THE WISE WOMAN OF DUNTULM AND THE FAIRIES.
A Lord of the Isles, MacConnal (Buachaille nan Eileinean), long ago had two sons, but only one could get the estate at his death. When that happened the eldest son said one day to the youngest, “You are now left without anything, but, that you may not be altogether portionless, go to Duntulm and you will get there a piece of land that you will have to yourself.” The lands of Duntulm, in the northern part of the Island of Skye, were at that time occupied by a prosperous tenantry, consisting chiefly of crofters and the holders of a few larger farms. The youngest brother was told that the rent he would get from these tenants would maintain him, and he was to build a house and marry a wife. He agreed to go to Duntulm, where he was not a long time settled till a claim was made on his land for the king’s dues, the crown tax being in proportion to the amount of land which he held. The first time the tax (a’ chìs) was asked, he said, in answer to the demand which was made, “I will not pay any tax. Why should I pay it? What right has the king to get it?” An order was sent to him every year for payment of the tax, but if it was, for six years he did not pay any of it (cha do phàidh e sgillinn). At last the king sent fifty soldiers and one officer to take the rent from him in spite of him (thar ’amhaich), and since he would pay to neither king nor soldier, the lands were taken from him and they were now attached to the crown. The king was receiving the revenue, and a Skye carl (bodach Sgitheanach) called John Donaldson MacWilliam (Iain Mac Dhòmhnuil’ic Uilleim) was appointed a factor to collect the rents from the crofters. He lived sixteen miles from Duntulm, among the crofts, where he went twice a year to gather the tax. MacConnal’s castle was built on a precipitous bank, on the west side of which there was a big pit into which every high tide sent a flow of water that kept it always full, forming a deep pool (glumag) that sometimes proved dangerous to the unwary. One day it happened that whatever a crofter, one Macrury, was doing at the castle, he fell headlong into the pool, and however it was, whether he was killed by the fall or drowned, he was found dead next day anyhow. He left two sons who were not of age to help their widowed mother, for whom much sympathy was felt by her neighbours on account of her being left so helpless (bha i air a fàgail cho lom). Next spring after this the two lads were drowned in a boat with which they were bringing sea-ware home, and being now alone she could not work her croft nor pay her rent. When everything was spent, and she had only one cow left of her fold of cattle, the factor came for the tax. On reaching the township he took with him a carle, friendly to himself, to the widow’s house, where the neighbours had gathered to ascertain the object of their visit. When the factor was told that the poor woman had no means to pay her rent, he asked if she had no cattle. She said that she had only one cow and that it was grazing at some distance from the house. He asked it to be brought where he was, and when he saw it he said, “It is a pity there are not more of the kind.” Being the only one, it had got all the attention and was in good condition. She said she had no other. He said, “We will keep this one for the dues.” It was taken away from the widow and put in a field that was surrounded by a stone wall, near the castle, along with the small red pony which the factor had with him. While he was in search of some one to drive it away, and taking his dinner in the carle’s house, the young men of Duntulm climbed over the wall of the field, though high, and got out the animals, which they drove to the shore, where a boat was in readiness in which they were taken to the islet of Fladda (Fladda ’chuain), two miles off. The men put them ashore there, and had their boat drawn up in Duntulm Bay before the factor and his companion returned to look for their property and found the park empty. On asking the men, who had again gathered, if they knew how the animals had escaped or where they were, they said there was no gap in the wall known to them, and that the only person likely to know of their whereabouts was a gifted woman who lived near the castle, in search of whom two of them went. They found her at home, on reaching the height where her house was, and told her all that had occurred, and how she was to go with them and say that the cattle had been charmed away to some wonderful place. Isabel said that she was not well prepared to go that day. The men asked what preparation she lacked (’dé an cion dòigh a bh’ oirre). She then asked for one of the men’s broad bonnets, and when she got it, rose, and leaving her hair, which was becoming grey, streaming over her shoulders, she put it on, and tying a goatskin round her, tying her shoes and making garters with stripes of the same fur, she put a rope of straw round her waist and took a large staff in her hand. “She is prepared at last, and come now,” the men said. When she came in sight, the factor looked at her in amazement, for he had never before seen a creature of her appearance. Before she came near he called, “Wife, do you know where the horse and cow I put in the park are now?” She paid no attention to him, but kept on coming nearer (cha do lag i air a ceum), till she stood at his shoulder. “To whom did the animals belong?” she asked him then. “The cow belonged to the king,” he said, “and the horse to myself.” “How could a cow belonging to the king be in this township?” she asked. “This woman gave it to me for the tax,” he said, pointing to the widow. “She did not give it to you; she said you took it with you; and it is now that I understand the meaning of what happened when I was in my own house to-day, and heard an uproar (straighlich) in the air above that was greater than any one could ever have heard, and on looking for the cause of it, there it was in a fire; and though all the fires that you ever saw were gathered together, they would not make one like it; and in the last of the fire (’an earball an teine) I looked to see what there was, and what was there but a horse and cow, while there were as good as five thousand little men, the hill men (muinntir nan cnoc), who were not larger than bottles, going on, on each side of the fire; and if you had as much knowledge of the dwellers of these hills as I have, you would not touch the widow’s portion, but if you are anxious to get back the animals—there before you, is the hill where they are, and where you can go and seek them, and if you can, find them.” The man, who was terrified by her appearance and words, kept looking at her (’g a feitheamh) and always drawing a step further off. He went home without horse or cow, and however long he remained in the office he held, the fear of the wise woman, (Iseabal N’ic Rao’uill) and the fairies kept him from ever returning to Duntulm. When he was out of sight of the township, the young men of Duntulm went to the islet where they left the animals, which they brought back and gave to the poor woman, who was then able to pay the tax.
