Sookin' Berries Page 11

  Far up on her ledge over the brink of the Cauldron, she whispered in desperation, ‘Oh voice, I beg you to call to me for the last time.’

  This time her broken spirit did hear a beautiful sound came from far below. It was not the bellow of the great Rolla cascade or the voice of Sandy MacNab, but a gentle, sweet and melodious singer. ‘Sweet Marion, come and heal up the wounds of your broken spirit. Let us free your mind. Come and dance with us upon carpets of bluebell and soft-blown fern. Be our friend. We can take away the pain that the humans have so hurtfully burdened you with. Dear Marion, what harm have you ever caused anyone? Jump now, pretty lass!’

  ‘I hear you! Yes, I’m not imagining it – you really speak to me.’ She leaned over the brink of the chasm, searching the swirling waters below for the face of one of her little friends. ‘The fires of Comrie are burning bright, but I know brighter lights wait for me in your palaces. Take me to your home, where there are no consuming fires, no cruel fathers, no murdered lovers, and no more unhappy days.’ Saying these words she flung herself into the boiling cauldron.

  Next day, all who knew Marion wept openly at the news of her suicide that was reported to them.

  However, on the day before the sale of John’s house and all his possessions, a commotion was heard in Comrie, greater than had ever been experienced before in the memory of that part of Strathearn. Everybody came out on the street apart from the infirm and elderly, and those indoors hung from windows with necks extended like swans. In the midst of the crowd stood none other than Walter Comrie himself, with Marion leaning on his arm, and alongside them was Sandy MacNab waving a paper above his head.

  As soon as the crowd could be persuaded to quieten down for a moment, Sandy read from the paper as follows: ‘This here is a pardon from the Government. It says: “A person of the name Walter Comrie of Sherrifbrae, in the county of Lanark, who took part in the late rebellion, having been outlawed, a price was set on his head by a proclamation which contained an erroneous designation of the said Walter Comrie, having described him as an inhabitant of Comrie in Perthshire, where another person of the same name resided. Whereby the said man residing in Comrie suffered great hurt and prejudice. Therefore it is necessary to rectify the error, and to free Walter Comrie of Comrie from further disturbance.” The wrong Walter Comrie was condemned, but now our Walter Comrie is a free man once again and can reclaim his property!”

  When this was read, everyone embraced and kissed the two favourites, who had, as it were, come back from the grave. This joy however soon turned to shame and sorrow at the terrible way their neighbour John had been treated. ‘Go to Perth and have him freed,’ was the order given to two strong young men.

  In no time John was entering his home village in a fine coach drawn by three good horses.

  That night every prominent citizen in Comrie shared a feast in John’s house, and while they were eating dinner it was apparent many had questions that needed to be answered. Mr Moodie, an old friend, was the first to ask, ‘What happened? What caused the mischief, the error, the confusion? And was Walter secreted all the time in caves at the Devil’s Cauldron?”

  John replied that when they read the proclamation condemning Walter it was decided to hide him. Sandy and he brought him food every day. They had decided against telling Marion, she being such an eccentric lass, who might have given the game away without meaning to.

  A Reverend Brown spoke next. ‘But how did the story of the murder arise, and more, why did Sandy carry a head to Perth saying it was Walter’s?’

  ‘Och well,’ said Sandy, ‘that’s plain enough. We were afraid to be seen taking meat to Walter, and thought it a better idea to give him a supply that would last him for a while. So I hunted down a young deer and left it for Walter to feed on, not knowing when John and I were wrestling with it that there were people listening to us. I wanted to take its head off to present to a gentleman trophy hunter – they’re always looking for them to hang on their fine walls.’

  ‘But what of the human head, Sandy,’ asked Mrs Mactavish, a fine upstanding widow-woman of the community, ‘the one you took to the Provost?’

  ‘Well, I knew that a soldier from Glen Artney who had no relatives had died of a bad wound. So after his funeral, I waited until night before digging down into his grave and cutting off his head.’

