And his mother was pleased to see him. ‘Did ye do what I told you, Jack?’ she said.
‘Aye, Mother, I did what you tellt me, and have I got a story to tell you!’
So the little imps lived in the forest and they spread out and they created in their likeness. And therefore began the legend of all the goblins and elves and gnomes in the land. And Jack lived happy with his mother. But he never took another drink, and that is the end of my story.
1 the farthest point of Ireland – the other side of the country
Death in a Nut
I’ve heard many different versions of this story, and this one particular version that I really like was told to me a long time ago by an old uncle of mine who was married to my mother’s sister, old Sandy Reid, God rest his soul. This was one of his favourite stories because he was really good at it. And I’ll try my best to tell it to you as close as possible to the natural way he told it to me.
JACK lived with his mother in a little cottage by the shoreside, and his mother kept some ducks and some hens. Jack could barely remember his father because his father had died long before he was born. And they had a small kind o’ croft, Jack cut a little hay for his mother’s goats. When there were no hay to collect, he spent most of his time along the shoreside as a beach-comber collecting everything that came in with the tide, whatever it would be – any old drums, any old cans, pieces of driftwood, something that was flung off a boat – Jack collected all these things and brought them in, put them beside his mother’s cottage and said, ‘Some day they might come in useful.’ But the most useful thing that Jack ever collected for his mother was firewood. And Jack was very happy, he was just a young man, in his early teens, and he dearly loved his mother. Some days he used to take duck eggs to the village (his mother was famed for her duck eggs) and hen eggs to the village forbyes, they helped them survive, and his mother would take in a little sewing for the local people in the village; Jack and his mother lived quite happy. Till one particular day, it was around about the winter-time, about the month o’ January.
Jack used to always get up early in the morning and make a cup o’ tea, he always gave his mother a cup o’ tea in bed every morning. And one particular morning he rose early because he wanted to catch the incoming tide to see what it would bring in for him. He brought a cup o’ tea into his mother in her own little bed in a little room, it was only a two-room little cottage they had. He says, ‘Mother, I’ve brought you a cup o’ tea.’
She says, ‘Son, I don’t want any tea.’
‘Mother,’ he says, ‘why? What’s wrong, are you not feelin—’
She says, ‘Son, I’m not feelin very well this morning, I’m not feelin very well. I don’t think I cuid even drink a cup o’ tea if ye gev it to me.’
‘Oh, Mother,’ he says, ‘try an take a wee sip,’ an he leaned over the bed, an held the cup to his mother’s mouth.
She took two–three sips, ‘That’s enough, laddie,’ she says, ‘I don’t feel very well.’
He says, ‘What’s wrong with you, Mother? Are you in pain or somethin?’
‘Well, so an no so, Jack, I dinnae ken what’s wrong wi me,’ she says. ‘I’m an ill woman, Jack, an ye’re a young man an I cannae go on for ever.’
‘But, Mother,’ he says, ‘you cannae dee an leave me masel! What am I gaunnae dae? I’ve nae freends, nae naebody in this worl but you, Mother! Ye cannae dee an lea me!’
‘Well,’ she says, ‘Jack, I think I’m no long fir this worl. In fact, I think he’ll be comin fir me some o’ these days … soon.’
‘Wha, Mother, ye talking about “comin fir me”?’
She says, ‘Jack, ye ken wha he is, Jack. Between me an you, we dinna share nae secrets – I’m an auld woman an I’m gaunna dee – Death’s gaunna come fir me, Jack, I can see it in ma mind.’
‘Oh, Mother, no, Mother,’ he says, an he held her hand.
‘But,’ she says, ‘never mind, laddie, ye’ll manage to take care o’ yirsel. Yir mother hes saved a few shillins fir ye an I’m sure some day ye’ll meet a nice wee wife when I’m gone, ye’ll prob’ly get on in the world.’
‘No, Mother,’ he says, ‘I cuidna get on withoot you.’
She says, ‘Laddie, leave me an I’ll try an get a wee sleep.’
By this time it was daylight as the sun began to get up, and Jack walked up along the shoreway just in the grey-dark in the morning, getting clear. It must have been about half-past eight–nine o’clock (in the winter-time it took a long while to get clear in the mornings), when the tide was coming in. Jack walked along the shoreway and lo and behold, the first thing he saw coming a-walking the shoreway was an old man with a long grey beard, skinny legs and a ragged coat over his back and a scythe on his back. His two eyes were sunk into his head, sunk back into his skull, and he was the most ugliest-looking creature that Jack ever saw in his life. But he had on his back a brand new scythe and it was shining in the light from the morning. Now, his mother had always told Jack what like Death looked and Jack says to himself, ‘That’s Deith come fir my auld mother! He’s come tae take the on’y thing that I love awa fae me, but,’ he said, ‘he’s no gettin awa wi it! He’s no gettin away wi it!’
