Sookin' Berries Read online

  Then the rooms began to shake. Flames shot forth from the fire to curl and slither up the wall. The fireplace was glowing like a furnace. Then the master of all terror, of all horror, and in the most grotesque form, the Devil himself, shot out and held the King by the throat. ‘You will bring me and mine food – living, screaming, kicking food! Do you hear me, mortal?’

  The quivering King nodded his head vigorously. The Devil, as suddenly as he had come, was gone, leaving a cold fireplace and a wreck of a king.

  ‘So now you see where the townsfolk have gone,’ the old man concluded.

  Davie thought long and hard before saying that he might be able to help. He asked to see the King. After climbing several flights of winding stairs, the pair were ushered in to sit before a bent-backed and sad-faced man. He was not old, yet he had the appearance of one who had lived a dreadful existence.

  ‘I have a young man here who thinks he may be of assistance, your eminence, sire,’ said Davie’s companion, with a note of despair in his croaky voice. The king hardly lifted his head to look at Davie, but bade him to sit anyway.

  Davie told him that he too had a powerful magic, one not to be used for greed or evil but only for deeds of goodness.

  ‘Take him away to do what he wishes,’ said the King to his faithful old servant, though neither of them had the slightest belief in the help offered by Davie, or anyone else for that matter.

  Davie was taken into the royal chambers, and soon had the fire kindled, spreading a warming yet menacing heat throughout the room. He didn’t have long to wait before the tiny man he had heard of came flickering over the flames.

  ‘Have you food for my master?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ answered Davie.

  ‘Then give it here,’ squealed the demon.

  Davie shook his head several times before saying he had to see the Ancient One first. The last word had no sooner left his mouth when the ruler of demons whooshed up from the fire and hovered in the room like a tower of solid flame. Davie felt his toes curl inside his boots and his tongue swell with fear.

  ‘Where is my meal?’ roared the earth-shattering one. ‘I need to be fed!’

  ‘Sire, I have a meal better than any living, scrawny person – would you like to taste it?’ Before the Devil could do to him what he’d done to all the other mortals, Davie spread his sack on the floor, peered inside and summoned it to produce its best. It did not disappoint: the whole room began to fill with every possible edible morsel.

  ‘Come, eat, fill yourselves up,’ the Devil called to the demons, who were pushing and shoving to be able to feast upon Davie’s gifts. The Devil was the first to gorge himself, spewing and slavering his way through fruits, beef stews, fishes and fry ups, until not a single crumb was left.

  The Ancient One liked these new delights, and ordered Davie to be there again the next night. Davie came again as he was told, and the next night also. After a week, when he was certain he’d gained the trust of the king of the demons, he set about his plan.

  ‘Keep all the doors open leading from the chambers and down the stairs, and also open the castle gate,’ he told the old guard. ‘This night we will see the end of the Ancient One and his family of gargoyles. Trust me, old man.’

  That evening, as usual, when the fire was lit those wicked vipers from the pits of Hell came forth to feast. With drooling, slavery lips they waited impatiently, scratching at Davie and then at the sack. The Devil ordered Davie to produce food, or else they’d eat him instead.

  ‘Now, listen here, you lot,’ said the bold hero, ‘why do you wait night after night for a feasting, when you can enjoy the pleasures of the sack all the time?’

  ‘Well, tell us more, then, Davie boy, please come closer and tell us more.’ The Devil pushed aside his family of ghouls in anticipation, curling long fiendish fingers round Davie’s neck.

  ‘It’s easy, my lord of the underworld – jump inside!’ The drooling band gathered in a tight circle and peered inside the sack. ‘I see nothing,’ said one. ‘Nor I,’ hissed another.

  ‘Of course you can’t see anything, because you must all jump deep inside. Only then can the sack work its magic.’

  Davie felt the Devil’s bony fingers loosen their grasp as he bent down to sniff and peer into the blackness of the sack. His followers, waiting for his orders, gathered round.

