by Jess Smith
Feeling for the door handle at her back she turned it, and in a moment stood shaking behind the closed door. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She was completely helpless, and as she stood there a whimpering sound came from the bottom of the stairs. It was Maggie the dog.
Mary turned on the stair light and called on the dog to come up. It was just a dog, but at that moment, it was the only friend she had in the world. Suddenly, as the dog edged upwards, her mind raced back to the walk in the woods and a certain stick. The Boorak tree’s broken branch. That was what they were asking for, of course!
‘Maggie fetch!’ She grabbed the banister and moved as fast as she could down the stairs. ‘Come on now, who’s a good girl? You are. Pretty Maggie, fetch the stick.’ The dog’s head bobbed from side to side and looked stupidly at her. ‘Blasted animal,’ she shouted, and tore downstairs and into the kitchen, grabbing the dog’s ripped teddies and throwing her squeaky toys in the air. ‘Oh no, there’s no sign of the thing,’ she cried, fearing the worst.
In a fit of anger she kicked the basket, forgetting that her feet were bare. That made matters worse, so with all her strength she threw the dog’s bedding and basket across the kitchen floor. Lo and behold, as it hit the washing machine, what should fall from under a torn rug in the basket – the very branch itself!
In seconds, ignoring her swollen arthritic knee joints, she was bounding back upstairs again. Faltering for a moment, she prayed the boys would be alright. She opened the door, closed her eyes and pushed the branch into the shadows. A chill ran through her bones as a slimy hand covered hers for a moment. Then the voices fell silent, and a warm air replaced the freezing cold that had previously filled every inch of the house.
Mary didn’t feel at all courageous, just terrified that whatever this was, it had come into the house on Halloween night, the night when spirits are closest to the living, and that it might have taken the children away. The thought didn’t bear thinking about, so she opened her eyes in the hope that her two charges were either sleeping on her bed or would be found standing in the room. Neither was the case. She could see nothing but two discarded sheepskin slippers, lying awkwardly on the shag pile carpet next to her dishevelled bed. ‘Andrew, Egan,’ she called, ‘where are you?’
‘We’re in here!’ came the answer from next door, a response which to her was as sweet as honey.
Rushing in, she found them lying there undisturbed and completely dozy. ‘What’s the matter, Mary?’ asked little Egan, sitting up in bed and rubbing his sleepy eyes.
She was astounded to see that neither boy had been disturbed. They had seen no tree or ghosts or shadows or branches; nothing. ‘I heard a scraping noise,’ she lied.
‘Oh, that’ll be Maggie wanting to sleep on your bed,’ answered Andrew, refusing to emerge from under his football-patterned duvet.
Mary apologised for waking them, and whispered as she closed their door, ‘I’ll let her sleep on my bed, seeing as it’s just for the one night.’
Sleep was the last thing she wanted to find, and she spent the rest of the night downstairs in front of a busy telly with the sound turned down.
If she had thought that the Boorak tree, with its spirits, had ever been a figment of her late grandmother’s imagination, then from that night onwards old Mary knew just how real it was.
15
FROZEN BOOTS
This next tale has been a favourite of mine for over fifty years. I have shared it with children from Australia, Ireland, Wales, England and most of Scotland.
It’s about a piper named Sandy; a gentleman of the road who, as this story begins, found himself penniless and freezing cold in a storm on the last night of the year. Come on the road with him and see how his future was shaped by a dead man’s boots.
Sandy shivered from his hunched shoulders to his split-soled boots. Winter’s jaws were snapping and barking at his exposed heels as the north wind signalled an oncoming blizzard.
That year, as he’d done for most of his adult life, he had accompanied the drovers who herded many hundreds of Highland cattle from the island of Skye to the cattle market in Crieff. But never before had the beasts fetched such rock-bottom prices. Paying his men and laying aside next year’s cattle fund, the drove master was left with as bare a purse as he’d ever had. Poor Sandy was handed only a few pennies, with apologies and promises that the price of meat might be higher next year.
