Sookin' Berries Page 3

  ‘I need a pit of lime to burn her in. Who will help me?’ Randolph asked. He did not have to ask twice, because in no time his friends, equipped with spades, dug a large pit half filled with lime. They threw her in, still screaming defiance, and when the lime had reduced her to ashes, they filled the hole with more lime and soil. Lunaria would never again trick any man.

  From then on Randolph, whose health soon returned to normal, filled Friarton Manor with a busy household of butler, cooks, chambermaids and countless others. He never married. People say that on the night of a full moon, he refused to go to bed and spent the whole night sitting by the main window of the house, simply staring out into the darkness.

  3

  CLACH MOR

  If I have a really busy day ahead telling stories, I sometimes begin with a bowl of porridge or a big glass of mixed fruit, crushed pineapple, banana and apple, swirled up with orange juice. Why don’t you have a nice healthy smoothie while I tell you this old tale...?

  I heard it for the first time near Kirkmicheal in Highland Perthshire. Clach Mor, the title of the story, is Gaelic for ‘big stone’.

  Having read the last two tales, I have a question for you – do you believe in witches? You do? Well, read on.

  Tiptoe quietly into the world of a very evil ruler, the Wolf of Badenoch, and his partner in the underworld, An Chealach – a humpy-backed, sharp-nosed, beady-eyed old witch.

  The Wolf of Badenoch was what the tortured people of Highland Scotland named him, and it was around the fourteenth century he ruled much of the area with an iron fist. Not one single good deed had he done in his entire life.

  Children were banned from playing, young men were enslaved into his army on threat of beheading if they refused, women were ordered to stay indoors. His domain was a sad and desolate place, wherein he sat enthroned in a great castle named Cullic, surrounded by the black water of a forty-foot wide moat.

  No one challenged him or dared to end his tyranny, because folk swore that he was too powerful. Not only that, but it was believed he had the power of a devil, and many a night, strange and eerie sounds were heard coming from the castle dungeons. Terrified mothers locked up their daughters in fear of them disappearing in the dead of night, to end up as sacrifices to ghouls and demons.

  Thankfully, on one night of thunder and lightning, old age brought his days to an end. He’d breathed his last. A secret funeral was attended by his son and heir, and also his faithful companion – An Chealach, the witch.

  Next day, when news of his passing circulated throughout the area, people celebrated in music and song. Parties went on for days, because at long last their suffering was over. Now children could play in peace, young woman walk to market without fear of being kidnapped, and all would once more be as quiet and peaceful as it had been before Badenoch ruled.

  There was one question on everyone’s lips: ‘Will his son, the young Badenoch, be more of a tyrant than his father?’

  Locals spoke of little else, but said to each other, ‘Nobody could possibly be as evil.’ They began to feel more relaxed in their everyday lives and to forget the shadow of evil that hung around Cullic Castle.

  All their hopes and joys were dashed, however, when it emerged that the young Wolf was in fact worse – much worse!

  It was a stormy night when orders came forth that summoned all of Badenoch’s builders to the great hall of the castle. Their master desired of them a monumental task.

  ‘I wish that the castle, this ugly, old, crumbling ruin, be brought down and another built in its place!’

  ‘Master,’ an old builder dared to say, ‘this is a sturdy building with plenty of heart left in it. Surely, for your pleasure, we could improve its battlements and add a dungeon or two?’

  ‘I will not allow you to comment on my desire to rid the land of this monstrosity. It may have suited my late father, but not me!’ He lowered himself into his new throne, threw back his cloak of ermine and purple silk, leant his chin on his hand and said, ‘The Clach Dubh Mor of Ballachullish is my preferred stone for building the new castle. Any enemy that attempts to scale its height will slide down and be swallowed by the murky swamp below. Furthermore, the height of the castle shall touch the very clouds that fill the sky! Now, be off to plan my stronghold. At once, I command you!’

  The unfortunate builder who had spoken against the plan was already being dragged away to feel the point of a sharp sword. The master builder, although in fear of his own life, stepped forward and tried to reason with his master. ‘Sire, it would be foolish to rid the land of her finest builders. Surely you would be wise to listen to our wisdom in this matter.’

