Scottish Folk Tales for Children Read online

  For Oscar and Maya,

  my grandchildren.

  First published in 2017

  The History Press

  The Mill, Brimscombe Port

  Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

  www.thehistorypress.co.uk

  This ebook edition first published in 2017

  All rights reserved

  © Judy Paterson, 2017

  Illustrations © Sally Daly, 2017

  The right of Judy Paterson to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  EPUB ISBN 978 0 7509 8199 6

  Original typesetting by The History Press

  eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Foreword

  Introduction

  The Witch of Fife

  The Water Horse of Loch Garve

  The Orra Man

  Tam Lin

  The Changeling of Kintalen

  Old Croovie

  The Midwife’s Tale

  The Tailor of Saddell Castle

  The Poor Widow’s Son and the Stranger

  Mind the Crooked Finger

  Habetrot

  The Puddock

  Assipattle and the Giant Mester Stoor Worm

  The Shepherd of Kintail

  Thomas the Rhymer

  Why the Sea is Salty

  The History of Kitty Ill Pretts

  The King’s Gift

  The Green Man of Knowledge

  Glossary

  Notes

  About the Author

  Judy Paterson is a professional storyteller and published writer, mostly of children’s books. Previously a teacher, and headteacher, she is passionate about heritage, the need to preserve it and to make it accessible to children.

  Judy has travelled far and wide as a storyteller but her first love is for the stories of Scotland.

  Acknowledgements

  I wish to thank all my fellow storytellers who, over the years, have inspired and encouraged me, and, in particular, Senga Munro and Dr Donald Smith. I was lucky enough to have known Duncan Williamson and Stanley Robertson.

  Retelling a story in written form is so different from the spontaneous experience of sharing a story in the oral tradition when audience interaction influences the style of telling. I owe special thanks to Jeanette Sharp, who edited my first draft with the keen attention of a constructively critical audience of one!

  Thanks also to my illustrator, Sally Daly. It was a great joy to work with her and opening her sketchpad was like opening a box of chocolates!

  As always, thanks to my husband Mike and my long-suffering family and friends who allowed me to retreat from the real world while I lived in Fairyland.

  Foreword

  When living and working as a teacher in Papua New Guinea, Judy Paterson became acutely aware of the cultural, educational and social value of traditional stories. Perhaps it was more surprising on arriving in Scotland to find that her new home was also rich in traditional tales. Recovering and telling these stories became an important part of her personal and professional work over recent decades.

  During this period there has been a cultural renaissance in Scotland, and Judy has been able to bring her combined talents as a children’s writer and storyteller to the party with great success. In addition to storytelling in innumerable venues, and running workshops, Judy also found time to pioneer Storyboxes in Scottish schools. They were skilfully designed to enable staff to gain confidence in sharing stories as living experiences and to move seamlessly to participative activities. Judy has been very active in supporting emerging storytellers of all ages, but her passion is to encourage children and young people to become tellers and to keep the oral traditions alive.

  Alongside all this, Judy is a skilful horsewoman. I have always felt that the magic she senses in these classic tales is akin to the organic life she attunes to in her beloved horses. The oral story is a living creature and helps us connect with our own energies and those of the natural world. That is where the sense of wonder comes in – amidst the drama, suspense and humour – and it unifies this whole collection.

  Judy has chosen wisely from across Scotland, and has crafted versions of these tales that delight eye, ear and tongue. The stories are accessible for today yet also give a true flavour of their original contexts and purpose.

  It has been a great personal pleasure to work with Judy over many years. I am delighted to see this, her new classic collection of Scottish tales for children. I commend it warmly to everyone who loves authentic stories and their telling.

  Dr Donald Smith

  Director, TRACS

  (Traditional Arts and Culture Scotland)

  Introduction

  Before there were books, stories were told or sung in ballads; story songs. So as you read these stories, imagine I am telling you the story without a book, sitting by a fire maybe, on a long, dark night. I am not very good at singing!

  These are just some of the stories I tell but they are some of my favourite Scottish folk tales.

  The Witch of Fife

  FIFE

  Quhare haif ye been, ye ill womyne

  These three lang nightis fra hame?

  Quhat garris the sweit drap fra yer brow

  Like clotis of the sault sea faem?

  James Hogg – The Queen’s Wake

  Long, long ago, in the Kingdom of Fife, there lived a guidman and his very strange wife. The man was a quiet and respectable person, but his wife was carefree and flighty. Indeed, she was so odd that some of the neighbours thought she might even be a witch!

  While they sat by their fires in the early evening the neighbours sometimes saw the woman disappear into the gloaming and often she stayed out all night. When she returned in the morning she was pale and tired but she never told anyone where she had been. She never even told her poor husband what she had been doing. Try as he might, he could not find out where she went. Each time he caught her slipping through the door she was gone by the time he followed her.

