Tears for a Tinker

by Jess Smith

  We’ll sort that scene out when it breaks, but in the meantime—those nettles.

  Granny Hearne had told me the previous night, before I scooted home in the moonlight with my hair on end after her final story about a fiendish brown puddock with one eye, that her old recipes were closely guarded secrets. If my mother wanted to know what the nettles were for, I had just to tell her, for soup. But of course my mother had her own carefully guarded recipes. The last thing she whispered to me as I walked off that morning was, ‘there’s only one cure for stiff joints, and that’s to keep moving—walk plenty miles a day and you’ll live supple. An auld auntie o’ mine from Kintyre jumped intae her widden box when she died!’ She added, ‘but try and find out how auld Hearne makes her stuff, just in case ma bones should stiffen one day, Jessie.’

  Travelling people set a great importance on every flower and herb growing wild, whether for eating, medicine or healing, and have gifted to each up and coming generation recipes that go back centuries. My own mother had, as a lassie, acquired her mother’s herbal cures, but sad to say she used only a fraction of them, this being a result of the fifties wonder cure, Penicillin.

  Dina knew exactly where nettles, with their young tasty heads, grew abundantly. As we trekked off, I hoped she didn’t feel the urge to revisit the mother otter, because I was afraid of the huntsmen and their dogs, especially yon slavering bitch which I was later to see in a film about Sherlock Holmes called Hound of the Baskervilles. Well, it certainly seemed like the same beast! But as Dina ran ahead of me with the stamina of someone twice her age, it soon became clear we were headed in another direction entirely. We kept the shore to our right, and on the sandy ground to our left a bank of nettles and Michaelmas daisies, which had not yet come into flower, were growing tightly together like flowing green walls. If you don’t mind, I’ll skip quickly through the gathering of those waspish plants, because my skin still cringes when I think of the dozens of stings I got: my arms and legs were red and swollen.

  Dina stuffed a big bag with the nettles, as large as we could carry. We picked the nettle tops, because that’s the sweetest part of the weed. I grimaced and rubbed my hands over my itchy and uncomfortable arms and legs. (A stupid idiot you’ll think me, lacking a spit of sense and heading off without covering my skin, but what wean thinks ahead?) Even Dina, who I thought would be well used to this method of harvesting, didn’t escape the nips of nettles. She pointed over at the seashore, where there were some docken plants. I knew that if we rubbed them on our stings this would alleviate some of the pain, and in a flash we were ripping up the green fans and covering ourselves in their juices. My companion started off then towards the water, and it didn’t take words to tell me that a good dook in the salty Atlantic would further help our aching skin.

  Sanderlings rushed by on twinkling legs along the surf, slowing only to eat, as we raced through them to belly-flap into the foam. The salty water further stung my poor skin; I made to rush out, but Dina gestured me to stay. She rolled over and over, so I did it too, and honestly, I kid you not, those nettle stings began cooling down. I thought my body would be covered for days in pink calamine lotion, but thanks to my wee silent mate every red spot had gone.

  We wandered home toward her tunnel-tent in the dunes with her granny’s nettles, feeling recharged with new blood. I don’t know if the stinging or the salty dip did it, but my flesh was tingling with newness. Yet it might have been that I’d not bathed for ages! Shameful, I know.

  Granny Hearne washed the nettles, correcting me when I called them weeds, saying they were vegetables. What a let-down, when all she did was simply cut and boil them in salted water. I thought I was going to be initiated into an ancient weird spell—involving a black pot with frog’s elbows and spider’s webs thrown in to add to its healing power.

  She then drained them and popped them back into a dry pot with butter and some cut mint.

  ‘I’ll give your mother a taste if she comes by,’ said the old woman with a wink to her eye, as she handed me the drained liquor from the boiled nettles and added, ‘drink that, Jessie, it’ll clean any nettle poison from your blood.’

  I was alarmed by this remark, but she said that sometimes allergies can be started if too much poison gets into good blood. I didn’t fancy drinking nettle juice, but Dina halved it with me, swallowing it quickly, so I did the same.

