by Bob Curran
The laird attended his boy’s funeral and laid his head in the grave, but appeared exactly like a man walking in a trance, an automaton, without feelings or sensations, oftentimes gazing at the funeral procession, as on something he could not comprehend. And when the death-bell of the parish church fell a-tolling, as the corpse approached the kirk-stile, he cast a dim eye up towards the belfry and said hastily, “What, what’s that? Och ay, we’re just in time, just in time”. And often was he hammering over the name of “Evil Merodach, King of Babylon” to himself. [Editor’s Note: This is probably a reference to the Persian monarch, Amel-Marduk, a son and successor of Nebuchadnezzer II, who ruled Babylonia from 562 to 560 B.C. He is also referred to, amongst other sources, in the biblical Books of 2nd Kings and Jeremiah where his name is translated, in the King James version, as “Evil-Merodach.”] He seemed to have some far-fetched conception that his unaccountable jotteryman had a hand in the death of his only son, and other lesser calamities, although the evidence in favour of Merodach’s innocence was as usual quite decisive.
The grievous mistake of Lady Wheelhope (for every landward laird’s wife was then styled Lady) can only be accounted for, by supposing her in a state of derangement, or rather under some evil influence over which she had no control, and to a person in such a state, the mistake was not so very unnatural. The mansion-house of Wheelhope was old and irregular. The stair had four acute turns, all the same, and four landing-places, all the same. In the uppermost chamber slept the two domestics—Merodach, in the bed farthest in, and in the chamber immediately below that, which was exactly similar, slept the young laird and his tutor, the former in the bed furthest in, and this, in the turmoil of raging passions, her own hand made herself childless.
Merodach was expelled from the family forthwith, but refused to accept any of his wages, which the man of law pressed upon him, for fear of further mischief, but he went away in apparent sullenness and discontent, no-one knowing whither.
When his dismissal was announced to the lady, who was watched day and night in her chamber, the news had such an effect on her, that her whole frame seemed electrified; the horrors of remorse vanished, and another passion, which I can neither comprehend nor define, took sole possession of her distempered spirit. “He must not go!...... He shall not go!” she exclaimed. “No, no, no—he shall not—he shall not—he shall not!” and she instantly set herself about making ready to follow him, uttering all the while, the most diabolical expressions, indicative of anticipated vengeance—”Oh, could I but snap his nerves one by one, and birl (spin) among his vitals! Could I but slice his heart off piecemeal in small messes and see his blood lopper and bubble, and spin away in purple slays, and then see him grin, and grin, and grin! Oh-oh-oh How grand and beautiful a sight it would be to see him grin, and grin, and grin!” And in such a style she would run on for hours together.
She thought of nothing, she spoke of nothing, but the discarded jotteryman, whom most people now began to regard as a creature that was not canny (natural or human). They had seen him eat, and drink, and work like other people; still he had that about him that was not like other men. He was a boy in form, and an antediluvian in feature. Some thought he was a mule, between a Jew and an ape, some a wizard, some a kelpie, or a fairy, but most of all that he was really and truly a Brownie. What he was, I do not know, and therefore will not pretend to say, but be that as it may, in spite of locks and keys, watching and waking, the Lady of Wheelhope soon made her escape and eloped after him. The attendants indeed would have made oath that she was carried away by some invisible hand, for that it was impossible that she could have escaped on foot like other people; and this edition of the story took in the country, but sensible people viewed the matter in another light.
As, for instance, when Wattie Blythe, the laird’s old shepherd came in from the hill one morning, his wife Bessie, accosted him thus:—”His presence be about us Wattie Blythe! Have ye heard what has happened at the ha’? Things are aye turnin’ waur an’ waur there, and it looks like as if Providence had gi’en up our laird’s house to destruction. This grand estate maun now gang frae the Sprots, for it has finished them.”
“Na, na Bessie, it isna the estate that has finished the Sprots but the Sprots that hae finished it, an’ themsells into the boot. They hae been a wicked and degenerate race an’ aye the langer the waur, till they reached the utmost bounds o’ earthly wickedness an’ it’s time the de’il were looking after his ain.”
