Scottish Traditional Tales

by A. J. Bruford

  But anyway, there they were and he stayed until . . . he fell asleep, and along came the great giant with three heads in a flame and one out and eight and eighteen carlines bound to the latchets of his shoes. But whatever, she made a cut with the scissors in the top of his head, and he got up. Well, he was a bit afraid of him, and he said to him: ‘I’ll make a bargain with you,’ said he. ‘If I fall first,’ said he, ‘you let me up, and if you fall, I’ll let you up.’

  ‘Right,’ said he.

  But anyway, they went for each other: oh, they were up and down there – but the young fellow was forced to his knees.

  ‘Remember you’re to let me up.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll let you up,’ he said. He let him up. They went for each other again, and the giant fell.

  ‘Let me up,’ said the giant.

  ‘No I won’t,’ said he. ‘You’re done for.’

  But whatever, he laid him flat then, and took home the tongues and eyes and everything – that was the last night. Oh, that night the cook’s marriage was on: he had won his wife, so he said.

  But anyway he [the nurse’s son] went home, and the next night was the night of the betrothal and there was a great ball at the castle.

  ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I’m going down to see if I can watch the ball . . .’ He went down. Och, the king . . . the cook . . . he was sitting in the king’s throne, he was in his glory, and there was a great crowd in the castle, and he was spinning tales and everything.

  He came in, the young lad. He stood quite neutral apart from the rest . . . standing some way away: he was just a stranger. But they had something to eat and it was a great feast they had there, plenty of drink, and the young woman said, ‘Well,’ said she, ‘I’m bringing out a little game here,’ said she, and the game she brought out she brought out an ox’s shank bone and laid it on the table. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘who’s going to break that?’ said she.

  The cook got up and by his way of it he would be the first one to break it, and the first blow the cook struck it, he was shaking his hand and putting it in his mouth. ‘You, it’s a queer sort of a game you’ve started,’ said he. ‘Indeed,’ said he, ‘so it is!’

  But never mind about that. [The game] went round everyone in the place: there was not one who could break the ox’s shank.

  ‘I can see a young lad standing over yonder,’ said she. ‘Couldn’t he have a try?’

  ‘Ach,’ said he, ‘what’s the use of me trying when everyone has had a shot at it?’ But he came over and tried it, and with the first swipe he took at it he broke the four legs of the table and he broke the ox’s shank, and a piece of it hit the cook in the eye and he was nearly blinded.

  And she looked round then: ‘But who would you think, now,’ said she to her father, ‘would win . . . would have killed the giants: the man who could break the ox’s shank bone,’ said she, ‘or the man who couldn’t?’

  ‘Ah well,’ said the king, ‘I’d say it would be the man who broke the ox’s shank who’d have won . . . who’d have killed the giants.’

  ‘Have you ever seen heads,’ said she, ‘without eyes or without tongues?’

  ‘No,’ said he.

  ‘Well, look at those heads there,’ said she. ‘There’s not an eye or a tongue in them.’

  He went and brought out – the young lad – he brought out the eyes and the tongues.

  The cook was seized and hustled out, and kicked and booted out of the place, and this young lad was married to the lady.

  And they went . . . there was a grand wedding apparently, and they went to bed this night, and he – the young lad – heard something coming in by.

  ‘What’s that?’ said he.

  ‘Ach!’ said she, ‘pay no heed to it. It’s a hunted fox.’

  ‘Well, if he’s ever been hunted before he will be tonight,’ said he.

  He lit out after the fox. Where he was highest the fox would be lowest, up and down until they landed at a long narrow black house and went in.

  When he went in there was no sign of the fox. There was a big fire burning there and he warmed himself by this big fire. And it wasn’t long after he had gone in before he heard ‘knock, knock’ at the door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ said he.

  ‘The speckled hen of the one night,’ said she. ‘She spends one night on the hills and one night here.’

  ‘Even if you spend every night here, old woman,’ said he, ‘you won’t spend tonight here.’

  And, ‘Tut!’ she said. ‘Let me in,’ said she, ‘and I’ll keep you going till day with stories and verses.’