  Badenoch sat back and for a while mulled over the man’s words. He wasn’t just any builder; indeed he had held the highest reputation for creating the old ruler’s constructions.

  ‘Speak,’ he ordered.

  ‘Sire, we commend you for embarking on such grand projects, but the Clach Mor of Ballachullish is slate. It crumbles at the slightest touch. Yes, we could build you a new castle of solid granite, the finest in all the land, and adorn the roof with the slate of the Clach Mor, but that is all. And even if the stone was suitable for building, transporting it fifty miles from the west could not be undertaken. What you ask is impossible.’

  Badenoch grew angrier and screeched at the top of his voice. Terrified builders fell over each other in the rush to escape from the hall as his booming voice echoed from wall to wall.

  Alone with his darkening mood and simmering anger, he reflected that, when men were no use to his father, he sought out the help of another power. Old Nick, the Devil himself, would not refuse him.

  Pulling his cloak around his shoulders, he rushed off. Soon his footsteps echoed loudly downwards into the depths of the castle dungeons.

  ‘Master of darkness, keeper of evil, ’tis I, son of Badenoch. The young Wolf calls on you. Come to me, I command!’

  Mist and ghostly shadows listened to the hollow echoes of his voice inside the dungeon, but no sound came from the black oak door of the room where the lord of darkness had, not that long ago, supped whisky and played cards with his old father. The sacrificial table where the killing of young, innocent damsels had been carried out stood desolate and marble cold. In his anger and sorely-tried frustration Badenoch thumped it, and shouted, ‘Now, I say, at once, meet me for discussions! I need my Clach Dubh Mor castle, and I want it now!’

  Raising his voice to an almighty screech, he demanded an audience with the devil, but still no sound or movement occurred. Chill winds sent a shiver down his spine and his patience wore paper thin. For at least an hour he waited and waited; but nothing, not even so much as a black moth, moved in the deathly chamber.

  ‘Am I to be denied the help of all men and devils, this wretched night?’

  He had no more patience left, so turning on his heel with a swish of his flowing cloak, he hurried out of the dark room. As he was departing a sudden movement in a recess halted him. ‘Who hides like a cowed dog in my castle?’ he called into the darkness.

  ‘I, only I, sire.’

  ‘And who, may I ask, are you?’

  ‘An Chealach. Your obedient servant.’

  ‘Ach, foolish old woman, begone to your bed and leave me.’

  ‘Master, if it be your pleasure I can help.’

  ‘What can the likes of a bent, twisted, pointed-chinned hag do for me?’

  ‘I overheard the conversation with your builders, and may I say, sire, begging your pardon, but I know how to dislodge the Clach Dubh Mor of Ballachullish.’

  He stopped and turned towards her. ‘Speak, or see your tongue be parted from your miserable wretched throat.’

  ‘Follow me. I live down here, and in my chambers I have something you need to see.’

  Badenoch felt drawn in a strange way towards the witch, but then she had a way of casting spells. In this knowledge he stopped, and said angrily, ‘My mood darkens with the night, so this had better be good!’

  Aft
er a short walk, she beckoned him under an archway of stone and into a small room. It was dark and dingy, smelling of dust and mould. He refused her offer of a chair.

  ‘How, old hag, can you get stones for my castle?’

  ‘Sit down, young master, and I shall first tell you a story. Then we shall see.’

  She pointed once more to the seat, but still he refused to take it. Seeing his reluctance, she asked instead if he would please glance into a pot of boiling liquid bubbling on a stove in the room. This he did, and as he looked inside she stood beside him, both gazing down at the contents of the pot. What he saw sent a shiver down his spine, he almost fell backwards in shock. ‘Who is she?’ he asked.

  He held the old woman tightly by the shoulders, demanding to know who the beautiful girl was who was staring out at him from the depth of the soup.

  ‘As I said, master, sit down while I tell you a story.’

  He slumped into the chair, resting his hands on its two wooden arms, head filled with the vision from within the soup pot.

