Thistle and Thyme

by Sorche Nic Leodhas

  “Och, they’re true enough,” the lass answered. “I set it in tune with my own hands. It needs no trying.” She knew well that if he ever laid his hands upon it, she’d never get it back into her own.

  “Och, well,” said the king. “’Tis only a harp after all. Still, I’ve taken a fancy to it. Name your price and mayhap we’ll strike a bargain.”

  “That I’d not say,” said the lass. “I made the harp with my own hands and I strung it with my own golden hair. There’s not another its like in the world. I’m not liking to part with it at all.”

  The king could contain himself no longer. “Ask what you will!” he cried. “Whatever you ask I’ll give. But let me have the harp!”

  And now she had him!

  “Then give me my bairn your women stole from the path along the black cliff by the sea,” said the lass.

  The king of the Sìdh sat back in his throne. This was a price he did not want to pay. He had a mind to keep the bairn amongst them.

  So he had them bring gold and pour it in a great heap at her feet.

  “There is a fortune your king himself might envy,” he said. “Take all of it and give me the harp.”

  But she only said, “Give me my bairn.”

  Then he had them add jewels to the heap till she stood waist-deep in them. “All this shall be yours,” he tempted her. “’Tis a royal price for the harp.”

  But she stood steadfast and never looked down at the jewels.

  “Give me my bairn!” said she.

  When he saw that she would not be moved, he had to tell them to fetch the child for her. They brought the bairn and he knew his mother at once and held out his arms to her. But the king held him away from her and would not let her take him.

  “The harp first!” said the king.

  “The bairn first!” said the lass. And she would not let him lay hand on the harp till she had what she wanted. So the king had to give in. And once she had the child safe in her arms, she gave up the harp.

  The king struck a chord upon the harp and then he began to play. The music rose from the golden strings and filled all the Sìdhean with music so wonderful that all the people of the Sìdh stood spellbound in their tracks to listen. So rapt were they that when the lass walked out of the Sìdhean with her bairn in her arms, they never saw her go. So, she left them there with the king on his throne playing his harp, and all of the people of the Sìdh standing still to listen—maybe for the next hundred years for all anyone knows.

  The lass took her bairn back to the fisherfolk who had been kind to her, as she’d promised to do. And she and her bairn dwelt happily there all the rest of their days.

  The Lass Who Went Out

  at the Cry of Dawn

  THERE WAS ONCE A LASS WHO WENT OUT AT THE CRY OF dawn to wash her face in the morning dew to make it bonnier, and she never came home again.

  Her father searched for her, and her mother wept for her, but all her father’s searching and her mother’s greeting didn’t fetch the lass back home.

  She had a younger sister who loved her dearly, and who said she’d go herself into the wide world and travel about to find her sister and she’d not come home till she found her, for she wasn’t content to bide at home without her.

  So her father gave the younger sister his blessing to take along with her, and a purse with a piece of gold in it to help her on her way.

  Her mother made up a packet of things for her to take along. There was a bobbin of yarn and a golden needle, a paper of pins and a silver thimble, and a wee sharp knife all done up in a fair white towel. And she had her mother’s blessing, too.

  She wandered up and down the world for many a weary day. Then in her wanderings, some one told her there was a wicked wizard who lived on Mischanter Hill who was known to steal young maids away, and maybe ’twas he who had taken the lass’s older sister.

  Now that the lass knew where she was going, she wandered no more, but off she made for Mischanter Hill.

  When she got there, she saw it ’twould be a terrible hard climb, for the road was steep and rocky all the way. So she sat down on a stone at the foot to rest a bit before she went on.

  While she was sitting there, along came a tinker body. He was between the shafts of a cart loaded with pots and kettles and pans, lugging it and tugging it along the stony road. He stopped when he saw the younger sister and gave her a “good day.”

  “Lawks!” said she to him. “’Tis a wearisome task to be doing the work of a horse.”

  “’Tis that!” the tinker agreed, “but beggars cannot be choosers. I’ve no money to buy a horse so I must just go on moiling and toiling with my load.”

  “Well now,” said she, “I’ve a bit of gold my father gave me I’ve ne’er had need for. ’Tis doing nobody any good while it lies in my pocket. Take it and welcome, and buy yourself a horse.”

  The tinker took the purse in his hand and looked at her. “I’ve been pulling that load for a weary long time,” said he, “and though I’ve met many on my way, not one has given me as much as a kind word before. If you are going up the hill to the wizard’s castle, I’ll give you a few words to take along with you. What you see and what you hear are not what they seem to be. And my advice to you is that you’d better far go back the way you came, for the wizard who lives at the top of the hill will enchant you if he can. But I doubt you’ll heed it.”

  “That I won’t,” said the lass. “But thank you kindly, anyway.” So the tinker turned his cart about and went back down the road while the lass began to climb the long steep hill.

  When she got about halfway up the hill, she came across a poor ragged bodach standing by the road. His clothes were all tatters and patches, and he was pinning the rents together with thorns. As fast as he pinned them, the thorns broke, so he’d have to start all over again.