FOLK TALES.
THE TWO BROTHERS.
A Tale of Enchantment.
In early times, long ago, (’an toiseach an t-saoghail, o chionn nan cian), it is said that the island of Mull was uninhabited except by a few families who were living, on the south side at Carsaig, in that part of the island known as the Ross of Mull. These families lived isolated from the rest of the world; none of them had ever seen any one from anywhere else there, and none of themselves had ever left the place. They had no boats, and they said the other islets and land that they were seeing opposite were other worlds. One day, then, they saw coming on the sea before them (mu’n comhair) from the mainland a speck (dùradan), and when it came near they compared it to a horse with a tree standing on its back, but when it came to the shore it was a boat made of wicker-work covered with hides, with one man in it, who had some drink with him, and a quantity of hazel nuts for food. On account of his boat being covered with hides[23], they named him “The cowhide man, (am boicionnach). On landing, he told them how he had left home, out of curiosity to see other places, and that was the first place he was able to reach. He is said to have come from Ardencaple in the district of Lorn on the mainland (Ard-nan-capull, ’an Lathurna.) He stayed a long time with them, as they treated him kindly, being much pleased with him. He taught them new ways that were useful to them in their every-day life, and by his skill and knowledge promoted their welfare in many ways. On seeing that they were not utilizing the milk of their cows and goats by making cheese from it, he asked them the reason of this. They told him that they did not know what cheese was, as they had never heard of it nor seen it, and would like well to know how it was made. They had the art of making butter among them previous to his coming. He took in Lus-buidhe-bealltainn, (marsh marigold) and putting its stalks in the milk turned it to curds and whey. This is said to be the first cheese that was made in Mull. Some time, nearly a year after this, another boat, or, as they described it, a horse with a tree in its back, was seen coming in the same way. This one came ashore at Lochspelvie, further eastward, and had one man in it also, whom they named “The one in the skin coverings” (an craicionnach). He was brother to the one who came before, and had come in search of him. The two strangers and the natives were agreeing well together, and the brothers began to build a boat when they found wood abundant in Mull. When the boat was finished they named it “the six-oared boat” (iùrach nan sia ràmh), and when it was fitted up and made ready for sailing, the two brothers took a crew with them and set off in it, to go to one or other of the worlds (na saoghalan eile) that they were seeing before them, and reached Jura (Diùra), but the natives of the island would not let them land, as they had never seen a boat before. They stoned them away from the shore. They then went to Colonsay, but the Colonsay men (na Colosaich) were equally hard-hearted (doirbh). They attacked them, and tried to blind them by throwing sand about their eyes. It was then that they went on to the green (lit., blue) island (an t-eilean gorm), the name by which Islay was then known, where they arrived at a more favourable time, no one being before them at the shore. They drew the boat up on the land, and went on to see if there were people to be found on the island or if they would meet with anyone who could direct them to a house. The first person they met was an old man who was watching cattle (aig aire sreud). He thought they belonged to the island, as no one was known to have ever come to or gone away from it. The first of the brothers who came, asked the old man to give him information about the place. The old man remarked, “How curious your speech is, if you were born in this island.” He said, “No, I am not a native of this island.” The old man said, “And if not, what has brought you here?” “The reason of my coming is, to ask what you can give, and give what I may.” The old man then, as it was nightfall, kindled a fire, and they sat with him till daylight, when men and houses were to be seen. The Islay men were hospitable to the strangers, who remained a full year and built seven boats for them. The elder brother married a woman of the country, and after some time he thought of returning to Mull again. Having prepared his boat he set off, taking his wife and the others with him, and set his course northwards (aghaidh a bhàta, tuath). They had not gone far when a thick mist came on which darkened their world, and as they had no compass and could see no land, they drifted till the boat went in to a shore. This was the first appearance of land they saw since leaving the Eilean Gorm. A big man came down where they were—they never saw his equal for size—and he caught the fore part of the boat and drew it up above high water mark, with them all in it. He invited them to go to his house. They went with him and were made welcome. The daughter of the house, on being asked by the elder of the two brothers for a drink, brought a a two-hooped wooden dish full of milk, set it on the floor beside them and went away. One of the strangers rose to lift the dish and he could not. Then three of them