So there he was, with a paper-thin plaid, boots unable to keep out the fingers of Jack Frost, his toes turning blue with cold. Oh, he was in a terrible state right enough, but he was alive, and while the heart was beating, old Sandy kept up his hopes. It was Hogmanay, the last night of the year. It was a time for first footing, and who better to bring in the New Year in Scotland’s glens than a hardy piper?
At the mercy of the first gale-driven snow, Sandy saw a welcome sight. Far up on the hillside was a flickering light. Through the blizzard which was tearing like a raging bull into every corner of the land, he could dimly make out the low roof of a small croft. Warmth spread through him as he thought of the welcome that lay within that small house.
The light was still quite far away, and the storm was battering him hard, so he decided to rest for a minute behind a hedge of beech that stretched along one side of the road. As he pulled his threadbare plaid across his thin frame and curled his shaking knees up under his chin, he suddenly became acutely aware of the presence of another person. Sandy called out, to reassure whoever it was who was sharing his shelter. In case the person was up to no good, he assured the stranger he had no money or belongings worth stealing, so the best thing was just to say hello and be done with it. But his words remained unanswered.
Apart from the wind howling and a chorus of rustling dead beech leaves whirling around his head, no voice spoke in reply. Twice, three times he called out, so certain was he that someone else besides himself witnessed the mighty storm in the dark, while the devil danced a fearsome jig among gust-driven snow.
Now, Sandy wasn’t one to admit he was wrong. He felt the ground on either side of where he sat, shivering with cold. To the left, he touched stones, heather clumps and stumpy hedge roots – nothing. To the right, he repeated the process – but what was that: leather heels, he felt two boots! Running his hands along the boots he drew back in horror. The footwear was being worn by somebody. There were feet inside the boots, and legs above the feet. Oh no!
This was no person, however. Well, maybe at one time it had been, but now it was a corpse, dead as a dodo. Sandy apologised silently for disturbing the man’s last rest and quickly left the shelter of the bush.
However, when his feet sank into several inches of fresh snow and the chill sent him rigid, he became a desperate man. Desperate men do desperate things. Those boots with their toes pointing upwards were going nowhere; their master had no need of them. Boots, as Sandy saw it, are for living men, not dead ones. He must have them!
Going back, he felt under the hedge for the boots and tugged at them, but they were not for leaving their owner. Again and again he heaved and pulled, but they were frozen solid. The only way for the piper to get his new footwear was to cut them free. ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything,’ he thought, as he drew his dirk and wasted no time hacking off the boots – feet included.
From that moment, Sandy had only one thought in mind, to get away from there as fast as he could go. With the wind at his back, he had no problem making his way swiftly up the hill, towards what he was certain would be dinner and a wee dram to warm his innards.
Soon he was standing where the glow from the croft window shone its welcome light into the darkness and driving snow. He felt its warmth; at last he’d arrived. His Glengarry tammy and plaid were white with snow, but with a quick flick and shake he was ready to share Hogmanay and party away the night with the good folk of the house. He rapped at the door.
When the woman of the place saw him on her doorstep, however, she refused to allow him to set a foot in her home. Sh
e was adamant that she never allowed his kind over her threshold. No matter how much he begged and pleaded, it made no difference; she held firm at her doorstep, with the howling gale nearly drowning out her voice. Her husband joined her and looked Sandy up and down. At last he said, ‘He’s a simple piper. He’s harmless enough. Let him sleep out the storm in the barn.’
‘You heard him,’ said the woman. ‘Now, take yourself away into the barn, and remember – in these parts we rise early, so make certain you’re gone when we get up.’ These words and a slammed door told him there would be no food or dram for him to bring in that New Year. Never mind, he was alive, and maybe in the morning someone would give him a bit of bread to fill his empty belly.
Whistling blasts of freezing wind filled the barn with sounds of doom, and had it not been for the friendly old cow munching away in a trough full of oats he’d have been totally miserable. ‘Hello, old lady,’ he said, removing his tammy and bowing stiffly. ‘I hope you won’t mind if I sleep here in your grand mansion this bleak night.’