So Jack steps out off the shoreside, and up he comes and meets this old man – bare feet, long ragged coat, long ragged beard, high cheek bones and his eyes sunk back in his head, two front teeth sticking out like that – and a shining scythe on his back, the morning sun was glittering on the blade – ready to cut the people’s throats and take them away to the Land o’ Death. Jack steps up, says, ‘Good morning, Auld Man.’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘good morning, young man! Tell me, is it far tae the next cottage?’
Jack said, ‘Ma mother lives i’ the next cottage just along the shoreway a little bit.’
‘Oh,’ he says, ‘that’s her I want to visit.’
‘Not this mornin,’ says Jack, ‘ye’re not gaunna visit her! I know who you are – you’re Death – an you’ve come tae take my aul mother, kill her an tak her awa an lea me masel.’
‘Well,’ Death says, ‘it’s natural. Yir mother, ye know, she’s an auld wumman an she’s reacht a certain age, I’ll no be doin her any harm, I’ll be jist do her a guid turn – she’s sufferin in pain.’
‘You’re no takin my aul mither!’ says Jack. And he ran forward, he snapped the scythe off the old man’s back and he walked to a big stone, he smashed the scythe against a stone.
And the man got angrier and angrier and angrier and ugly-looking, ‘My young man,’ he says, ‘you’ve done that – but that’s not the end!’
‘Well,’ Jack says, ‘it’s the end fir you!’ And Jack dived on top of him, Jack got a hold o’ him and Jack picked a bit stick up from the shoreside, he beat him and he welted him and he welted him and he beat him and he welted him. He fought with Death and Death was as strong as what Jack was, but finally Jack conquered him! And Jack beat him with a bit stick, and lo and behold a funny thing happened: the more Jack beat him the wee-er he got, and Jack beat him and Jack beat him and Jack beat him – no blood came from him or nothing – Jack beat him with the stick till he got barely the size o’ that! And Jack catcht him in his hand, ‘Now,’ he said, ‘I got ye! Ye’ll no get my aul mither!’
Now Jack thought in himself, ‘What in the worl am I gaunna do wi him? I hev him here, I canna let him go, I beat him, I broke his scythe an I conquered him. But what in the world am I gaunna do wi him? I canna hide him bilow a stane because he’ll creep oot an he’ll come back tae his normal size again.’ And Jack walked along the shore and he looked – coming in by the tide was a big hazelnut, that size! But the funny thing about this hazelnut, a squirrel had dug a hole in the nut because squirrels always dig holes in the nuts – they have sharp teeth – and he eats the kernel inside and leaves the empty case. And Jack picked up the hazelnut, he looked, says, ‘The very thing!’ And Jack crushed Death in through the wee hole, into the nut. And squeezed him in head first, and his wee feet,
put him in there, shoved him in. And he walked about, he got a wee plug o’ stick and he plugged the hole from the outside. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘Death, you’ll never get ma mither!’ And he catcht him in his hand, he threw him out into the tide! And the heavy waves was whoosh-an-whoosh-an-whoosh-an, whoosh-an-whoosh-in in and back and forward. And Jack watched the wee nut, it went a-sailing, floating and back and forward away with the tide. ‘That’s it!’ says Jack, that’s the end o’ Death. He’ll never bother my mother again, or naebody else forbyes my mither.’ Jack got two–three sticks under his arm and he walked back.
When he landed back he saw the reek was coming from the chimney, he says, ‘My mother must be up, she must be feelin a wee bit better.’ Lo and behold he walks in the house, there was his old mother up, her sleeves rolled up, her face full of flour, her apron on and she’s busy making scones. He said, ‘How ye feelin, Mother?’
She says, ‘Jack, I’m feelin great, I never feelt better in ma life! Laddie, I dinna ken what happened to me, but I wis lyin there fir a minute in pain an torture, and all in a minute I feelt like someone hed come an rumbled all the pains an tuik everything oot o’ my body, an made me … I feel like a lassie again, Jack! I made some scones fir yir breakfast.’
