by Jess Smith
When he heard those words anger grew within him, and he screamed at his own stupidity for choosing an unclean thing.
‘Take her to the dungeon, I shall slit her throat in the morning,’ he ordered his guard.
Bregha was overjoyed by this turn of events, and instructed the servants to serve their master a supper of venison and mead.
That night after both had feasted and were asleep in each other’s arms, the fairies set to work rescuing the maiden from the dark deep dungeons. Loosing her shackles, they hurried Meera away out of the castle by a concealed underground passage which was entered through a cave opposite the Turret Falls and reappeared beneath the Barvick Falls.
The moment she fell into her beloved’s arms the thunderous roar of an earth tremor shook the ground beneath their feet. The castle of Toshach and all that lived therein were destroyed.
The significance of the black pearl was soon apparent, as the fairies removed the girl’s sight—no one had ever seen the fairies as she had done and lived to tell of it. But she had suffered enough, so they took her sight instead of her life. The love between the girl and the pearl-fisher was stronger than ever, and he became her eyes.
The souls of Toshach and his evil cousin Bregha were given over to the Boorak spirits of the forest, and to this day there are two trees in the wood that have an uncanny resemblance to a man and a woman. Would you like to cast your eye upon them? If you’re ever up the bonny glen, then why not take a look for yourself?
Those lads had a way with the old ballads, and when one produced a set of bagpipes then it was a certainty they were for staying the night. We laughed at their jokes and cried at their songs: what a talented bunch of men indeed. If any of you have ever had the privilege to know and perhaps hear the great ‘Stewarts of Blair’ in concert, then you’ll know what I mean. ‘Tradition bearers’ amongst the travelling people, that is what those talented folks were. I have been privileged to share a stage with the last of those bearers—the great Sheila Stewart herself—and may I say in all honesty, it was indeed an honour.
At breakfast, along with a wee nip of October frost, came a parting tale from one of those lads. Here, why not have it yourself with a scone and a cup of your favourite.
This was how he told it.
‘Ma Daddy’s cousin, an I cannae tell ye his name, said one night while he wis heading hame frae a real busy day ahent the scythe he lost the path and ended up at a burn-side.
This is whit he telt me:
“Noo, as ma wee fingers were awfy sair and rid raw, I bent doon tae wash ma hands in the burn. Noo thon water wis as frezzin cauld as the frost on a January morning, and wi ma palms blistered I lay doon fur a whiley, keepin ma hands in the braw cauld watter. As I was only ten-year-auld I fell asleep richt easy. It was a hootin hoolit that opened ma een tae a bright yella moon. Thinkin Mammy an Daddy wid be frantic lookin fur me I jumped to ma feet. As I turned tae git ma directions I noticed three trees over on the horizon brow. Now can ye jist imagine whit went through ma young head, whin hingin frae the middle yin wis a rope an hingin frae it wis a skeleton—aye, man, a puckle ae bones, an they were rattlin an rollin as if the divil himsel wis gieing them life. Lord roast me if I tell a lie!”’
I split my sides laughing, but the teller said he thought the story might have a bit of truth, because when his father’s cousin asked around the locals it seemed a certain gent was hung between trees at the burnside. When he enquired further he discovered that two young men had fought over a bonny lassie they both loved. When the winner took the girl’s hand in marriage, the loser, unable to live without the fair maid, hung himself from the lonely spot. Maybe the youngster did see something, but, come on, a skeleton? Still, I didn’t want to appear disrespectful, so stopped laughing and told him our tale of haunting back at Kirrie. At this my listener burst his sides laughing and thanked me for cheering him up—huh!
Menmuir saw Daddy and Nicky work from sunrise to its westerly setting. Mammy worried he was taxing the old lungs, but he reassured her he was fine. He added that the money he was accumulating would stand us in good stead during the winter. Now, reader, what’s that old saying again? Oh yes, I know—‘Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.’ Yes indeed.