  One night the worried man decided to wait up for her return. As soon as his wife came in through the door he jumped up.

  ‘I have to know, Wife, whether or not you are a witch,’ he asked.

  ‘Indeed I am!’ she replied, as she hung up her damp cloak.

  The poor man felt his blood run cold. ‘Dearie me, this is a very serious matter,’ he said. ‘If you are found out you will be caught and put on trial. This is terrible.’

  ‘No it is not!’ laughed his wife. ‘I am not a wicked witch. If you promise not to speak of this I will tell you about my midnight adventures. You will see I do no harm.’

  So the old man promised to keep the secret and asked where she had been that long night.

  ‘I met four of my friends down by the kirk,’ she told him, ‘and we mounted branches of the green bay tree and stems of hemlock. These changed into magic horses and we rode, swift as the wind. We chased foxes and weasels and flew past the owls hooting in the dark. Then we flew over Loch Leven and rode to the Lomond Hills and what do you think we found there?’

  T
he old man shook his head. He could not believe what his wife was saying.

  ‘Well, Husband, we had beer to drink from little horn cups that were made by fairy-folk. There was a wee, wee man with a set of bagpipes and the music was like no other we’ve heard. It was so wonderful that the silvery trout in the loch below were jumping and the stoats crept out of their holes. Even the corbie crows, the grey curlew and the blackbird listened. And all the time we witches danced and danced and danced.’

  ‘What good was this to you my weird, weird wife? Dearie me, you’d have been better off in your bed all night,’ he replied.

  When the next new moon rose in the night sky the unhappy husband watched his wife step out into the darkness. He picked up his cosy red nightcap and pulled it down over his ears. He sat by the fire and he was still there at dawn when the cockerel crowed. At that very moment his wife skipped in through the door. She sat by the hearth as she began her story, warming her cold fingers.

  ‘We took cockle-shells for boats last night and sailed over the stormy seas; while the thunder growled and the sea fog howled, we flew as fast as the gale. Then we rode invisible horses fashioned from the wind carrying us over mountains steep and valleys deep. We soared across snow-covered lands where reindeer run and glaciers glittered in the moonlight. And then we reached Lapland, a land all covered with snow.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very exciting,’ said the old man.

  ‘Oh but it was!’ cried the old lady jumping up. ‘All the fairies and mermaids of the North were holding a festival with warlocks, other weird women and phantom huntsmen. And there we were, the witches of Fife, dancing and singing and feasting with them all.’

  The old lady jigged around the room and laughed, ‘Why, Husband, we learned the most amazing secrets while we were there. We learned magic words to carry us through the air. We learned more wonderful words that unlock bars and bolts. Imagine it! We can go wherever we want!’

  The old man was too tired to imagine anything but his cosy pillow, ‘Dearie, dearie me, what took you to such a land? You’d have been better off in your warm bed all night.’

  The weeks passed and again a new moon shone in the dark sky. Again the old lady disappeared and returned in the morning with another strange story. This time, however, her husband sat up and took an interest.

  ‘Last night we met in Maisy’s cottage. We each stood by the hearth and one by one we put a foot on the crook of the hook that held the cooking pot. We said the magic words we learned from the fairies of Lapland and whoosh! One by one we were up the chimney like puffs of smoke. We flew over the Firth of Forth, across the Pentland Hills and on and on until we were at the Bishop’s Palace at Carlisle.’

  ‘Well I never!’ exclaimed her husband. ‘Did you go inside?’

  ‘Indeed we did, for all the bolts on the doors flew open and there we were, down in the wine cellars. We tasted his fine wine and then quick as a wink we flew back to Fife, safe at home and all before the cockerel crowed.’

  ‘This is wonderful!’ said the old man, jumping up. He took off his nightcap and rubbed his ears. ‘What an amazing wife I have! Tell me the magic words and I shall visit the Bishop’s cellars myself.’

  But the guidwife shook her head, ‘I cannot!’ she said. ‘Imagine what would happen if I told you and you told someone else. Soon the whole world would be upside down and people would be flying all over the place into other folks’ homes and up to all sorts of mischief. Then there would be trouble.’

  Try as he might, the old man could not discover the magic words so he decided to use trickery. When the next new moon appeared he sneaked out of the house and went to the cottage out on the moor. He hid behind a big kist and waited. Just as his old bones began to ache, the door opened. In trooped his wife and the other witches.

  ‘Where shall we go tonight?’ she asked. ‘The wind is cold and I have a fancy to try more of those fine wines in the Bishop’s cellar.’

  ‘Agreed!’ laughed the others, and one by one they went to the fireplace.

  The old man peeped above the kist and saw the first witch step on to a stool. Then she put her foot on to the crook of the hook that held the cooking pot, said the magic words, and was whisked up the chimney. As fast as she had disappeared, another of the women took her place. Five times the old man heard the magic words and five times he watched the women disappear.

