‘Oh, you useless fellow,’ said she, ‘now we’ll be without a cauldron, and what are we going to do?’ And she started nagging and complaining.
However, she got ready and put on her outdoor clothes and set off to go to the fairy hill. Well, she knew where it was, and she got to the fairy hill, and the entrance was open. And she looked inside, and there was no-one in but two old grey-haired men, one on either side of the fire, dozing after their meal, and she could see the pot on the fire. And she went cautiously over and seized the pot off the chain and out she went. But as she was going out the pot struck against the doorpost, and flashes of fire came out of it, and this woke the old men. And one of them cried after her:
‘[?Tuneful] woman, dumb woman,
Who has come to us from the Land of the Dead,
Since you have not blessed the brugh –
Unleash Black and let go Fierce.’
And he began to unleash the dogs to send them after her.
She was keeping going as fast as she could, and when the dogs got too close to her she would throw them a bone out of the pot to delay them, and that would delay them for a little, but after a short while they would catch her up again and she would throw them another bone, until at last the pot was almost empty. And when they came up and were making for her, and she just threw them the last bone she had and as Providence would have it, she was getting near home by then, and the dogs at the house heard the howling of the fairy dogs and came out to meet them and put them to flight.
She got home with the pot and . . . you may be sure her husband was glad to see the pot coming back. There was great rejoicing, and they even did a little dance in the middle of the room, they were so delighted to get the pot back.
And the fairy woman never bothered them or came after them or their cauldron from that day on.
68 Donald MacDougall
BAKING IN CREAG HÀSTAIN
WELL, AS I HEARD it, there was once a girl, and late in the evening she went out to look for the cows. The cows were further away than she thought and at last the mist came down on her. She kept going and lost her way, but she still went on until night fell. And she went on till at last she saw a faint light far away, and she decided to make straight for the light.
When she got there she went inside and she realised that . . . that it was a [fairy] knoll she had got into. It was full of fairies in there, women and men, young people and old people. But the knoll closed behind her, and the girl could not get out.
They were searching for her all over the place for a long time, but there was no trace of the girl, and in the end they stopped looking for her. They had given up hope of her being alive.
But the girl was in the knoll and when the fairies went out every day they used to leave her there, herself and another little old man who was getting too old to go out, and the task they set her was baking. And they told her, ‘When this girnel of meal is all finished,’ said they, ‘we’ll let you out of the knoll.’
She was baking every day but the meal in the girnel was not going down at all. She kept on and on at it, but finally she realised that no matter how long she kept on baking, if she was to be there till the girnel was empty she would be in the knoll for ever.
But then, one of those days, she said to the old man who was inside with her, ‘I’m afraid,’ said she, ‘that I never will get out of this knoll. The girnel is showing no signs of going down at all.’
‘Oh well,’ said the old man, ‘if you do as I tell you, the girnel will go down right enough and it won’t be all that long till it’s empty. Every time,’ said he, ‘that you’re baking, the meal that’s left over on the board, you must put it back in the girnel, and you must do that every day.’
Next day she started baking as usual. The meal that was left over, she put it back in the girnel. She kept on like that from day to day and it wasn’t long till she noticed that the meal in the girnel was going down and down, till at long last there came a day of days when the girnel was empty.
She went to the fairies and said to them, ‘Now,’ said she, ‘I’m going to get out of this knoll. The bargain we made was that when the girnel was all finished you would let me go.’
‘And,’ said this fairy, ‘is the meal finished?’
‘Yes,’ said she.
He looked into the girnel and the girnel was empty and: ‘Well, then,’ said he, ‘we’ll let you go, and we don’t have anything to give you for all the time you’ve been working for us here, but I’ll grant you,’ said he, ‘your first wish. Go ahead and ask.’
‘Well,’ said she, ‘the first wish that I ask is that I should be a good worker.’
‘Oh, very well then,’ said he. ‘Your wish has been granted. Farewell,’ said he. ‘My blessings on yourself,’ said he, ‘but my curses on the mouth that taught you.’
The girl went away, and as she was going out at the door she heard the screams of the old man. I suppose they were . . . that they finished him off there and then.