The cow continued chewing, unmoved by his presence. Her face had no leer of murder about it, unlike that of her mistress, who would no doubt prove a woman of her word if she found him there in the morning. Another pleasing sight was the hot steam coming from the cow’s nostrils – just the thing for defrosting frozen feet. Sandy wasted no time in plonking the dead man’s boots, feet and all, into the cow’s trough, and making himself a bed in the straw for the night.
Exhausted, he fell into a deep sleep, not moving a muscle until the cock crowed for the new dawn. Swiftly removing strands of straw from his clothes, the piper looked inside the cow’s trough. Her warm breath through the night had certainly done the job. The boots, with bones, blood and dead flesh intact, had completely defrosted.
In no time the piper had the gory feet removed and the boots on. Brilliant, he thought, they fitted like gloves. Never had he owned such well-made boots. They were of calf leather, part-laced with strong metal eyelets. ‘That poor soul, whoever he was, hadn’t had much wear from these grand boots,’ he said to himself, walking up and down the length of the barn.
As the thought of dead man flashed into his head, he felt uneasy. ‘What if he’s on his way to heaven and him without feet? I know, I’ll give him my old boots. He can come up to this barn as a ghost and be joined again with his feet before journeying to the mansion in the sky.’ No sooner said than done. He put the dead feet into his old worn out boots.
The next moment, the sound of a door slamming filled him with horror. It could only be the man or woman of the house, coming to see if he had overstayed his welcome. There was no time to escape, so he hid again in his bed of straw and prayed that whoever it was didn’t have a gun!
From the sound of the feet in the cobbled courtyard it was the woman who was coming to the barn. He listened intently, keeping perfectly still. The footsteps came into the barn and then stopped. For a moment there was no sound at all. Just when he thought she’d found the place empty and gone off, there was an almighty scream. Her husband heard her and came rushing to her aid. ‘My dear,’ he said, sounding deeply shocked, ‘I thought for an awful minute that piper chap had attacked you!’
‘That piper chap?’ She stared at him with as furrowed a brow as he’d ever seen on his wife’s rugged face, ‘He’ll never bother anyone again. See there in the trough, your mad cow has eaten him!’
When the master saw what was lying in the feed trough, he scolded the cow for eating a smelly old piper.
‘You must bury him, husband,’ ordered the farmer’s wife. ‘Our good neighbours will be here today, and if so much as a hair is found, they’ll suspect foul play. Now, do as I say, and get those bones and boots buried!’
Reluctantly the man took the pair of boots and their contents down to the bottom of the garden and proceeded to dig a hole, watched all the while by his nagging wife.
Back in the barn, Sandy had decided enough was enough. His belly was not only empty but dry as well. He needed to be fed and watered. This couple, she with her cutting tongue, he a snivelling coward, were provoking this desperate piper to commit another reckless crime. Into his mouth went the untuned chanter, a weapon to be reckoned with, even though certain folk hadn’t got respect for the national instrument of old Scotia. With all his remaining strength the piper filled the bag with air and pushed into it with bony elbows. A screech, not unlike that of the ancient banshee washing funeral shrouds in a lonely fog-covered river, rent the air.
All that remains to tell is that the farmer and his wife ran off as fast over the hill as if the devil himself was after them, scattering white snow in their wake, and they have never been seen again – not so much as the tip of a nose. As for our hero – well, he’s got himself a fine wee croft with a warm bed and as much food as will last him a long, long time. Oh yes, and not forgetting the cow, with her milk, butter and full fat cheese. He’s a happy man indeed.
If you find yourself facing the last night of the year when a blizzard is howling through your street, remember Sandy!
16
THE CRUEL MILLER
This is another tale which I’ve shared throughout the land; it teaches bullies how not to behave. I hope you enjoy it. My dear friend Robert Dawson gave it to me. He informs me that he got it from travelling people.
