Scottish Traditional Tales

by A. J. Bruford

  90 Donald MacDougall

  SPÒG BHUIDHE

  THERE WAS A TIME there long ago, before reapers and binders and harvesting implements of that kind came, people used to go from here, and from all the islands, down to . . . to Lowdie they called it – that means the Lothians – to work at harvesting, and they used to earn what was a good wage in those days. And they’d come back home, anyway – walking most of the way of course – and plenty of them got robbed on the way home as well.

  And it seems there was a place down near Perth, a certain bridge, and a lot of people were always getting robbed there on their way home from this harvest work. Some man met them on the bridge and robbed them of their money, and it was Spòg Bhuidhe [Yellow Paw] . . . Why they called him that I don’t know, but Spòg Bhuidhe was what they called the man who met them there.

  But, anyway, there was a man from here who used to go every year, anyway, and this year he was on his way home and he called at an inn not far from the bridge and had a dram, and he also had a meal there. And it was night and . . . Anyway, what should he be given to eat but black puddings along with various other things. And, well, he was rather afraid of going to the bridge at night after hearing so many stories about people being robbed there so often, and as he looked at the plate he saw one black pudding there and it was shaped like a pistol or, as we say, a revolver, and he said to himself, ‘Well, I’ll just put this in my pocket and if anyone bothers me I’ll take it out and they won’t know, as it’s night anyway, that it isn’t a pistol I’ve got, and I’ll give them a fright if nothing else.’

  And, with that, he slipped one of the black puddings into his pocket. Oh, he ate his meal anyway, and had a rest, and then he left and off he went on his way. Oh, he was getting nearer and nearer to the bridge, and he was a bit afraid too, but, ah, just as he got near to the end of the bridge he noticed this big man standing there in a cloak. Ah, there was no going back now anyway – he kept on – but when he came up to him the man said, ‘Hand over your money or you’re dead.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I won’t part with my money that easily. Many a day I sweated to earn it. I worked hard for every penny of it.’

  ‘If you don’t,’ said he, ‘I’ll have your head off.’

  ‘No,’ said he, ‘but I’ll have your head off and every spark of this will be . . .,’ and he took the black pudding out of his pocket and stuck it against the man’s chest. The man just gave one leap and ran off into the night. The man went on his way and he got safely over the bridge. No-one troubled him after that – he got home safe anyway.

  But he went the following year, anyway, he went away for harvest work as usual. When the work was done he was on his way home and he called at the same inn, just as he had called the year before that, and he was given black puddings again just as he had got the year before too. Oh, the inn-keeper was . . . He came over to him and said, ‘How did you get on the night you were here last year?’ said he. ‘You were here one night just like this – you called here on your way home from your work. You didn’t have any trouble at the bridge, did you?’

  ‘Oh, well, as a matter of fact I did. There was a man waiting for me at the bridge,’ said he, ‘but, my goodness, he got quite a fright! Just like tonight I was given black puddings along with other things for my meal, like this, and I thought I’d put one of them in my pocket – it looked so like a pistol. And I put it in my pocket and when the man stopped me at the bridge I just took it out and stuck it against his chest and told him that he’d get every spark of this if he didn’t clear off. He got such a fright,’ said he, ‘and didn’t he run for it!’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said he, ‘wasn’t that good! That was some fright he got!’

  ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘he got a fright all right! Anyway, I got home safe.’ But anyway after having a rest he set off as he had done the year before, and, ah, he was frightened enough coming to the bridge this time as well, but he carried on. But, oh, sure enough, as he came up to the bridge the big man with the cloak was right there before him, just as he had been the year before. He kept going anyway but when he had almost come up to the man the man said, ‘Hand over your money or you’re dead.’

  ‘No,’ said he, ‘I’m not handing it over like that – it wasn’t so easy to come by. I’ve had to work many a hard day for it.’

  ‘If you don’t,’ said he, ‘you’re a dead man this minute. Your black pudding won’t save you tonight like it did last year.’

  ‘If not,’ said he, ‘this will.’

