Sookin' Berries Page 5

  Jeannie Macarthur went home to find that Donald had come home, battle-weary but safe. She decided to enter a nunnery and devote her life to tending the poor and infirm. To Donald she gave the ‘Prince’s coin’, making him solemnly swear to hand it down through the Macarthur line. This he did. His son Alexander inherited the precious relic; he in turn passed it to his daughter Elizabeth, who passed it to her son Alexander, who passed it to his daughter Margaret, who passed it to her daughter Jeannie, who passed it to her daughter Jess (me!).

  I have taken the coin to many storytelling events, and my listeners just have to feel the old relic to know it carries a tale. It is a coin from between 1690 and 1730. Now, because of its worn state, I am forced to keep it in a glass box, where after hearing its story all can view its beauty.

  5

  THE ROBIN’S CHRISTMAS SONG

  Let us enjoy a bit of old Scottish dialect with this wonderful tale by Scotland’s national bard, Robert Burns. I am going to use his original Scots in the telling of it. Then I shall copy it into English, so that all readers can understand and enjoy Robbie’s story.

  Robbie Burns was a poet rather than a storyteller, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t spin a wee yarn or two. This story by him is my favourite, and tells of a little robin who desperately wanted to sing a Christmas song to the King. He knew how hazardous his long journey to meet the monarch would be, but Christmas is the time for giving, and he wanted to give the King a gift: a song, sung by himself. So off he set, with crisp, frost-covered land beneath him and bright blue sky above.

  Robin and Poussie Baudrons

  There was an auld gray Poussie Baudrons and she gaed awa’ down by a water-side, and there she saw a wee Robin Redbreast happin’ on a brier; and Poussie Baudrons says: ‘Where’s tu gaun, wee Robin?’ And wee Robin says: ‘I’m gaun awa’ to the King to sing him a sang this guid Yule morning.’ And Poussie Baudrons says: ‘Come here, wee Robin, and I’ll let you see a bonny white ring round my neck.’ But wee Robin says: ‘Na, na! gray Poussie Baudrons; na, na! Ye worry’t the wee mousie; but ye’se no worry me.’

  Robin and Grey Greedy Gled

  So wee Robin flew awa’ till he came to a fail fauld-dike, and there he saw a Gray Greedy Gled sitting. And Gray Greedy Gled says: ‘Where’s tu gaun, wee Robin?’ And wee Robin says: ‘I’m gaun awa’ to the king to sing him a sang this guid Yule morning.’ And Gray Greedy Gled says: ‘Come here, wee Robin, and I’ll let ye see a bonny feather in my wing.’ But wee Robin says: ‘Na, na! Gray Greedy Gled; na, na! ye pookit a’ the wee lintie; but ye’se no pook me.’

  Robin and Slee Tod Lowrie

  So wee Robin flew awa’ till he came to the cleuch o’ a craig, and there he saw Slee Tod Lowrie sitting. And Slee Tod Lowrie says: ‘Where’s tu gaun, wee Robin? And wee Robin says: ‘I’m gaun awa’ to the King to sing him a sang this guid Yule morning.’ And Slee Tod Lowrie says: ‘Come here, wee Robin, and I’ll let ye see a bonny spot on the tap o’ my tail.’ But wee Robin says: ‘Na, na! Slee Tod Lowrie; na, na! Ye worry’t the wee lammie; but ye’se no worry me.’

  Robin and the Wee Callant

  So wee Robin flew awa’ till he came to a bonny burnside, and there he saw a wee callant sitting. And the wee callant says: ‘Where’s tu gaun, wee Robin?’ And wee Robin says: ‘I’m gaun awa’ to the King to sing him a sang this guid Yule morning.’ An the wee callant says: ‘Come here, wee Robin, and I’ll gi’e ye a wheen grand moolins out o’ my pooch.’ But wee Robin says: ‘Na, na! wee callant; na, na! Ye speldert the gowdspink; but ye’se no spelder me.’

  Robin Sings His Yule Sang

  So wee Robin flew awa’ till he came to the King, and there he sat on a winnock sole and sang the king a bonny sang. And the King says to the Queen: ‘What’ll we gie to wee Robin for singing us this bonny sang?’ And the Queen says to the King: ‘I think we’ll gie him the wee Wran to be his wife.’ So wee Robin and the wee Wran were married, and the King and the Queen and a’ the court danced at the waddin’; syne he flew awa’ hame to his ain water-side and happit on a brier.

