So this is what she did. And when the old man . . . saw that the tide was right round the rock and that he couldn’t get . . . off without swimming, he stood, . . . a real fairy man, and started with his fists and swearing at her, that he would do this to her and that to her. And some of the other fairies came to his rescue. And she said, ‘He’ll be there,’ she said. ‘I’m going to leave him there,’ she said, ‘till you bring my own baby back! And not until then will he be rescued . . . from that rock.’
And they brought her own baby back, and brought the old bodach with them.
70a Angus MacLellan
A WOMAN SAVED FROM THE FAIRIES
I’VE HEARD THIS story about a man called Somhairle MacDonald. He lived on the mainland. He was a rich man; he had all the money he needed. And he used to go out shooting. This day he had been shooting in the hills and he was coming home towards nightfall, and he sat down on the side of a knoll for a rest. And there wasn’t a breath of wind. What should he see but a wreath of mist coming over the top of the mountain facing him across the glen.
He had never seen mist move as fast as that, and this really astonished him when it was so calm. He thought it must be something unnatural. He had heard that shot would never harm an evil thing, so he went and put a sixpence in his gun. And the mist was coming within range, and he could see a black shadow in the middle of the wreath of mist. And he fired at it and the shot went off, and the mist vanished.
But then he heard a pitiful moaning further down the hill, and he got up and went down there, and there was a woman wearing nothing but her nightdress, and both her thighs bleeding where the sixpence had grazed them. He spoke to her, but he could get nothing out of her but a shake of her head or a movement of her hand. He started to bandage her legs and stopped the bleeding. She couldn’t speak a word. He didn’t know what to do with her: he couldn’t bring himself to leave her there. He went and lifted her on his back and took her home with him, and they put her to bed, and he looked after her himself.
Her legs healed up then and she got up, and she used to work about the house, and there was nothing a woman’s two hands could do that she wouldn’t do but she couldn’t speak a word. His people carried on at him for ever having anything to do with her, saying she couldn’t be a right woman, and he should take her and leave her where he had found her. Well, he couldn’t bring himself to do such a thing.
Then he went to see an old man in the village and find out what advice he could give him. He told him how he had found her and how his people were on at him to take her and leave her where he had found her. ‘And I can’t bring myself to do such a thing,’ said he. ‘There’s nothing a woman’s two hands can do that she can’t do,’ said he. ‘There’s no sort of ironing or washing or cooking,’ said he, ‘that she’s not able for.’
‘Oh well,’ said the old man, ‘don’t send her away just now,’ said he, ‘but when a year is up,’ said he, ‘go out,’ said he, ‘and sit in the same place where you were sitting when you saw the wreath of mist,’ said he, ‘and stay there a while,’ said he. You just might hear or discover something about her,’ said he, ‘before you get rid of her.’
Well, when the year was up MacDonald went and took everything he needed and set out for the hills, and took his seat on the very spot where he had been sitting when he saw the wreath of mist. Night came on and he saw nothing and heard nothing, and he was getting cold then and he got ready to leave. When he got to his feet and looked up the hill, a knoll above him was open and a light was showing. He started off up the hill.
There were people inside there, and one man standing handing round drink to them all in a cup, and he stood outside watching them. The man who was handing round the drink said: ‘Well,’ said he, ‘it was a year ago tonight,’ said he, ‘that I meant to have my wedding here,’ said he, ‘but things went wrong,’ said he. ‘But I left her one thing to remember me by,’ said he. ‘She won’t be able to utter a word until she gets a drink out of my cup,’ said he.
When he heard that, he rushed in. They all shouted to get him out, get him out.
‘I won’t go out,’ said he, ‘until I get a drink like the others have had.’
‘You can have that,’ said he [the man with the cup], ‘if you undertake to be just like ourselves.’
‘I will,’ said he.
He went and put some of whatever this stuff was that he had into the cup, and handed it to him. He just emptied what was in the cup on the ground, stuffed the cup into his pocket and made off. The whole band went after him: he had nothing but fall after fall until he got home. But he got home: he went to his bed and stayed there all day.