  And he had bought a revolver this year, and he took the revolver out of his pocket and he fired it at him and killed him there and then.

  He went straight back to the hotel. He told them that a man had stopped him at the bridge and tried to rob him and that he had killed him – that they’d better go with him to see who it was. Oh, they couldn’t find the hotel-keeper anywhere, and off they went, and when they got there who should it be but the hotel-keeper.

  It was the hotel-keeper who had been robbing everyone who called at the hotel. When they had left he would go by a short-cut and be at the bridge before them, and he robbed everybody – that’s how he did it. He thought it was a black pudding this man had, just as he had the year before, and that he was safe enough, but he was badly mistaken this time.

  91 John Finlayson

  DARK FINLAY OF THE DEER

  THERE WAS A STRONG, wild man of the old people long ago who lived in a little glen between two estates we call the Kintail Estate and the Kilillan Estate, and this place was called Coille Rìgh. The man had a few cattle, from which he made his living and his wife’s living.

  But when Finlay went out this particular evening there were some of the cattle missing, and Finlay knew every corner of the hills like the back of his hand, and he knew very well what had become of them, seeing that in these old days there were people they called reivers, who made raids on poor folk and carried off their cattle nobody knew where: but these old folk – they had lost them.

  And Finlay said to himself that there was no use beating about the bush, he must go after them. Off he went, and on he went, but in the end, long as the way was he wasn’t long finding it, till he reached the country of Lochaber, where they said there were a lot of these reivers in the old days. And the reivers were asleep when old Finlay got there. And Finlay fell upon them as Samson fell upon the Philistines – they didn’t get away to tell the tale: Finlay killed them on the spot.

  Finlay went home without another thought – himself and the few cattle that were left, very pleased with himself and hoping never to be raided again as long as he lived, and he brought the cattle home.

  Weeks passed and weeks passed and things were going very well, but one of these mornings Finlay set out to herd the cattle again to the aonach, as we call it – the hill pastures. And when he grew tired of driving the cattle this way and that, then he sat down for a rest. When he looked about him at a hilltop we call Màm an Tuirc, on the boundary between Killillan and Kintail, there he saw three men coming down the hill, and Finlay knew very well that they were strangers. Not only did he know them for strangers but he thought they were avengers coming in search of someone, and he said to himself then that he might as well sit where he was and there he sat.

  They came down the hill until they came up to Finlay and one of them said to him: ‘You’re a stranger in these parts?’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m often . . . I know this district well.’

  ‘Then do you know anyone round here they call Dark Finlay of the Deer?’

  ‘I know him well: I’m his herdsman.’

  That was all the reivers wanted.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to excuse me,’ said Finlay, ‘I’m such a cripple,’ said he, ‘that I won’t be able to keep pace with you.’

  ‘We’ll help you ourselves.’

  Well, well, they helped Finlay along step by step until they came to Finlay’s cottage. When they came to Finlay’s cottage: ‘See, there’s my [sic] cottage.’

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nbsp; And his wife was standing in the doorway. And when they got to the door Finlay said to his wife: ‘See, here are some strangers I’ve met: take them in and I’m sure they could do with a bite to eat.’

  ‘Come in, gentlemen,’ said she, ‘till you get some food.’

  ‘Oh, we’re not hungry. What we’re looking for is the man of the house – is he at home?’

  ‘The man of the house is at home, right enough, but the man of the house isn’t keeping well. He hasn’t got up yet.’

  That was the best news they could ask for, but the woman asked them in, and she was preparing food as best she could and at the same time edging towards where old Finlay’s bow was.

  She put the bow and arrows out through a hole there was at the back of the cottage. There was no glass in the windows in those days at all, except that they might have clods or divots in them [?until] the daylight came.

  When Finlay got his bow and arrows he came round to the door of the cottage and he looked in and he said to them: ‘Here you are just as it was when Noah built the Ark, when he said: “Noah shall be inside and you shall be outside and the foxes shall be drowned.” But I’m outside and you’re inside and it’s you who shall be drowned.’ And he killed the three of them.