  Well, I expect all those old Scots words have you saying, ‘What was that all about?’ Not to worry, here it is in English.

  Robin and Poussie Baudrons

  There was an old grey cat called Poussie Baudrons, and she went down by the river, and there she saw little Robin Redbreast hopping on a branch; and Poussie Baudrons says, ‘Where are you going little Robin?’ And the Robin answers her, ‘I’m on my way to sing a song for the King this fresh and bright Christmas morning.’ Poussie Baudrons says, ‘Come over here, little Robin, and I’ll let you see a pretty white ring around my neck.’ But the Robin says, ‘No, no! You worry mice, but you shall not worry me.’

  Robin and the Grey, Greedy Eagle

  So Robin flew away until he came to a crumbling stone wall, and there he saw a Grey, Greedy Eagle sitting on it. The Grey, Greedy Eagle says, ‘Where are you going, little Robin?’ And the Robin answers him, ‘I’m going to sing a song for the King this fresh, bright Christmas morning.’ And the Eagle says, ‘Come here, little Robin, and I shall let you see a pretty feather in my wing.’ But little Robin says, ‘No, no! Grey Greedy Eagle; no, no! You prick all the little birds with your big beak, but you shall not prick me.’

  Robin and the Sly Red Fox

  So little Robin flew away until he came to some rocks, and there he saw Sly Red Fox sitting; and the Fox says, ‘Where are you going, little Robin?’ And little Robin answers, ‘I’m going to sing a song for the King this fresh, bright Christmas morning.’ And the Fox says, ‘Come here, little Robin, and I shall show you a nice black furry point at the end of my tail;’ But little Robin says, ‘No, no! Sly Red Fox; no, no! You worry new-born lambs, but you shall not worry me.’

  Robin and the Naughty Boy

  So little Robin flew away until he came to a small stream, and there he saw a naughty boy sitting; and the naughty boy says to him, ‘Where are you going, little Robin?’ And little Robin answers, ‘I’m going to sing a song for the King this fresh, bright Christmas morning.’ And the naughty boy says, ‘Come here, and I shall give you lots of sweeties that are in my pocket.’ But the little Robin says, ‘No, no! You throw stones at the spiny hedgehog, but you will not throw stones at me.’

  Robin Sings His Christmas Song

  So the little Robin flew away until he came to the King, and there he sat on a window sill, and sung his pretty song. And the King said to the Queen, ‘What shall we give little Robin for singing so sweetly?’ and she says, ‘I think we should give him little Wren so that they can be married.’ So little Robin and little Wren were married, and the King and Queen and all the people in the castle danced at the wedding.

  6

  THE CHAPMAN’S LAST PHARAOH

  It is important to a teller of tales to pass on these ancient stories, not just to entertain but to share something very old. It gives me a sense of going back in time and also of handing on the tales so that they never die. Another vital factor in storytelling is group-telling. For example, one begins by laying the scene, another puts in a character, one adds another character, and one can introduce a moral which gives meat to the story. The tale soon grows and takes on a life of its own. If young people are serious and apply their imaginations, great creativity emerges. This adds the age-old conyach (heart) that brings the tale alive. In this next story I have done that. It will give you all an idea of how, from a single feather, group-telling grows wings to fly as a mighty eagle.

  Many years ago in a secluded handful of crofts in the Highlands of Scotland, the quiet folk waited on a visitor. Winter brought snow and blizzards which blocked roads, making them impassable, but better was in store; ahead warm springtime sun melted ice from the mountains and all waited anxiously for news of neighbouring places.

  The visitor they longed to see was the Chapman, who would know who had died, who had given birth to a baby, boy or girl, or who had moved away. He was a fine visitor to any country abode, but it was the younger g
eneration who most keenly appreciated his presence, because this fine fellow was a storyteller. Doors were opened if by magic at his knock. Warm and welcoming food was laid upon a scrubbed table laid with best linen.

