The young wife’s heart lowped with joy when she heard this, an frae that day onwards the young couple lived a life o happy contentedness, an there was never the clack o a shuttle tae disturb their peace.
7
A WEAVE O WITCHES
BY RUBIESLAW
A long time ago there was this poor shepherd walking up by Rubieslaw on his way tae Hawick market. The shepherd might hardly have been worth a second glance were hae not wearing the maist fantoosh plaid draped aboot his shoulders tae keep oot the bitter winter chills. For the fine cloot was made up o blues an greens, but with narrow threids o whin-bush yellow in there as weel. Such a braw closely woven plaid wouldnae have looked oot o place on a laird. The shepherd’s auld plaid was tucked under his arm. The wind an rain ower many seasons had seen tae much o its substance an it was now close tae see-through in places, yet hae was still hopeful that hae could sell it for a few much-needed coppers at the market.
How the poor shepherd came by such a fine plaid, tae allow him tae rid himself o his auld yin, was the subject o yin or twae stories at the time. Hae lived with his daughter, mair o less in the shadow o the muckle hill Rubers Law, atween Jethart an Hawick. They were ever frugal, an only went tae Hawick market for the likes o salt an sugar an a yowe if they needed yin.
As the years went on the daughter became aware that her father’s plaid was getting thinner with the ravages o each passing winter. She did her best tae gather as much wool as she could that had become hanked on the whin an bramble bushes so that she might collect up enough tae buy her father a new plaid, but such money that she was able tae earn each year frae this would always end up going on vital provisions they needed tae see them through.
Now the folk that bide aroond Rubieslaw, whether they were kirk-goers or not, were aware that the fairy folk lived in the heart o the Rubieslaw hill, an come night-time nae one would dare set foot on the slopes o that particular hill, for that was the time that the fairies were afoot. If it was a still night or the wind was going in the right direction, folk would hear reverberations o strange magical music frae the fairies in the midst o their revels.
There was yin time frae years back that folk often talked aboot. There had been a wedding that three young laddies had been at. After a fair bit o drink had been taken, an the night was coming tae a finish, yin laddie mair gallus than his friends insisted on going hame by the way o Rubieslaw, in spite o the other lads urging him nae tae. Neither hide nor hair was found o him, regardless o aw the searching that was done by everybody roond aboot. Only his woollen cap was discovered in the bracken. It wasnae till yin morning many years later that his great grandson was coming ower Rubieslaw when hae came across a young stranger who seemed a wee bit familiar.
‘Who are ye an where are ye heidit?’ hae asked.
‘I’m none other than Tam Scott. I was oot dancin at a weddin last night, an now I’m on ma road hame, if ye would like tae ken.’ But even as hae spoke the stranger grew auld in front o the great grandson’s eyes. Hae turned white an bent an wrinkled, an as hae uttered the last word hae just crumpled on tae the ground, where hae crumbled away like an auld leaf intae a wee pile o stoor. There was a mournful whistle in the wind as it sent the stoor up intae the air, where it swept away in clouds.
Weel the poor shepherd an his daughter were kirk-goers, an they didnae go near Rubieslaw at night, nor did they go aboot the auld witch that lived with her black cat at the side o the hill in a tumble-doon cottage. However, oot o respect they did say hello tae her in the passing, as she was often oot gathering herbs an roots an the like. An when bad weather came in winter time the shepherd an his lassie would regularly see tae her, by leaving peat an kindling an oatcakes on her doorstep. They would always let the auld woman ken by giving the door a bit o a chap as they were leaving. They would never see her stuck.
Yin morning just before midsummer, the lassie came hame an said tae her father, ‘For three days I have gone doon tae the river for water, an every time I look ower tae Rubieslaw the door o the witch’s hoose has been shut. Shut, in the summer wi the sun shining? An there has been nae reek frae her lum neither!’
Weel, they both kent that she had nae family or friends tae away an visit, an the only folk that came in aboot her were folk wanting their fortunes read, or were after love potions or charms an the like. Besides on sunny days she was always tae be seen sitting by her door spinning or seeing tae her plants.
