Animals, Beasties and Monsters of Scotland E-Book

Lea Taylor

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 154

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

What do you think happened when Jack refused to do his chores? Do you think you're clever enough to hide from Dundee's dragon? Watch out for Lefty the spider dying to tell you his story about life in the glen … The stories in this book are of animals, beasties and monsters that are fast and cunning and scary and big. And they are ready to tell their tales to you …

Leseprobe

Dedicated to Andy and Cameron

First published 2019

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© Lea Taylor, 2019

Illustrations © Sylvia Troon, 2019

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

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the Publishers.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 7509 9112 4

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed in Great Britain

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

CONTENTS

About the Author

About the Illustrator

Introduction

Acknowledgements

1 Jack and the Blue Men of the Minch

2 Kelpie Capers

3 The Greedy Trows of Orkney

4 The Spider’s Tale

5 Monkey Business

6 The Drake’s Tale

7 Dundee’s Dragon

8 Moragus the Haggis

9 Magical Journey to the Isle of Skye

10 The Wager

11 The White Hare

12 The Harper’s Stone

13 The Gypsy’s Curse

14 The Shetland Wulver

15 Between Tides

16 The Last of Scotland’s Giants

17 King of the Birds

Glossary

ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

Sylvia has found it thoroughly enjoyable to draw the creatures for this book – especially the wee midgies! Since her studies at Edinburgh College of Art she has taught in schools, been a puppeteer and storyteller, and recently created books for Historic Environment Scotland. She is now concentrating on painting, and writing and illustrating her own stories, as well as working with Lea.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lea uses words to make a living. Her main job is through working as a freelance storyteller – this aspect of her work is diverse, ranging from writer/storyteller residencies, to working with schools, government agencies or residential care homes doing reminiscence work. She is no stranger to performance work and has written a number of pieces for festivals and tours. It is very much hoped that you enjoy and share these stories as much as Lea has enjoyed writing them.

INTRODUCTION

In writing this book I have drawn upon folk tales and traditional tales from the length and breadth of Scotland. In some instances I have used elements of well-kept traditional tales and introduced bits of them into the story. Most of the traditional tales are formulaic and so I do not feel I have strayed too far, merely looked at the story with a fresh eye. I have also actively sought to contemporise some of the stories to give them a twenty-first century feel. All stories morph and change in their telling, and this is the reason why I have taken this approach.

I truly hope you enjoy reading this book as much as I have enjoyed researching and writing it.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Without the assistance of a number of wonderful helpers the task of bringing this book to print would have been a long and onerous one. Thanks to my husband, Andy, for his tireless patience and endless cups of tea. To Cameron for being my story tester and especially to Sylvia Troon for her wise comments, encouragement and endless support. This really has been a wonderful collaboration with lots of surprises along the way.

1

JACK AND THE BLUE MEN OF THE MINCH

Jack was a typical boy. He liked his football, his computer games, his music, especially grime music. A guaranteed wind-up for his mum as she was forever asking him to turn it down or off. When his father died, they moved to the west side of the Isle of Lewis, not far from the Callanish Stones, to be nearer to his mum’s family. One afternoon his Uncle Gregor took him out on a special trip in his fishing boat on one of Scotland’s roughest stretches of water, the Minch. But before they had a chance to cast their nets a sudden storm blew up and they had to cut the trip short. Life in Lewis was quite a radical departure from what Jack had been used to in the city.

Jack, like all teenagers, was not the most forthcoming of lads when it came to helping around the house. His mother moaned and cajoled him into helping but he never did anything without being asked. The day came when his mother finally broke down and cried, ‘Jack, it’s no good son. I can’t be carrying you anymore. You either pull your weight or you’ll have to leave. I simply can’t afford to do this any longer.’

Jack was shocked. He hadn’t seen this one coming – and to think that his mother was prepared to ask him to leave. It was unthinkable. Hurt and angry, Jack left the house, slamming the door behind him. He needed time to think, to take all that had been put before him in. He walked aimlessly for a long while, not really taking any notice of where he was going or how late it was getting. He was hungry and tired, his feet were sore but he still wasn’t ready to go home. Part of him wanted to stay away to make his mother worry, make her feel bad about what she had said, so seeing a large stone that offered a bit of shade, he sat himself down next to it. Its coolness and shape somehow fitted perfectly with his back. He stretched his feet out and tilted his head to feel the gentle breeze on his face, and before he knew it he had fallen fast asleep.

The stone radiated a hum. There was something about it that connected the stone to the land – the very heart of the land that spoke of ancient ancestors – their voices somehow crept into his head and pulled him down into the depths of the earth, down into its very core. Jack felt himself falling, could see images flickering past him. Men with flocks of sheep. People with carts loaded with belongings looking sad and lost. Soldiers on horses carrying flags, soldiers with pikes on foot. Strange large creatures, prehistoric perhaps? Blue faces, bodies with fish scales moving, perhaps swimming powerfully through water. Suddenly he landed in a huge cavernous cave. Its light shone pearlescent and luminous – the whole of the cave was covered in mother of pearl. He hardly had time to take it in when someone or something with great strength lifted him up by the arm and pulled him towards the centre of the room.

A crowd of dark figures stood there, their backs to him, facing inwards. Jack felt himself being pushed towards the centre, stumbling through and past tall, sticky forms. As he brushed past he thought of tough elastic, the kind that pulled at the hairs on his arm. When he broke through the throng he was confronted by a huge octopus dancing an eightsome reel to its appreciative audience. As the music subsided, the bodies stood back, leaving Jack standing out all on his own. All eyes were upon him but in particular those of a huge blue man seated on a seaweed throne before him. The throne was set upon a dais and surrounded by the jawbone of a great shark or huge whale.