  That day when I arrived home, I was saddened to find my family packing away to head back on the road next day. Daddy planned to go up to Stirling. So that night I said my tearful farewell to Dina Hearne, a remarkable wee lassie who, thanks to my father’s visit to his old friend, I now had the honour of calling my ‘silent friend.’

  30

  STIRLING TALES

  Stirling in the central belt was the place travellers called ‘the neither-here-nor-there town.’ This was simply because it was as far north as it was south, and so folks couldn’t make up their minds about the geography of the place. I heard tales that at one time it was submerged under the ocean, but I believed that was rubbish until I discovered a few facts for myself about Stirling. It was known as the royal seat of Robert the Bruce—the hero-king of Scotland made for this castle stronghold after defeating the English at neighbouring Bannockburn. There were strange secrets hidden beneath the thick marshland that covered the flat country around as far as the eye could see. Here two rivers, the Teith and the Forth, flow from east to west. Let’s take a look at this place, and the travellers’ folklore about it that was kept secret from the wider world. Three very old travellers who asked for anonymity gave these wonderful stories to me. Let me now share them with you. After all, according to one of my tale-givers, ‘Stories of Scotland belong to the Scots and whoever else lives here.’ So take these gifts, my friends, they are yours after all!

  Neptune and Dunvegan

  Once, in a time very long ago, when the world was more water than land, there was a beautiful island called Sphag. Neptune, the King of the Ocean, sometimes loved to get away from rocking waters and stormy seas, where the sun boiled the water and made the earth sizzle under its heat. His favourite place was the small island of Sphag. The blue waters that surrounded this idyllic spot were seldom rough or stormy, and its inhabitants were a handful of giants who never interfered in each other’s business.

  Neptune was a bachelor king, and although a wife would have been a treat for him, a suitable female never seemed to catch his eye. Until one day, while he was swimming around the west coast, he heard a hypnotic sound. On investigation he discovered it was the beautiful singing of a mermaid. On further investigation, her captivating beauty revealed itself in splendour as she dived from a rock into the sea. At first all he could do was listen and watch this gorgeous creature as she flipped and dived and swam, with her silvery tail, in and out from the shoreline. Her long golden hair bobbed upon the tide as she swam, turning over and over and singing all the while.

  Not wishing to disturb the mermaid, he sank deep into the sea, swimming around to the east coast where the water spirit Shanna lived. When he arrived at the home of this sea spirit, he told her of his love for the mermaid and asked what manner of gift would be suitable for her. The spirit thought for a moment, then said that a bed of rare mussel shells lay at the mouth of a gentle river, collecting pearls within themselves of an age-old beauty.

  There were four beds of these, and when Neptune visited the place he decided that the fourth bed was the biggest. He instructed Shanna to name this river ‘The Forth,’ because of his choice of the fourth as the best bed. Such lovely pearls grew here that when strung into a necklace they would be a love token like no other. The mermaid would be His Majesty’s for ever if she were presented with a gift of such wonder by his hand. That was settled then: the bed of mussels must be protected until they matured to perfection.

  Next day, Neptune swam back into the west to find his beloved and tell her of his gift. First he introduced himself as Neptune, and she, he discovered, was the coy Dunvegan. When she saw h
im her heart skipped a beat—here, with promises of love and fine pearls, was the King of All the Seas. She thought him a fine lover, and soon they were to be seen sunning themselves together on the shores of that bonny little piece of land which was her home. He said that when they were together he felt like he was floating in the heavens, so they named their secret meeting place Skye.

  However, somewhere in the north, a giant named Aberdeen had fallen in love himself, but the giantess he desired was not interested in him. She was known as Stirling, and had long since shown an interest in fine jewels. One day, when Aberdeen was striding across the land, he heard an elf singing a song: ‘Listen to me now, a worthy snip of news, the king of mighty ocean has fallen mad in love, with a golden haired mermaid, with swishy tail of blues, he will shower her with pearls from a warm mussel glove’.