Old Tizzy and her son Jack lived alone on a remote moorland some place in England. Jack made dolly pegs, paper flowers, baskets and brooms and Tizzy sold them. They were saving to buy a horse and wagon so that they could move away from there and go on the road. Jack’s dad had died the previous year, and since his death they’d found life much more difficult. It was such hard work carrying baskets, hawking from door to door, that Tizzy’s fingers grew stiff and painful. One day Jack said, ‘Mother, I will get a job.’
‘Oh son, I’m sure that’s a very admirable thing to say, but getting a job is harder than you think.’
‘Why mother? I’m strong and healthy, with good eyesight and can work all day long on only a plate of meal.’
‘Dear son, you’re a traveller boy. Nobody would trust you.’
‘Well, if I don’t try, then I will never know.’
He decided that after breakfast he’d go down into the nearest town and ask around to see if anyone needed a strong lad.
Butcher Brown was slicing chunks of beef when Jack enquired about work. He was delighted when the butcher looked him up and down and said, ‘Lift that pig’s carcass, sit it on your shoulder and show me how far you can carry it.’
He was very impressed with Jack when he saw how fast he worked and offered him a job. However when Jack told him he lived in a tent on the moor with his mother, the butcher said abruptly, ‘Sorry, I don’t employ travellers.’
Sadly young Jack walked off, until he came to a busy baker’s shop. The same thing happened there – he was offered a job, but when he said how he lived, he was turned away. Onto the next place, and it was the same story, they did not employ travellers.
Jack felt terrible; he couldn’t understand why people didn’t like his kind. After hours without any success, he stopped to rest on the outskirts of the town beside a large house with lots of windows and a big red door. After a while a tall man came out, leading another man by the hand. ‘Hello,’ said the tall man to Jack, ‘nice day.’
‘Yes, but I think it will be wet,’ he answered, feeling spits of rain on his face.
‘Mary,’ the tall man called back through the half open door where a tiny lady stood. ‘It’s going to rain.’
She walked back into the house and came out seconds later with a basket. ‘Thank you, Tom.’
‘It wasn’t me, it was this young man here who says it’s going to rain.’
‘Thank you, young man,’ Mary the tiny lady called out, as she hurried out to the washing green and gathered laundry off the line.
Jack smiled as Tom and his companion came over to him. ‘This is Bill, he’s blind,’ he told Jack. Both men held out their hands. Jack sho
ok each in turn, introducing himself. They invited him to share some lunch with them. He gladly accepted, and when in the house met Mary, who had been born with rickets, leaving her with deformed legs. She told him she had difficulty walking, but did the best she could. Along with Tom, Bill and Mary there was another man called Roger who couldn’t remember things. Tom was deaf but very good at lip reading.
Jack spent the rest of the day with his new friends, who all lived together looking after themselves. They even grew their own corn. ‘You are such kind people,’ he told them as he got ready to go home. ‘I’ll visit you when I come back to the village looking for a job.’
Mary looked at her friends and said, ‘The miller needs someone.’
Bill, Tom and Roger said in unison, ‘Oh Mary, that would not be fair on Jack.’
Jack’s ears pricked up, and he asked what the miller did that was so wrong. He was simply told that the miller wasn’t a nice man.
His new friends refused to say any more, because they relied on the miller to grind their corn. Without the mill, they’d have no bread.
Jack assured them that travelling people are used to being treated unfairly. A job would mean money and a better life for Tizzy. So having said farewell, he set off with the directions to the mill in his head, and soon was knocking on the mill door.
‘I’m a strong lad who needs a job. I won’t let you down. I shall be here every day when the cock crows and leave as it roosts. Give me a job and you will not regret it.’
The miller turned Jack around and examined his muscles. Jack felt as if he was a horse for sale.
‘Be here at six o’clock tomorrow morning. I’ll give you a trial period, and at the first sign of laziness, illness or cheek you’re out the door, is that clear?’
Jack felt good as he ran off to tell Tizzy the good news – he had a job!
