‘Oh Grandmother,’ she said, ‘I am sorry, so sorry. I wanted to find a present for you and I climbed the castle wall to get some holly for you. And I fell. I gashed my leg.’
The old granny looked and saw there was a bandage around her leg. She said, ‘My dear, come in!’ And she brought little Jenny into the little kitchen of the house where they lived. ‘Sit you down there. Granny’s not going to argue with you. What happened to you?’
‘Oh Grandmother,’ she said, ‘I climbed the castle wall to get you a little holly. And then I fell and I slipped. A little door opened in the wall. And an old lady brought me in. Granny, it was horrible! Terrible – all those coffins and all those skulls that were staring at me, Grandmother. And that old woman. She looked horrible, but she was so nice.’
‘Whatever happened to you, my dear? Why have you got a bandage around your leg?’
‘Oh Grandmother, my leg is gashed. It’s a terrible cut.’ And the blood had dried on her little sock.
Grandmother said, ‘Let me have a look.’ And very carefully she wound the cloth off little Jenny’s leg. As she unwound the cloth it just melted in her hands, fell down piece by piece on the floor. She said, ‘Jenny, wherever did you get that piece of cloth?’
‘I told you, Granny, it was the old woman!’
And Granny looked: ‘Jenny, there’s no gash on your leg, my dear—’ and she pulled the last bit of cloth away. There was a scar, but no cut on Jenny’s leg. She said, ‘Jenny, you are a very lucky girl.’
‘But Grandmother, she never hurt me. She was just kind to me, really kind. But the room was so cold.’
‘Jenny,’ she said, ‘my dear, didn’t I warn you a long time ago not to go to the castle?’
‘But I had to go, Granny. I wanted to get you a present for Christmas.’
And Granny picked up the little bunch of holly. ‘Jenny, you’ve brought me the greatest present of all for my Christmas – you’ve brought me back your self!’
And Jenny lived with her granny for many, many years and she never was afraid anymore as she walked by that castle to school. Because she knew she had met the guardian of the castle, who guarded the family of all those people who were gone a long time before her.
And that is the end of my story.
Johnny MacDonald and the Three Skeletons
Now many stories were laid towards many people’s doorways that never actually happened to them, but in folklore they had to find a character like Homer, like King Arthur, to lay some of these good stories towards. And among Traveller lore we have the same idea; we have a famous character called John MacDonald. And John MacDonald was a piper, there are even tunes called after him. And he was a good storyteller in his time, he was a good piper forbyes – whether he made stories up or not. But one I’d like to tell you this morning is about John MacDonald.
John MacDonald was a Travelling man, he was a wandering piper, a good piper. And he had a wife and two little boys. He never owned a horse in his life. He had no time for horses. But he had a little homemade handcart he built himself. And he and his wife would wander the countryside. He would play his pipes at the guest houses. He was always welcome wherever he would be.
But when he got together with the Traveller community, when some Travellers met together on a campsite way back in time, the most interesting character was a bit like myself; John MacDonald was a storyteller. And to get round John Mac -Donald’s fire was a treat! And listen to some of his stories. This is one that was supposed to happen to him. So, just you listen! One day John and his wife had been travelling all day long. They didn’t have any girls, just two little boys, and they walked by their daddy’s side. And his wife Mary, she would hawk the doors along. He would make baskets for her, he would make scrubbers and besoms and he would pipe in his own time. But it was a late evening, the fall of the year, about October, and they came to a local camping site by the roadway, which was well used by Travelling folk.
And Travelling people in those days, the original Travellers, always cleaned up. The only thing they never cleaned up – they burned up all the sticks that was left – they never left a bit of stick. They left the stones in a little heap, for people would put them on their canvas to keep the canvas down. But they would never leave any firewood. They would make sure all the firewood was burned up.
So John and his wife Mary, they pulled into the little camping site. And the two little boys were tired, they sat down. He took off the campsticks they carried with them, always tied along his little handcart. And his Mary was clever, she was a real Traveller woman.