“Ah Wattie Blythe, ye never said a truer say. An’ that’s just the very point where your story ends and mine commences; for hanna the deil, or the fairies, or the brownies, ta’en our lady away bodily, an’ the haill country is running an’ riding in search o’ her and there is twenty hunder merks offered to the first that can find her an’ bring her safe back. They hae ta’en her away, skin an’ bane, body an’ soul an’ a’ Wattie!”
“Hech-wow! but that is awesome! And where is thought they have ta’en her to Bessie?”
“O, they hae some guess at that frae her ain hints afore. It is thought they hae carried her after that Satan of a creature. Wha wrought sae muckle wae about the house. It is for him they are a’ looking, for they ken weel that where they get the tane they will get the tither.”
“Whew! Is that the gate o’t Bessie? Why then, the awfu’ story is nouther mair nor less than this, that the leddy made a lopement (elopement), as they ca’t and run away after a blackguard jotteryman. Hech-wow! wae’s me fro human frailty! But that’s just the gate! When aince the deil gets in the point o’ his finger, he will soon have in his haill hand. Ay, he wants but a hair to make a tether of, ony day. I hae seen her, a braw sonsy lass, but even then I feared she was devoted to destruction, for she aye mockit at religion. Bessie, an’ that’s no a good mark of a young body. An’ she made a’ its servants her enemies; an’ think you those good men’s prayers were a’ to blaw away i’ the wind, and be nae mair regarded? Na, na Bessie, my woman, take ye this mark baith o’ our ain bairns and aither folks—If ever ye see a young body that disregards the Sabbath, and makes a mock at the ordinances o’ religion, ye will never see that body come to muckle good. A braw hand she has made o’ her gibes an’ jeers at religion, an’ her mockeries o’ the poor persecuted hill-folk!—sunk down by degrees into the very dregs o’ sin and misery! run away after a scullion!”
“Fy, fy Wattie, how can ye say sae? It was well kenned that she hatit him wi’ a perfect an’ mortal hatred an’ tried to make away wi’ him mair ways nor ane.”
“Aha Bessie; but nipping and scarting are Scots folk’s wooing; an’ though it is but right that we suspend our judgements, there will naebody persuade me, if she be found alang wi’ the creature, but that she has run away after him in the natural way, on her twa shanks, without help either frae fairy or brownie.”
“I’ll never believe sic a thing of any woman born, let be a lady weel up in years.”
“Od help ye Bessie! ye dinna ken the stretch o’ corrupt nature. The best o’ us when left to oursel’s are nae better than strayed sheep, that will never find their way back to their ain pastures, an’ of a’ things made o’ mortal flesh, a wicked woman is the warst.”
“Alack a-day! we get the blame o’ muckle that we little deserve. But, Wattie, keep a gayan sharp look-out about the cleuchs [Editor’s Note: ravines] and caves o’ our glen, or hope, as ye ca’t, for the lady kens them a’ gayan weel, an’ gin the twenty hunder merks wad come our way, it might gang a waur gate. It wad tocher o’ our bonny lasses.”
“Ay, weel I wat, Bessie, that’s nae lee. And now, when ye bring me amind, o’t the L—forgie me gin, I didna hear a creature up in the Brock-holes [Editor’s Note: badger-holes] this morning, skirling [Editor’s Note: screaming] as if something war cutting its throat. It gars a’ the hairs stand on my head when I think it may hae been our leddy, an’ the droich [Editor’s Note: wretch] of a creature murdering her. I took it for a battle of wulcats [Editor’s Note: wildcats] an’ wished they might pu
’ out one another’s thrapples [Editor’s Note: throats], but when I think on it again they were unco’ like some o’ our leddy’s unearthly screams.”
“His presence be about us Wattie! Haste ye. Pit on your bonnet—take your staff in your hand, and gang an’ see what it is.”
“Shame fa’ me, if I daur gang Bessie.”