But the girl went on homewards and got to the house. She was years older by now and her mother could not recognise her. But she was wearing a plaid her mother had made for her . . . before she had left home and got lost, and it was in tatters now. And her mother knew her by this plaid – that this was the plaid she had been wearing when she went away years and years ago.
It is said that this gift was passed on to her descendants right down to the present day – that they were splendid workers and that they could get through far more in a short time than anyone else could..
. . . They called them Sìol Sìdheadh Chlann Anndra [the Fairy Race of Andrew] that was the name they went by . . . There were stories about several of them. One of them emigrated at the time when people first started going out there and he took . . . he was hired by a farmer. The day after he was hired he and the farmer and the farmer’s son went out. Well, it was all scythes in those days. The machines they have now hadn’t come into fashion, and the farmer and his son started cutting with scythes, but he [The man who had been hired] sat down at the end of the field. But after a little while the farmer came over to him and said to him, ‘Have you any intention of starting work today, now I’ve hired you?’
‘Oh, you carry on,’ said he. ‘It’s a long time yet till evening. I’ll catch you up by the evening.’
The farmer took this so badly that he stopped speaking to him. They came home at dinner-time . . . after he had sat at the end of the field all morning. They had their dinner and came out again. But when they came out this time, he set to work binding sheaves. And before dusk fell, all that the farmer and his son had cut with the scythes in the morning, and all they cut after dinner, he had . . . there wasn’t a sheaf unbound when they went home . . . It was said that that happened in Canada.
[Donald A. MacDonald:] ‘Now, it is said that those people are still in Uist – do people know which families belong to them?’
Oh yes, they do.
69a Andrew Stewart
JOHNNIE IN THE CRADLE
IT WAS A MAN in a farm . . . a man and his wife, they werenae long married, ye see, and . . . they’d a wee kiddie, and . . . they christened its name Johnnie, see? But it was a very crabbit wee baby this, it was always goin, in the cradle, it was . . . day after day, it would . . . it was never satisfied, it was always goin ‘nyaaa, nyaaa, nyaaa’, jist that way a’ the time, ye see. So here, there was another neighbourin man, the tailor, used to come up and visit this farmer, ye see: he’d a small craft. And when they come up tae the farm, they used to always have a wee drink of whisky between them, ye see, an a bit talk and a game o cards, an somethin like that, ye see. So anyway it was the day o the market (I think in them days . . . if I can mind, it’s every six month or every year, there was a market day); they went away with their . . . loadit up their van wi pigs or anything, or cattle, they went away tae the market with them. So, it was a very warm day, an jist as usual, Johnnie wasnae growin, it was aye aboot the same size, no gettin [? oot o the bit] and it was a
ye goin ‘nyaaa, nyaaa’ greetin away.
So here, they were in the . . . down in the byre. The man was cleanin oot the byre, ye see, an the man says, the tailor says to the farmer, he says, ‘You’re awfy worried-lookin,’ he says. ‘What’s wrong wi ye?’
‘Och,’ he says, ‘it’s market day the morn,’ he says, ‘my wife,’ he says, ‘me an the wife hed a bit o a row,’ he says, and . . . ‘she wanted to come wi me to the market. She’s been . . . stayed closed in the hoose,’ he says, ‘watchin the wean,’ he says, ‘an that,’ he says, ‘gettin kin’ o fed-up. She wants to go to the market, she wants to buy some things. And she’s naebody to watch the wean.’
‘Oh, but,’ says the tailor, he says, ‘if she . . . I’ll no see naebody . . . wee Johnnie wantin a nurse. I’ll nurse the wean.’ See? So . . . ‘if she wants to go.’
So the man says: ‘No, no,’ he says, ‘I dinnae think she would let ye dae that, but we’ll go doon an see anyway.’
So he went roon wi the tailor, and he asked his wife if she would let the tailor watch Johnnie, ‘till ye would get a day at the market’. So the woman was pleased, ye see, and the next morning come – to make a long story short – the next morning come, and they packed up their van, yoked up the horses – I think it was two horses they had in them days – and away they went to the market. So the man was in, and he was doin something, the tailor, sewin at a pair o trousers or makin a suit, or something at the side o the fire, finishin off a job, and he hears a voice sayin: ‘Is ma mother and faither awa?’ See?