Daddy was on top of the world. Of course he was: a bulging bundle of notes tied with two elastic bands was payment for one of the big jobs. ‘Look, Jeannie, we’re rich!’ he told her as he met us in the town of Montrose. We were in getting messages, and he thought because he desperately needed new trousers he’d get a pair. As Mammy and I went for food, he popped into a menswear shop to buy the trews. Now don’t ask me why, what or when, but whilst my father was undressing to try on those new flannels, someone slipped a nasty hand into Daddy’s old trouser pocket and removed the bundle of notes! The thief managed to steal all our winter money, a total of over three hundred pounds. I am aware by today’s standards that isn’t a vast sum, but believe you me, to a travelling family in the early sixties that was a fortune.
We searched the shop from top to bottom. Daddy even accused the manager of having a hand in it, but nothing doing: our father’s money had walked and it would never be spent by us. The thief, I am positive, would certainly not have spent that hard-earned cash with any enjoyment, not with all the curses we hung over his or her head that day.
Fate wasn’t finished with us either, because when Daddy completed his final job, the farmer didn’t have any cash to pay him. It seems that the sad man was hoping to sell his farm and emigrate. Daddy, however, had been seriously hurt by the trouser thief, and would have payment in kind. Well, this came in the way of a 3.4 Jaguar saloon.
Mammy near had his face in the soup pot, but when he said he could fetch plenty money by selling the motor, she softened up. Now, I expect you’re thinking everything turned out all right then. No, sorry reader, but he fell in love with the car and hadn’t the heart to sell it. I mean, a wee traveller man with a car like that, could you blame him? What a brilliant status symbol. Silver grey with that famous ‘cat’ perched sleekly on its long nose. Nicky also had his eye on the vehicle, thinking on the classy bints he could pull. He’d have to stay with us, though, and that pleased Mammy because she’d grown so fond of her sister’s boy. We kind of liked having him around too.
Well, winter wasn’t that far round the corner, so after three weeks of back-breaking tattie-lifting we experienced a monumental change. Daddy had decided to go back to Manchester. For Perthshire’s agricultural travellers, a trip over the border meant going far away from home. Still, I suppose with us being big-league paint-sprayers, a few hundred miles was not to be grumbled at.
Now, you remember from my first journey how our winter in the smoggy city left Mammy at the door of death. This time there was a different peril. On this journey the long arm of the law tried to snatch away Daddy’s liberty. Now, folks, for a travelling man that’s a big liberty! It served him right for showing off with his Stirling Moss drive through the city centre in the fancy wheels.
However, we’ll leave this story until a few more tales have been the better of sharing with your good selves.
13
JEANNIE GORDON
We were on the road again and on the way we stopped for a while amidst the lowland gypsies. Here is my all-time favourite story from the Border counties.
In the time of upheaval at the end of the Seventeenth Century, while Scotland blew war trumpets between the north and the south, a small band of gypsies lived in perfect peace and harmony to the south of the bonny town of Hawick. In this group lived a woman by the name of Jeannie Gordon. Quite a tall lass, not awfy bonny but well respected by all who knew her. She had once been the proud wife of big Johnny Young, but had seen him killed during a fight with a fellow basket-seller at Selkirk.
Our tale opens one sleepy late afternoon in the month of July. The lassies washing clothes in the river were startled by a deep-throated gurgling sound from the water’s depth. Unbeknown to any of them an underground stream at the h
ead of the town had taken all it could after weeks of torrential rain, and like a great geyser suddenly spurted up through the ground with a velocity never before seen by even the oldest inhabitants.
Thirty, forty, fifty, aye, maybe a hundred feet it spouted into the air to fall back upon the poor unsuspecting folks of Hawick. They didn’t stand a chance as it cascaded in and through their houses, taking every movable object that lay in its surging path. Baths, brushes, basins, tables, chairs, dishes, wee dogs, nothing escaped. Those who were able to clung like grim death to whatever offered a hold, it was too bad for those who didn’t. It was a nightmare for those Hawick folks right enough, but not so the gypsies. Oh no, they looked upon the river’s bounty with rubbed hands and gleeful eyes. Never had they seen so many free goods. Every able-bodied gypsy was waist deep into the water, pulling out whatever they could grab hold of. Jeannie was no exception, until she saw something bobbing furiously in the raging torrent. Of all things, it was a baby’s cradle. ‘The babby,’ she screamed, ‘get the wee babby, look—it’s in the crib.’ Now any travelling body will tell you, no matter how rich the plunder, if a baby is in trouble then drop you drop it all and rescue the innocent. The men and women linked arms to span the rushing water and reach the little mariner. Just in time Jeannie, standing the last in the line, stretched her body as far as humanly possible and from the brink saved the tiny bundle, which was completely unaware of its almost certain doom. The infant, a boy of several months, snuggled into Jeannie’s bosom and was now stirring for milk.