  ‘Let’s try this, my wiry little worshippers,’ the Devil cried, then leapt into the sack. In an instant the rest of his band did the same. Davie waited until the last cloven foot had disappeared from view before whipping a strong length of rope around the opening.

  ‘Look out,’ he screamed, ‘I’m coming through, I’ve got the Devil on my back!’

  Out of the room and down the stairs he darted, with the bag of Hell on his back. Out through the main door, out through the courtyard, out through the castle gate, on to the street he ran and ran, with all the demons of hell scraping and screaming on his shoulders. The King, who had heard the commotion, was standing on his castle wall shouting from the high turrets, ‘Haste on, Davie, haste on my man, you’ll do it!’ His old guard was leaping and dancing in the air, cloth hat whirling above his head.

  Davie went round the bend in the cobbled street, and with one last dash began emptying Hell’s cargo down into the town well. Down, down, they went, tumbling and rolling and screeching, never to escape the blessed water of the well again.

  Davie had used his sack as was asked of him by the old sick lady – ‘Never ask for anything out of greed, only need!’ Well, folks, if ever a sack was used for need, then it certainly was this one.

  Before long, word spread that the Devil was defeated, and soon the townsfolk came from where they had been hiding back to their houses. The King began to do his duty, and soon found a worthier Queen than the last one. And as for brave Davie, well, one day while washing at a quiet river, he met and was reunited with his family and never needed to ask his magic sack for anything again. He kept it safe, however, just in case.

  18

  I CAN FLY

  It has been great fun recording the old stories for you, and I hope we do it again in another book soon. To finish off I want to share a few real-life stories from my past as a traveller. Remember at the beginning of the book I told you about my life on the road in a big blue bus? Well, come on back to those old days, take the journey with me.

  This is what I did at the tender age of six...

  It was a beautiful warm summer, and we had met up with some relatives in Crieff, Perthshire. Our campsite, on the low Comrie road, was at one time a Prisoner of War camp. During World War Two there were four very large POW camps in Scotland. When the war ended, some prisoners from Germany and Italy liked Scotland so much they stayed on and spent the rest of their lives there.

  As the camp was built by the Army to accommodate hundreds of prisoners, it meant there were toilets already there, or lavvies as we called them (I shall bring these into the story soon), and a supply of fresh water. There were solid concrete bases to keep our bus home on, and this meant Mum didn’t have muddy welly boots dirtying her carpets, another bonus.

  In the year I write about, several families joined ours, and for a long summer we played at ghosties and hide and seek in the thick yellow broom, which grew in abundance along the river Earn’s banks and up to the doors of our mobile homes. We enjoyed cutting branches of broom and making brushes. Our parents allowed us to sell our home-made brushes to neighbouring farmers. When we had sold enough to give our mums money to help pay for school uniforms, we spent the rest of our earnings on sweets and ice-cream when we went to the Saturday movie matinees.

  So there we were queuing up along with lots of Crieff kids waiting for the Ritz picture house to open. Crushing through the doors and rushing inside to see our favourite weekly serial added to the excitement of the day.

  This particular Saturday, the serial was just the most brilliant story of a flying gent called Batman. When I sat down on the big cloth seats in fr
ont of the massive screen, bag of sweeties firmly grasped in my tiny hand, I wanted time to stand still. No one could tell me that there weren’t a hundred musicians hidden behind that screen playing their very hearts out as Batman flew from the highest skyscrapers. I was transported.

  Afterwards I couldn’t even remember walking home the two miles from the Ritz, down the High Street, along King Street and past the Gallows Hill, where only a hundred years ago, real life outlaws hung by the neck until dead. Nothing distracted me from my imaginary life in the clouds with the greatest hero of all time, Batman.

  After the film I could hardly think of anything else. ‘Mum, Dad, guess what?’

  ‘What?’ they both said, looking up from their newspapers.

  ‘If I was dropped from a great height, would I fly to safety?’

  ‘Away, lassie and don’t be stupid. If I’m not mistaken, wings are needed to do that.’

