Scottish Traditional Tales

by A. J. Bruford

  And he often used to go fishing, on the craigs or at the loch. And the Gaels in the old days had a taboo about this business of fishing: they used to say ‘late to loch and early to river’. But what happened was that Alasdair went this night late to the river – going against this custom – never thinking that this had any meaning or that he would come to any harm by it. And he went to Abhainn Muileann Iain Duibh [the River of Black John’s Mill]. That’s out above Nunton, out beyond the drainage channel that’s there today. Evidently there was once a mill on that river and there was plenty of water there, though there is very little now.

  Anyway, he went out at nightfall. There was no-one with him. He began to fish with a frame-net. He had not been fishing for long – he was getting a few all right but not very many – when a man came up behind him and this man said to him: ‘Could you do with some help?’

  ‘I could use it,’ said Alasdair.

  Anyway they started . . .

  ‘Which would you rather – beat the water or start with the net?’ [said the man].

  ‘Oh, I’ll work the net myself,’ said Alasdair. ‘You can beat the water.’

  And they started fishing that way, anyway, and they were catching plenty of fish, and Alasdair was just throwing it behind him – in a cleft: behind him as he pulled it in.

  This man who had appeared kept saying – though Alasdair didn’t recognise him and he had no idea who on earth he was – he kept saying to him every now and again: ‘It’s time to share the catch, Alasdair.’

  But, glancing behind him, Alasdair saw that it wasn’t shoes or proper feet that the man had but cloven hooves.

  They kept on like that, however, all night, and the man who had appeared would say to Alasdair: ‘It’s time to share, Alasdair.’

  ‘Oh no, not yet,’ said Alasdair. He would answer him promptly and say: ‘Oh, not yet. There are still fish in the river.’

  They kept on like that, anyway, until it began to get light and when it was getting light they heard a cock crowing.

  Alasdair said to him – knowing he was not at all canny: ‘You can go now.’

  The darkness was lifting and the dawn coming up.

  ‘Oh, I’m not going to go at all.’

  ‘You can go,’ said Alasdair. ‘The cock has crowed.’

  ‘Aha,’ said the man who had appeared to Alasdair, ‘it’s just a poor autumn cackler.’

  ‘Ho, it’s nothing of the sort,’ said Alasdair – the cock had just crowed again – ‘That’s the black cock of the March month of spring.’

  The man vanished: he saw the flames of fire shooting up into the sky. When he looked behind him there was nothing left but . . . a heap of something like horse dung.

  But before the man disappeared he had said to him: ‘This will be visited on the son or the daughter or the grandchild or the great-grandchild.’

  And towards the end of that same autumn when they had come home to Alasdair’s house one evening . . . one or two of the family had come home and they were getting ready for supper: his daughter went out with a pot of potatoes to drain the water off it just outside the door. That was also taboo – to go outside with the potato water after sunset.

  She never came in. Someone went out and there was no trace of her. A dreadful thought struck them: she might be dead. They found the pot in fragments outside the door and the potatoes scattered around. They began to search for her body. There was not a corner of the Aird Fhada that they did not search, back and forth, and then at sunrise they came across her body, with every bone in it broken, at Clachan na Mollachd [the Stones of the Curse]. That’s the place where the Nunton sheep-fank is today. There are two stones there and the faces of them are still red, blood-coloured – grey stones, but they have this red mark to show that she was killed at that spot.

  That’s how I heard it and I heard it from two old men when I was young and they were already old at that time . . .

  60b Mary MacLean

  THE NIGHT FISHERMEN

  IT WAS FROM MY GRANDFATHER I heard this story, when I was very young.

  Apparently there were two old men over at Cladach Kirkibost, and in those days they used to go fishing on the lochs, and usually it was best to do it by night. They arranged this time, these two old men, to go to such and such a loch in the morning . . . very early on Monday morning. Well, they set out, and it seems that Monday morning had not begun; it was late on Sunday night that they left the house. They got to the loch and began to fish.

