Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales from Burns to Buchan

by Gordon Jarvie

  ‘The weather will be broken all day, sir,’ she said. ‘You had better be going, or your friends will leave without you.’

  Ere he could answer, he saw such a beseeching glance on the face of the girl, that he hesitated, confused. Glancing at the mother, he saw the flash of wrath in her face. She rose and approached her daughter, with her hand lifted to strike her. The young woman stooped her head with a cry. He darted around the table to interpose between them. But the mother had caught hold of her; the handkerchief had fallen from her neck; and the youth saw five blue bruises on her lovely throat – the marks of the four fingers and the thumb of a left hand. With a cry of horror he darted from the house, but as he reached the door he turned. His hostess was lying motionless on the floor, and a huge grey wolf came bounding after him.

  There was no weapon at hand; and if there had been, his inborn chivalry would never have allowed him to harm a woman even under the guise of a wolf. Instinctively, he set himself firm, leaning a little forward, with half outstretched arms, and hands curved ready to clutch again at the throat upon which he had left those pitiful marks. But the creature as she sprung eluded his grasp, and just as he expected to feel her fangs, he found a woman weeping on his bosom, with her arms around his neck. The next instant, the grey wolf broke from him, and bounded howling up the cliff. Recovering himself as he best might, the youth followed, for it was the only way to the moor above, across which he must now make his way to find his companions.

  All at once he heard the sound of a crunching of bones – not as if a creature was eating them, but as if they were ground by the teeth of rage and disappointment: looking up, he saw close above him the mouth of the little cavern in which he had taken refuge the day before. Summoning all his resolution, he passed it slowly and softly. From within came the sounds of a mingled moaning and growling.

  Having reached the top, he ran at full speed for some distance across the moor before venturing to look behind him. When at length he did so, he saw, against the sky, the girl standing on the edge of the cliff, wringing her hands. One solitary wail crossed the space between. She made no attempt to follow him, and he reached the opposite shore in safety.

  BLACK ANDIE’S TALE OF TOD LAPRAIK

  Robert Louis Stevenson

  It was in the year seeventeen hunner and sax that the Bass Rock cam in the hands o the Da’rymples, and there was twa men soucht the chairge of it. Baith were weel qualified, for they had baith been sodgers in the garrison, and kent the gate to handle solans, and the seasons and values of them. Forby that they were baith – or they baith seemed – earnest professors and men of comely conversation. The first of them was just Tam Dale, my faither. The second was ane Lapraik, whom folk ca’d Tod Lapraik maistly, but whether for his name or his nature I could never hear tell. Weel, Tam gaed to see Lapraik upon this business, and took me, that was a toddlin’ laddie, by the hand. Tod has his dwallin’ in the lang loan benorth the kirkyaird. It’s a dark uncanny loan, forby that the kirk has aye had an ill name since the days o James the Saxt and the deevil’s cantrips played therein when the Queen was on the seas; and as for Tod’s house, it was in the mirkest end, and was little liked by some that kenned the best. The door was on the sneck that day, and me and my faither gaed straught in. Tod was a wabster to his trade; his loom stood in the but. There he sat, a muckle fat, white hash of a man like creish, wi a kind of a holy smile that gart me scunner. The hand of him aye cawed the shuttle, but his een was steeket. We cried to him by his name, we skirled in the deid lug of him, we shook him by the shou’ther. Nae mainner o service! There he sat on his dowp, an cawed the shuttle and smiled like creish.

  ‘God be gude to us,’ says Tam Dale, ‘this is no canny!’

  He had jimp said the word, when Tod Lapraik cam to himsel.

  ‘Is this you, Tam?’ says he. ‘Haith, man! I’m blythe to see ye. I whiles fa’ into a bit dwam like this,’ he says; ‘it’s frae the stamach.’

  Weel, they began to crack about the Bass and which of them twa was to get the warding o’t, and by little and little cam to very ill words, and twined in anger. I mind weel, that as my faither and me gaed hame again, he cam ower and ower the same expression, how little he likit Tod Lapraik and his dwams.

  ‘Dwams!’ says he. ‘I think folk hae brunt far dwams like yon.’

  Aweel, my faither got the Bass and Tod had to go wantin’. It was remembered sinsyne what way he had ta’en the thing. ‘Tam,’ says he, ‘ye hae gotten the better o me aince mair, and I hope,’ says he, ‘ye’ll find aw that ye expeckit at the Bass.’ Which have since been thought remarkable expressions.