He says, ‘Mary, you put up the tent there in two minutes. And I’ll go and see if I can get some sticks to make a cup of tea for the weans!’
Now he looked up; there’s wall, a high wall, and he could see the tops of holly trees. But the tops of the holly trees were rotten.
And he says, ‘I’ll just climb that wall, stand on the wall and I’ll break some of the tops of thon sticks and we’ll have a fire in nae time.’
So Mary got the camp sticks, she was busy putting up the tent. And John climbed up the wall, which was about six foot high; he was a supple man. And he stood on the top of the wall. He was level with the rotten tops of the holly that went round the wall. And he’s breaking them off, and he broke this big chunk of rotten stick, when he looked at the graveyard and it started – REETLE RATTLE REETLE RATTLE REETLE RATTLE – in the graveyard.
And he stared in amazement, for here were three skeletons, two big ones and a smaller one. The two big ones were laying into the little one. And they were beating and battering and kicking him and punching him.
‘Upon my soul,’ said John MacDonald, he says, ‘two to one is not my kind of thing.’
And he jumps down into the graveyard with a piece of stick in his hand. Within minutes he took the little one’s part and he scattered the bones of the two big ones. He scattered their skulls, and he scattered the bones. He says, ‘Two to one is no my kind of thing!’
And the little one stood by and watched this. And then an amazing thing happened. Lo and behold he began to change . . . he turned into a young farmer dressed in tweeds.
And he said, ‘Thank you! Now I can rest in peace.’
John MacDonald was amazed. He said ‘A-a-ar-are you a ghost?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘you could say I’m a ghost.’ He said, ‘These were . . .’ but then the skeletons vanished, the remains of the skeletons vanished! When he took human form they vanished. ‘These,’ he said, ‘were my two brothers. And they killed me for my father’s money. And I could never rest in peace. But you,’ he said, ‘came to my part. If you had hae been there when they were beating me up to kill me, it would never have happened. And you have been honest and true! And for that I’m going to give my money to you, because they never got it. Both were hanged with my murder.’
Now he said, ‘Tonight when it gets dark I want you to backtrack the way you came today. And you’ll see a large pine tree in a farm road-end. Follow that road-end up till you come to another pine tree, and by the side of that pine tree you’ll see a well, a dry well. Go down the dry well – it’s easy access – and there at the very bottom stone pull it out. See what you find.’ And the skeleton faded away, and was gone.
John MacDonald was amazed, he didn’t know what to do. Never mentioned it to his wife. But he came over with some sticks, and they kindled a fire, they had a cup of tea.
She asked him, something to eat; ‘No,’ he says, ‘I’m no needing something to eat.’ He was so excited he didna ken what was wrong with him. He never mentioned it to his wife.
So that night when it got gloaming dark, he says, ‘Mary, I have to go back the road a wee bit.’
She says, ‘What are you going back for? I’m eerie to sit here by myself.’ (Eerie means ‘feart’ or afraid.)
He said, ‘I’ll no be long.’
She said, ‘What is it you’re going for?’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I saw a field of potatoes, a pit of
potatoes away back the road, I’m going to go back and get a few tatties for the weans, for the morning.’
‘Well,’ she says, ‘dinna be long!’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘sit in the tent where nobody’ll see you.’
So Mary took the wee weans, the two wee laddies, inside the tent and she began to tell them a story. She just lighted a candle and she begint to tell the weans a story.
And he made his way back till he came to the big pine tree. He saw an old rough farm road and he followed it up for a little way. He saw another pine tree and some buildings. And as the ghost had told him, he went over and there was an old, dry, draw-well with a lid.
He pulled the lid off and he climbed down. The well was dry. He pulled out the watering stone as the skeleton had said, and he pulled out a wee little iron box. It was full of gold sovereigns, packed full of gold sovereigns! More money than he’d ever seen in his life.
Of course he carried it back with him to his tent and he told Mary the story, with the two wee laddies sitting playing with the gold sovereigns. So he didn’t know what to do.
He said, ‘We’ll no shift today.’
So he went and dug a hole and buried the box. And tied all the gold sovereigns into a pack with Mary’s shawl.