  They didn’t have much success at all at first, but a stranger – a tall, handsome man – came by them and asked if he could join in fishing with them. They agreed, and he began fishing with them and they hadn’t been at it long at all before they had landed a good catch of fish. When they were going to share out the fish the old men asked the stranger how he wanted to share the fish. And it was a peculiar answer he gave them, but this is the answer exactly word for word as I heard it:

  ‘A cealasag here and a cealasag there, and if there’s a cealasag left over that’s for me.’

  Well, just at that moment, as they were going to begin sharing out the fish, a grouse-cock crew and the stranger disappeared. And when the men looked there wasn’t a trace of the fish left, but it had turned into mud, or something of the sort.

  61 Peter MacCormick

  MACPHEE’S BLACK DOG

  THERE WAS A MAN living here in Benbecula once upon a time, and it was in Balivanich he lived, and he was a shepherd. He was shepherd to the whole village. And it was the laird in those days who . . . his word was law for every township in the place. And, anyway, he had one shepherd and his name was MacPhee.

  He had two dogs – a bitch and a dog. And he had never been able to work the dog, although there was no question that the mother was very good.

  At shearing time they used to gather men together for the shearing and they used to . . . They had a sheiling out at Staingeabhal in Benbecula: twelve men this night in that sheiling with MacPhee in charge of them and they were waiting for daybreak . . . to get on with the shearing.

  And during the night . . . It was beds of heather they had. And during the night, anyway, every man of them said: ‘I wish I had my sweetheart here with me.’

  MacPhee was in another room and he had a fire there and he was wearing a plaid and had a shepherd’s crook. And women began to come in. It is said that they had beaks of bone. And every one of them went through into the other room. And MacPhee was sitting by the fire and a woman came and sat down beside him. She didn’t say a word.

  He had the two dogs there – the dog and the bitch. And he thought it was very strange, this woman coming in and sitting beside him. And a good while later he noticed blood seeping through under the door from the other room and he said to himself: ‘Something’s not right here. I must try to get away.’

  He stood up, anyway, and took his crook. The woman beside him held on to him. ‘You’re not going at all,’ said she.

  ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘I’m just going out. You keep hold of the end of my plaid and I’ll be back in in a moment.’

  When MacPhee got outside he stuck his crook in the turfs in the wall of the sheiling and tied the end of his plaid to it. And he made off.

  Well, now, his home was in Balivanich and it was a long way off, so he made off as fast as he could. He heard a great noise behind him: oh, a great noise coming after him. And he didn’t know what this could be.

  And, anyway, he said: ‘I’ll slip the dogs,’ said he. ‘Bios-eara, Bios-eara, MacPhee’s Black Dog!’ said he. ‘If you won’t go tonight you never will.’

  Off went the dog and off went the bitch. MacPhee kept going to try and get home to Balivanich. He reached home. His wife was in bed. They had plenty of milk and he said to his wife: ‘Lay out,’ said he, ‘every basin of milk you have,’ said he, ‘in front of the house. If the dogs come,’ said he . . . ‘I’m quite sure they’ll be very thirsty,’ said he, ‘and unless there are basins of milk laid outside and water,’ said he, ‘w
e’ll be . . . they’ll devour us.’

  They laid out every basin of milk they had and plenty of water and MacPhee closed the door and barricaded it from inside . . . And in the morning when they rose MacPhee’s Black Dog and the bitch were lying there swollen up like balloons outside the house without a single hair left on their bodies. And it must have been something very strange there when the dogs were stripped of hair.

  And that’s the end of my story . . . I’ve heard that story a score of times, but I know Àirigh na h-Aon Oidhche [One Night Sheiling] myself, and if you came with me . . . if I went along with you – I can’t walk it for sure – I’d show you Àirigh na h-Aon Oidhche.

  62a Duncan MacDonald

  ÀIRIGH AN T-SLUIC

  THERE’S A PLACE on the north side of Loch Skiport called Airigh an t-Sluic [the Shiel of the Slough], and here’s the story that was told of how the place got its name.