  The roomiest house was chosen to entertain him in: one big enough to take all the people in the area, old and young alike. And even scruffy cats and flea-ridden dogs were captivated by the Chapman’s stories, such was their depth. When night fell, surrounded by dark corners where imagined devils and goblins danced a ghostly jig to his whisperings, and when he was usually surrounded by excited faces, he told weird and wonderful tales.

  I am most fortunate to have been handed down a few of his tales, and would now like to share one or two with you. Are you ready? Good – then let’s go off and meet ...The Chapman.

  He was tall, with a long, flowing, dark coat, peaked hat shading a pair of slanted eyes which seemed almost closed. The heavy oak door of young Sandy’s cottage shook as fist met wood; with a loud and sharp thump the visitor heralded his coming. It wasn’t night time, so Sandy was allowed to answer the door. If night had fallen, it was forbidden for one so young to greet a stranger – father or older brothers did that.

  ‘May God bless this house and all who live in it,’ the Chapman said, before removing his hat. ‘I have travelled many a long mile, and for the telling of a tale I would require only a small meal and a place by your welcome fire.’

  Sandy’s father answered, ‘Be at ease, Chapman, a meal and warm seat will not be denied your good self.’

  The stranger came in as invited (he’d never set foot inside a home without invitation), removed his hat and laid it on his knee. His coat was unbuttoned as he sat down at the table. While the Chapman ate, Sandy rushed around the village, excitedly spreading the word: the storyteller was in their house, and all were welcome to come and listen.

  In under an hour, everyone was hurrying to hear and be enthralled by the Chapman’s tales. The old came for gossip, young women asked shyly after handsome fellows who’d taken their fancy at the hind year’s market.

  Without an inch of space to spare, eager children and adults sat in half-circles at his feet. Now fed and adequately warmed, the dark-skinned stranger began to speak.

  ‘This tale, my friends, is one I heard as I passed round Bratach Castle by Loch Marla’s shore.’

  He moved closer to the fire, spreading a pair of stone-hard knees apart, rubbing and fanning long spindly fingers.

  ‘It was a story like no other, and as you all know of me and my shadow-followers...’ At that he lowered his heavy eyelids and looked to the floor as if waiting for a response. The boy Sandy and everyone in the room knew he meant by this the creepy demonic nightmares which plagued all listeners after a night of his special tale-telling.

  His face stiffened, eyes round and protruding, and he stared at dancing flames from red hot coals burning out their hearts within the iron grate. He added, ‘Not in shadows will they be found, my friends, but in careful silence. Do not make haste to steal mushrooms from their stalks – or should I be more specific – toadstools!’ His face softened, as a wry smile crept slowly from ear to ear, breaking at last into a grin more of menace than of joy.

  ‘This is not my usual kind of tale, though. Oh no, this is a story that will make you think and wonder. It will not just be a case of my words tapping into your imagination. A thread of truth may be left behind when I’m gone from this warm and friendly home. Now can I have another cup of tea?’

  The drink he requested was soon grasped in his curled fingers. He gulped half the cupful at once and then began his story.

  The Last Pharaoh

  On the night of the summer solstice, I sat by a tumbledown building, which many hundreds of years ago had housed dozens of soldiers of some monarch, I cannot say for sure which one. Anyway, with good heart to my campfire and a billycan to boil, I saw by the flitting moonlight a beehive-shaped gypsy wagon. It was being pulled by an overweight horse and led by a bent-backed old man. They rolled up the old winding drove road to where I sat, minding my own business, and stopped.

  He was a small old man, whose days of youthful charm were long past. As he tied the leather reins to an ancient yew tree that had been twisted by sea winds, he called over, ‘Hello to you, sir.’

  ‘Same to yourself. I haven’t seen you in these parts before, where do you come from?’

  ‘I’ll partake of your companionship when I gets me gry unhitched.’

  I watched with wonder at the speed the grey mare was unharnessed, and in no time tethered to graze peacefully by the wagon.

  ‘Me name is Bendigo Shadrach Jeremiah Brazil, what’s your handle?’

  I laughed out loud and said, ‘Folks call me Chapman. Now, which of those regal-sounding handles do you want me to address you with?’

  A small battered and blackened kettle was placed on my open fire before he answered. ‘I call myself Bendy, and I’m from anywhere. Now does that name of yours come from the womb, or has it been given to you?’