  That’s a fine end to the story of Dark Finlay of the Deer. John Finlay son from Drumbuie recounting it.

  92 Duncan MacDonald

  GILLE-PÀDRUIG DUBH

  RUBHA AN TIGH MHÀIL [the Point of the Rent House] is the name of the place in Loch Eynort where Clanranald’s rent house was, where the tenantry paid the rent annually in grain. And this year, when rent day arrived, they were gathering there from every airt with sacks of grain. And Clanranald had a man in the rent-house measuring the grain with a peck measure. Who should arrive but Gille-Pàdruig Dubh, with two sacks of grain. The measurer began to measure, and the last peck of grain he was measuring was short.

  ‘Oh,’ said the measurer to Gille-Pàdruig Dubh, ‘this peck of yours is short; you haven’t enough grain to fill it, and it should have been full for the rent you have to pay.’

  ‘You wait a minute,’ said Gille-Pàdruig to the measurer, ‘and it will be full presently,’ at the same time catching him by the back of the neck and pulling the sgian-dubh from his own side; and he slit his throat with it, and held him above the peck measure until it was full of his blood. ‘There now,’ said Gille-Pàdruig, ‘it’s full now.’ And he got himself ready and returned home.

  Now, when Clanranald in Ormiclate heard of the deed done by Gille-Pàdruig Dubh to the man who was receiving his grain, it was difficult for him to decide how to get his revenge on him. He was reluctant to fall out with him because Gille-Pàdruig was a noted archer, and his like was too useful to Clanranald any time he was threatened by enemies. But the method he chose was this: he sent for Gille-Pàdruig Dubh to come to him at Ormiclate and to bring Iain Dubh, his son, with him, saying that there was a stranger in his house just now from the mainland, and that he had laid him a wager that he had an archer on the estate who could break an egg on his son’s head with an arrow at such and such a distance without harming the man. And he named the day on which Gille-Pàdruig had to be in Ormiclate with his son.

  Now, when the day came, Gille-Pàdruig set out, himself and his son, and he left the Geàrrachan, for that is where his dwelling was, and they both reached Ormiclate. You may be sure they were received with open arms there! They were welcomed with food and drink. Then they discussed the feat that they had to perform and they went outside. Gille-Pàdruig made his son stand in a particular place in front of him, and Clanranald and his lady and the stranger who was with them were standing on the graddaning hearth in order to see how the matter went. Gille-Pàdruig took an arrow from his quiver and he stuck it through the garter on his right leg, and he took another arrow and stuck it through the garter on his left leg. The egg was then placed on the top of his son’s head. ‘Go on, son,’ said Gille-Pàdruig, ‘turn your back to me.’

  ‘I need not, Father,’ said his son, ‘because if you do me any harm it won’t be your fault.’

  Then Gille-Pàdruig took the third arrow from his quiver and put it in his bow, and he took good aim and released the arrow, and he shot the egg sky high.

  ‘Very good,’ said Clanranald, ‘I am pleased that you performed the feat in the presence of the stranger who is here from the mainland, when I know that he has no-one on his lands who could do as much. But will you tell me now, what was your reason for sticking an arrow through each garter at the beginning?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Gille-Pàdruig, ‘if I had done my son any harm, one would have landed in you and the other in the lady.’

  ‘Away, away!’ said Clanranald. ‘It’s no good trying to do anything with you.’

  Gille-Pàdruig and Clanranald parted on friendly terms then, and he and his son went home to the Geàrrachan, and no further revenge was taken on him for the man he killed in the rent house at Loch Eynort.