  ‘Well, come in then,’ said he.

  ‘I’m afraid to come in, for your animals,’ said she.

  ‘Oh, the animals won’t touch you.’

  ‘But here,’ said she, ‘take this hair from my thing [sic],’ said she; ‘it would hold the River George under full sail.’

  He did that: he tied up the animals, and the old woman came in, and there the hag was. The hag kept saying, ‘Huit! Huit! Huit!’

  ‘You are growing bigger, old woman.’

  ‘My feathers and my down are fluffing up with the hot coals,’ said she.

  ‘You are growing bigger, old woman.’

  ‘My feathers and my down are fluffing up with the hot coals.’

  But in the end he and the hag began to quarrel.

  ‘Oh,’ said she, ‘you’ll never do to me what you’ve done to my three sons.’

  He was quarrelling with the hag and they went for each other and the young lad fell, and evidently she broke his back and he was laid [?behind the hearth stone among the ashes] at the back of the fire.

  He had called on his hound and his hawk and his horse that were born in the same night as himself: ‘Why should they not be here to give me help?’

  ‘Tighten, hair,’ said she, ‘don’t stretch.’ That was the end of that.

  His brother came out and looked at the gate; he saw the gate was black.

  ‘Ah well, well,’ said he. ‘My brother’s dead.’

  He set off and he went on and he took a wand out of his shirt front: he made a great [?well-trimmed] ship, with her bows to the sea and her stern to the land. [?He sailed her by all the signs and landmarks] until he came in to land in the kingdom of France.

  When he arrived there he came to his brother’s house . . . his brother’s wife’s house, and when he got there: ‘Oh bless me,’ said she – they were so like each other – ‘what has kept you away all night?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said he.

  ‘Come to bed.’

  He went in to bed, and when he went to bed he drew his sword [and laid it] between them. And, ‘What’s that [noise]?’ sa.id he.

  ‘Oh, don’t you know what it is?’ said she. ‘It’s a hunted fox.’

  ‘Well,’ said he, ‘if he ever got hunted before, tonight he will be.’ And off he went after the fox, the same way as his brother had gone . . . until he got to the house, and he saw his brother at the back of the hearthstone with his back broken in two. But anyway, he sat down then. He was looking at his brother and his brother was dead.

  ‘Well,’ said he, ‘this is terrible.’

  But he heard a ‘knock, knock’ coming at the door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ said he.

  ‘The speckled hen of the one night,’ said she. ‘She spends one night on the hills and one night here.’

  ‘If you’ve ever spent a night here, old woman, you won’t spend tonight here.’

  ‘Let me in,’ said she, ‘and I’ll keep you going till day with stories and verses.’

  ‘Come in then,’ said he.

  ‘I’m afraid to come in for your animals.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid: the animals won’t touch you.’

  ‘But here,’ said she, ‘take this hair from my thing,’ said she: ‘it would hold the River George under full sail.’

  He took the hair and put it over the cross-beam, and he tied up his animals with something or other else. She came in then and
they sat there. Och, the same thing started: ‘You’re growing bigger, old woman,’ said he.

  ‘My feathers and my down are fluffing up with the hot coals.’

  ‘Is that the story you promised me, old woman?’

  ‘Hah! My feathers and my down are fluffing up with the hot coals.’

  In the end he and the hag came to blows. They were up and down there; but however he managed it, he put the hag down.

  ‘My hound and my hawk and my horse,’ said he, ‘that were born in the same night as myself, to give me help!’

  ‘Oh, let me up,’ said she, ‘and I’ll bring alive . . . I’ll give you your brother alive.’

  ‘Where is he, then?’ said he.

  ‘You’ll find the Magic Wand,’ said she, ‘and the Sword of All Light and the Upper Vessel and the Lower Vessel,’ said she. ‘It’s all behind such and such a place.’

  ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I’ll have that when you are gone, old woman,’ said he, and he killed the hag and brought alive his brother.

  And he and his brother were coming home side by side, and he looked at his brother all innocently: ‘I was in bed with your wife,’ said he, ‘last night.’