  At last the time came for Tam Dale to take young solans. This was a business he was weel used wi, he had been a craigsman frae a laddie, and trustit nane but himsel. So there was he hingin’ by a line an’ speldering on the craig face, whaur it’s hieest and steighest. Fower tenty lads were on the tap, hauldin’ the line and mindin’ for his signals. But whaur Tam hung there was naething but the craig, and the sea belaw, and the solans skirling and flying. It was a braw spring morn, and Tam whustled as he claught in the young geese. Mony’s the time I heard him tell of this experience, and aye the swat ran upon the man.

  It chanced, ye see, that Tam keeked up, and he was awaur of a muckle solan, and the solan pyking at the line. He thought this by-ordinar and outside the creature’s habits. He minded that ropes was unco saft things, and the solan’s neb and the Bass Rock unco hard, and that twa hunner feet were rather mair than he would care to fa’.

  ‘Shoo!’ says Tam. ‘Awa, bird! Shoo, awa wi ye!’ says he.

  The solan keekit doun into Tam’s face, and there was something unco in the creature’s ee. Just the ae keek it gied, and back to the rope. But now it wroucht and warstl’t like a thing dementit. There never was the solan made that wroucht as that solan wroucht; and it seemed to understand its employ brawly, birzing the saft rope between the neb of it and a crunkled jag o stane.

  There gaed a cauld stend o fear into Tam’s heart. ‘This thing is nae bird,’ thinks he. His een turnt backward in his heid and the day gaed black about him. ‘If I get a dwam here,’ he thoucht, ‘it’s by wi Tam Dale.’ And he signalled for the lads to pu’ him up.

  And it seemed the solan understood about signals. For nae sooner was the signal made than he let be the rope, spried his wings, squawked out loud, took a turn flying, and dashed straucht at Tam Dale’s een. Tam had a knife, he gart the cold steel glitter. And it seemed the solan understood about knives, for nae suner did the steel glint in the sun than he gied the ae squawk, but laigher, like a body disappointit, and flegged aff about the roundness of the craig, and Tam saw him nae mair.

  And as sune as the thing was gane, Tam’s heid drapt upon his shouther, and they pu’d him up like a deid corp, dadding on the craig.

  A dram of brandy (which he never went without) broucht him to his mind, or what was left of it. Up he sat.

  ‘Rin, Geordie, rin to the boat, mak’ sure of the boat, man – rin!’ he cries, ‘or yon solan’ll have it awa,’ says he.

  The fower lads stared at ither, an’ tried to whilly-wha him to be quiet. But naething would satisfy Tam Dale, till ane o them had startit on aheid to stand sentry on the boat. The ithers askit if he was for down again.

  ‘Na,’ he says, ‘and neither you nor me,’ says he, ‘and as sune as I can win to stand on my twa feet we’ll be aff frae this craig o Sawtan.’

  Sure eneuch, nae time was lost, and that was ower muckle; for before they won to North Berwick Tam was in a crying fever. He lay aw the simmer; and wha was sae kind as come speiring for him, but Tod Lapraik! Folk thocht afterwards that ilka time Tod cam near the house the fever had worsened. I kenna for that; but what I ken the best, that was the end of it.

  It was about this time o the year; my grandfaither was out at the white fishing; and like a bairn I wanted but to gang wi’ him. We had a grand take, I mind, and the way that the fish lay broucht us near in by the Bass, whaur we foregaithered wi anither boat tha
t belanged to a man Sandie Fletcher in Castleton. He’s no lang deid neither, or ye could speir at himsel. Weel, Sandie hailed.

  ‘What’s yon on the Bass?’ says he.

  ‘On the Bass?’ says grandfaither.

  ‘Ay,’ says Sandie, ‘on the green side o it.’

  ‘Whatten kind of a thing?’ says grandfaither. ‘There cannae be naething on the Bass but just the sheep.’

  ‘It looks unco like a body,’ quo Sandie, who was nearer in.

  ‘A body!’ says we, and we nane of us likit that. For there was nae boat that could have broucht a man, and the key o’ the prison yett hung ower my faither’s heid at hame in the press bed.