When he got up in the evening, he went and got the cup and he washed the cup clean, dried it and filled it with milk. And he went down to the kitchen, and she was working in the kitchen, and he held it out to her. ‘Here,’ said he, ‘drink that,’ said he to her.
She waved him away – she wasn’t going to take it at all.
‘Take it,’ said he, ‘and drink that!’ said he.
Oh, she shook her head – she wasn’t going to take it at all. He drew his sword. ‘Take that and drink it,’ said he, ‘or I’ll run you through on the spot with this sword!’ said he.
She looked at him and trembled, and she took the cup and drank it off. When she had drunk what was in the cup, ‘Ah, God be thanked,’ said she, ‘what a lot of good that drink has done me!’ said she.
‘You seem to have found your tongue with it, anyway,’ said he.
‘Yes,’ said she.
‘What sort of woman are you?’ said he to her.
‘Oh,’ said she, ‘just a woman like any other.’
‘Then what brought you,’ said he, ‘to where I found you?’ said he.
‘Well, that’s something I don’t know anything about,’ said she. ‘I had married,’ said she, ‘the proprietor of a hotel,’ said she, ‘in Edinburgh,’ said she. ‘And the wedding night,’ said she, ‘when we went to sleep,’ said she, ‘that’s the last thing I can remember,’ said she. ‘The next thing I knew was you bending over me,’ said she, ‘bandaging my legs, which had been wounded,’ said she.
‘Aye, aye!’ said he. ‘Then are you wanting to go home now?’ said he.
‘Ah, yes,’ said she, ‘if you think it is all right for me.’
‘Oh well then,’ said he, ‘get ready,’ said he, ‘and I’ll go with you myself.’
The upshot was that he and she set off for Edinburgh, and when they got to Edinburgh she knew her way around well enough, though he had never been there. At last she got to the hotel where . . .
‘Well now,’ said she, ‘here’s where I lived.’
‘Well then,’ said he, ‘we can go into the kitchen,’ said he, ‘and you mustn’t let on that you belong there at all,’ said he, ‘and we’ll see what we can find out,’ said he. (And he had come armed.)
‘Oh,’ said she, ‘I’ll do whatever you ask me.’
They went into the kitchen and the servants were bustling hither and thither, one this way and one that, and there was one girl, and every time she passed, she would stop a moment to stare at the woman. The woman was keeping her face hidden. And he asked if they could get something to eat there.
‘Well, you can,’ said the cook, ‘but almost any other day we’d have been better able to serve meals than we are today,’ said she. ‘But you can have something to eat,’ said she, ‘if you’ll wait a minute.’
‘What’s the matter here?’ said he to her.
‘Well, I can see you’re a stranger here,’ said she, ‘if you have to ask what’s the matter.’
‘Oh yes,’ said he, ‘I’ve never been in the town until today.’
‘Well, it’s a sad tale we have to tell today,’ said she. ‘The lady of the house has been confined to her bed for a year past,’ said she, ‘and I believe she is not expected to live another day,’ said she.
‘Aye, aye!’ said he. ‘Has a doctor ever seen her?’
‘Oh, he’
s spent all he has on doctors,’ said she. ‘For all that they’ve never done her the slightest good,’ said she.
‘Oh well, that’s extraordinary,’ said he. ‘Mind you, I’m a doctor myself,’ said he, ‘and I’d be very willing to look at her,’ said he. ‘You never know, I might be able to keep her alive a little bit longer,’ said he.
‘Oh, in that case,’ said she, ‘I’ll tell him that,’ said she. She went through to her master and said: ‘There are a couple there,’ said she, ‘who have come into the kitchen,’ said she, ‘a gentleman,’ said she, ‘and a lady too along with him,’ said she, ‘and he says,’ said she, ‘that he is a doctor. I told him,’ said she, ‘that the lady of the house has been confined to bed for a year past,’ said she, ‘and he has offered to come and look at her,’ said she, ‘in the hope that he can keep her alive a bit longer.’
‘Oh well,’ said he, ‘it’s too late for doctors now,’ said he, ‘but since he’s offered to come through himself,’ said he, ‘tell him to come.’
She came back and asked him to go through. He went through. . . .
. . . ‘They tell me,’ said he, ‘that you have had her in bed for a year past.’