  Aberdeen was intrigued, because it was always thought His Majesty would never wed, and never find a queen. It was further believed that there was no one good enough for him. He had to find out more. So he listened, pretending to be a sturdy oak tree, and stood for days holding his arms aloft. Eventually he overheard two tiny elves saying that Shanna was guarding the fourth mussel bed, because in its shells lay the most beautiful pearls in the entire world. His eyes lit up at the mention of precious gems. If he owned such wonders, surely Stirling would find him irresistible.

  Now, no one had ever beaten Shanna in a fight, because she was a spirit creature, invisible except when the moon was full. Then, and only then, did she lose her powers and could be seen by all mortal eyes. Aberdeen knew this, so he waited until he saw the moon waxing. Each night it got bigger, and then on the night of the full moon he challenged her to fight. Shanna, it was later reported to the King, fought bravely, but she was no match for Aberdeen, who took the victorious spoils, those silver pearls.

  Stirling was delighted when she received them, swearing at once she would wed her warrior.

  It was a sad, sad day for Neptune, however, because when lovely Dunvegan heard the terrible news, she swam under her glorious island of Skye and was never seen again. Neptune’s heart broke for his lost love. Such was his desire for revenge that he summoned the heavenly gods to make a decree that Aberdeen and Stirling be separated for their part in the destruction of such a perfect love.

  Soon winds began to blow, fierce and terrible, until trees were wrenched from their roots and crashed to the ground in other faraway places. Awful lightning shrieked across the sky, forking from one corner of the universe to another. Neptune’s fury would soon be released upon Sphag. ‘Come to me,’ he screamed at the ocean, ‘now!’ Drawn by the power of the god, the sea rose and rose until it reached the heavens; then, with a scoop of his mighty arm he withdrew all the dreadful weeds contained in the ocean and began piling them back towards the island of Sphag. Over and over again, day after day, he worked, drawing back the water and stuffing the seaweed in its place until there was not a drop of water left. Finally, exhausted, the mighty sea lord called for all ears to hear—‘I have withdrawn my sea from you and left the weeds. Now you will not swim in my ocean, nor will you feed from her bounty!’ Then, with a mighty swish of his swordlike green scaly tail he was gone, and would never visit Sphag again.

  Nothing grew on the land of weeds, later to be known as moss-land. It concealed, in its green and black depths, slimy creatures that would, on the darkest nights, crawl out of their murky mysterious filth to steal little animals and feed on them in their underworld. Nothing grew, no human lived on its surface; there was only the sound of a low wind to remind people living on higher ground that Sphag was a place not to venture into. The word for no man’s land in those days was ‘num’. The mass of packed weeds was therefore known as Sphagnum. Centuries later, because a proper sea-food diet was no longer available to them, giants gradually shrunk until they reached no more than five or six feet tall. These people became known as the Scots, which means small; it was after them that the land of Scotland was named.

  The elves, however, being renowned for their adaptability, found a way under the moss and built a world for themselves called Elfin, and it is to this world we now pay a visit.

  Blun’ Harry

  From his first waking moment of life, Harry the fiddler was without sight; he couldn’t tell you what colour were the water lilies that grew in flat circles around his low-roofed cottage, any more than he could describe the brightness of a yellow moon. Folks felt sorry for him, and neighbours would call with bread or some small token of their admiration of the best fiddle player that ever lived on the outskirts of the moss-lands. No one knew what age he was, but it was thought he had reached the age of seventy. His parents, who had died young, left Harry with nothing more than a tiny cottage and little else. Yet even without sight he could work and fend for himself. His fondness for the fiddle and skill with it was inherited from his father, who in turn inherited his skill from his own father. So as far back as the poor folks of the bog could remember, music had been played and enjoyed in that area.