So the tailor looks roond, and he didnae think but for one minute it was the baby that was talkin. See? So he looks roond, he goes over tae the windae, he looks oot the windae an that, but he could see nothing. He goes back and sits in the chair again. He thought the baby was sleepin: it stopped cryin.
So he says . . . he hears the voice sayin again: ‘Is ma mother an ma faither awa tae the market? Are they away?’ So he looks roond, and this was the baby haudin its wee hands at each side o the pram; it was sittin up. An it says . . . Of coorse, the tailor was a wee bit . . . he got kin’ o feared like, an he looks at the baby an he kin’ o kep’ hissel, an he says: ‘Yes,’ he says, ‘they’re away tae the market, Johnnie,’ he says. ‘What is it?’
He says, ‘If you look in the boddom press,’ he says, ‘there’s a bottle o whisky,’ the baby says, ‘take it oot an gie me a wee taste.’ See?
So he takes the bottle o whisky oot . . . he went an sure enough, the fairmer [sic – he means tailor] opened up the boddom o the press, and here was the bottle of whisky! And he took the bottle o whisky, and took a taste o whisky, and teemed oot some for the wee baby – the wee baby took the whisky an drunk it. See? So it says, ‘Are there ony pipes . . . hae ye got a set o pipes in the hoose?’
‘No me,’ says the tailor, he says. ‘I cannae play the pipes,’ he says, ‘but,’ he says, ‘I like to hear the pipes.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘go oot to the byre and bring me in a strae, an I’ll play you a tune.’
So of coorse the tylor got up, an oot he went . . . brings in a strae. (It wasnae a bashed strae, it was a roon strae, it had to be roon, so that the fairy could blow through it, ye see?) Takes the straw in, and hands it tae Johnnie, an the tailor’s watchin everything, see? He was worried, the tailor, noo; he was thinkin aboot the mother an the faither, and this wee Johnnie bein the fairy, see? Didn’t know what to say aboot it . . . He sut doon an he’s watchin. He says, ah, ‘Can ye play a strae?’ the tailor said.
So the fairy says, ‘Aye,’ he says, ‘I’ll play ye a tune on the pipes.’ Sut doon, and it played the loveliest tune on the pipes that ever ye heard – through a strae! The greatest music, pipe music – he [the tailor] says he heard lots o pipers in them days, the MacCreemons an a’ them, pipin, ye see?, but he says he never heard the like o it in his life, this wee baby in the pram. He knew it was a fairy then, ye see, it was playin the pipes!
So . . . they had a good talk together, this fairy an the tylor, ye see, so it says, ‘Is it time for ma father and mother to come hame yet?’
So he says, ‘Aye,’ he says, ‘they’ll be hame in aboot half an ’oor.’
So he says, ‘Well,’ he says, ‘ye better take a look an see if they’re comin.’
So the fairmer [sic – he means tailor] went oot, and looked oot the windae, and he says, ‘Aye, here they’re comin up the lane.’ Ye see?
So of coorse, the wee fairy, he says, ‘I’ll have tae get back into ma pram again.’ And it lay doon on its back an it’s goin . . . when the mother come to the door the wee bairn started goin again, ‘nyaaa, nyaaa’, greetin away, ye see?
So here noo the tylor was worriet. But he broke the news aff to the fairmer, see, and tellt the fairmer.
‘Oh,’ he says, ‘I don’t know,’ he says, ‘what I’ll dae.’
But in them days, what they done wi a fairy, they got a girdle, ye know a girdle for bakin scones. They pit it on the fire, and they took – in them days, to pit away a fairy – they took horse’s manure off the road, or anywhere at all, ye see, an they put it in a pan an burned it in a pan, and the fairies seen that, an they took fear an they disappeared. Ye see? Put it on the tap o the pan. This was ma mother used to tell us this.
So here – the fairmer asked him what was wrong. So he tells the fairmer.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘I’ll have to break it to ma wife,’ he says. ‘But,’ he says, ‘I don’t know how I’m goin tae do it, it’ll break her hairt,’ he says. ‘I can hardly believe this.’