  They came to blows then and in the end one of them killed the other there – the one who had been married killed the one who had just come. Well, that was the end of that: he went home and told . . .

  ‘Oh, bless me!’ said his wife. ‘Are you going to stay at home at all?’ she asked. ‘You came in last night,’ said she, ‘and laid a naked sword between us.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said he, ‘if I’m away every night I will be away tonight.’ He went back then and . . . found the Sword of All Light and the Magic Wand and he brought his own brother alive, and they went home, and when they got back to his wife, his wife couldn’t tell them apart.

  ‘Ah well,’ said she, ‘I have two husbands now in place of one. But put out your hands,’ said she.

  He put out his hand and [the tip of] his little finger was missing, and, ‘Oh, that’s my husband,’ said she.

  Well, [his brother] married her other sister and they lived as happy as the day is long. And I don’t know what has happened to them since.

  17 Angus MacLellan

  CONALL GULBANN

  IT WAS A KING of Ireland and he and the nobles of the kingdom went to the hill to hunt this day and what should come on but a mist and they lost their way. One would say that this was the way and another would say, ‘No, this is the way.’ At last every one of them was going his own way and the king was left all alone.

  Then the king saw a light and, God, he made straight for the light and when he got there, there was a brugh of a house there and he went in. When he went inside there was no-one there but an old man and an old woman and a big red-haired girl. And the old man said: ‘Oh, come on in, come on in, King of Ireland,’ said he. ‘A long time have I had a year and a day’s provisions waiting for you,’ said he. ‘Sit in.’

  The king sat in and indeed he was well entertained by the old man. And then came bed-time.

  ‘Indeed,’ said the old man, ‘there are only two beds here,’ said he. ‘Would you prefer to sleep with my wife, or to sleep with the red-haired lass?’

  ‘Oh well,’ said the king, ‘it is more fitting for you to sleep with your wife yourself than for me. And if there is no other place,’ said he, ‘I dare say I can sleep with the girl.’

  God, next morning the king got up and went out of the brugh and when he turned to go back in, he found nothing there but a bare hillock. The king set off only partly dressed and when he had gone some distance he heard a shout behind him and he looked back, and who should be following him but the old man with his cap in his hand.

  ‘Oh come back, come back, King of Ireland,’ said he. ‘You mustn’t go away like that when the red-haired lass has borne you a son,’ said he.

  ‘What do you say?’ said the king.

  ‘The red-haired lass has borne you a son,’ said he.

  ‘That cannot be,’ said the king, ‘since I only came to your house last night,’ said he.

  ‘Ho ho! You think you only came there last night,’ said he, ‘but it is nine months since you came to my house,’ said he. ‘That’s just the magic of the brugh,’ said he.

  The king went back with him and there was the red-haired lass with a baby boy.

  ‘Well,’ said the old man, ‘the baby must be christened,’ said he, ‘and there is no priest here,’ said he. ‘But there was once a time when I could manage a christening myself,’ said he.

  The old man went and got water and he asked the king what name the child was to be called.

  ‘Oh, call him what you like,’ said the king.

  ‘Well,’ said the old man, ‘the name of this place is Brugh Beinn Gulbann,’ said he. ‘And can we not call the lad Conall Gulbann,’ said he, ‘Son of the King of Ireland?’

  ‘Well then, let it be just that,’ said he . . .

  ‘Now, you think,’ said the old man, said he, ‘that I’m not telling the truth,’ said he, ‘but this very day,’ said he, ‘they’re going to put another king in your place,’ said he. ‘They’ve given up hope,’ said he, ‘that they’ll ever see you again. And there’s a year’s walking,’ said he, ‘before you can get home. But I’ve got a pair of boots here,’ said he, ‘and you put them on. And before it’s ten o’clock,’ said he, ‘you’ll be back home. And when you arrive,’ said he, ‘there’ll be no need to choose another king. And when you get home,’ said he, ‘all you have to do is take them off and turn them to face the known and away from the unknown,’ said he, ‘and I’ll have them back by nightfall.’

