpeted the Scottish land. On the west coast of Scotland she came down, and there she struck a tree with a wand she had under her wing. With that single motion the tree would burst into flames and burn there, and it was not long before this beautiful white bird had burnt a great number of trees in that forest.
Now this beautiful white bird was no longer fair or pure; indeed, the smoke of the pinewood had cast an ugly black shadow across her feathers and she came to be known by the people of the country as the Dubh a’ Ghiubhais, or Fir Black. And so it was that this Dubh a’ Ghiubhais flew across the land, causing damage that robbed the wee folk of their homes and sent the animals scattering for shelter, and the men had no wood for their homes or their fires, and the trees could no longer spread their comforting arms across the land, protecting it from the wind that blows from the stormy coasts, bringing the rain on its back. And it was for this reason that the men of the land grouped together and decided that this bird must be stopped, for the Dubh a’ Ghiubhais had brought sadness and rain to their sheltered lives.
It was not easy to catch the Dubh a’ Ghiubhais, but it was heard, somewhere on the west coast of Scotland, that the bird had a soft, sweet heart in that blackened breast, and that a plan could be made to capture it.
And so it was that a man at Loch Broom hatched the plan, and on the very next morning spent a day at work in his barnyard, taking mother from her young all across the barn. For the piglets were taken wailing from their sows, the puppies barked as they were snatched from their mothers’ teats, the foals were taken from mares, the lambs from sheep, the calves from the cows, the chickens from the hens, the kittens from the cats, and even the kids from the goats that grazed on the tender shoots of grass on the verge. And the uproar that followed was enough to churn the stomach of any man alive, for there were cries so piteous, so plaintive, so needing that the men and women for miles around hid themselves under soft down pillows in order to block out that dreadful sound.
It was not long before it reached the ears of the Dubh a’ Ghiubhais, who was passing on her fiery course of devastation. And her soft, sweet heart nearly burst with pity for these poor creatures. She flew at once to the ground, and drawing her wand from beneath her wing she made as if to set the animals free when a small sharp arrow stung her breast, piercing her heart and bringing a clean, cold death. And the man at Loch Broom picked up his quiver and slinging it over his shoulder, bent over to collect the dead bird.
And so it was that the Dubh a’ Ghiubhais was hung from a tree, where folk gathered round to cheer her death. News of what had happened reached her father, the king of Lochlann, and he was torn with grief and guilt. He sent his hardiest crew in a great long boat to bring the body of his dear daughter home. But there were fearful gales which pitched and jolted the ships that carried the funeral pyre, and although the brave sailors tried three times, they could get no further than the mouth of the Little Loch Broom.
And so it was that the Dubh a’ Ghiubhais was buried beneath the tree where she hung, at Kildonan, at the bend of the loch at Little Loch Broom. She rests there still, a single fir tree growing atop her grave, which lies beneath a grassy green hillock.
The Pabbay Mother’s Ghost
There once was a man who lived in a cottage in Pabbay, a kindly man who knew a woman’s needs and saw to them in the course of every day. And so it was that when this kindly man’s wife was in childbed, he made for her a great steaming bowl of porridge with butter. For the oats and butter in the porridge would make her strong, and the baby would be born without a murmur.
This man sat by the fireside that night, stirring the porridge and reaching across occasionally to mop the brow of his sweet, dear wife. And then a woman came in and sat by him on his bench, and she asked quietly for a bowl of the steaming porridge with butter. The man handed her the bowl without a word and carried on stirring, reaching across occasionally to mop the brow of his sweet, dear wife. And when the woman returned her bowl empty he filled it once more, and then again, until the woman had three great pots of porridge with butter. But still the man made no sound, passing another bowl across to his wife now and then, reaching across occasionally to mop her sweet, dear brow.
And then the woman stood up, and she said to the man, as he stirred his porridge, “There, that’s what I should have had when I was in childbed myself, for I am strong now, and my baby would have been born without a murmur. It was hunger that was the cause of my death, but now, as long as a drop of your blood remains, no woman shall ever die in childbed if anyone who tends her with porridge and butter is related to you.”
So the woman left the cottage in Pabbay, and it was not long before the man’s baby was born without a murmur, and his sweet, dear wife sat up strong and healthy in the childbed. And from that time on, not a wife or child of his, or a wife or child of his children died, for like their forefather, they knew a woman’s needs and saw to them in the course of every day.
Luran
There once was a crofter and his wife, and they lived in a glen far from the prying eyes of neighbours. They were quiet folk, but they lived well, with a herd of cattle to be envied, and a good bit of land. Their house was snug and warm in the coldest months, they had cream and milk and butter, and they wanted for nothing, in that glen, far from the prying eyes of neighbours.