  ‘Oh my, that was a terrible thing to do – the poor soul!’ Mrs Mactavish covered her face with a handkerchief and sniffled loudly.

  Sandy smiled broadly and said, ‘Missus, he was a hardy follower of the Stuarts. He’d have given his consent if he could, and I rest easy in my bed knowing that the dead soldier is not wandering around heaven seeking his head. I’m certain he’s been to Perth and been rejoined with it.’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ replied Mr Moody, ‘But how was Marion saved?’

  For the first time Walter spoke. ‘I was in the cave when Marion leapt. Her shriek terrified me. I knew the pool, having spent so long in its vicinity. I had thrown things into it and watched where they rose, every one of its eddies was known to me. When she hit the water, I knew exactly where she’d come up before she was dragged under for the last time. I succeeded in getting her onto the bank. I then took my love to the warm cave where I was hidden, and she remained there until the day that blessed proclamation was issued.’

  Thus was everything explained. After the dinner a grand dance was held, in which all the citizens of Comrie took part. The festivities were enjoyed well into the next day.

  Walter and Marion duly wed. She became a mother, and it was noticed that she never wandered up onto the banks of the Lednick to stare down into the Cauldron. Her belief in brownies remained firm, however, and although her husband and their children never shared those beliefs, there was something she knew which confirmed her conviction that they were there. It couldn’t have been Walter who sang so sweetly and clearly on that last day when she decided to drown all her sorrows in the Devil’s Cauldron – because he couldn’t sing a single note!

  12

  A GOOD DOGGY

  Here’s a story about our faithful friend – the dog.

  I was having a conversation one day recently in a coffee shop. My feet had had enough trekking in and out of shops with bargain displays in their windows. My companion, while hungrily munching a blueberry muffin, asked me if I believed in guardian angels.

  ‘Of course I do,’ I answered, ‘don’t you?’

  ‘It’s just that my mum phoned yesterday,’ she said, taking another bite from her muffin, ‘and she told me this story...’

  ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ I said, glancing at her fast disappearing cake. She apologised, and when the muffin was consumed, told me this tale.

  It was in the park, where mums with babies and toddlers met mid-morning, that the big ugly dog suddenly appeared. He didn’t bound around or attack other dogs, he just sat moving his head from side to side and sniffing the air. Mums kept their little ones close at hand, because this large animal had no master or walker. He was, to everyone’s annoyance, a shaggy stray.

  ‘What an ugly mutt that is – he should have been drowned at birth! Look at his big slavery, dripping jaws – and those eyes, have you ever seen such droopy eyelids like that on a dog? What a sight. I, for one, will not let my boys near him.’ The ever-vigilant mother lifted a stick and aimed it at the dog, shouting, ‘Get out of this park, you ugly brute!’

  Her companion, a little stout lady with a round face, agreed wholeheartedly. ‘Where did it come from? I’d bet my last penny that it’s escaped from the dog pound. Those kennels are never locked properly, and that warden – well, he’s seldom sober.’

  They both chatted, and as the morning lengthened were joined by some other mothers out with their toddlers. Each shared stories of the progress of their children, either in running, walking and talking, or in the tender way they looked at Daddy. Some mothers were smiling from ear to ear because their little Johnnie had just mumbled ‘Mama’. Apart from gossiping about no
thing in particular, all the rest of the chit-chat was about the children.

  All the time, from the shelter of a large evergreen bush, the dog sat silently watching the gathering of mothers and their children grow as the morning went on. It seemed to be watchful about something, but no one had any idea why such a creature had appeared in their peaceful park, or what it wanted. One thing for sure, it wasn’t welcome.

  Every now and then the dog looked left, fixed its head in that direction and stared for ages before changing over to the right. It was obvious it had at one time belonged to someone, but not now. For starters, its coat was too scruffy and it didn’t have a collar; every dog owner fitted a collar.

  One thing for sure, the mothers were not happy about the new addition to the park.