  There was an old woman who lived by herself at a place called the Bay of Alasdair’s Children on the north side of Loch Skiport. This night the old woman was very ill and to all appearances dying. That same night that the old woman was on her death-bed, a ship came into the bay and anchored there. The skipper came ashore and came up to the old woman’s house. When he saw how far through she was he went back to the ship and came to the old woman’s house once more and put a Bible at her head and a Bible at her feet. Then he left her and returned to the ship.

  A little while after he had gone aboard he and the crew saw a ball of fire coming and going round the old woman’s house. Then a little later they heard a voice calling her to come out, and they heard the old woman answering. She said, ‘How can I go out when there’s a Bible at my head and a Bible at my feet and the little cock, the son of the hen, on the roost above me?’ The ball of fire came a second time and a third time, and they heard the voice calling the old woman out, and each time she answered, ‘How can I go out when there’s a Bible at my head and a Bible at my feet and the little cock, the son of the hen, on the roost above me?’ After the third time the ball of fire came no more.

  Next day people gathered and a coffin was made for the old woman and they set off to bury her. But when they were a little distance from the house the coffin began to get heavy, and got heavier and heavier, until at last they had to put it down at the place that’s now called the Shiel of the Slough. They just buried her there and the hole in which she was buried is still to be seen. It never dried up but remained a black pool with a nasty grey-green scum on the water. And that’s how Airigh an t-Sluic got its name.

  62b Tom Robertson

  THE COCK AND THE SKIPPER

  THEY WERE A CROFT hoose on the side o a hill, an wän day they were a smack ’at cam into the voe, and the crew cam ashoer an cam op to the hoose, and they hed tae. And efter they were hed tae, then the skipper o the boat says to the old man in the hoose, he says: ‘Could you sell wis a haen, fir wir Sonday denner?’

  An the owld man i the hoose says, ‘No.’ He says, ‘There a cock, a old cock here,’ he says, ‘. . . he’s startit craain i the middle o the night, an we cannae get ony rest for him. So,’ he says, ‘we’ll gie you him.’

  But they were wän thing that the old man didnae kaen. Twa nights afore dis . . . dey were awaa, aboot wän o’clock i the moarning they were a light ’at cam in ower the hill, an cam doon the hill an cam doon to the hill daiks, and then the cock crew, and the light disappear’t. An the night afore dis the sam thing wis happen’t: the light cam in ower the hill an cam doon to the hill daiks, and the cock crew, and the light disappear’t. But the owld man didnae kaen dat, of course: he said to the skipper o the boat, he says, ‘You can tak that old cock,’ he says. ‘He’s only keepin us oot of sleep.’

  So they took the cock and they göd back aboard the smack and sailed oot the voe . . . And that night they were a light ’at cam in ower the hill an cam down, an cam down to the hill daiks an they were no cock to craa. So . . . the light cam in ower the hill daiks an cam doon to the hoose, an next moarning the hoose was burnt to cinders.

  63 Donald MacDougall

  TARBH NA LEÒID

  THERE IS AN ISLAND a few miles west of Uist that they call Heisker and it’s a low-lying island with little water. In summer, when the water was scarce, the women used to go out to do their washing in a loch some distance from the village. They went out two at a time, for it was said that a water-horse lived in this loch. It was also said by an old man in the place that it could happen that the water-horse would come to the village and that it might do fearful harm, and he advised the people to rear a bull and never to let it out of doors in case it might be needed some day.

  But this year, anyway, whatever the reason, there was one woman who went out alone to do her washing. She finished her washing and she was tired and it was a fine warm evening and there was a sunny little knoll there and she lay down on the side of the knoll. When she had been there for a little while she saw a fine-looking, handsome man approaching. He came right over to the place where the woman was and he said what a fine evening it was. She said it was indeed.

  ‘You’re pretty tired,’ said he, ‘after all your washing.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said she.

  ‘Ah, I’m pretty tired myself,’ said he. ‘Would you have any objection,’ said he, ‘if I sat beside you and took a rest?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind at all,’ said the woman.