Now that crofter was a healthy man, and he liked nothing more than a good meal, particularly if it was a feast of his favourite oakcakes, smeared with butter and dipped again in cream. And he partook of this kind of meal on most days so he grew rather heavy and clumsy. But their house was safe from any kind of danger, being far from the prying eyes of neighbours, and he grew perhaps a little too satisfied, and a little too complacent in his happy home.
For it was a cold Hallowe’en evening that strange things began to happen on the land of that satisfied crofter, and although everyone living near the fairy folk knows that Hallowe’en evening is their time for mischief, the crofter had not had cause to worry before this particular Hallowe’en night.
It was just as he was settling himself and his wife into their beds that they heard the howling of their guard dog, and a rumpus going on in the henhouse. And then they heard the cattle lowing, and everyone knows that cattle never low in the dead of night, so the crofter and his wife grew alarmed. Then he put back on his outdoor clothes, and he lit a lantern and headed towards the barnyard.
There, an astonishing sight met his eyes, for the barnyard was empty, his cattle gone, his pig sty clean, his henhouse bare. And the crofter sat down and held his head in his hands, and he asked himself how such a thing could happen to a house tucked so neatly in the glen, far from the prying eyes of neighbours. And then he started, for there was the sound of a lowing cow just over the knoll, and when he looked more closely there were tracks heading there too.
And so it was that the crofter plucked up his courage that Hallowe’en night, and went over that knoll, into the realm of the fairies. He crept there silently, until he heard voices. Then he stopped and he listened.
&nbs
p; “Luran didn’t run,” came a voice.
“Didn’t run at all,” said another.
“Couldn’t run at all,” giggled the first, and then there was a great deal of scuffling and laughter.
“If only his bread were not so hard,” said the other, “but if Luran were fed on porridge, Luran would outrun the deer.”
And the crofter heard this conversation, and filled with fear (for everyone knows that fairies who speak English are the most dangerous of all) he peeked over the hilltop. There sat two smug fairies and just beyond them were his cattle, and all the livestock of the barnyard. He sat back again, Luran the satisfied crofter, and he began to think.
And when he returned home to greet his anxious wife, he was still thinking, and again in the morning when she offered him his favourite meal of oatcakes, smeared in butter and dipped again in cream. And so it was that Luran held up his hand and said to his wife, “You’ll have to give me porridge and milk every day.”
As the days shortened and then lengthened again, Luran grew long and lean, and a fine, fit sight of a man he was. He worked on his farm and he raised more cattle, and on that house in the glen, far from the prying eyes of neighbours, Luran plotted his revenge.
It was twelve months now, and Luran was ready. Hallowe’en night found the crofter hidden in the stable of cattle, peering restlessly across their troughs. He was soon rewarded, for in popped the same two fairies who had visited there before, and as they led the first cattle away from his barn, Luran leapt up and chased those fairies over the knoll. And when he caught them, not far from the top, they gazed at him in surprise, and danced a fairy dance of approval.
So the crofter returned to his cosy house, leading his cattle back to the stable. And never again did those fairies trouble that house, tucked in the glen, far from the prying eyes of neighbours, for the master of that house ate nothing but porridge and milk, as all good men should.
The Hugboy
There once was a giant, a hugboy he was called, and he lived with his wife somewhere near Caithness. Now they fought a great deal, that hugboy and his wife, and when they stamped their feet and howled, the little folk scurried for cover, for it was likely that a boulder or two could be thrown in their direction, or a mighty foot placed firmly upon a house or farm. Some say it was at that time that the fairy folk went to live inside the hills, for only then were they safe from the rages of the hugboy and his wife.
Well, so it happened, one dark day, that the hugboy fell out with his wife, and having had enough of his tempers, and with one of her own to match, she set out from home, never to return.
The hugboy was furious, for he chased her north, stepping through the Pentland Firth, and when he caught sight of her once more he threw a great stone at her. She was nearly flying now, so furious and fast she was making away from the hugboy, and up Ireland Brae she ran as he threw another great boulder that missed its mark. But that stone still lies in the field above Ramsquoy, and his great fierce fingermarks are in it still. She ran still further, the wife of the hugboy, for there is another stone he threw at her in the Lylie Banks at Skaill in Sandwick.
But that’s where he lost her, and the hugboy stopped his chase and set about finding some turf to build himself a new home, so far had he come from his old one. He stomped further north, scooping up handfuls of turf and placing them in his great straw basket. One handful carved out the Loch of Harry, and another made the Loch of Stenness. And then going back to lay the foundations of his great new house, he tripped, and stubbed his toe, whereupon a great bit of turf fell off that is now Graemsay. His toe fell off, too, and it forms a hillock that is mossed but cannot hide the fact that it was once a part of the hapless hugboy.