‘Oh yes,’ said he.
‘Ah, well,’ said he, ‘I don’t believe she’s so far gone yet,’ said he, ‘that we can’t maybe do something for her,’ said he.
She was lying facing the other way, and oh, she didn’t look as if she had long to live.
‘Turn over,’ said he, ‘and let’s see your face,’ said he.
Oh, she couldn’t: she wasn’t able to stir.
‘Oh, you aren’t so far gone yet,’ said he, ‘that you can’t manage to turn over. Turn over,’ said he, ‘when I tell you.’
Oh, she couldn’t.
‘Oh,’ said her husband, ‘don’t bully her,’ said he. ‘She hasn’t long left to live,’ said he.
He turned to him – ‘Are you,’ said he, ‘going to teach me my own business?’ said he, drawing his sword. The other man backed out of the door. He went over and bolted the door.
‘Turn over when I tell you,’ said he to her.
She began to wail, but in the middle of all the commotion she turned to face him.
‘Can’t you . . . couldn’t you turn over, now?’ said he. ‘Now sit up,’ said he.
‘Oh, I can’t, I can’t!’ said she.
‘Oh, you can do it,’ said he. ‘Sit up!’ said he.
She burst out crying and screaming, but in the end here she sat up.
‘Can’t you manage to sit up, now?’ said he. ‘Now get out of bed,’ said he.
‘Oh, anything, anything but that!’ said she.
‘Out of that bed,’ said he, ‘or I’ll put this through you!’ said he, drawing his sword.
She flew off in a ball of flame and vanished.
He turned round and went and opened the door. ‘Come in now, my dear fellow,’ said he, ‘and have a look at your bed,’ said he.
He came in. ‘Ah, God preserve us,’ said he, ‘where is she?’ said he.
‘She’s in Hell,’ said he, ‘where she belongs,’ said he. ‘Come through now,’ said he, ‘with me.’
He went through to the kitchen, and the woman was sitting in the kitchen.
‘Is that your wife?’ said he, turning to him.
‘Oh, Lord, yes. This is my wife!’ said he. She got up and came to him.
‘Well, she’s the more likely of the two, anyway!’ said MacDonald to him. ‘The fairies carried her off and the Devil took her place.’
They wanted to keep MacDonald there with them for good. They didn’t want to let him go home again at all; they wanted him to stay with them.
That’s what happened to the woman he found in the hills.
70b Sydney Scott
A DEAD WIFE AMONG THE FAIRIES
[THIS MAN’S WIFE] died, a young wife . . . young man . . . and he took great thowt aboot it, the man did. It was afore this now lighthoose was built, oh, I don’t know how long before. Well, they were a small wardro there where the lighthouse is built, which . . . you ken a wardro . . . a small buildin o stones, a small cairn buildin.
Well, they were an owld wife here ’at was a kind of . . . kind o witchie-wife: I don’t know whether she was, but she was supposed to be well up in the Bläck Airts onywey, an he went an got advice fae her. An he wondered if there could be nothing dön aboot it yet?
She said, yes, they could be something dön aboot it indeed: but he hed to get a . . . hev a very thick oaken stäff, an a Bible, an a bläck cät. An he hed to go to the wardro at the brae o Versabreck wi the full moon, and there was supposed to be a sort of heathery cave under this wardro. And he hed to go there an cry on his wife be neem. An he hed to hev the Bible open at a psälm, I think, and he was supposed tae recite a verse or two o this and throw in the bläck cät, an the wife would come [? just rising up] just like that. But the fairy foak would try to stop her. But . . . she said, when he heard his wife spakin he hed to jump in and use the stäff and use it withoot mercy until he got a howld o his wife, an she would come oot just like that.
An he dös it. And . . . of coorse she hed to go bäck afore daylight, though, but he spoke tae her all night, every full moon. Thät is the story. That’s what this man [? hed to do]. I heard me fäther sayin it.