  We keept the twa boats close for company, and crap in nearer hand. Grandfaither had a gless, for he had been a sailor, and the captain of a smack, and had lost her on the sands of Tay. And when we took the gless to it, sure eneuch there was a man. He was in a crunkle o’ green brae, a wee below the chaipel, aw by his lee lane, and he lowped and flang and danced like a daft quean at a waddin’.

  ‘It’s Tod,’ says grandfaither, and passed the gless to Sandie.

  ‘Ay, it’s him,’ says Sandie.

  ‘Or ane in the likeness o him,’ says grandfaither.

  ‘Sma’ is the differ,’ quo Sandie. ‘Deil or warlock, I’ll try the gun at him,’ quo he, and broucht up a fowling-piece that he aye carried, for Sandie was a notable famous shot in aw that country.

  ‘Haud yer hand, Sandie,’ says grandfaither, ‘we maun see clearer first,’ says he, ‘or this may be a dear day’s wark to the baith of us.’

  ‘Hout!’ says Sandie, ‘this is the Lord’s judgements surely, and be damned to it!’ says he.

  ‘Maybe ay, and maybe no,’ says my grandfaither, worthy man! ‘But have you a mind of the Procurator Fiscal, that I think ye’ll have forgaithered wi before,’ says he.

  This was ower true, and Sandie was a wee thing set ajee. ‘Aweel, Edie,’ says he, ‘and what would be your way of it?’

  ‘Oh, just this,’ says grandfaither. ‘Let me that has the fastest boat gang back to North Berwick, and let you bide here and keep an eye on Thon. If I cannae find Lapraik, I’ll join ye and the twa of us’ll have a crack wi him. But if Lapraik’s at hame, I’ll rin up a flag at the harbour, and ye can try Thon Thing wi the gun.’

  Aweel, so it was agreed between them twa. I was just a bairn, an’ clum in Sandie’s boat, whaur I thocht I would see the best of the employ. My grandsire gied Sandie a siller tester to pit in his gun wi’ the leid draps, bein’ mair deidly against bogles. And then the ae boat set aff for North Berwick, and the tither lay whaur it was and watched the wanchancy thing on the braeside.

  Aw the time we lay there it lowped and flang and capered and span like a teetotum, and whiles we could hear it skelloch as it span. I hae seen lassies, the daft queans, that would lowp and dance a winter’s nicht, and still be lowping and dancing when the winter’s day cam in. But there would be folk there to hauld them company, and the lads to egg them on; and this thing was its lee-lane. And there would be a fiddler diddling his elbock in the chimney-side; and this thing had nae music but the skirling of the solans. And the lassies were bits o young things wi the reid life dinnling and stending in their members; and this was a muckle, fat, creishy man, and him fa’n in the vale o years. Say what ye like, I maun say what I believe. It was joy was in the creature’s heart; the joy o’ hell, I daursay: joy whatever. Mony a time have I askit mysel why witches and warlocks should sell their sauls (whilk are their maist dear possessions) and be auld, duddy, wrunkl’t wives or auld, feckless, doddered men; and then I mind upon Tod Lapraik dancing aw they hours by his lane in the black glory of his heart. Nae doubt they burn for it in muckle hell, but they have a grand time here of it whatever! – and the Lord forgie us!

  Weel, at the hinder end, we saw the wee flag yirk up to the mast-heid upon the harbour rocks. That was aw Sandie waited for. He up wi the gun, took a deleeberate aim, an pu’d the trigger. There cam’ a bang and then ae waefu’ skirl frae the Bass. And there were we rubbin’ our een and lookin’ at ither like daft folk. For wi the bang and the skirl the thing had clean disappeared. The sun glintit, the wund blew, and there was the bare yaird whaur the Wonder had been lowping and flinging but ae second syne.

  The hale way hame I roared and grat wi the terror of that dispensation. The grawn folk were nane sae muckle better; there was little said in Sandie’s boat but just the name of God; and when we won in by the pier, the harbour rocks were fair black wi the folk waitin’ us. It seems they had fund Lapraik in ane of his dwams, cawing the shuttle and smiling. Ae lad they sent to hoist the flag, and the rest abode there in the wabster’s house. You may be sure they liked it little; but it was a means of grace to severals that stood there praying in to themsels (for nane cared to pray out loud) and looking on thon awesome thing as it cawed the shuttle. Syne, upon a suddenty, and wi the ae dreidfu’ skelloch, Tod sprang up frae his hinderlands and fell forrit on the wab, a bloody corp.