  ‘Once,’ she began, ‘there was a beautiful girl who belonged to the Lord of Darkness. He had for some time been listening to the wife of a church minister praying to him. At night, when her husband left to conduct a service for his parishioners, she would lie upon the floor and call for my master to give her eternal youth. The beautiful girl you have just seen was sent to the minister’s wife to bring her down here, where the master would grant the woman’s wish: eternal youth in exchange for her soul.

  The minister’s wife asked the girl what payment she wanted, but her master had strictly instructed the girl not to accept gifts. Against his orders, the girl took the woman’s apron as a gift. When the Devil heard of this, he instantly stripped away the girl’s beauty, turning her into a horrible, ugly witch. I am that girl, and the image you have seen was me.’

  ‘But this is a tragedy – you wither away down here when you could share my home, be my wife. I shall ask the master to give you back your beauty, at once.’

  She lifted her head and cackled loudly, sending hanging bats flying erratically up and down the corridors. ‘No man, no matter how powerful, can tell the King of Darkness what to do. He could turn you into a frog and crush the very life from your body, without so much as rising from his seat. But listen to me, my handsome young love, for ages I have crept into your room while you slept and watched over you. While out hunting in the woods, do you remember when the black stallion threw you? Well, who do you think saved you? You can’t remember, because of the head injuries you suffered. My dear young Wolf, I love you more than any woman can.’ She touched his arm with her long bony fingers, but he did not push her away, because soon, if all went to plan, the slender, soft hand of the beautiful young girl would replace them, and he and she would be man and wife.

  Now that she had ensnared him, she eagerly moved closer to him. ‘Here is my plan. This very night, as the moon fulls in the sky, you must take several soldiers and ride out of the castle. Break down doors and steal seven children. Bring them here and give each one as a sacrifice to my master. Call on him quietly, bowing as you do so. Remember, no mortal comes without gifts. Ask him for only one thing – my beauty. As for the stone of Ballachullish, with my magic apron I shall see to that. This time tomorrow you shall have your castle, and I shall once more be beautiful.’

  His eyes widened with excitement, and for a moment forgetting how ugly and grotesque his companion was, he drew her close and kissed her cold grey cheek. She let out a yell of delight, and while he dashed off to give orders and saddle his horse, she was already sitting astride her broomstick, heading westwards to gather the precious stone.

  Now, if any living beings were near that dreaded place you would think that they could be only creatures of the night – goblins and ghouls. However the Good Witch of All Things Pure knew that, as far as An Cealach was concerned, a 24-hour watch was essential. In two slit windows in the dungeon wall sat a pair of her helpers, tiny fairies known as Sithein. They had listened intently to the conversation between the young Wolf and the old witch.

  On gossamer wings the tiny fairies flew as fast as they could to tell the Good Witch what was about to happen.

  ‘Oh my dears, of all the most awful things that evil has a hand in, this must be the worst!’ cried the Good Witch. ‘We have very little time, because when An Cealach bestrides her broom of rowan, she speeds faster than sound.’

  The Good Witch summoned a thousand of her helpers to take a single strand of lamb’s wool and use it to cover the huge expanse of slate stone. Then she gathered another band of little people and gave a stern order. ‘My children,’ she said, ‘each take a droplet of my special sleeping draught, put it on the lips of the Wolf’s soldiers, and they will not awaken until morning. When you have finished with that task, tie their horses’ tails together.’

  Without a question the army of Sithein flew as one body into the sky, and like a giant dove headed westwards.

  They arrived at the great stone without a moment to spare, and covered every inch of the Ballachullish slate with the lamb’s wool. As the last strand was put in place, the dark-cloaked witch came and hovered above. Not seeing a single black stone beneath her, she found a crevice between some rocks and sat simmering in her rage. As she screeched and punched the air, a sister witch joined her to see what was wrong. ‘Sithein, those horrid wee goblins, have tricked me – not a stone is anywhere to be seen.’

  ‘What stones do you seek, my wretched kin?’

  ‘Are ye blind as well as stupid? I seek the Ballachullish stone to build a castle.’