  ‘Batman does it!’ I screeched in reply. ‘He flies all over Gotham City.’

  Dad smiled, folded his newspaper and said, ‘There’s no such place, lass. Batman has kid-on wings made of Hollywood leather strapped to his back, the rest is done with camera tricks. Now be content with those legs of yours and be grateful they work. Wings are for birds. Off you go and play.’

  As I kicked at stones and twigs in my angry and dejected state, all I could think of was my hero, saving maidens from burning buildings, or catching baddies and throwing them in jail for robbing banks. No, Batman had real wings, how else would he be able to save the world? I would prove to my parents that, just like bats and birds, us humans can fly; nae bother!

  However, on terra firma I could only get to about three skips and two jumps – I had to get up on a high roof to start with, that would be the only way to use my wings. Oh, I couldn’t feel any sprouting under my shoulder-blades, but I was convinced that as my chin was launched into the wind they’d appear like magic and I’d soar upwards.

  Cousin Anna and other traveller kids were playing over by the lavvy, and as I ran to join them, something monumental loomed on my horizon – the lavvy roof. What a brilliant take-off point, a perfect sloping roof from where with a few swoops I’d be airborne.

  I called on cousin Anna and the others to starting building steps to the roof with a few boulders that were scattered around. In no time they had completed a fairly stable set of stone stairs.

  ‘Why do you need this?’ they asked. Promptly, and with much pride, I told them my plan. This started up a chorus of, ‘Silly fool, away and no be so daft. You’ll flatten the broom when you plummet to the ground – and wait till your mammy finds out!’

  Well, I informed them that nothing ever happens if clever folk don’t take the lead, or something like that, and proceeded to climb the steps. I later found out that I was ten feet from the ground. It felt good surveying the caravans and our bus roof, and for the first time I realised that rivers from a height look like giant snakes. Truth be told, I began to feel slightly sick and decided maybe humans couldn’t fly after all. Batman might have been scared too, but with that mask on you didn’t notice his face.

  I was about to abort the take-off, when suddenly, beneath me, a laddie who was doing his business on the toilet let out a loud resounding fart. It was the last thing I remember as off I flew from the roof.

  From then on it was a hectic dash from examination by a doctor to the emergency department of the hospital. I lay in Dad’s van cursing every inch of Batman, the invincible. Little did I realise at that point that my right leg was broken in five places.

  When I came to after the operation to reset my leg, I was tucked up in a white-sheeted hospital bed being waited on by pleasant ladies called nurses. There I stayed for six weeks. No more flying for me!

  19

  A NATURAL LOVE

  This is a lovely warming story of when my sister Janey discovered her natural love – horses.

  Early June in Oban was a favourite time and place for travellers, we loved it there. No surprise, then, to find us camped not far from her lovely beaches. Mum’s brother had settled there many years before, so whenever we found our road stopping in Oban, Mum visited our uncle Charlie and swapped family joys and tragedies.

  We had other reasons to enjoy that part of the west coast. The beaches had bonny pale sands, untouched by debris, seaweed or rocks. Bare feet were at home on the Oban seaside. If the weather was warm we’d play all day, catching the incoming tide in freshly dug pools to float paper boats in, or simply to bob up and down in ourselves, depending on how deep we had dug. Sandcastles became whole villages. Then, tiring of building, we’d swim in the Atlantic water until we resembled wrinkly prunes. We didn’t have a care in the world. Our childhood was filled with such heavenly places.

  That particular summer my sister Janey, who was five years older than me, found her natural love, one which was to stay with her for life.

  In a field near where we had camped was a beautiful stallion, a big horse about twenty hands high. Jet black like midnight without a moon, he was the bonniest beast she’d ever set eyes on in all her sixteen years. She loved horses. Daddy knew if there were any nearby then that’s where she would be. She had a way with them; she would whisper in their ears, and could make them do her bidding without any difficulty.

