Tales from the Tent (17 page)

‘I’ll fill a heart intae the fire, lass, while you feed the little yin, then we’ll eat this gift from God.’ He moistened a flannel, then wiped the sweat from her brow.
‘Bonnie lassie, I know these parts, but if you think you saw a big dog then I’ll visit up on Braeside cottage and speak with Ian the keeper, he’ll put me right.’ That seemed
to quieten her, allowing him to skin and cook the rabbits.

Later it was a stunned Jimmy that heard what the old keeper had to say.

‘Well, well, she’s still there, I thought Sir Colin took her out last winter.’

The said gent was a relative of the estate’s owner and had spent some time in the Canadian Rockies, said old Ian. He was there shooting; his favourite hobby was killing anything that
moved. To add to his sport he was supposed to have smuggled over to Scotland—of all things—a wolf.

‘A wolf!’ Jimmy felt his bottom jaw drop, ‘what in the name o’ hell was he planning to dae wi’ a wolf?’

‘Aye, ye may well ask. Seems he had the idea o’ filling the woods wi’ the creatures. Bring in his buddies and have wolf shoots. Nothing doing wi’ that stupid idea because
every sheep farmer for hundreds of miles would have put paid to his wolf before he could bring in breeders. However he had the good sense to kennel the bitch, but did she not chew her way out. I
scoured the ground for the poor cratur, never seen hide nor hair of her though. We breathed easy, thinking a dog fox might have killed her, until a young travelling laddie told me he heard puppy
yelps coming from a hole in the forest. I told Sir Colin and we found seven pups. The only explanation to that must have been that a mating took place with the traveller’s Alsatian dog, they
have a wolf-like way.’

Jimmy sat heavily down and thought on his wife and child, then excused himself and was gone. ‘I’ll pack and go this very day. If Rachel sees yon beast again she’ll go oot her
senses.’ Jimmy was soon striding for home. He checked to see no one was near before climbing the dyke and disappearing back into the trees, but oh my, a shout from the hillside had him rear
his head. It was the man with the gun, the one they encountered the previous day.

Old Ian however had meant to give Jimmy a bit of salmon, and chased after him just in time to stop Sir Colin shooting the travelling laddie stone dead.

‘Put that gun away, sir, for Jimmy here is the son of a friend o’ mine!’

‘What would you be doing mixing hands with the likes of rodents, Ian?’ asked the angry man.

‘Well, I ken o’ nane other than the travellers for keeping a trim on vermin. Everybody has their uses, Sir Colin, you know.’ Old Ian obviously was held in high esteem, because
not many would get leave to speak like that to the landed gentry.

Jimmy, though, had been held back from being with his family and if it wasn’t for the scream Rachel sent through the forest that moment, he would have grabbed Sir Colin by the throat.
Instead, ignoring him, Jimmy and old Ian ran to Rachel’s aid.

What a terrible sight met their eyes: the small canvas tent was flattened, firewood lay scattered. Rachel stood motionless, arms hung limp at her side. Worst of all, Jimmy’s baby son was
nowhere to be seen. He grabbed his stunned wife and, shaking her, shouted, ‘what has happened to the wee yin? Rachel, the bairn, tell me!’

Rachel slid onto the forest floor, and holding a tiny white shawl toward the heavens screamed, ‘It took him, came back and took ma babby! I told you it wanted our bairn. Oh, why did you
leave me?’ From then on she would not be consoled, such was her torment of despair. Jimmy turned to old Ian for help, but all seemed lost. A hungry wolf, what did they know of such things? No
one knew anything of North American timber wolves in Scotland. Suddenly Sir Colin forced a way through the gorse and when he saw what had happened immediately apologised. ‘I had better tell
you both,’ he said, ‘I found out that those travellers had returned, the ones who came last year. They spent a few weeks over on the other side of the forest. They had dogs, I think one
must have been the Alsatian. I found a lair with more young and killed them. I know where it is; perhaps I can make amends and take you there. Maybe the she-wolf will be resting and feeding
on...’. Quickly he stopped his tongue and walked off, old Ian and Jimmy at his heel. They left poor Rachel swaying from side to side, beating her breast and mumbling in the ancient mourning
tongue of her ancestors. Jimmy caught the sleeve of Sir Colin’s jacket and threatened revenge for the disaster he was responsible for.