It was here that his great basket gave way, tipping its contents over the land. Now that giant had never had such a bad day, and in disgust he left the contents of his basket strewn as they lay, and that is what became the hills of Hoy. He turned towards home now, rubbing his sore head, stopping occasionally to adjust a sandal over his sore foot, and lamented his unhappy lot. For who could be so unlucky as to have lost a wife and a toe in one day.
The Three Questions of King James
There once was a Scottish priest, a man adored by his flock, but not by the King himself; King James he was, and not an easy man to please. Well, this priest had crossed the path of the King and in the course of doing so had managed to offend him. And so it was decreed that the priest would be hung by his neck at the palace at Scone.
The poor kind priest had accepted his lot, when word came that there had been a partial reprieve. For if that priest would come along to Scone, and sit there with the King, and answer three questions that the King would put to him, he would be free to go home, to preach among his flock once more.
Now questions are difficult things, for there are some that have no answers at all, and some that can be put in a way that even the wisest man on earth could find no answer. And although the priest was a clever man, and he knew from the top to the bottom his great black Bible, he knew there would be traps, for who would let a man free on the back of three easy questions.
So he mulled over this dilemma, and he hummed and he hawed, and it was many days that he paced round his country cottage, and tapped his head, and sighed.
And then his brother, who lived with him and who was known to all as the simpleton he was, said, “What is making you so catty?”
“Och, what use is it telling you, you’re a simpleton no doubt.”
“Ahh, but can I not hear your problem? Maybe I can help?”
Now the priest thought little of this offer of help, but he was at the end of his frayed wits and he poured out his story to the simpleton man. He explained he was to be executed, and that there would be three questions put to him which could save his life.
“Hmmm,” said his brother, “there are, you know, questions that just can’t be answered.”
“I know it, I know it,” said the priest, shrugging unhappily. “What am I to do?”
Now the priest was a good man, and even his simpleton brother could see this. “I am going in your place,” he said firmly.
“Oh no. How can a fool like you answer questions that may not have answers?” asked the priest.
“Well it seems to me that if you are killed I will die too, for how can a simpleton live on his own. If I am executed in your place, what is the difference?”
So the priest agreed finally that his brother should go in his place, and so he draped his habit over the simpleton and handed him his staff. A prayer was said on his head and then the simpleton set off for Scone.
When he arrived, he was greeted by a man in a fine uniform, gold and blue and red, and he gravely ushered the priest’s brother into the grand hall, for they had been expecting him, and the King was waiting. So the priest’s brother was taken then to the King’s room, where he sat on a throne that was more opulent than anything the young man had seen before. The room was hung with gold and jewels that winked and sparkled as the candles flickered in the breeze of his entrance. And the young man was enchanted by this fine sight, and he turned eyes at the stiff-faced King which shone as rich and true as any gem.
Now the king had chosen questions which were designed to trap the priest, for he cared not if he lived or died, and he settled back to watch the holy man’s discomfort.
“You know why you are here,” he said gravely.
“Oh, yes,” said the simpleton in the priest’s disguise.
“Well, then, let us begin. First question: where is the centre of the world?”
“Why, it’s right here!” And the simpleton stamped the floor with his great staff.
“Oh!” The King looked surprised. “I must let you have that one. Yes, I believe that you are right. For the world is a ball, and anywhere can be its centre. Yes, yes ...” he stroked his great beard, “I’ll let you have that one.” And then he cont
inued, “Next question: What am I worth sitting here, in all this,” he gestured round the room. “Just what am I worth in money?”
“Well,” said the simpleton without hesitation, “you are not worth anything more than thirty pieces of silver.”
“Why do you say that?” said the King with some consternation.
“Because the greatest man ever to enter the world was sold for only thirty shillings,” said the simpleton simply.
“Quite right,” blustered the king. “I’ll give you that one, too. Then the third question – and if you can answer this you’ll be a free man ...
Do you know what I am thinking now?”
And with that the King sat back, for there was no way that even a man of the cloth could know the kingly thoughts of a monarch.
But the simpleton blazed on. “Why yes, I do,” he said.
“What’s that, then?” said the King, sitting up with amazement.
“You think you are talking to a priest, and you are talking to a fool, his brother,” he said then.
And so it was that the stony King James rose from his throne to shake the hand of a simpleton, and then he laughed out loud.
“Be free man,” he said. Anyone who has a brother like that, and that brother a simpleton, deserves to be free. Away you go.”
King O’Toole and His Goose
Och, I thought all the world, far and near, had heerd o’ King O’Toole – well, well, but the darkness of mankind is untellible! Well, sir, you must know, as you didn’t hear it afore, that there was a king, called King O’Toole, who was a fine old king in the old ancient times, long ago; and it was he that owned the churches in the early days. The king, you see, was the right sort; he was the real boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and hunting in particular; and from the rising o’ the sun, up he got, and away he went over the mountains after the deer; and fine times they were.
Celtic Myths Page 69