  93 Tom Tulloch

  GAUN TAIT AND THE BEAR

  THIS HAAPENED i the days when this islants wis still anunder the Norse domination. And there a place in Fetlar ’at they caa Öri [written Urie]. They’re been considerable bueeldins there. An this wis wan o the maen places in Fetlar, an this is whar the Norse tax-gatherer älways cam to gather his taxes fae the Fetlar fokk. And this parteeclar day he wis collectin taxes, an among the Fetlar maen they were a Gaun Taet. An he – pairt o his taxes wis bein peyed in butter, an when the Norse tax-gatherer weyed it upon his bismar then he hed it lighter as what Gaun Taet’s bismar was hed it, and they got intil a row. And this Gaun aevidently wis a graet big powerful män, an he saezed the bismar fae the tax-gatherer an he struck the tax-gatherer i the heid wi him an he felled him ston deid. Noo, no doot the tax-gaitherer hed heenchmen along wi him, and they reportit this crime back hom i Norrawa an Gaun Taet wis summonsed afore the keeng o Norrawa, tö . . . the keeng tö pronounce punishment upon ’m.

  An when he appeared afore the keeng, he hed his baer feet – he apparently wis aalways hed his baer feet, an his taes wis very big an muscular, an the keeng wis impressed wi the pheesical appearance o the man, an he remarkit about the graet big knobs ’at wis on his taes, an this would ha’ been knobs o muscles. An Gaun said if they in any wey offended the keeng, he would shün get clear o them. And they were a shaurp aix lyin some wey aboot, and he pickit up the aix and he knockit off wan or two o the humps aff o his taes. And this impressed the keeng graetly, ’at a män could be so brafe an t’ink so little o paen, an he t’ owt ’at it wis a peety fir such a fine spaeshimen o a man to be condemned to daeth. An he considered fir a moament an then he said to Gaun ’at they were a bear graetly troublin the paalace grunds, an if he geed oot an captir’d this bear an browt it back to the palace alive, he would pardon him.

  An Gaun liffed in Fetlar all his life: he was never seen a bear or kent what lek a bear wis. He kent ’at it was a very faerce aanimal, and he left the palace in a very despairin mood and he wandered aboot, an finally he cam upon a owld wife livin in a peerie hut be hersel oot i the edge o the foarest. An he geed in til her an he telt the wife his dilemma. And the wife said til’m ’at it wis butter ’at wis browt him to this, an the oanly thing ’at shö kent o, wid it be ’at butter would bring him oot ot o it: and shö telled him to go oot an buy a tub o butter, an set it oot fir some wey ’at the bear could get aat it, and this might mak him listless an droosy. So Gaun he geed oot an he bowt the tub o butter an he güd where he t’owt ’at the bear would be likely to come, and he waeted paetiently fir twa ’r three nights and the bear did put in a appearance. And the bear lickit oot the whoale tub o butter, and then it seem’t to be saitisfied as faur as hunger wis consairned, an it made it droosy an sleepy, an Gaun trailed him all the wey an the bear curled up an güd to sleep. And Gaun pounced ipö the bear an he wis thatten a big strong män ’at he oaverpower’t the bear, an he hed his rops wi him and he tie’t the bear’s fower feet an tied his jaas, an he took him upon his shooder
, and he laundit the bear at the keeng’s feet i the paalace!

  An the keeng was graetly impressed wi this, fir he t’owt that the bear would kill Gaun and that would rid him o the trouble o haein to sentence him to daeth. But when Gaun arrifed afore ’m wi the bear, he was as good as his wird, and he telled him to tak the bear an disappear fae Norraway back til his owen countree, and that ’at he was to get into no more trouble, and he was not to pit in a appearance here ageen or he widna be dealt wi so leniently! So Gaun took the bear, but it’s no recoardit what way he came back to Shetlan, but he couldna harbour the bear in Fetlar among the fokk, an he got a piece o chaen fae some wey, an he took the bear an he band i the sooth end o Lingey, that’s the peerie isle ’at lies aff here i Gütcher. And the bear traivel’t roond aboot in a circle an tör up the aert’ and ultimately he die’t wi starvaesheen. An A’m been at . . . the circle whar the bear tör up – braa twa’r three year fae syne noo – an it’s a circle maybe aboot fifty to sixty yaird, maybe fully bigger as that in diameter, an it’s described as almost a perfect circle, and the grund hes the appearance as if it is been torn up wi some wild aanimal. But the circle is still there fir anyboady to see if they in any wise misdoot the stoary!

  94 John MacDonald

  THE EARL OF MAR A FUGITIVE