  It was at weddings that his fine music was mostly employed; no payment ever crossed palms, because Harry always refused it, saying music is a gift and should be shared. Yet it was always at such happy events that his playing brought him sadness. He would never hold a lovely fresh bride in his arms or sleep with another under the roof of his small but cosy home. So many happy, unseen faces; he knew they must be happy, because did they not all laugh and sing, dancing around him in his world of darkness? Yet what of his loneliness? Why could he not join in the joy and fun? Poor, sad fiddler, though all thought him happy because of the uplifting music he played, the opposite was the case. So he’d sit in that darkness and pretend to all his friends and neighbours he was just as happy as they were for the newly-weds. The way he disguised his true feelings was to drink, and to drink more than was ever good for him—there was no moderation, just pour and swallow until natural thought had been dispersed and everything was given over to his wonderful music. Then, at the end of every wedding, he’d collapse into exhaustion, relying on some strong person to walk him home along the narrow causeway that wound its way through the treacherous moss and see him safely home.

  One day a request for him to play came from the Laird, who lived in a grand house perched high upon a steep hill overlooking the moss-land. The invitation came by one of the Laird’s horsemen, who read to Blun Harry its fancily worded request: ‘On the 30th of October, Madam and Lord Kane have great pleasure in inviting you to play at the wedding of their daughter Annabelle to Kenneth Duncan.’

  ‘You’ll be expected around three o’ clock in the afternoon, Blun’ Harry,’ said the horseman, who like every one else knew and respected the fiddler, adding, ‘there will be fine food, and plenty mead, my lad, to wet the thrapple.’

  Harry waved his hand in a half-hearted gesture. What did it matter to him if the wedding took place in rich hall or lowly barn, or if the drink were good or bad, so long as its effects were the same. When it came time for the wedding, an old neighbour woman who did more to help Harry than anyone else came by. ‘I’ve brought a clean sark for you, man, and will give you a shave of those whiskers.’

  Harry ran his hand over a rough chin and nodded. When she’d cleaned him up, she guided his feet along and off the causeway. ‘Now, remember and tell them you need to be guided back over the causeway, because no doubt the drink will have your feet going a different direction from the head, so remember now, lad.’

  The friendly horseman met and escorted him to the grand ballroom. When he walked inside, the first thing he noticed was the sound of voices, lots of them, laughing and chatting in a light-hearted manner. But it wasn’t the voices that alerted him to what kind of room he was in, it was the way the sound carried from floor to ceiling. He’d never been in the house of the Laird before, and was glad he had come.

  After the wedding, when the guests had eaten and finished with all the formalities relating to such occasions, it was Harry’s time to entertain. Requests came thick and fas
t from all who’d heard him play, and soon the place was filled with dancing and wonderful music, which along with the fine wine lasted well into the night. One by one the guests headed to bed, leaving a few late revellers and Harry. For once, the wine which seemed to flow like a water fountain among the guests was not offered to him, but he didn’t mind; the sound of his music travelling towards the roof and echoing in sweet notes from the walls soothed his spirits.

  ‘Time to go home,’ said a tired man-servant. ‘Harry, lad, I’ll put your fiddle into its case and some one will help you home.’

  Well, there didn’t seem to be any of the fine guests willing to escort the musician home, and soon he found himself pushing his weary feet blindly through heather roots and shrubs. On and on he went, until he no longer knew where he was or where he was going. The terrain beneath his feet was strange, and once or twice he called for assistance, but it was very late, long past the bedtime of decent folk. Then, just when he thought he’d never find the causeway, his feet at last felt familiar ground. Edging his way inch by inch, he went on until the smell of wild garlic filled his nostrils; it grew abundantly behind his cottage.

  Thinking he was safely home, he widened his stride; then without warning something wound around his ankles, causing him to fall backwards with a heavy thump. As he attempted to rise, it dawned on poor Harry that he’d slipped into the bog. All who fell into it knew its peril; the bog had a life of its own. He felt it sucking and pulling him down; it was futile to struggle, the great marsh had found another victim. Even if a kind neighbour had come to his assistance it would have proved an impossible task; once the bog has hold of a body it does not let go. He struggled all the same, and tried desperately to find a piece of root of an ancient tree to cling onto, but he’d fallen into a deep part; his life began to ebb away. As his weakened body gave way to its fate, he thought, ‘well, at least my loneliness will end, and where I go all are like me—blind.’