‘If there was anything wrong wi her somebody would’ve found oot by now surely,’ said the shepherd.
‘Twae times I’ve seen women caw on her door an get nae answer,’ remarked the lassie.
‘Weel, as ye ken, I dinnae want tae be going in aboot her, for I doot she’s in cahoots wi the fairies, but just like I cannie leave a newborn lamb tae fend for its self, I cannie lea the auld woman tae suffer on her ain neither.’
So the shepherd got some peat an kindling together, an the daughter put a wee parcel together o black pudding an some scones she’d made. When they got tae the witch’s hoose her door was shut, the window was shuttered an there was nae sign o reek frae her lum. The shepherd chapped on the door a fair pickle times, but the only thing that could be heard frae inside was the yowling o the cat. The shepherd then decided tae put his shoulder tae the door. The latch on the inside gave way as soon hae did so, an the door both shuddered an sprang open. Before they could enter the cat ran oot an heided towards the river. The witch was lying on the floor face doon, not moving.
‘Is she deid, Father?’ The shepherd hunkered doon an took a right guid look at her.
‘Naw, she’s still breathin. She’s dunted her heid though an bruised her arm. She must have tripped an fell.’ The twae o them lifted her up an laid her on her bed. The lassie went doon tae the river tae fetch some water, tae gie the witch something tae drink an dab her brow, whilst the shepherd lit a fire. With the effects o the cauld water on the witch’s face an hands her eyes opened, an the shepherd an the daughter explained how they’d found her. Whilst the shepherd mended the sneck on the door the lassie made some thin porridge oot o some goat’s milk for the auld woman tae take.
Thereafter the shepherd came up twice a day tae see tae the fire, an the lassie came up twice a day tae see tae the witch’s meat an put doon milk for the cat. Whilst they were there the auld witch watched every movement wi her derk sparkling eyes, but she didnae say a single word. On the seventh morning when the shepherd an his lassie went up tae see her the cottage door was wide tae the wall. The witch was ootside busy spinning wool intae fine yarn. The shepherd an his daughter were o course delighted that the witch had made such a quick recovery. Not just for the witch herself, but it meant that they could get back tae their ain chores that had been mounting up back at the hoose. Alas though, that wasnae tae be. Before they kent where they were the witch was telling the lassie that she was tae come up every day tae weave the yarn that she’d produced frae the spinning wheel, because she wasnae yet strong enough tae do so herself. Neither father nor daughter said anything in response, each thinking that the other was under the witch’s spell, both equally flabbergasted.
By way o explanation the witch said, ‘Ye helped me when I didnae ask ye tae, an now that I do ask ye tae ye can hardly turn me doon now can ye? The lassie will come tae nae harm. I gie ye ma word.’
An so it was that the shepherd’s daughter went up tae work for the witch for twae hours every day. She would set up the loom wi blues an greens an a wee bit o yellow as instructed by the witch. When the warp was closely spaced an taut she started tae weave. The mair she wove, the colours grew brighter on the loom, an she began tae wonder what roots an lichens the witch had used tae extract the colours, as she’d never seen such bonnie shades before. But she was never able tae summon the nerve tae ask the witch. As the lassie wove the witch murmured a queer haunting tune that seemed tae encourage the rhythm o the flying shuttle; an as time went on the lassie found herself in some strange happiness humming the very same melody as the witch.
The rain cleared after three days just as the witch had said it would. Then late autumn sunshine gave way tae the first frost o the back-end. The plaid had been shrunk by the rain an softened by the following sunshine. Such a plaid would keep oot the bitterest elements that swept aroond the hills in winter.
‘Heuch,’ said the witch fiercely tae the lass, ‘Take it. Do what ye want wi it.’
Now for the first time the shepherd’s daughter looked blankly at the witch.
‘Ye came tae help me when other folk forgot me,’ she said by way o explanation.
There was never any question aboot what the lassie was going tae do wi the plaid, even though it would have fetched a lot o siller, she handed it straight tae her father.