  The king went and put on the old man’s boots and he could not tell whether he was travelling on the ground or through the air, so great was his speed. And when he came in sight of his house, goodness knows how many people were gathered round it. And as they met him, every single one of them would greet him and kneel before him: ‘Oh, where have you been, King of Ireland, for the past nine months?’

  That was when the king realised that the old man had been telling the truth. And then there was no need to choose another king in his place.

  The king had three sons.

  But what should happen now but that war broke out with the Turk. He was invading Christendom and he had to be stopped and every country was turning out against him. So the king of Ireland was going to go with his army against the Turk. And he sent for his eldest son to stay behind and rule the kingdom till he got back.

  ‘I won’t stay behind to rule the kingdom,’ said he. ‘I’d rather have one hour by the clock of the sport of war than the whole kingdom,’ said he.

  Then he sent for the next eldest son:

  ‘Indeed, I won’t stay,’ said the next eldest, said he. ‘Suppose you died,’ said he, ‘I wouldn’t be the one to get your kingdom,’ said he. ‘And the one who would get it,’ said he, ‘let him stay or let him go. I’m going myself.’

  Then he sent for the youngest son. He would not stay either.

  ‘Oh well,’ said the king, said he, ‘perhaps I still have someone hidden away,’ said he, ‘who will stay behind to rule my kingdom, even though you won’t.’

  The king had a man called Sgal Gaoithe and he was as swift as the swift March wind before him and the swift March wind behind him could not catch him. And he asked him to go to Brugh Beinn Gulbann to fetch Conall. Sgal Gaoithe set off and when he got to Brugh Beinn Gulbann he told them that the king had sent him to fetch Conall. And Conall did not want to go and:

  ‘Oh, you must go,’ said his grandfather, said he. ‘Your father has never asked anything of you before,’ said he, ‘and you must go. But be sure you don’t forget your grandfather,’ said he.

  Conall set off with Sgal Gaoithe: and a lookout was being kept to see if they could see the lads coming, and Conall was nine rigs ahead of Sgal Gaoithe, driving a ball before him with a caman and Sgal Gaoithe following on behind. And when they arrived the king told him he had sent for him to
stay and rule the kingdom till they got back – that they were off to the war.

  Conall stayed. And, anyway, God, it occurred to Conall one day that he would have to go and see his grandfather. And Conall went and when he got there, what should his grandfather be doing but making a thorn broom just inside the door. And when Conall came in he swung the broom and hit him on the back of the head and left not an inch of skin on him right down to his heels.

  ‘Oh! oh! oh!,’ said Conall.

  His mother cried out that the lad was ruined for life.

  ‘Oh, he needn’t worry yet,’ said the old man, said he.

  The old man rose and got a bottle with some stuff in it and he rubbed it on Conall’s back and made his skin smooth and white.

  ‘You,’ said he, ‘to stay behind to rule Ireland!’ said he. ‘Suppose the king died,’ said he, ‘you would not be the one to get it. But,’ said he, ‘it wasn’t ruling Ireland you should have been but at the war,’ said he . . .

  ‘I mustn’t go,’ said Conall, ‘till the king comes back,’ said he.

  ‘What are you saying?’ said his grandfather.

  His grandfather went and let a snake out of a box and the snake attacked Conall and Conall was being wounded by it.

  ‘God help us!’ said he, ‘Spare my life at least,’ said he.

  ‘Will you go now?’ said his grandfather.

  ‘Oh yes, if you spare my life,’ said he, ‘but what’s the use of me going, without weapons or anything?’ said he.

  ‘Oh, I’ll give you a weapon myself,’ said the old man. He went through to the other room and came back with a sword, and Conall took the sword and the first time he brandished it it broke in half.

  ‘What good is a weapon like that?’ said he, said Conall.

  His grandfather went through and came back with another one. Conall did the very same thing to it.

  ‘Oh well,’ said his grandfather, said he, ‘I’ve got a sword that I had myself when I was a young lad,’ said he, ‘and unless it’s good enough for you,’ said he, ‘no sword can be got for you till it is made specially for you on the anvil.’

  He went through and came back with a sword and handed it to Conall. Conall took it and brandished it and the two ends of it struck together and the sword sprang back as it had been before.