  ‘Your kettle’s on the boil,’ I said, refusing to share my birth name with a total stranger. ‘Let me put a handful of tea-leaves in it for you.’

  ‘Friend, there’s nothing I’d like better.’ Bendigo opened a toothless mouth, and didn’t close it until it held a walnut pipe bellowing white smoke from its pot. ‘I been on road most part of three days without stop, me legs are stiff and swollen, and like hamsters’ cheeks are these two buttocks of mine.’ He shuffled from side to side on his seat, and asked, ‘You’re a tale-teller?’

  ‘Yes, I share stories with all ears about everything.’

  Bendigo leaned his elbow on one knee, took a last gulp of tea and sat his cup on a flat rock. He stuffed a little more tobacco into his pipe and said, ‘I have a tale for you, do you want my offering?’

  How I’d longed to listen to another storyteller. There was no hesitation as I lay back on a bed of crushed bracken and beckoned my companion to tell all.

  However, first there was something I had to warn him about from long experience. ‘Take the floor, my fine friend. But before you begin, best I tell you of the stealthy creatures who dwell nearby. The walls of this broken keep have fissures and cracks filled with bats, and if the light from the fire is too bright, they don’t half swarm about the ears.’

  ‘That’s alright, Chapman, because I’m warmed up enough now – and as for those cloth-winged mice, they don’t scare me one bit.’

  I removed his hissing kettle from the flames with a stout stick, watched his gaze scan the unearthly horizon of pitch black, and wondered how far travelled this old man had been, and what sights, both of wonder and fear, he had encountered in his lifetime. His face gave away no secrets as the pipe was removed and emptied in the fire. A funnel of grey smoke sent the last puff of tobacco to journey on the loch breezes and mist.

  He lowered his voice, and for a moment I thought he was trying not to disturb the bats, but there was another explanation. ‘I don’t want to cause stirring among the ghosts of the castle,’ he said.

  ‘No fear of that, Bendy. In all my days I never have come across any spectres or ghostly apparitions, here or anywhere.’

  ‘There is a first time for all things,’ he warned me, lowering his eyes towards the now dying embers of the fire.

  As if to back up his words a fresh breeze rolled across the loch and whistled through the ruins. I felt uneasy. For a teller of tales of shadow and darkness, it throws my craft into disrepute to admit to such feelings. Nevertheless, I did shiver. He began his story.

  A long time ago in ancient Egypt, a sad and weak Pharaoh, no more than twenty years of age, gathered his friends and companions around him. His lungs were sore with the effort of breathing; fluid was accumulating dangerously, blocking his airways; time for him was running out.

  ‘My dear friends,’ he said, his speech slow as every breath was another sharp pain. ‘Tonight I will leave this world to take a long journey. My days are over. I called you here, not just to say good
bye, but to thank you for making my short life enjoyable. My cooks, bathers, doctors, maids, horsemen, in fact to each and every one of you, I give gratitude.’

  He lay back exhausted upon his featherdown pillow. Everyone, with tear-filled eyes, cast themselves down on the floor of his bed chamber and sobbed.

  ‘Please don’t be sad,’ he told them. ‘This night I shall meet my parents again, and all my relatives who have gone before me. There is no need for sadness; rejoice that my pain will be gone.’

  A tall muscular man stood up and said, through deep sobs, ‘Sire, we are with you now, and have been every waking moment of your life. Without you, our days are not worth living. I want to come with you to the other world.’

  Deeply touched by this gesture of love from his horseman, the young Pharaoh reached out and touched the sad figure gently on the cheek. Then all the others gathered around, vowing to kill themselves and find their pharaoh on the other side. It was a terrible outpouring of grief.

  ‘Hush now, my friends. Is not the rising and setting of the desert sun a joy to behold? What of the clear waters of the great river Nile, your nourishment of goats’ milk and fresh fruit, surely you cannot give these things up? Can you give up such a gift as life itself?’

  One small girl, his ointment-applier, said, ‘Master, we have all spoken of this day when we would lose you.’ She gestured with a thin hand to the others; they gathered around her. ‘Master, we wish to come with you. See –’ she held out her hand to display a small vial filled with green-coloured liquid. The rest did the same.