‘Who’s to go into Hawick with me and return this babby to its natural mother?’ she asked the band. An old man approached her shaking his head.
‘Nobody, Jeannie,’ he said, ‘because if any one of us goes near the toon then we’ll be flung in jail for stealing. You know that, woman.’
‘Aye, but for the love of God, will this wee mite no dee if it bides away frae its mither?’
‘Leave it here, then. If a mither is fretting then she’ll come a-looking. Now come on, Jeannie, we’ll have tae uproot and go from here. It’s the safety of us all that matters.’
Jeannie knew full well that if she left such a vulnerable bundle at the mercy of the woods then a fox would feast before long. No, there was only one thing to do, take him with them. That she did, weaning him on goat’s milk and giving him her family name of Gordon.
Now, this might be the best time to tell you that Jeannie had a daughter, who when she took on Gordon, was only a yearling. Jeannie never lied to him about her not being his true mother. However she did lie and say he was abandoned at birth, and his real parents were now dead. Her daughter, whom she named Rosy, grew up at Gordon’s side, and it was a known fact amongst the gypsies that the pair would one day wed, such was their obvious love for each other.
Now our tale takes its characters on a troublesome and dangerous journey in which old Fate himself takes a fiery hand.
It so happened that as our band of gypsies was going from one place to another, they met a colourful regiment of Irish Dragoons who were marching to take up arms with Argyle against the Earl of Mar. Gordon was instantly struck by the uniforms and manners of the soldiers and had to enquire of them where they were going. Now, since this particular regiment was renowned for enlisting any able-bodied male who just happened by, the sergeant was quick to work his charm on the innocent Gordon. He regaled him with tales of daring exploits and battles and soon had our laddie wanting a bite of this cherry. The wily sergeant asked Gordon to repeat an oath of allegiance, then handed him the King’s shilling, his payment as a serving soldier of King James.
‘Rosy, you away hame an tell ma mither I’m awa tae fight a battle. Tell her when I’m done I’ll be back.’ That said, and grasping the silver shilling tightly in his hand, he hugged the sobbing Rosy and was gone. Back at the campsite Jeannie was beside herself with grief, and believed this was the Lord’s punishment for keeping him all those years ago. At once she donned black garb and took to her closed tent, uttering not a single word. Poor wee Rosy did the same. They were of the same mind: their beloved Gordon was lost to them forever.
Soon the Dragoons along with the new recruit arrived at Stirling to join Argyle, who’d had word that the Highlanders’ champion, Mar, was rapidly heading towards them to engage them in battle. They met at Sherriffmuir, and oh, my, the terror of old death spread itself evenly over the field of blood. In the midst of the battle young Gordon fought, not for Lowland or Highland, but struck out for his very own life. For it soon dawned on his good self that, victor or loser, his kind would be treated the same, as all gypsies were. After he had felled more than six big Highlanders he made the decision—to throw down his weapon and make tracks for home. Suddenly, however, a young officer was thrown from his horse in front of him. A heavy broadsword rose in the air wielded by yet another wild warrior from the north. Gordon had no stomach for this fight, but he felt duty bound to save this young calvaryman. Just as the enemy was about to drop his sword on the neck of his victim, Gordon ran him through with his bayonet. The Highlander fell like a stone, and Gordon had saved the young man’s life.
With that he fled from the field of murder and mayhem, running until night and exhaustion engulfed him. After weeks’ living rough, he eventually found his way to the quiet serenity of his campsite, and collapsed. Rosy and Jeannie were as overjoyed as if heaven itself had opened.
‘Ye’re hame, ma boy, God has, this day, been too kind.’ Jeannie’s face was streaked with tears that she’d held back for so long. ‘Promise me you’ll never go away from us again, please, laddie.’