The gent wasn’t listening, however, because suddenly a sight rose up in front of the threesome. Jimmy and old Ian had never seen such a vision. A great grey form barred their way, standing
its ground; dropping its head and with curled lip it flashed pure white fangs. Sir Colin slipped his hand down to where a ready-loaded rifle hung and lifted it to shoot. The big she-wolf charged,
slashing with her mighty jaws, and landed on Sir Colin just as he fired. Both fell upon the mossy floor of the forest, blood pouring from the mighty beast. At last her torment was over, but she did
not go alone. Sir Colin, for all his sins, also lay dead, having fallen upon a jagged tree stump. It all happened so fast that old Ian and Jimmy hardly had time to draw breath. Suddenly from a
small opening beneath them, a cry was heard. Jimmy pushed his head inside a cave-like place, and there, lying on a bed of crushed dry leaves, was the living, breathing form of a baby—his own
child. The mother wolf had substituted their newborn puppy for her lost ones. That was the only explanation they could think of. Jimmy and Rachel (who believed God had looked after her baby) left
Glentress Forest the next day, and went on to have seven more children. Their precious first child was christened Ian. But he was seldom called by that name. Travelling people, however, will tell
you the nickname he goes by—Wolfie!

I shall be hard pushed to forget Mac’s parting words on the wolf of Glentress. ‘A lassie a wee bit “gyte” was yon timber wolf,’ he told me, meaning she had been
broken and did not fit.

Deary me, the ways of the world.

Still, no time to dwell, because we’re on the road again, a long road at that. Manchester looms, she of the thousands of people—all kinds of folks, different colours and creeds.
However, very few of them were Scottish travellers, so let’s tell you how we fared during the winter of 1963, ten years after our last visit.

Before we settle there for the winter I’ll part with another tale for your attentive eyes. This wee story I now slip in was from an elderly Welsh traveller. His name was Eddy Blue Boy the
Third. Sorry I can’t elaborate on the title, but he made me laugh and that is why this story stays in my mind.

I had seldom heard the ancient worthies until then, and although he parted with several tales it was this one that stuck firmly in my head.

16

DAVIE BOY AND THE DEVIL

T
ime and place have no meaning to the characters of our tale, so just say it happened a while ago in this place and that.

Davie was a traveller boy who had, after many years, come wearily home from a seafaring life looking for his family. When he at last arrived at the campsite where they’d last met, he was
sad to see it empty, void of old and young, dog and pony. Sitting down on a stone, head in hand, he looked around the place where many had played and he felt heart-heavy. Scanning the quiet place
before heading off, he noticed that where his camp usually stood was a mound of perhaps only a foot wide. As he began to scrape away the small handful of sand he recalled his father saying to him
as a little boy, ‘if I have a message for you I’ll bury it.’ Yes, this was a message from his father, because in the hollow he uncovered lay a box. In it were three biscuits and a
note. The note read: ‘If you be hungry, my son, don’t eat these biscuits until you have shared them.’ What a strange thing for his father to say, he thought. Still, his father was
a wise man, and he had taken the time to conceal the box for Davie, who by the way was beginning to feel a mite hungry. However, he would abstain from a morsel until he met someone hungrier than
himself. This was just around the corner because there he found an old back-bent woman who asked him for a small crumb of food. ‘I only have three biscuits old hag,’ he told her,
‘but you are welcome to share one with me.’ The wizened wife thanked him, ate the half biscuit then went at a snail’s pace away. Soon he came upon another old lady and she too
asked him for food. ‘There are two biscuits in my bag but I’ll share one with you.’ Again the elderly soul thanked him for his kindness and crawled off.

Two days later his hunger had taken on a life of its own, gnawing at his innards. ‘I must eat this last biscuit,’ he thought in desperation, scanning the skyline for someone to
appear. Just as he was putting the biscuit to his lips a sound from the roadside reached his ears. ‘Help me, please, I am starving to death.’ Davie made over to a clumpy grassy patch to
find, lying in a dreadful state, another ancient woman. This one was even more sickly than the others. ‘Help me to sit up, young man,’ she begged, ‘I have no strength in these
bones.’ Davie bent down and gently seated her against a tree trunk.