  ‘Oh, is that all?’

  ‘All! All! Look at me, am I not hideous? Badenoch is, at this moment, sacrificing seven children to our master. I promised him a castle of the slate stone, and then he would have my beauty restored and we shall be wed! Our double task must be completed before the full moon slips from the night sky. Aargh, I am in turmoil!’

  Her sister coiled a bony arm around her shoulder and whispered, ‘Listen, foolish hag, have you forgotten where we spend our Halloweens?’

  ‘No, I have never missed one of our parties on the Isle of Man!’

  ‘Well, is the Clach Dubh Mor not in abundance there?’

  ‘Why, of course!’ An Cealach kicked up her bandy legs and somersaulted five times, before curling her body round her broomstick like a skinny cobra. ‘Mighty is the stone of black! Thank you, oh kind sister.’ Instantly she was scooting across the moon in all its fullness, like a Daddy-long-legs being chased by a flying bat.

  No sooner had she left the mountainous terrain of Scotland, than she was staring wide-eyed at an expanse of gleaming black stone beneath her – enough to build a dozen castles! It wasn’t quite what her betrothed wished for, but this was better. He’d be well pleased when the final hellish stone was placed on his castle above the clouds themselves.

  There was no time to lose. With her magic apron tied around the gigantic, smooth as silk stone she had chosen, she was already in flight, heading north, to begin a night-long task that would result in a magnificent castle for her lover and her youthful beauty restored.

  Now, as fate would have it, an old poacher was out taking advantage of the full moon’s light and was heading home, dead deer on his back. As An Chealach, with her precious cargo, blotted for an instant the light on his path, he looked up. When he saw the vision above him, he fell to his knees and said, ‘God preserve us!’ As his divine words flitted heavenwards, they passed through the witch’s apron. Penetrated by such godly words, its power began to wane. Tumbling downwards went the giant stone, loosened from its sling. It spiralled down until it hit the ground with the most horrendous thump!

  An Chealach screamed as she plummeted after it. Meanwhile young Badenoch, unable to rouse his men from their hypnotic slumber, ran back and forth roaring at the top of his voice for An Chealach. But, alas, the humpy-backit old witch was frantically digging around the base of the stone that had fallen, wailing and screaming as the moo
n dropped from the starry sky, giving way to the first rays of the sun.

  The young Wolf who had planned to oversee his late father’s powers of darkness and the building of a new black stone castle was to be seen many a night standing on the battlements of his crumbling fortress. He was gazing out into the darkness, waiting for his lost love who, like his dream of a new castle, had evaporated from the base of the big stone at the first touch of sunlight, like a swirl of steam from a slow-boiling kettle.

  Fairy folk and the Good Witch from then on enjoyed the singing of young women, the playing of little children in sun-kissed meadows and the merry laughter of men who lived in harmony from that day to this, in the peaceful area of picturesque Badenoch.

  Locals used to say that on Halloween, if they dared to go past the spot where the stone had fallen, An Cealach could be heard cursing the wee fairy folk who put paid to her dream of being the Wolf of Badenoch’s beautiful queen.

  4

  JEANNIE’S GOLD

  My mother was a wonderful storyteller, and some nights, especially long dark winter ones, she would tell us tales of kings and queens of history, and even of kings and queens that never were. This is one such tale...

  Scottish history books tell the story of Flora Macdonald, and how she saved Bonnie Prince Charlie by dressing him up as her Irish maidservant, Betty Burke.

  Bonnie Prince Charlie had come to Scotland in 1745 to take the throne of Britain from the reigning king, because he was convinced that his own family, the Stuarts, were the rightful rulers. The followers who flocked to meet him and fight in his army were called Jacobites. Historians tell of the Jacobites’ final defeat at the Battle of Culloden. After the battle, Bonnie Prince Charlie was hurried off from the Culloden battlefield on the outskirts of Inverness, and smuggled onto the island of Uist. There he met Flora Macdonald. Next to tales of William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, the story of their journey of escape, from Benbecula on South Uist to Portree on Skye, is one of the most famous in Scottish history.