71 Angus MacMillan
A MAN LIFTED BY THE SLUAGH
THE HOUSES IN THE old days [were] thatched houses that had no chimneys or anything else in them but a fire in the middle of the floor. Well, when they were lighting the fire, do you see, the house would be full of smoke. There would be a window on the west side of the house and it would have a shutter on it. They would open that shutter and the window would be wide open. And it was said that the sluagh was going around and if they found the window open, with nothing blocking it, they would shoot anything, they’d kill anything that was in the house if there wasn’t an iron bar across it, but if the bar was across it they couldn’t do anything.
There was one man in the township we belonged to and his house was above the shore and it was said that the sluagh used to lift him. But this night anyway he had gone out of the house and he didn’t come in. His wife was worried about him and so were his children. The children went to bed but the wife stayed up at the fireside. On . . . well after midnight he came home.
‘But Heavens,’ said she, ‘where have you been?’
‘Well, it was no small distance from here,’ said he. ‘I’ve been in Heisker,’ said he, ‘and I’ve visited all the islands.’
‘How did you do that?’ said she.
‘When I went outside,’ said he, ‘the sluagh was just waiting for me,’ said he, ‘and I simply went off with them.’
‘You’ll be dead,’ said she, ‘for lack of food.’
‘Well, indeed, I’m not that,’ said he. ‘I got my fill of warm milk in Heisker,’ said he. ‘And I was told,’ said he, ‘to shoot one of the girls – the girl that was milking the cows,’ said he. ‘And I hadn’t the heart to shoot the honest lass,’ said he. ‘There were hens on the roost,’ said he. ‘I shot a hen, and the girl stayed alive.’
And that’s the way I heard it.
72 Nan MacKinnon
A MAN WITH A FAIRY LOVER
I HEARD ABOUT A MAN who had a fairy lover and, anyway, he was saying to himself that the affair was going too far and that it was time for him to leave her. He used to go to the hunting-hill, as they called it, to hunt, you know, and he had been going with this fairy woman for some time – she would meet him and he was going with her, and the time came when he said to himself that it was time for him to break with her, that he had gone a bit too far. So he broke with her and then he stopped going hunting to the hill: he was afraid to go to the hill in case he met her, since he had given her up.
Anyway, this day he thought he would go to an island to hunt, and he took two dogs with him and set off in his boat. Anyway, when he was coming in to the landing-place – he was right at the landing-place – th
e fairy woman appeared coming down.
When he saw her he began to row out as hard as he could, and she came down to the landing-place and she pulled a cnèibeag out of the hem of her mantle. (You know what a cnèibeag is? . . . a little scrap of yam . . .) She pulled a cnèibeag out of the hem of her mantle and threw it so that it hit the boat, and she began to pull the boat in, and the boat was on the point of touching the shore and . . . He remembered a knife she had given him, and anything it touched it would cut, you know, and he took the knife out of his pocket and put it to the thread, and the boat moved out from the rock and she called after him then: ‘MacPhee of the Black Dogs,’ said she, ‘you have left me on the point.’
That was that, time passed and he married another woman – a woman from his own township and he never went near her [the fairy woman] now, but, just wait, his wife was expecting a baby now, and then her time came and there was no sign of the baby coming. But, anyway, he said to himself that he would go to the hill to try and see her, just to see what she would say to him – the fairy woman.
He went to the hill and she met him: ‘What’s your news today, MacPhee?’ said she.
‘Indeed, I do have news,’ said he. ‘There’s a goat down yonder,’ said he, ‘in prolonged labour.’
She paused for a moment: ‘That seems very strange to me,’ said she, ‘with the pearlwort under her foot. But,’ said she, ‘it’s not the goat at all,’ said she, ‘but your wife.’
And she took a black belt out of her pocket: ‘You put that belt on her,’ said she, ‘when you get home,’ said she, ‘and she’ll be quite all right.’
And he took the belt and put it in his pocket. When the fairy woman parted from him, he wound this belt round a stone. The stone split in two.
And he went straight to the goat-pen and plucked the pearlwort. (You know the pearlwort? You’ve heard of the pearlwort: that little flower they call the pearlwort? . . . Oh, it grows here in summer, lots of it – a slender little white flower it is, with just the one flower . . .) He went straight to the goat-pen and plucked the pearlwort and put it in the bed – his wife’s bed – when he got home, and the child was born and she was quite all right.
Scottish Traditional Tales Page 34