  ‘I feel it only right we should report that mutt to the dog warden. He will have to take it away. It scares me and I can’t let Freddie play on the swings in case it takes a mad turn and attacks him,’ said a tall mum, slipping off her high heeled shoes and playing with her little boy on the soft green grass which had recently been cut short. ‘And another thing, what if it does a poopsy on the grass? Dog poo is full of germs. Our children will catch a disease, we really have to get rid of it.’

  The rest of the mums agreed, and while two set off to inform the warden at the nearby kennels, the rest kept a wary eye on the motionless hound.

  ‘Do you know, I think it might be lost,’ said a young mum, who had a new baby in a green pram with big shiny wheels. She went on, ‘Why don’t we see if it is friendly? Perhaps there’s a poor old gent waiting for it somewhere.’ She pulled the pram brake on and sat down beside another mum on a wooden bench. As she rocked her tiny infant to sleep, she went on, ‘Maybe it’s the police we should inform. The dog warden will lock the animal up, and if no one claims it he’ll have put it down.’

  ‘Every now and again we get a stray wandering through,’ said the other mum on the bench. ‘God knows where it’s from and what it’s been eating, rats probably. I’m usually fond of animals, but not big ugly brutes like that. And another thing –’ She was obviously not the kind of person who tolerates dogs, full stop, because she went further and said, ‘My husband has an old gun, he used to go shooting when he was young. It’s still in the cellar. He’ll shoot the dog himself if it doesn’t go away. Shoo, away, you brute!’

  She stood up, flapping her arms wildly. This woke up the new-born child, whose mother abruptly told her friend to sit down, she was frightening the ducks.

  In a short while the two mums who had gone to the kennels came back, saying that the warden was sober for once, and would be along shortly to catch the beast and take it away. ‘This place hasn’t been the same since that ugly dog arrived,’ said one, looking over at the bushes, where the dog remained, still and silent.

  Rocking her baby back and forth, the mother with the new born child said, ‘It’s only just come, and as I said earlier it might belong to an elderly person. They could be frantically searching all over for it. I think you are all becoming too hysterical about the dog.’

  Just then an engine could be heard revving through the park. All eyes turned to see what it was. Along came a white van with ‘Dog Patrol’ printed on the side.

  ‘Thank goodness, now we’ll get rid of the beast and enjoy our visit,’ said one mum with a sigh of relief. As the van approached, the dog warden called from a half-opened window to the group of mums crowding together, ‘Where’s the stray?’

  They all pointed and shouted, but the animal didn’t seem at all bothered by the noise or the warden, so it was obvious it hadn’t been a stray from the kennels. ‘Right you,’ the man said, ‘let’s be having you.’

  To frighten and alarm any other wandering strays, the warden revved his engine noisily. The van gave a roar, lunged forward, and then, to everyone’s utter horror, it gathered speed, heading straight for the pram with the new baby. The child’s mother had been talking to a friend, and had moved away from the pram momentarily.

  ‘Help!’ she screamed, ‘my baby, my baby!’

  There was no way the out of control vehicle could be halted – the baby faced certain death. But the instant before the van collided with the peacefully sleeping child, the big ugly dog leapt through the terrified crowd and knocked the pram out of the vehicle’s way. With no care for its own safety, the shaggy animal protected the tiny infant with its body.

  The van, with the drunken warden at the wheel, careered down an embankment and landed in the pond, scattering ducks and swans, in a cloud of feathers, skywards. Several agile policemen wasted no time in pulling the driver from the crashed vehicle and breathalysing him before carting him off. No doubt he’d be facing the future without a job or driving licence after that escapade.

  When the commotion had quietened down and statements been taken from all the witnesses, everyone was praising the hero of the day. They wanted to pat and hug the big dog, their fear and disgust now gone. But much to their disappointment, there was no sign of the dog – when the mother took her baby in her arms, it had simply disappeared. The other mothers and the police searched everywhere, but not knowing the dog’s name, they couldn’t call for it.

  Next day, before anyone else was in the park, a very grateful mum came back with a bag of tasty doggy bites to say her own special thank you, but the big dog was nowhere to be seen, nor did anyone ever set eyes on it again.