‘Here, old wife, I have only one biscuit left, but you can have it all.’

‘Thank you, my good man’, she said, handing him a woven sack. ‘You deserve much more than a biscuit.’ Davie thought the old woman was perhaps missing her marbles, for
what good was an empty sack to one who was in the last throes of hunger?

‘When I am gone down that road, you open the sack and ask it for whatever you desire, but never a thing of badness or greed.’ Those parting words left Davie totally confused. He
scratched his head and sat down upon the same patch of grass she had sat on no more than minutes before. The hunger returned with a vengeance, eating steadily deep into his gut. He peered inside
the sack, and making sure no one should see him and think his actions those of a madman, whispered, ‘Can I please have food?’

And did he have food? Did he ever! For there, to astonish his eyes, was a table bigger than one set in a banqueting hall, of every kind of eatables one could wish for. And for one who had the
merest crumbs of shared biscuits in his belly, then was that not a feast! Davie ate until the last bite swelled in his throat and nearly choked the once-hungry lad.

Then, like a babe, he lay within a sun-warmed grass field and slept, slept and dreamt of steak and vegetables, puddings and creams, salmon and fruits, all produced from an old hessian sack. Yes,
if ever there was a happy traveller man then he’d be hard pushed to beat our Davie.

Awakened and refreshed he carefully folded the magic sack and tied it over his shoulder. Little knowing or caring where his wandering footsteps would lead him, Davie set off down and over the
road that led to somewhere or nowhere. By the day’s end he’d arrived at a town snuggled within high stone walls in the middle of which was a castle. ‘This is a strange
place,’ he thought, noticing an obvious lack of inhabitants. As he looked all over for a place to shelter for the night, it soon became apparent not a single house had a light or open
shutters to its name. Finding no one he went and knocked loudly at the castle gate. He waited some time before at last the gate creaked open, and standing peering out from behind the heavy wooden
gate was an old man who asked Davie his business. ‘I need digs for the night, where can I lodge?’

The elderly gent told Davie that he would find nothing in this place because the ancient one had eaten most folks. The rest had taken to the hills in fear that they too would be feasted
upon.

‘Ancient one,’ asked our visitor, ‘and who might he be? And can he not eat food like the rest of us?’

The old man was a bit taken aback by Davie’s response and asked him where he had been for the last ten years and more. After realising Davie had been on the high seas, the old man beckoned
to him to come in and share his supper. Davie didn’t feel the need for food, having eaten enough to choke a horse, but thought it best not to offend the man and said a drink of tea would be
fine. They drank down tea and then Davie discovered what was happening to the people.

He drew upon his pipe, did the old man, stared into the fire and said, ‘One night when her Majesty the Queen was alone in her chambers, she made a wish that the King’s dungeon was
filled stapped full with gold. Suddenly she turned to see a tiny man dancing in the flames of her fireplace. He said that if she wanted her wish to come true, then she had to bring two handmaidens
over to the fire for his Master. Without question the greedy monarch did as requested. The most terrible thing happened next—a dozen tiny little men just like the first grabbed the two
innocent maidens and drew them into the fire, never to be seen again. The King, on hearing this, was horrified at the evil greed of his wife, scolding her for dealing with the underworld. She said
that before he judged her, why did they not see if the tiny man kept his part of the bargain. So down into the dungeon they went, and yes, there it was, a mountain of sun-kissed gold filled every
corner. But the King was not impressed, and went into his wife’s chamber to see if the magic forces could be summoned. At once the little man appeared to him and said, if he wanted things to
be as they used to be, then he must bring the Queen over to the fire. This he did, and in an instant she too was seized and swallowed up by the fiery imps. 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 he of all terror, of all horror, of the most grotesque form, the Devil himself, shot out and
held his Majesty by the throat. ‘You will bring me and mine food—living, screaming, kicking food—do you hear me, mortal?’