  After a few days she asked Dad who owned the horse. He knew that his daughter would ask him that question, so he’d found out earlier from a factor on the estate which bordered the field. The horse was a surprise birthday gift for the landowner’s daughter, who was due home soon from university.

  Dad warned her to forget about the horse. He didn’t want her upsetting any landowners or factors. Janey said she’d only look at the animal from the gate and not approach it. But as it turned out, she would find this impossible.

  That night it was hot and clammy. Janey found sleep difficult. She pulled on my pyjama collar, asking, ‘Are you sleeping?’ I told her I was, and she should do the same.

  ‘I have something to tell you,’ she whispered. I told her that if she didn’t shoosht, Mum and Dad would wake up and not be too pleased. She leaned over and whispered in my ear, ‘I can ride the horse. I was on it bareback today. But keep it secret.’

  ‘Dad will go crazy if he finds out,’ I told her. ‘Leave the beast alone, it’s not yours and never will be. Anyway, he’s a stallion and you know how unpredictable they can be. He will love you one minute, kick you to death the next,’

  ‘He’s a big cuddly teddy bear, and he loves me to bits. My face is raw with him licking it.’

  Next day she asked me to go with her to see the landlord; perhaps he would let her ride the horse. He was a nice gentleman and took Janey into the stables. He obviously recognised and respected her natural interest in horses. He told her, though, that the stallion needed a lot of manhandling before he was ready to be ridden, and she’d be wise not to approach him.

  The sun was exceptionally hot when we arrived home. I helped Mum with the dishes as Janey rabbited on about the stables. I wriggled into my red swimming cossie, still damp and full of sand from the day before, and chased after the big breakers rolling onto the beach. My older sisters, who’d been baking in the sun, were the colour of chocolate. The early evening brought supper alfresco.

  Later, as the day headed to its close, we went to bed, leaving Janey whispering in the stallion’s lug. Dad doused the fire, calling to her to come to bed. I think he was hoping the animal would either give her a sharp kick or bite which would put paid to her horse interest. He wasn’t too worried though, because he knew that after tomorrow we’d be gone from there and she’d have to find a new friend. It was berry time, and the long journey from Oban to Blairgowrie meant an early rise for us all.

  All was in its place and peaceful when suddenly Babsy, the youngest of our family, sat up in bed and said that Janey wasn’t in hers.

  Dad was furious, and said, ‘She’ll be in the field yapping with the stupid big horse. I warned her to stop her nonsense.’ He pulled on his t
rousers, pushed feet wearily into his boots and went outside.

  For a wee while we didn’t hear a thing, then he came back and whispered to us to come out and see something. Like a row of little skittles we lined up beside the bus. He pointed at the beach – and what a fantastic sight was before us. Janey could be seen riding flat out as the stallion tore along the sand at full gallop. Horse and rider were one as they emerged into a blaze of black and orange, silhouetted against the red horizon.

  Our Janey had known that come morning she’d have to say goodbye, so she had stolen her only chance. The stallion wasn’t dangerous; he needed human contact and Janey gave it. Both would find another road in their lives, but that night, with the setting sun disappearing from view, and the picture of my big sister and her friend, will live in my memory forever.

  My sister from then on made sure that horses would be her life. For a long time she ran a horse sanctuary, taking in sick animals and providing warm stables and food until their lives ended.

  20

  TINY

  I’d like to tell you now about how we acquired our first pet, a very small fox terrier aptly named Tiny. It was berry time, and we had all arrived on our campsite, Ponfads, on the outskirts of Rattray and Blairgowrie.

  It all happened like this...

  When coming into the campsite, I noticed, as we drove past in our bus home, a bow-shaped camp at the far end of the green. A grand fire was blazing away, and round an old woman nearby played three of the reddest-haired children I’d ever seen. No way would their mother misplace her kids with flame-red hair like that.

  After putting the basin on its tripod outside the bus door for washing hands, I skipped off to play. ‘Don’t you lot go too far,’ Mum reminded us as we shot off to explore. ‘It’ll be suppertime as soon as I get the stovies done.’