‘Well,’ says the tailor, he says, ‘I’ll tell ye what I’ll dae. You an your wife,’ he says, ‘go . . . wait for a while, and go tae another market. Let on there’s another market, that the stuff wasnae half sellt, there’s two days’ market. And go through . . .’ (in them days, there was a hole fae the byre right to the kitchen, ye could look through a hole in the wall, through to the byre. Ye see? Ye could see the cattle, an everything) ‘go into the byre, and lift the curtain back, and listen tae everything that’s goin on. Ye can see what I’m tellin ye,’ says the tylor, ‘ ’s true. It’s a fairy ye’ve got for a wean.’ See?
So, anyway, the next mornin come, and they packed up their things as usual, lettin on that they were goin tae another market. And they went through tae the byre. And here, they’re sittin. An it heard . . . the mother an the farmer heard the wee fairy sayin tae the tailor, ‘Is ma mother and father away? Is ma mother and father away tae the market?’
So the tylor spoke kin’ o loud, ye see, to let them hear them. ‘Oh yes,’ he says, ‘they’re away to the market,’ he says, ‘Johnnie,’ he says, ‘you’ll be wantin a drink.’
‘Aye, get the whisky oot,’ he says, ‘and gie me a drink.’
Well, the woman nearly fainted when she heard the fairy speakin . . . her ain baby speakin to the tailor, ye see? So efter this went on, the next mornin, they never said nothing when they found oot it was a fairy.
The farmer come in . . . the baby’s father come in . . . got the girdle . . . And the fairy looked wi its eyes wild, watched the mother . . . the father pittin the girdle on the fire, seein nae floor or nothin on the table . . . wi’oot any bread gettin baked, ye see?
Next thing come in, was wi a bit o a half o a bag full o the horse manure, an a big peat fire. An he put some o the horse manure on tap o the griddle, like that. And the fairy begun to get feared noo, its eyes got kin o raiset up, and it was gettin feared when it seen the girdle. And just as the farmer was comin forward to reach for wee Johnnie in the cradle, he just made a dive like that, and made a jump up the lum – went up the lum itsel, and it cries doon the chimley: ‘I wish I had ’a kent my mother – if I’d ’a been longer with my mother,’ he says, ‘I would ha liked to ken her better.’
That was . . . Ye can take that meaning out o that, what the fairy said, back doon the chimley . . . disappeared.
That was a story ma mother told me, years ago. Heard it often. It was supposed to be true, that story . . . My mother was
a Campbell . . . Argyllshire Campbells.
69b Nan MacKinnon
A FAIRY CHANGELING
[THIS IS THE STORY of a woman] that lost her own baby . . . She was feeding it and she couldn’t give him enough. And she went to an old man in the village. There was always a wise man in every village, you know, that advised them what to do. And she said, ‘I don’t think it’s my own child I’ve got. It doesn’t matter how much porridge,’ she says, ‘I give him. He’s not satisfied. Whereas my own child,’ she said, ‘couldn’t take all the porridge. He never finished the porridge I gave him.’
‘Oh well,’ the old man said, ‘I’ll tell you what. It can’t be your own child, but I’ll tell you what to do. Just you pretend you’re going away from your home, and that you’re going for some distance. And keep hiding around the place. And when he thinks that you’re gone just peep at the window and see what happens.’
So . . . this happened and she went to peep at the window. And the one that was supposed to be the baby was an old fairy bodach . . . on his elbow in the cradle playing the chanter. So she went back to the old man in the village again; she told him what happened. ‘Now,’ she says, ‘how am I to get rid of him?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you what,’ he says. ‘Just you take him with you the next time you’re going to cut seaweed.’ They used to cut the seaweed for fertiliser. ‘And put him on the top of . . . a rock, the very top of a rock. And pretend you don’t see the tide coming in, but keep away from the tide yourself, a good bit. And keep cutting the seaweed round the rock on which the . . . baby is. Keep an eye on him all the time. But keep away from the rock until the tide surrounds the rock.’
Scottish Traditional Tales Page 33