  He sat down beside her and when he had been sitting beside her for a while he said to her: ‘I’m getting sleepy,’ said he. ‘Would you have any objection,’ said he, ‘if I laid my head in your lap?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ said the woman.

  The man laid his head in the woman’s lap and when she had been looking at him for a while, she noticed that there was gravel from the loch among his hair, and water weeds. She looked at him more closely then and she suddenly noticed that he had hooves for feet and it was then she realised who she had there – it was the water-horse.

  He was fast asleep and snoring now and she didn’t know what on earth she should do. But she had a pair of scissors in her pocket and she took them out and cut a circle out of her coat where the water-horse’s head was resting, and she managed to slip away cautiously, but when she got a little way off she took to her heels.

  She was getting near the village but it wasn’t long till she heard a neighing behind her and looked back, and there was the water-horse coming, and coming pretty fast at that.

  Apparently the man who was in charge of this bull that they were keeping in case the water-horse came, his name was MacLeod and the bull was called Tarbh na Leòid. When she was getting close to the village she began to shout:

  ‘Turn loose Tarbh na Leòid!’ she cried. ‘Turn loose Tarbh na Leòid! ’

  Some people in the village heard the shouting and the bull was let loose and some others went out to meet the woman. The bull and the water-horse met and hurled themselves upon each other. Sometimes the water-horse seemed to be winning, and sometimes the bull seemed to be winning, but at last the bull started to drive the water-horse back and he drove him out into the sea at last and they both disappeared.

  The woman went home and took to her bed and it is said that she never rose again.

  But a long time after that a horn – one of the bull’s horns was washed ashore, and it is said that it was used for a great many years as a bar across a gateway in Heisker, and it’s not so very long since some people saw it – a little over . . . just about forty years ago, it’s said it was still to be seen in Heisker.

  LEGENDS OF FAIRIES AND SEA-FOLK

  64a Archie MacKellaig

  DANCING IN THE FAIRY HILL

  I WANT TO TELL you now . . . I don’t believe a single one of you will believe me. It’s about the fairies, the fairies.

  At this time there were two farmers across by Loch Etive side, and this year it was getting on towards Christmas and they were needing drink for Christmas, and they put their heads together and decided they would come over to
Kingshouse since that was their nearest inn. And they came over a day or two before Christmas and arrived at Kingshouse, and I’m sure they had a dram, and had a cup of tea, and they ordered a three gallon jar of whisky – for you couldn’t get it in bottles in those days, but you could get any quantity in a jar – a half-gallon or a gallon or two gallons or three gallons, whatever you wanted.

  But they asked the innkeeper to wrap the jar up in straw in case it got broken on the way and when they were ready to go they said: ‘We’ll take turns at carrying the jar.’

  And it was put on the back of one of the farmers and tied really tightly with straw ropes all round till it was so firm that it wouldn’t shift and: ‘We’ll be off then,’ said they.

  They set out and they had to go across the moors, as you know, over to Etive, and when they had got about half way, night fell, and they sat down to have a smoke.

  And one of them said: ‘Look! Look! Look at that light up on the hillside there. Nobody lives up there,’ said he.

  ‘No,’ said the other, ‘and I wonder what light it can be.’

  ‘We’re not in a hurry anyway,’ said he, ‘so we can go up and see what’s going on.’

  And they set off up the brae. They hadn’t gone very far up the hillside when they heard the sound of the pipes. And the man who had the jar on his back, he was a well-known piper himself and he said to the other farmer: ‘Do you hear that? There’s something going on here. Hurry! Hurry!’

  And it was the man with the jar who was leading and when he got there he was a good bit ahead of the other farmer. There was a fine, bright light there, an open door and a piper inside the door with as fine Highland dress on him as they had ever seen on anyone, playing away there. And he took a look inside – the man who was carrying the jar. There they were, dancing – women in silk dresses. Oh, he was so taken with this that he went right in. He was no sooner inside than the door closed.