And the next day he went down to the village. He says, ‘Mary, I’m sick fed up travelling!’ He bought himself a wee house, sent the two laddies to school.
Nobody ever knew where John MacDonald’s money came from. And it was on his dying bed that he told some of his family where he actually got the money.
And that was the story of Johnny MacDonald.
And there were many, many wonderful stories laid at Johnny’s door; he was a kind of a Donald Angie MacDougal MacLean in Traveller folklore.
Jack and the Devil’s Purse
A long time ago in the West Highlands of Scotland Jack lived with his old mother on a little croft. His father had died when he was very young and Jack barely remembered him. He spent most of his time with his mother. They had a few goats and a couple of sheep on their small croft. His mother kept a few hens and she sold a few eggs in the village. She took in washing and knitting and doing everything else just to keep her and her son alive. But Jack grew up. He loved and respected his mother. And he tried to make the croft work, but things got very hard. The ground was too hard and stony, little crops could he grow. He always depended on the few shillings that his mother could bring in because he couldn’t get very much off the land. And where they stayed was about two miles from the small village. There was a post office and a local store and a little inn. Jack used to walk there every week to get his mother’s few groceries, or messages. And Jack had grown up to be a young man by this time.
So one day his mother called him, ‘Jack, are you busy?’
‘Well no, Mother, I’m no busy. I’ve cut the wee puckle hay and I’ve stacked it up, it’s no much.’
‘Would you like to go into the village and get something for me?’
‘Of course, Mother, I always go, you know I always go.’
So she gave him a few shillings to walk into the village. And he went into the store and bought these few groceries for his mother. He came walking across the little street, and lo and behold he was stopped by an old friend of his mother’s who had never seen her for many years. But the friend knew him.
‘Oh, Jack,’ he said, ‘you’re finally grown up to a big, handsome young man.’
Jack said, ‘Do I know you, sir?’
‘Och laddie,’ he said, ‘ye ken ye know me: I’m a friend o’ yer mother’s.’
‘Well,’ Jack said, ‘I’ve never remembered much about you.’
‘Oh, but your mother does! Tell her old Dougald was askin for her when ye go back. I was your mother’s lover, you know.’
‘Oh well, that’s nothin to do with me.’
‘Well, tell your mother I’ll come out and see her first chance I get,’ he said. ‘I’ve been away travelling. But now I’m back and I’m settled here in the village. I’ll prob’ly come out and see her sometime.’
‘Okay,’ says Jack, ‘I’ll have to hurry.
‘Oh no, laddie, ye’re no goin awa like that! Come in wi me!’
‘Where?’
He says, ‘Into the inn.’
Jack says, ‘The inn? Sir, I don’t—’
‘Dinna call me sir,’ he said, ‘call me Dougald!’
‘Sir, I never was in an inn in my life.’
‘Oh laddie, you mean to tell me you’ve never had a drink?’
‘No me, Dougald, I’ve never had a drink.’
‘Well, you’re gettin one now! Come wi me.’
Into the little inn. Jack had his mother’s little groceries. He placed them beside the bar.
‘Two glasses of whisky!’ Full glasses of whisky . . . ‘Right,’ said old Dougald, who’d had a few glasses before that, ‘drink it up, laddie! It’s good for ye. And I’m comin to see yer mother, mind and tell her!’
Jack drank the glass o’ whisky for the first time in his life. Oh, he choked and coughed a little bit and it felt strange to him. He had never had a drink before in his life. But after a few seconds when the warm glow began to pass across his chest and his head began to get a little dizzy, Jack felt good!
And old Dougald said, ‘Did you like that?’
Jack said, ‘Of course, it was good.’
‘Have another one!’ So he filled another glass for Jack and Jack had two full glasses of whisky for the first time in his life.
He said, ‘Well now,’ he was feeling a wee bit tipsy; ‘I think I’d better go home wi my mother’s groceries!’
‘Okay, laddie, mind my message now! Tell yer mother I’ll come out to see her because she’s an old girlfriend o’ mine!’ Old Dougald was well on with drink.