So there was the shepherd tramping ower the side o Rubieslaw nearest the Teviot Water on his way tae Hawick market. His eyes were turned upwards as hae roamed aboot in the quiet o his thoughts, when hae suddenly heard the awfiest stramash o women’s voices. Hae could hear them clear as a bell, but could see neither hide nor hair o the owners. Some voices were laughing away an others were yowling away or greetin. Just then hae managed tae make oot some words. ‘There’s a bairn born, there’s a bairn born.’
‘Aye, but there’s nothing tae put on it.’ It was then the shepherd realised that a fairy bairn had been born, causing some o the fairy women tae cheer an celebrate, whilst others tae lament the lack o any claes tae wrap the bairn up warm.
Hae was fair dumfoondered tae suddenly find himself in the midst o a lot o invisible folk given the remoteness o the moor. They were far away frae the sort o help that was needed. On hearing the cry for claes ower an ower again the poor shepherd decided that hae would have tae gie up his plaid. Hae was just aboot tae hand ower the auld plaid frae below his arm, but in handling the article hae recalled how little warmth there was tae be had frae it. So instead hae took off the braw new plaid hae had aboot his shoulder an flung it on tae the ground. It was immediately lifted by an unseen hand. As it did so the lamenting stopped an the soonds o celebration seemed twice as loud.
Surmising that hae’d done the right thing by the invisible folk, hae set off at a brisk pace for the market. In spite o the guid turn hae’d done hae could nae help feeling bad for giving away the braw plaid his daughter had spent so many hours making for him. Even though, at the same time, hae kent it couldnae be helped, that hae would do the very same again, given the same circumstances.
So taken up with such thoughts, hae found himself tae have wandered off the track that was familiar tae him. By the time hae got tae the market hae found that trading was aw but ower. The farmers an the shepherds were away, an the pens were aw empty except for yin. There was a gey queer-looking wee man wi a beard doon tae his chest that had six fat sheep. The shepherd looked at the sheep thinking that they were very fine an just what hae needed, but that hae would be lucky if hae could afford even yin yowe the likes o them. However, as if in a wee bit o a dream, hae found himself asking how much the man wanted for them.
The wee man’s eyes twinkled as hae looked at the shepherd, ‘Oh weel, just whatever ye have in yer pocket.’
‘The thing is, I still need tae buy the things ma lassie needs for oor meals,’ explained the shepherd.
‘In that case,’ said the wee man, ‘I’ll take half.’ Hae reached oot an took the siller frae the shepherd’s hand. ‘The six yowes are yours, an guid luck goes along wi them.’ The wee man turned away an was just aboot tae go, when hae paused an turned back tae the shepherd. There’s some braw wool at that stall ower there. I’d away an buy it an get yer daughter tae weave ye a new plaid, for that yin ye’re wearing winna keep the cauld oot o any man, woman or greetin bairn.’
So at the finish up the shepherd came away frae Hawick market withoot his plaid an any jingle tae his pocket but kent hae had a fair bit wealth in the six fat yowes, as weel as the balls o wool.
An yet it was wi some hesitancy that hae stepped ower the threshold intae his hoose. However, hae need nae have fashed himself, as his daughter immediately said tae him, ‘That’s aw right father. Ye did the right thing. I wouldnae have expected any the less o ye. I dinnae think ye were meant tae have thon plaid anyway. I kent frae the start that the witch had learnt tae weave an dye the cloot an whatnot frae the fairies. I doot the fairies werenae very happy when the witch gave the plaid away tae us ordinary mortals. They wouldnae want us tae ken their secrets. Mind you, I reckon they could have just stolen the plaid back any time they liked, but they gave ye a chance tae gie it back o yer ain accord. I’m sure the six fat yowes are yer reward for doing so.’
The shepherd’s daughter soon made another plaid for her father wi the wool hae’d brought frae the market. Though it wasnae up tae the mark o the yin she’d made him previous, it seen him through many winters. An as for the six fat yowes, they set the herd an his daughter on the road tae prosperity with aw that that entails. At least, that’s the way I heard it.