  When the corp was examined the leid draps hadnae played buff upon the warlock’s body; sorrow a leid drap was to be fund; but there was grandfaither’s siller tester in the puddock’s heart of him.

  THROUGH THE VEIL

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

  He was a great shock-headed, freckle-faced Borderer, the lineal descendant of a cattle-thieving clan in Liddesdale. In spite of his ancestry he was as solid and sober a citizen as one would wish to see, a town councillor of Melrose, an elder of the Church, and the chairman of the local branch of the Young Men’s Christian Association. Brown was his name – and you saw it printed up as ‘Brown and Handiside’ over the great grocery stores in the High Street. His wife, Maggie Brown, was an Armstrong before her marriage, and came from an old farming stock in the wilds of Teviothead. She was small, swarthy, and dark-eyed, with a strangely nervous temperament for a Scotswoman. No greater contrast could be found than the big tawny man and the dark little woman, but both were of the soil as far back as any memory could extend.

  One day – it was the first anniversary of their wedding – they had driven over together to see the excavations of the Roman fort at Newstead. It was not a particularly picturesque spot. From the northern bank of the Tweed, just where the river forms a loop, there extends a gentle slope of arable land. Across it run the trenches of the excavators, with here and there an exposure of old stonework to show the foundations of the ancient walls. It had been a huge place, for the camp was fifty acres in extent, and the fort fifteen. However, it was all made easy for them since Mr Brown knew the farmer to whom the land belonged. Under his guidance they spent a long summer evening inspecting the trenches, the pits, the ramparts, and all the strange variety of objects which were waiting to be transported to the Edinburgh Museum of Antiquities. The buckle of a woman’s belt had been dug up that very day, and the farmer was discoursing upon it when his eyes fell upon Mrs Brown’s face.

  ‘Your good leddy’s tired,’ said he. ‘Maybe you’d best rest a wee before we gang further.’

  Brown looked at his wife. She was certainly very pale, and her dark eyes were bright and wild.

  ‘What is it, Maggie? I’ve wearied you. I’m thinkin’ it’s time we went back.’

  ‘No, no, John, let us go on. It’s wonderful! It’s like a dreamland place. It all seems so close and so near to me. How long were the Romans here, Mr Cunningham?’

  ‘A fair time, mam. If you saw the kitchen midden-pits you would guess it took a long time to fill them.’

  ‘And why did they leave?’

  ‘Well, mam, by all accounts they left because they had to. The folk around could thole them no longer, so they just up and burned the fort aboot their lugs. You can see the fire marks on the stanes.’

  The woman gave a quick little shudder. ‘A wild night – a fearsome night,’ said she. ‘The sky must have been red that night – and these grey stones, they may have been red also.’

  ‘Aye, I think they were red,’ said her husband. ‘It
’s a queer thing, Maggie, and it may be your words that have done it; but I seem to see that business aboot as clear as ever I saw anything in my life. The light shone on the water.’

  ‘Aye, the light shone on the water. And the smoke gripped you by the throat. And all the savages were yelling.’

  The old farmer began to laugh. ‘The leddy will be writin’ a story aboot the old fort,’ said he. ‘I’ve shown many a one ower it, but I never heard it put so clear afore. Some folk have the gift.’

  They had strolled along the edge of the foss, and a pit yawned upon the right of them.

  ‘That pit was fourteen foot deep,’ said the farmer. ‘What d’ye think we dug oot from the bottom o’t? Weel, it was just the skeleton of a man wi’ a spear by his side. I’m thinkin’ he was grippin’ it when he died. Now, how cam’ a man wi’ a spear doon a hole fourteen foot deep? He wasna’ buried there, for they aye burned their dead. What make ye o’ that, mam?’

  ‘He sprang doon to get clear of the savages,’ said the woman.

  ‘Weel, it’s likely enough, and a’ the professors from Edinburgh couldna gie a better reason. I wish you were aye here, mam, to answer a’ oor deeficulties sae readily. Now, here’s the altar that we foond last week. There’s an inscreeption. They tell me it’s Latin, and it means that the men o this fort give thanks to God for their safety.’

  They examined the old worn stone. There was a large deeply cut ‘VV upon the top of it.