  ‘I can do it too!’ he chuckled gleefully, and came out from his hiding place.

  He stepped on the stool, put his foot on the crook of the hook and repeated the magic words. He was away up the chimney before he had time to blink!

  The witches flew through the air and behind them flew the old man. They flew over the Firth of Forth and through the clouds above the Pentland Hills. In the distance the old man saw the Bishop’s Palace and then, just as his wife had said, the doors flew open. It was not until they landed in the Bishop’s cellar that the witches discovered the old man had also flown with them. He had tricked them! But there was nothing to be done so the women began to enjoy themselves, taking a little wine from one cask and a little wine from another.

  ‘See, Husband,’ said the old woman, ‘we do little harm and the Bishop will not notice this tiny amount of his wine has gone.’

  But the old man was not so wise. Instead of a little sip here and a small taste there he filled his goblet at each barrel and soon he was singing the bonny songs of Fife. However, before too long he was feeling drowsy and he leaned against a huge barrel and fell fast asleep on the damp floor. That is where his wife and her friends left him when it was time to leave.

  The guidman slept, snoring and dreaming until well into the day when five of the Bishop’s servants tripped over him in the dark cellar. Of course, they wanted to know who he was and how he got in through a locked door. The old man could not speak and his head was so muddled by the wine he could not think. Finally he told them, ‘I am a guidman from Fife and I flew on the wind with my wife.’

  Well they thought he must be a wizard so they dragged him outside and the old man’s head soon cleared itself with pure fright. The guards took him into the courtyard where a crowd had gathered.

  ‘Dearie, dearie me! I wish I had stayed in bed,’ he said to himself as they put a great chain round his waist and piled up logs of wood round his feet. They lit a fire.

  ‘Oh dearie me, what will my poor wife say?’ he wondered, as the smoke began to curl upwards.

  At that very moment a great grey bird swooped down out of the sky carrying something red in its claw. There was a flutter of wings and a swish of feathers as the bird settled on the old man’s shoulders, placing his red nightcap on his head. The grey bird croaked into the guidman’s ear and he let out an enormous shout of joy, ‘My wife! My guidwife!’

  Indeed, it was the old lady in the form of the grey bird, sitting on his shoulder. After she croaked the magic words into his ear she flew off over the palace walls.

  The old man looked into the flames and repeated the magic words in a whisper, ‘Deliver me please from strife … send me home safe to Fife!’

  The chains fell off and he pulled his red nightcap down firmly over his head and jumped upwards. The crowd watched the old man fly over the palace walls and his laughter could be heard long after he reached the clouds in the sky. He flew faster than the wind until he reached his own wee house, safe in the Kingdom of Fife.

  Some time passed, but one night when a bright new moon crept above the trees the guidwife put on her cape and her bonnet and stepped outside. The old man reached for his red nightcap and I’m sure you know where he went!

  The Water Horse of Loch Garve

  HIGHLANDS

  Many long years ago the Each Uisge, the water horse of Loch Garve, took a wife. She loved the beautiful mountains and hills surrounding the clear waters that were filled with gleaming fish. She loved swimming with her husband and snatching fish from the fishing lines of frustrated fishermen. She loved her watery home during summer. But when the seasons changed
the waters became very cold and the poor wife complained. Once it was winter and the waters froze the poor wife wept and complained even more. The water horse loved his wife but he didn’t know what he could do to make her happy.

  One cold, windy day as he was swimming close by the little village of Garve he looked at the cottages. He saw smoke coming from the chimneys and knew that inside the families were cosy and warm. Then he had an idea! He looked across the loch to where a cottage stood alone, sheltered by the mountain. A builder lived there and he was at home, for smoke rose from the chimney.

  The water horse dived down deep and began to swim faster and faster, heading for the bank of the loch.

  Suddenly a huge wave of water hit the shore and out of the spray stepped a great black stallion.

  The water horse pranced up to the door of the cottage and he stomped his foot three times. The builder looked through the window wondering who could be calling on him. He saw the black stallion, water dripping from his mane and tail, and he knew this was the Each Uisge. The water horse snorted and stomped again and the man knew he must answer the door.

  The builder stood unafraid, listening to the water horse explain his problem. He saw how much the water horse loved his poor wife and for some long time the two discussed how to resolve the situation. The builder told him that he would need help, for the task was not easy, and the black stallion readily agreed, on one condition.

  ‘I will wear no bridle or bit in my mouth,’ he said, and the builder understood he did not want to be trapped.

  ‘Will you promise to return me to my home safe and sound?’ asked the builder, who knew the stories of people taken to a watery death by water horses.

  ‘I will do you no harm,’ the water horse replied, ‘and what payment do you want for the work?’

  ‘Well you can promise not to take the fish from my fishing line in future!’ laughed the builder.