Jack never mentioned to his mother about Death, never said a word. His mother fasselt roun’ the table, she’s put up her hair Jack never saw his mother in better health in her life! Jack sat down by the fire, his mother made some scones. He had a wee bit scone, he says, ‘Mother, is that all you’ve got tae eat?’
‘Well,’ she says, ‘Jack, there’s no much, jist a wee puckle flooer an I thocht I’d mak ye a wee scone fir yir breakfast. Go on oot tae the hen-house an get a couple eggs, I’ll mak ye a couple eggs alang wi yir scone an that’ll fill ye up, laddie.’
Jack walks out to the hen-house as usual, the wee shed beside his mother’s house. Oh, every nest is full o’ eggs, hens’ eggs, duck eggs, the nests are all full. Jack picks up four o’ the big beautiful brown eggs out o’ the nest, goes back in and, ‘Here, Mother, there’s four,’ he said, ‘two tae you, two to me.’
The old woman says, ‘I’ll no be a minute, Jack.’ It was an open fire they had. The woman pulled the swey out, put the frying pan on, put a wee bit fat in the pan. She waited and she waited and she watched, but the wee bit fat wouldna melt. She poked the fire with the poker but the wee bit fat wadna melt. ‘Jack,’ she says, ‘fire’s no kindlin very guid, laddie, it’ll no even melt that wee bit fat.’
‘Well, pit some mair sticks on, Mother,’ he said, ‘pit some mair wee bits o’ sticks on.’ Jack put the best o’ sticks on, but na! The wee bit o’ fat sat in the middle o’ the pan, but it wouldna melt, he says, ‘Mother, never mind, pit the egg in an gie it a rummle roon, it’ll dae me the way it is. Jis’ pit it in the pan!’
His mother tried – crack – na. She hit the egg again – na. And suppose she could have taken a fifty-pound hammer and hit the egg, that egg would not break! She says, ‘Jack, I cannae break these eggs.’
‘An, Mother,’ he said, ‘I thought ye said ye were feelin weel an feelin guid, an you cannae break an egg! Gie me the egg, I’ll break it!’ Jack took the egg, went in his big hand, ye ken, Jack, big young laddie, catcht the egg in one hand – clank on the side o’ the pan – na! Ye’re as well to hit a stone on the side o’ the pan, the egg would not break in no way in this world. ‘Ah, Mother,’ he says, ‘I dinna ken what’s wrong, I dinna ken whit’s wrong, Mother, wi these eggs, I don’t know. Prob’ly they’re no richt eggs, I better go an get another two.’
He walked out to the shed again, he brought in two duck eggs. But he tried the same – na, they wouldna break, the eggs just would not break in any way in the world. ‘Mother,’ he says, ‘pit them in a taste o’ water an bring them a-boil!’
She says, ‘That’s right, Jack, I never thocht about that.’ The old woman got a wee pan and the fire was going well by this time of bonnie shore sticks. She put the pan on and within seconds the water was boiling, she popped the two eggs in. And it bubbled and bubbled and bubbled and bubbled and bubbled, and bubbled, she said, ‘They’re ready noo, Jack.’ She took them out – crack – na. Suppose they had tried for months, they couldna crack those two eggs.
‘Ah, Mother,’ he says, ‘the’re something wrong. Mither, the’re something wrong, there’s enchantment upon us, those eggs’ll no cook. We’re gaunna dee wi hunger.’
‘Never mind, Jack,’ she says, ‘eat yir wee bit scone. I’ll mak ye a wee drop soup, I’ll mak ye a wee pot o’ soup. Go oot tae the gairden, Jack, and get me a wee taste o’ vegetables, leeks an a few carrots.’
Now Jack had a good garden, he passes all his time making a good garden to his mother. Out he goes, he pulls two carrots, a leek, bit parsley and a neep and he brings it to his mother. The old woman washes the pots, puts some water in, puts it on the fire. But she goes to the table with the knife, but na – every time she touches the carrot, the knife just skates off it. She touched the leek – it skates off it and all! The old woman tried her best, and Jack tried his best – there’s no way in the world – Jack said, ‘That knife’s blunt, Mother.’
And Jack had a wee bit o’ sharpening stone he’d found in the shoreside, he took the stone and he sharpened the knife, but no way in the world would it ever look at1 the carrots or the neep or the wee bit parsley to make a wee pot o’ soup. She says, ‘Jack, the’re somethin wrang wi my vegetables, Jack, they must be frozen solid.’