rose, but it defied them to lift it. She came back, and finding the dish as she left it, said, “If you have quenched your thirst it is not awanting from the measure (air a’ mheasair)”. The cowhide one replied, “We have not been accustomed to stoop like cattle (cromadh mar bhà) when we take a drink, and we could not lift the dish.” At that she caught the wooden dish by the ear, in her left hand, and held the drink to them all. “Where have you come from,” she said, “or where are you going?” “We came from the dark-blue sea-isle,” he said, “and are going to the hilly isle (do ’n eilean bheannach).” “That is Mull,” she said, “Mull of my love, Mull of little men (Muile mo ghràidh, Muile nam fear beaga).” They passed that night cheerfully together, and went to put off to sea next day; but when they tried to move the boat and get it afloat, they might as well attempt to move the Rhinns of Islay (an Roinn Ileach) they could not move it. The young wife who came with them from Islay said then, “I know where we are; we are in the green isle that is under spells (fo gheasaibh), but I have a gift that will let us leave it,” and she told those with her how her mother had at parting given her a cap, saying, “If you are ever in a strait, put it on, and you must at the same time bend your head to the ground as low as your feet seven times (seachd uairean do shròn a bhualadh ri òrdaig do choise).” She had the cap in her belt (’n a cneas), and she told them to sit in the boat and take the oars. She then stood in their midst, touched the cap, bent her head, and it went up to her breast (an cneas); the next time it went up to her neck (am muineal); the third time, to her chin, (an smigead); then, as she bent her head, at the fourth time, it went up past her mouth to her nose; the next time, it reached her eyes, then her forehead, at last the top of her head, and the boat was off. The mist was still there. They asked the eldest brother in which direction they were to set their course. He told them to follow the flight of birds, as they went shorewards in the evening and would guide them to land. There is a saying about the home-coming of birds and fish, that “Birds of the universe go westward, and fish of the deep eastward (Eòin an domhain, siar, ’s iasg an domhain, sear).” During the night, the younger brother, the one of skins, called out that there was a mound before them (gu ’n robh tòrr rompa). His brother who was in the afterpart of the boat said, “Is it a tòrr without grass,” and it has got the name of Torrens to the present day (’se na tòrrain a theirear riu gus an là ’n diugh). They reached Mull shore when it was day, and they ran-in the boat at a narrow strait that was like an opening in a dyke (cachaileith ghàraidh), and before they got them from the tholepins, the oars were broken. The place is still known as the narrow strait of broken oars (Caolas-a’-bhristidh-ràmh). They got on shore, and went home and told where they had been and what had happened to them.
The person, now above 70 years of age, from whom the above story was taken down almost word for word by the writer, said that he heard the story when he was a young man, and that the following story (that of the two sisters), was a continuation of it; the incidents of the story occurred during the absence of the two brothers from the place, and were told to them by the natives, in return for the story of their own adventures. The name Torquil, which occurs in this story, and the belief in witchcraft and occult power indicated, suggests that the colony in Mull came originally from Lochlin, or that the story belongs to a later period of history than that that of “The two brothers.” The story is as follows:—
THE TWO SISTERS AND THE CURSE.
Two sisters were living in the same township on the south side of Mull. One of them who was known as Lovely Mairearad[24] had a fairy sweetheart, who came where she was, unknown to anyone, until one day she confided the secret to her sister, who was called Ailsa[25] (Ealasaid), and told her how she dearly loved her fairy sweetheart. “And now, sister,” she said, “you will not tell any one.” “No,” her sister answered, “I will not tell any one; that story will as soon pass from my lips as it will from my knee (o’m ghlùn)”; but she did not keep her promise; she told the secret of the fairy sweetheart to others, and when he came again, he found that he was observed, and he went away and never returned, nor was he seen or heard of ever after by any one in the place. When the lovely sister came to know this, she left her home and became a wanderer among the hills and hollows, and never afterwards came inside of a house door, to stand or sit down, while she lived. Those who herded cattle (ag uallach threud) tried frequently to get near her and persuade her to return home, but they never succeeded further than to hear her crooning a melancholy song in which she told how her sister had been false to her, and that the wrong done to her would be avenged on the sister or her descendants, if a fairy (neach sìth) has power. On hearing that Ailsa was married, she repeated, “Dun Ailsa is married and has a son Torquil, and the evil will be avenged on her or on him (phòs, phòs Ealasaid Odhar,[26] &c.).” What she hummed in her mournful song was:—
My mother’s place is deserted, empty and cold,