  “Lawks,” said the lass. “’Tis wearisome work trying to mend with thorns. Now, hold a bit,” said she. “I’ve a paper of pins my mother gave me that I’ve ne’er had use for. They’re no good to anybody while they lie in my bundle. Take them and do your mending with them.”

  The poor ragged bodach took the pins and he looked at her and said, “I’ve stood here many a weary day, and many have passed me by, but no one ever gave me so much as a kind word before. I’ve naught to give in return but a few words for you to take along with you. Gold and silver are a match for evil. If you’re going up to the wizard’s castle, my advice to you is to turn back and go the way you came, because he’s a terribly wicked wizard and he’ll lay a spell upon you if he can. But I doubt you’ll take it.”

  “That I won’t!” said she. “But thank you kindly, anyway.”

  So she left the poor bodach there, mending his clothes with the pins, and went on up to the top of the hill.

  When she got to the top of the hill, there was the wizard’s castle standing across a big courtyard inside a high stone wall. She opened the gates, and went across the courtyard, and knocked boldly on the castle door. The wizard himself opened it to her. The minute she saw him she knew who he was for there was such evil in his face as she’d never seen before. But he spoke to her politely enough and asked her what she’d come for.

  “I’d like my older sister,” said she, “for I hear you’ve brought her here.”

  “Come in,” said he, throwing the door wide. “I’ll see if I can find her.” He took her into a room and left her there, and shut the door behind him.

  She looked about the room, but there was no sign of her sister anywhere, so she sat down to wait. All of a sudden she heard flames crackling, and the room was filled with smoke. The flames sprang at her from the walls, and she could feel their heat. “Lawks!” she cried. “The castle’s on fire!” And she was about to spring from her chair and run away from the room when she remembered what the tinker body had said: What you see and hear are not what they seem to be! Then said she, “Och, no doubt ’tis only some of the wizard’s magic arts.” So she paid the smoke and the flames no heed, and they
went away.

  She sat back in the chair and waited again for a while, and then she heard a voice calling and weeping. It was the voice of her sister that she was seeking, and she was calling her by name. The lass jumped from her chair, ready to run and find her sister. Then she remembered the tinker’s words again. What you see and hear are not what they seem to be. Said she, “Och, ’tis only the wizard’s magic again, to be sure.” But the voice went on calling her, and she could scarce keep her feet from running to find where it came from. So she took the bobbin of yarn from her packet and bound her arm to the chair, passing the yarn round and round until it was all used up. Now she was safe, for no matter how she pulled, the yarn held fast. After a while the voice stopped calling, and the sound of the weeping died away and all was still. Then the lass took out the wee knife and cut herself free from the chair.

  Just after that, the wizard came back and when he saw her sitting there, waiting, he looked surprised and not too pleased. But he told her to come along with him and maybe they’d find her sister. There were a lot of maidens came from here and there to the castle, he told her. She’d have to pick her sister out for herself.

  They went along to another room and when she went in she stopped and stared. There was nothing at all in the room but seven white statues. Every one of them was as white as snow from head to foot, and they were as like each other as seven peas, and every one was the image of her sister.

  “Pick your sister out,” said the wizard with a terribly wicked grin. “You may take her along with you and welcome!” said he. He thought she’d never be able to do it.

  The lass walked up and down before the statues. She couldn’t for the life of her tell which one she ought to be choosing. So at last she stood still, with her chin in her hand, considering what to do next. Then she remembered the words the ragged bodach had given her in return for the paper of pins. Gold and silver are a match for evil! So she took the silver thimble out of her pocket and slipped it on the finger of the first statue. She’d no sooner done so than the thimble turned black as a coal. That wasn’t her sister at all! So she tried it on the rest of the statues one by one, and the thimble stayed black as black could ever be, until it came to the last one in the line. She put the thimble on that one’s finger, and the thimble shone out so bright it fair dazzled her eyes. “I’ll just take this one!” she told the wizard. As she spoke the statue moved, and there was her sister turned back to flesh and blood, with her own rosy cheeks and golden hair and clear blue eyes.

  The younger sister took her older sister’s hand and the two of them went out of the room and down the hall, and through the door of the castle.

  When the wizard saw they were getting away from him, he nearly burst with the furious rage he had in him. With his magic arts he called up a great fierce wolf and sent it after them. The two sisters heard it come panting along behind them and they took to their heels. They ran like the wind itself, but the wolf came closer and closer. The older sister wept and said she could run no more. But the ragged bodach’s words came into the mind of the younger sister. She cried out, “Gold and silver are a match for evil!”

  Quick as a wink she whipped the golden needle out of her packet, and turned to face the wolf. He came snapping and snarling up to her with his jaws wide open, ready to leap at her. She reached out and thrust the needle straightway betwixt his great red eyes. That was the end of the wolf, for he dinged down dead.

  The wizard shrieked with rage, and came flying at them himself with his black cloak out spread, bearing him through the air like a pair of wings. All the lass had left was the wee sharp knife, and no words of the tinker body and the old bodach left to tell her what to do. But since the knife was all she had, she’d have to make do with it and hope for the best. She put her hand in the packet to pull it out, and somehow the knife got tangled up with her mother’s and father’s blessings. So when the wizard got close enough, and she aimed the knife at him, the blessings carried it straight to his heart and down he fell, black cloak and all!