Jack picked up his little bag and he walked back . . . two steps forward, three steps back. But he made his way to his mother.
When he walked in his mother was pleased to see him. She said, ‘Your supper’s on the table.’
‘I’m no wantin any supper, Mother.’
She said, ‘Jack, have you been drinkin? You know, Jack, drink ruined yer father. It was drink that killed yer father.’
‘Oh, Mother, I had the best fun o’ my life. In fact I met an old boyfriend o’ yours!’
And she touched her hair and pulled her apron down, you know. She smoothed her apron. She said, ‘What did you say, laddie?’
‘Mother, I met an old boyfriend o’ yours!’
And she tidied her hair, pulled down her apron and said, ‘What did you say?’
‘I met an old boyfriend o’ yours and he’s comin to see ye!’
‘A . . . my boyfriend? I have nae boyfriends, laddie.’
‘Aye, Mother, you’ve had a boyfriend – before you met my father.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Dougald.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘young Dougald, young Dougald! God, laddie, I’ve never seen him for years.’
‘Well, Mother, he’s comin to see you onyway.’
She was pleased about this. She’d forgot about Jack’s drinking. So they sat and they talked and they discussed things. And things went on as usual.
But Jack had the taste of drink. Now every time he went to the village he would say: ‘Mother, could I borrow a shilling fae ye,’ or two shillings or three shillings, every time for the sake o’ getting a drink. Till there was no money left, there was no money coming into the croft by his work or his mother had nothing to spare. She gave him what she could afford to buy the messages and that was all.
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘gie us a shilling or something!’
‘No, son, I havena got it.’
‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘I’ll walk to the village.’
So on the road to the village there was a crossroads: one road went to the left, one road went to the right. Jack was coming walking down.
He said, ‘God upon my soul, bless my body in Hell, and Devil . . .’ he’
s cursing to himself. ‘What would I give for a shilling! My mother has nae money. She’s gien me everything she had. God, I could do with a drink. I could do, I could walk in an’ buy myself a glass o’ whisky and really enjoy it. God Almighty, what’s wrong with me?’
No answer.
He said, ‘The Devil o’ Hell – will ye listen to me? I’d give my soul tonight to the Devil o’ Hell if he would only give me a shilling for a drink!’
But lo and behold Jack walked on and there at the crossroads stood a tall, dark man. Jack was about to pass him by when, ‘Aye, Jack,’ he said, ‘you’re makin your way to the village.’
Jack looked up. He said, ‘Sir, do you know me?’
‘Ah, Jack, I ken you all right. You and your mother are up in that croft there.’
But Jack said, ‘I’ve never met you, sir.’
‘No, Jack,’ said the man, ‘you’ve never met me. But I heard you muttering to yourself as you were comin down the road. And the things you were sayin I was interested in.’
Jack said, ‘What do you think I was sayin?’
‘Oh, ye talked about your God . . . and you mentioned my name.’
‘Your name?’
‘Of course, you mentioned my name, Jack – I’m the Devil.’
‘You’re the Devil?’ says Jack.
‘I am the Devil, Jack,’ he said. ‘And you said you would gie me your soul for a shilling for a drink.’
Jack said, ‘Look, let you be the Devil of Hell or the Devil of Nowhere, I would give my soul to the Devil, the real Devil tonight!’
He says, ‘Jack, I am the real Devil!’
‘Ah,’ Jack says, ‘I dinna believe ye.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘can you try me?’
Jack said, ‘What do I try ye for? What hae ye got to gie me? Hae you got a shilling for me?’
The Devil says, ‘I’ll go one better.’ Puts his hand under his cloak and he brings out a small leather purse. ‘Jack, look, you said you would sell your soul to the Devil for a shilling for a drink.’
Jack says, ‘Gladly I would.’
‘Well,’ the Devil says, ‘look . . . I’ve got a purse here and in that purse is a shilling. But I’ll go one better – every time you take a shilling out, another one’ll take its place – and you can drink to your heart’s content. You’ll never need to worry again. But on one condition.’
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