DELORAINE FARM
It so happened that long ago tailors would hire themselves oot tae neighbouring farms for the day in some o the mair ootlying parts. Then at night they would return tae their village workshops. Now yin time a tailor frae the village o Deloraine along with his men an apprentices were asked by a farmer’s wife tae go tae a nearby farm. The farm was situated in Ettrick Forest. So the tailor an his men showed up nice an early as instructed for the day’s work aheid. In fact they were that early they were invited tae share the family’s breakfast o porridge an milk. Sitting doon at the table aw the tailor’s men remarked what grand tasting milk it was, they’d rarely had such guid milk. An so as a result o their relish for the milk the jug was soon tae be found gey near empty.
‘That’s awright,’ said the farmer’s wife, ‘I’ll just away an fill it up again.’ An away she went intae the kitchen.
Weel yin o the apprentices, a bright-eyed fella that didnae miss much, thought this kind o queer, in that hae’d clearly heard a bit earlier on somebody in the kitchen say, ‘That’s the last o the milk that’s in the jug, there’s nae mair in the hoose.’ So the apprentice got himself up frae the table, went ower towards the kitchen an keeked roond the door. Hae was just in time tae see the farmer’s wife turn a spriggot in the kitchen wall. Lo an behold a stream o milk started tae pour oot an intae the basin below. Yince the basin was gey near full the wife screwed the spriggot the other way till the flow o milk stopped. She then lifted up the basin an took it in so the tailor an his men could finish their breakfast.
Just aboot noon yin o the men complained o having a right drooth, an hae fair wished that hae could have some mair milk as guid as hae’d had for his breakfast tae quench it.
‘That’s nae a problem, I can see tae that,’ said the laddie that had seen how the wife had gotten the milk frae the spriggot. An as the farmer’s wife was naewhere tae be seen, the young apprentice took the basin intae the kitchen an put it below the spriggot on the wall. Hae then turned the tap on, an right enough milk started tae pour intae the basin. When hae’d catched mair than enough milk hae screwed the tap the other way, but alas this had nae effect on the flow o milk. Nae matter what hae did the milk didnae stop scooting oot. Hae shouted tae the other laddies tae fetch bowls an pails an whatever they could lay their hands on till hae could get that tap off. But nae matter how hae twirled an screwed the spriggot it had not the slightest effect on the flow o milk. As they were filling every container they could find, the other laddies had a go at screwing the spriggot off, but they couldnae get the mi
lk tae stop either.
At the finish up the farmer’s wife came in fair roosed an wi a face as black as thunder, telling the laddies that they’d drawn the milk oot o aw the coos frae the heid o the Yarrow tae the foot o the Yarrow. It should be said that that amounted tae far mair coos than belonged tae the farm itself.
Frae that time on the womenfolk o Deloraine served up tae tailors an other men nothing but mashed tatties an cabbage.
The story o course hinges on the belief at the time that witches could steal other folk’s milk frae under their noses by the use o sympathetic magic.
Forby the method described in the story, the other common way tae supplement yer milk supply was tae make a rope frae the tail hairs o aw the coos that ye wanted tae supply ye, but ye had tae plait it in the opposite direction. Also, ye needed tae tie a knot in the rope tae represent each o the coos. Then, any time ye needed milk ye just gave a wee pull on the rope. This was done in the Devil’s name an was cawed a hair tether.
THE PHANTOM HAND
The laird that lived at Littledean Tower was a scunnersome fella. Hae used tae beat up his wife gey often, an would miscall her even mair often. His wife, in comparison, was a very canny guid-hearted soul that never had a bad word tae say aboot anybody. Even so the constant leatherings an cruel taunts were becoming ower much for her. The only friends the laird had were sleekit, scunnersome men that just hung aboot him for what they could get.
Yin night when aw his cronies had been roond at Littledean Tower drinking, the laird announced tae aw his friends that a Devil frae Hell would make a far better wife an lover than the yin that hae was lumbered with.
Scottish Borders Folk Tales Page 8