‘Mother, thon soldiering is bad doings right enough, and it’s not for a gypsy laddie. Aye, ye’ll never see me take arms agin ony man, it’s my promise to ye and the guid Lord. We gypsies have nae enemies, mother,’ he added. Then he turned to Rosy and said, ‘I was hardly thinking of ever seeing your bonny wee face again, sweet lassie. Soon we’ll be wed, if it’s yer aim.’
‘Gordon, nothing in this earth could guide me away from a lifetime with you. Oh aye, its ma aim right enough—yes, yes, and a thousand times yes!’
The band of gypsies felled a tree, chopped it up, then piled the grandest fire and celebrated until the moorcock went hoarse. Later, when all was still, Jeannie asked God not to take Gordon from her but instead to grant her the strength and the right moment to disclose the old truth about her adopted son. She would pick her moment, but not yet. For now, his happiness was enough to soothe her troubled breast.
Soon life as a wandering band took on its familiar duties. Cutting river reeds, drying them and working hard producing baskets. It was while selling those baskets that the hand of fate was to once again hold Gordon in its tight grip. At Jedburgh it was, in the town square where two soldiers just happened to be passing a quiet hour when they recognised him. ‘Hey lad,’ called one, ‘you took arms for the King at Sherriffmuir?’
Thinking no harm in answering, Gordon replied, ‘I did indeed’.
‘Then you’re a deserter, come with us.’ Those words had hardly left their lips when our bold lad was shackled and marched away. Struggling, he called back to the completely dumbfounded Rosy, ‘Tell ma mither, but God help me, I love ye baith, an ye’ll be my last thoughts on this earth, Rosy.’
Now when poor Jeannie heard this, she was convinced her God had not forgiven her and was determined to punish her for keeping the wee cradled baby all those years ago. Again she and Rosy donned black and went into the darkened tent to console each other, thinking Gordon was now lost forever!
In no time Gordon had been marched into Edinburgh Castle and tried for desertion, and next we find him standing prepared to meet his doom on the sands of Portobello.
‘Here,’ said the head of the execution party, handing him a hood, ‘this will help the shock o’ seeing whit’s coming.’
‘I’ll see whit ever ye have. It’s a gypsy I am and we see the setting sun and the rising moon, so you can put that black demon o’ a hat away.’ As the sergeant walked awa
y, Gordon filled his thoughts with his bonny Rosy and old Jeannie who had carried him through snow and wild blizzards, without help or care from any other body. Then he waited on the order to fire.
Now it was normal for Argyle to take his horse onto the sands to see that his men carried out their duties properly. And this he just happened to do on that fateful day.
As he approached Gordon he noticed something familiar about the condemned man.
Before the firearms were raised he dismounted and went over to Gordon. ‘Did you take arms with me on the bloody field at Sherriffmuir?’ he asked.
‘Aye, I was there,’ answered Gordon, wishing to God this task was done.
‘Do you remember a cavalryman falling from his steed and nearly run through by a Highlander?’
‘If ye dinnae mind, man, but thon bullets are waiting in their barrels and I’m feeling the fear o’ things.’
‘Yes, no doubting you are, but tell me quickly, were you the man who saved the cavalryman?’
‘Yes, my bayonet came between the two.’
At that Argyle ordered Gordon’s execution to be halted, then turned and said, ‘I was that man whom you saved, I owe you my life.’
When Argyle discovered Gordon had been enlisted without properly understanding a soldier’s lot he had him pardoned. To add to our lad’s astonishment, the gent gave him, for his trouble, a bag of sovereigns. And, snatched once again from the jaws of fate, our lad made his way home. I’ll leave it to your imagination, reader, as to the welcome he received. Now all that remained was for him to marry Rosy and, perhaps, to build a strong tent for his mother’s old age. But before that, let’s see what the wily old hand of fate unleashes.
It was a beautiful morning. After weeks of rain the band of gypsies found themselves, as they were at the opening of my tale, just outside Hawick. Rosy and Gordon were quietly watching the fast-flowing river curl and turn in her natural contours. A gentleman fishing in a salmon-cobble waved to them as the water took him downstream. Inside her tent, Jeannie had taken the decision to tell Gordon the truth, and what better place, aye, reader!