‘But,’ he said, ‘Mother, the’re been nae frost tae freeze them! Hoo in the world can this happen?’
‘Well,’ she says, ‘Jack, luik, ye ken I’ve an awfa1 cockerels this year, we have an awfa cockerels an we’ll no need them aa, Jack. Wad ye gae oot to the shed an pull a cockerel’s neck, and I’ll pit it in the pot, boil it for wir supper?’
‘Aye’ says Jack. Now the old woman kept a lot o’ hens. Jack went out and all in the shed there were dozens o’ them sitting in a row, cockerels o’ all description. Jack looked till he saw a big fat cockerel sitting on a perch, he put his hand up, catcht it and he felt it, it was fat. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘Mother’ll be pleased wi this yin.’ Jack pulled the neck – na! Pulled again – no way. He pulled it, he shook it, he swung it round his head three-five times. He took a stick and he battered it in the head, there’s no way – he couldna touch the cockerel in any way! He put it below his oxter and he walks in to his mother.
She said, ‘Ye get a cockerel, Jack?’
‘Oh, Mother,’ he said, ‘I got a cockerel aa right, I got a cockerel. But, Mother, you may care!’2
She says, ‘What do you mean, laddie!’
‘You may care,’ he says, ‘I cannae kill hit.’
‘Ah, Jack,’ she says, ‘ye cannae kill a cockerel! I ken, ye killt dozens tae me afore, the hens an ducks an aa.’
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘I cannae kill this one – it’ll no dee!’
She says, ‘Gie me it ower here, gie me it over here!’ And the old woman had a wee hatchet for splitting sticks, she kept it by the fire. She says, ‘Gie it tae me, Jack, I’ll show ye the way tae kill it richt!’ She put it down the top o’ the block and she hit it with the hatchet, chopped its head off. She hit it with the hatchet seventeen times, but no – every time the head jumped off – head jumped back on! ‘Na, Jack,’ she says, ‘it’s nae good. There’s something wrang here, the’re something terrible gaun a-wrong. Nethin seems tae be richt aboot the place. Here – go out to my purse, laddie, run up tae the village to the butcher! I’m savin this fir a rainy day,’ an she took a half-crown out o’ her purse. ‘Jack, gae up tae the butcher an get a wee bit o’ meat fae the butcher, I’ll mak ye a wee bite when ye come back.’
Now, it wasna far from the wee house to the village, about a quarter o’ mile Jack had to walk. When Jack walked up the village, all the people were gathered in the middle o’ the town square. They’re all blethering and they’re chatting and they’re blethering and they’re chatting, speaking to each
other. One was saying, ‘I’ve sprayed ma garden an it’s overrun wi caterpillars! An I’ve tried tae spray it, it’s no good.’
The butcher was out with his apron, he said, ‘Three times I tried tae kill a bullock this mornin an three times I killed it, three times it jumpit back on its feet. I don’t know what’s wrong. The village has run out o’ meat! I got a quota o’ hens in this mornin, ducks, an every time I pull their necks their heads jumps back on. There’s somethin terrible is happenin!’
Jack went up to the butcher’s, he says, ‘Gie me a wee bit o’ meat fir ma mother.’
He says, ‘Laddie, the’re no a bit o’ meat in the shop. Dae ye no ken what I’m tryin tae tell the people in the village: I’ve tried ma best this mornin to kill a young bullock tae supply the village an I cannae kill it!’
‘Well,’ Jack said, ‘the same thing happen to me – I tried tae boil an egg an I cannae boil an egg, I tried tae kill a cockerel—’
‘I tried tae kill ten cockerels,’ says the butcher, ‘but they’ll no dee!’
‘Oh dear-dear,’ says Jack, ‘we must be in some kin o’ trouble. Is it happenin tae other places forbyes this?’
‘Well, I jist hed word,’ says the butcher, ‘the next village up two mile awa an the same thing’s happened tae them. Folk cannae even eat an apple – when they sink their teeth inta it, it’ll no even bite. They cannae cook a vegetable, they cannae boil water, they cannae dae nothin! The hale worl’s gaunna come tae a standstill, the’re something gaen terrible wrong – nothing seems to die anymore.’
And then Jack thought in his head, he said, ‘It’s my fault, I’m the cause o’t.’ He walked back and he tellt his mother the same story I’m telling you. He says, ‘Mother, there’s nae butcher meat fir ye.’
The King and the Lamp Page 21