“Hout, Wattie, trust in the Lord.”
“Aweel sae I do. But ane’s no to throw himself ower a linn, an’ trust that the Lord’s to keep him in a blanket, nor hing himsell up in a raip, an’ expect the Lord to come and cut him down. And it’s nae muckle safer for an auld stiff man to gang away out to a remote wild place, where there is ae body murdering another—What is that I hear Bessie? Haud the long tongue o’ you and rin to the door, an’ see what noise that is.”
Bessie ran to the door, but soon returned an altered creature, with her mouth wide open, and her eyes set in her head.
“It is them, Wattie! it is them! His presence be about us! What will we do!”
“Them? Whaten them?”
“Why, that blackguard creature, coming here, leading our leddy be the hair o’ her head, an’ yerking her wi’ a stick. I am terrified out o’ my wits. What will we do?”
“We’ll see what they say” said Wattie, manifestly in as great a terror as his wife, and by a natural impulse or a last resource, he opened the Bible, not knowing what he did, and then hurried on his spectacles; but before he got two leaves turned over, the two entered, a frightful-looking couple indeed. Merodach, with his old, withered face, and ferret eyes, leading the Lady of Wheelhope by the long hair which was mixed with grey, and whose face was all bloated with wounds and bruises and having stripes of blood on her garments.
“How’s this!—How’s this, sirs,” said Wattie Blythe.
“Close the book and I will tell you goodman,” said Merodach.
“I can hear what you hae to say wi’ the book open sir,” said Wattie, turning over the leaves as if looking for some particular passage, but apparently not knowing what he was doing. “It is a shamefu’ business this, but some will hae to answer for’t. My leddy I am unco grieved to see you in sic a plight. Ye hae surely been dooms sair left to yoursell.”
The lady shook her head, uttered a feeble, hollow laugh, and fixed her eyes on Merodach. But such a look! It almost frightened the simple, aged couple out of their senses. It was not a look of love, nor of hatred exclusively, neither was it desire or disgust, but it was a combination of them all. It was such a look as one fiend would cast on another, in whose everlasting destruction he rejoiced. Wattie was glad to take his eyes from such countenances and look into the Bible, that firm foundation of all his hopes, and all his joy.
“I request that you will shut that book sir,” said the horrible creature, “or if you do not, I will shut it for you with a vengeance” and with that he seized it, and flung it against the wall. Bessie uttered a scream and Wattiie was quite paralysed; and although he seemed disposed to run after his best friend, as he called it, the hellish looks of the Brownie interposed and glued him to his seat.
“Hear what I have to say first”, said the creature, “and then pore your fill on that precious book of yours. One concern at a time is enough. I came to do you a service. Here, take this cursed, wretched woman, whom you style your lady, and deliver her up to the lawful authorities, to be restored to her husband and her place in society. She is come upon one that hates her, and never said one kind word to her in her life, and though I have beat her like a dog, still she clings to me, and will not depart, so enchanted is she with the laudable purpose of cutting my throat. Tell your master, and her brother, that I am not to be burdened with their maniac. I have scourged, I have spurned and kicked her, afflicting her night and day, and yet from my side she will not depart. Take her. Claim the reward in full, and your fortune is made, and so farewell.”
The creature bowed and went away, but the moment his back was turned, the lady fell a-screaming and struggling like one in an agony, and, in spite of all the old couple’s exertions, she forced herself out of their hands and ran after the retreating Merodach. When he saw better would not be, he turned upon her, and. By one blow with his stick, struck her down, and, not content with that, he continued to kick and baste her in such a manner as to all appearances would have killed twenty ordinary persons. The poor devoted dame could do nothing, but now and then utter a squeak like a half-worried cat, and writhe and grovel on the sward until Wattie and his wife came up and withheld her tormentor from further violence. He then bound her hands behind her back with a strong cord, and delivered her once more into the charge of the old couple, who contrived to hold her by that means and take her home.