  Whilst they stood there getting their breath, they heard a great rumbling noise. They looked over at the castle, and it was rocking to and fro before their eyes. All of a sudden it turned to dust and settled down in a heap on the ground. Being made of the wizard’s magic, it could no longer stand, now that the wizard was dead.

  The two sisters had no need to run any more. They walked down the mountain as if they were walking on the clouds of the air, instead of the rocky steep road.

  Halfway down they met up with a fine young man all dressed in the best of clothes. “You’ll not be remembering me, I doubt,” said he to the younger sister. “I’m the ragged bodach you gave your paper of pins to. The wizard laid a spell on me that I’d be mending my clothes with thorns till the end of time. But now the spell is lifted, and I’m a free man once more.”

  The younger sister would never have known him, had it not been that she saw his clothes were all stuck through with pins.

  The three of them walked down the hill together, and what should they find there but a fine young man standing beside a grand shining coach. “You’ll not be remembering me,” said he. “I’m the tinker body that you gave your purse with the gold piece in it to.” She’d ne’er have known him had he not taken the purse from his pocket and given it back. The wizard had laid a spell on him, too, but now that the wizard was dead, the spell was lifted and he was free.

  The four of them got into the coach and drove back home. So the younger sister brought her older sister back with her, just as she’d said she would. The older sister married the fine young man with the pins, and the younger sister married the tinker body, and they all settled down together happily all the rest of their days.

  The Changeling

  and the Fond Young Mother

  THERE WAS A FOND YOUNG MOTHER ONCE WHO THOUGHT her babe was the bonniest in all the world. That is nothing uncommon, for every young mother thinks the same.

  The trouble was that she would say it, although everyone told her not to because it was terribly unlucky.

  “’Tis what I think,” she told them. “So why should I not say it?—there never was such a bonny wee bairn as my wee bairn—so there!”

  “You’ll regret it,” they said. And they shook their heads and told each other, “Just wait and see!”

  He really was an uncommonly bonny lad and he thrived amazingly. That is, until the day his mother decided to step out upon the hill and pick whinberries.

  She took the bairn upon one arm and the creel to hold the berries on the other, and off she went to the hill.

  When she got to the place where the berries grew best, she saw a grand patch of soft green grass in an open space with the bushes all around it. So she spread her shawl there and laid the babe upon it. She knew she’d be fetching few enough berries home if she carried him along while she was doing the picking. His busy wee hands would be getting them out of the basket as fast as she put them in.

  The way it is with berrypicking is that one’s always seeing a better patch a little way on beyond. She kept getting farther and farther away from the place where she’d left the bairn, without taking heed of it at all. She’d gone a good piece, and had her creel well filled, when all of a sudden she heard the babe give a strange sort of cry.

  “Lawks!” she cried. “I ne’er meant to leave him so long!” And she rushed back to him as fast as legs could carry her.

  The face of the bairn on the shawl was all creased and red with weeping, so she took him up to soothe him, and patted him and petted him. But he wouldn’t leave off wailing, no matter what she tried. So she took him and the creel of berries, and started off for home.

  He kicked and screamed all the way home, and he shook his wee fists in the air, and wailed when she laid him in his cradle. Nothing she could do would quiet him and she was fair daft with the fright it gave her.

  The only time he’d stop crying was when she fed him. It seemed as though she’d never get him filled up. As soo
n as she gave him a spoonful of porridge, his mouth was wide open for another. He ate three great bowls of porridge, a bowl of milk and half a dozen scones, and would have eaten more had she given it to him, but she didn’t have the dare. She couldn’t for the life of her see where a wee thing like himself was putting it all.

  From that day the babe never did thrive. He seemed to change before her eyes. His legs and arms were thin as sticks, his breastbone stuck out like that of a plucked fowl, and his head was twice too big for the rest of him. He bawled from morn till night, and all the night through, and he was always hungry no matter how much she gave him to eat. He had the face of a cross old man, all wrinkled and red it was, with the crying that never let off. His mother didn’t know what to make of it at all, at all.

  When folks heard about the trouble she was having with the bairn, they went to her cottage to see what they could do. But after they’d had a good look at the babe, they shook their heads and made haste to go away again.

  When they were well away from the house where she’d not be hearing them, they gathered together and talked.

  “We told her so!” said they.

  “’Tis plain as the nose on your face!” they said.

  “We told her she’d be sorry!” said they again.

  “All that foolish talk about him being so bonny. ’Twas just beggin’ for trouble.” And they all nodded wisely. But not one of them would tell her what it was they were thinking. Not one.

  Well, the word of the illfaring wean got to the ears of an old cailleach who lived by her lone a little bit beyond the village. She had the name for having all sorts of old wisdom, and some folks said she was a witch. When she heard the tales that were going about, she put on her shawl and shut up her house and went to have a look at the bairn.

  “Tch! Tch! Tch!” she said when she got a sight of the bairn. “Well, mistress,” said she. “’Tis no wonder the babe’s ill-favored. That’s no bairn of your own! ’Tis a changeling that’s lying there in that cradle.”