  Was the strange dog without an owner a guardian angel, waiting there to protect the baby? Or had it just taken fright and run off? Why was it there in the first place? All these questions remained unanswered, and it is likely that is how they will remain.

  I have a feeling a certain baby will grow up being told the story of what happened on the day a strange dog suddenly arrived in the park.

  13

  THE DEVIL’S HELPER

  Here’s another story from the Chapman’s book.

  Two hundred years ago, there lived a farmer by the name of Rab Allan in the Monklands district near the town of Airdrie. His farm had a reputation like no other. It was known for hundreds of miles around that he employed a woman named Maggie Ramsay, who could gather, stack and build haystacks faster than anyone else.

  So good was she at her job that Rab began to take bets on her. He’d have competitions in haystacking to see who could finish the job first. Lots of harvesters from Stirling, Perthshire and the Borders, who thought of themselves as champions at gathering time, crowded onto his land near the Auld Burn to lay bets. But no matter how good they believed they were, Maggie always cut, stacked and finished her hay faster than anyone else.

  News spread all the way to the Highlands; to a place where left-handed Sandy lived. Word reached his ears that, in Monklands, a woman wore the reaper’s crown. Up until then, Sandy thought he could not be beaten. He was the very elite of the Highland haystackers. He had to meet and challenge this person.

  Now Sandy possessed another gift; he had the second sight. If there happened to be any form of cheating in the competition, then he’d know about it.

  He spread word among the crofters that he’d heard about this Maggie Ramsay, and was heading south to meet up at her farm and challenge her. Did anyone wish to accompany him? Well, in an hour he was standing on the road facing south, with over a hundred fellow crofters by his side, all eager to see the contest and maybe to get a wee bet at the same time.

  It took near a week to reach Rab Allan’s farm, but after a night’s sleep and some belly-filling porridge, Sandy was ready for the fight. His scythe, sharpened like a razor, was ready in his hand.

  ‘Come now, Rab, and bring forth your champion. I have money to bet – aye, and so have these hardy lads who have come with me.’

  When Rab saw how much money was being flashed about, his heart leapt with glee. ‘Maggie, come and meet your opposition,’ he called out.

  It was the half-moon shaped blade that appeared first, held tightly by a small hand. But, oh dear, where was the big giant of a woman everyone imagined
Maggie to be? Here was a skinny wee thing of maybe five feet tall, with small feet and not a muscle to be seen. If anything, Maggie looked undernourished.

  ‘What kind of a trick is this you’re playing, Rab Allan?’ asked Sandy, adding, ‘Is there half a dozen Maggies hiding in the corn?’

  ‘No, Sandy, this is my lassie, and if you have any doubt as to her capability, then feel free to start work at the same spot as she does.’

  ‘That’s a good idea, because I want to watch this woman work.’ He slowly paced around, eyeing her from head to toe. If she’d a cheating way of working, he’d sense it.

  In due time both opponents stood in the middle of the field. She’d work to the right, he to the left. It was eight o clock in the morning. Rab held a greyish rag in the air and waved it. ‘Begin,’ he commanded.

  A huge sigh went up as Maggie, head down, began her expert work. Sandy threw himself into his. Down the field she went, swishing and cutting; Sandy sliced through his part of the field. Up and down they went, on and on.

  After several hard hours’ graft, Sandy straightened his back and took a breather. He felt confident. Then his eyes near popped from their sockets when he saw that not only had Maggie cut twice as much as he had, but she had stacked it as well. His friends, who had begun the contest shouting in support and cheering him on to win, were strangely silent. Like Sandy they were in awe at Maggie’s speed. Her feet didn’t seem to touch the ground.

  Sandy suddenly felt that all was not as it should be. He closed his eyes and silently called up the spirit of his ancestors, who arrived in the form of a light breeze. It blew gently among the remaining corn in the field. He stooped down, and far off on the far side of the field he saw the moving feet of Maggie as she rushed up and down. But as he looked closer, with the aid of second sight, something caught his eye. Maggie didn’t have feet at all, what he saw was two hooves, the feet of a goat!