Wattie had not the face to take her into the hall, but into one of the outhouses, where he brought her brother to receive her. The man of law was manifestly vexed at her reappearance, and scrupled not to testify his dissatisfaction, for when Wattie told him how the wretch had abused his sister and that, had it not been for Bessie’s interference and his own, the lady would have been killed outright.
“Why, Walter, it is a great pity that he did not kill her outright”, said he, “What good can her life now do to her, or of what value is her life to any creature living? After one has lived to disgrace all connected with them, the sooner they are taken off, the better.”
The man, however, paid old Walter down his two thousand merks, a great fortune for one like him in those days, and not to dwell longer on this unnatural story, I shall only add, very shortly, that the Lady of Wheelhope soon made her escape once more and flew, as by an irresistible charm to her tormentor. Her friends looked no more after her, and the last time that she was seen alive, it was following the uncouth creature up the water of Daur, weary, wounded and lame, while he was all the way beating he, as a piece of excellent amusement. A few days after that, her body was found among some wild haggs, in a place called Crook-burn, by a party of persecuted Covenanters that were in hiding there, some of the very men whom she had exerted herself to destroy, and who had been driven, like David of old, to pray for a curse and earthly punishment upon her. They buried her like a dog at the Yetts of Keppel, and rolled three huge stone upon the grave, which are lying there to this day. When they found her corpse, it was mangled and wounded in a most shocking manner, the fiendish creature having manifestly tormented her to death. He was never more seen or heard of, in this kingdom, though all the countryside was kept in terror for him many years afterwards; and to this day they will tell you of The Brownie of the Black Haggs, which title he seems to have acquired after his disappearance.
This story was told to me by an old man, named Adam Halliday, whose great grandfather, Thomas Halliday, was one of those that found the corpse and buried it. It is many years since I heard it; but, however ridiculous it might appear, I remember it made a dreadful impression on my young mind. I never heard any story like it, save one of an old foxhound that pursued a fox through the Grampians for a fortnight, and when at last discovered by the Duke of Athole’s people, neither of them could run, but the hound was still continuing to walk after the fox, and when the latter lay down beside him, and looked at him steadfastly all the while, though unable to do him the least harm. The passion of inveterate malice seems to have influenced these two exactly alike. But, upon the whole, I scarcely believe the tale can be true.
Thrawn Janet
For the Celts, the dead were never far away. They watched the affairs of the living from their place in the Otherworld, always ready to intervene in the lives of their descendants or in the communities that they’d left. Nowadays, when we speak of ghosts we imagine ethereal creatures, phantom knights and monks who are almost transparent in form, walking about with their heads tucked under their arms or drifting through some forgotten graveyard as mist does. This was certainly not the Celtic idea of the dead. If they returned to the world of the living, the dead were extremely substantial, just as they had been in life. They could eat and drink and even carry on a conve
rsation if need be. And they were the phantoms of friends and neighbors, those who were well known to those who saw them. They were, in Ireland and in some parts of Scotland, the “marbh bheo,” the nightwalking dead, substantial and solid “ghosts” who could sometimes do harm.
In the matter of the marbh bheo, the Church found itself in a strange position: it couldn’t condone a widespread belief in such phantoms, but it couldn’t deny them either, because they were proof of the Afterlife that was to come. So it taught that these ghosts were malignant and evil, only wishing to do Mankind ill. They were the agents of the Devil. Nowhere was this belief more firmly held than in Scotland.
Celebrated Edinburgh writer Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894), author of such literary classics as Treasure Island, Kidnapped, and The Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde, well knew many of these traditions. He may have learned of them at the knee of his beloved nurse, Alison Cunningham, or “Cummy,” who told him terrible tales of the Covenanters (strict Scottish Presbyterians) and of the Devil raising the dead to walk about at night in the fashion of the marbh bheo. This rather obscure tale of ghosts and witchcraft, “Thrawn Janet” (“thrawn” meaning “twisted”) is thought to have been written around the same time as Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde and reflects the tangible and malignant Celtic ghostly presence, lurking in the shadows just beyond the wan glow of the lamp.