The blue man wore a crown made of elaborate seashells and cape patterned with images of starfish, seahorses and fish. In his huge right hand he gripped a sceptre made from what looked like a narwhal’s tusk. His grey-blue face was as old and wrinkled as Father Time’s. He smiled to reveal teeth, yellow and jagged, like the rows of teeth set in the jawbone around the throne. With a bony blue finger, the chief beckoned Jack to come closer, his eyes, slits of blue against a yellow background, blinked in a rhythmic fashion.

‘You tuned in to the pulse of the land. You called the ancient ones,’ he murmured, his voice escaping between bursts of bubbles.

‘The ancient Storm Kelpie chorused the throng with a rush of oxygen rising upwards.

‘Perform your quest or submit yourself to the Kingdom of Blue.’ The chief leant forward as if to impress his point.

Jack was perplexed; he wasn’t aware of calling anyone. Pulse of the land? Quest? What was this strange man on about? ‘Dude, you got me all wrong,’ he ventured, but the chief and his subjects remained still, staring at him impassively. Only the seaweed fronds swayed gently in the water.

‘Perform!’ commanded the chief.

‘Yes, perform!’ shouted one of the Blue Men, poking him in the back with a stubby finger. The other Blue Men moved in closer, looking quite menacing.

Jack stood stock still. How he wished he was at home with his mother. He would clean up his room, help around the house, even hoover and chop wood. Anything to be away from here.

‘You dare to defy the Blue Men of the Minch? Perform – for your life depends upon it,’ said the blue man who had poked him. There followed another pause. ‘Very well then.’ The blue man nodded at the chief as if taking his cue, ‘I will give you your tasks – and should you fail, you will live the rest of your days here as the chief’s slave. Now, sing to please the chief!’

Sing! Jack had never sung in public. He wasn’t even sure he could sing and then his mind went blank. He couldn’t think of a single song. Suddenly he was reminded of a small part he played in the school play. There had he stood on the stage, illuminated by the spotlight for all the school, its teachers, children and parents to see and he had forgotten his lines.

‘Sing!’ commanded the chief, thumping the floor of his throne with his narwhal tusk. ‘Sing,’ chanted the audience. Whorl patterns appeared in the water, like mini tornadoes. And when the Blue Men became excited it seemed that one whorl pattern joined another and another. As he witnessed this, Jack started to feel himself being drawn in by the vortex they created, his feet lifting off the floor.

Then the chief raised the narwhal tusk and everyone became silent. The whorls slowed and disappeared just as quickly as they had appeared.

At first Jack ventured a nursery rhyme, ‘Humpty Dumpty’, but even he could tell it wasn’t going down well. Then he sang ‘Flower of Scotland’ with a bit more gusto. The chief grimaced, some put their hands to their ears. After a while a fish swam by and plugged itself into Jack’s mouth, at which everyone cheered.

‘Now dance!’ commanded the chief.

‘Dance? You’re kidding me!’ moaned Jack. ‘I cannae dance to save masel.’

The chief thumped the floor with his narwhal tusk and issued the order once more, ‘Dance!’

Feeling incredibly self-conscious, Jack began to shuffle his feet this way and that. When he stamped the floor sand rose in the water, creating small foggy clouds. Until that moment he hadn’t noticed that he was breathing under water. He made a mental note to himself that dancing under water is not an easy feat. He began to feel a rhythm, hear its beat inside his head. His feet started to respond. He slipped a moon walk dance move into the routine, a smile appeared on his lips, and he was just thinking ‘A’m no so bad at this’ when the octopus stretched out a couple of its tentacles and grabbed him by the ankles. Before he knew it, he was face-planted in the sand and all the Blue Men were roaring with laughter. Even the chief was slapping his sides.

Jack got to his feet, quite cross and not a little embarrassed. The Blue Man stepped forward once more and exclaimed, ‘This is your last chance to prove yourself and obtain your freedom. The challenge is …’

Jack could feel his heart thumping as if it was trying to free itself from his chest. He thought of those competitions on the telly where they pause a couple of moments before announcing the winner to enhance the suspense.

‘In accordance with the dictates of the Blue.’

‘The Blue’ chanted the rest of the crowd in unison while thumping their chests emphatically.

‘We will demand a Storm Kelpie tradition, drawn up by our ancestors who lived in the Minch and swam between what you call Lewis and the Shiant islands many moons before us. In their honour, we call upon a rhyming duel.’

‘A rhyming duel,’ chanted the crowd, releasing another burst of bubbles.

‘Eh? What’s that when it’s at hame?’

‘Precisely what they said,’ stated the chief. ‘I say a rhyme, then you, then me and so on until whoever fails first.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, if that’s the case, you go first, efter all you’re the chief!’

And so the duelling began. The chief started with a simple rhyme immediately followed by Jack. He surprised himself, his rhyme was quick and snappy. He caught sight of the nodding approval of the onlookers and it made him feel a little bolder. The chief responded with another short rhyme, only to find Jack ready with a witty rejoinder. The duelling continued for almost an hour, by which time the chief was losing momentum. Finally he hesitated and mumbled, he ummed and chewed his lip. His subjects coughed and shifted themselves uncomfortably.

Jack seized his chance. Drawing his shoulders up and standing with his feet hip-width apart, he took in a deep breath and began:

Oh chief, oh king,

You can de yer thing

whit ever yer thing may be

But am telling you this

fer a seagulls kiss

I couldnae gie a fig or a flee

Ye can keep your sea

and yer funny blue knees

coz I’m going tae say it straight

Ill no be yer slave

going down to the grave

Noo I’m off to ma bed coz it’s late.

He finished with a flourish, a curt wee bow that was greeted with rapturous applause. Even the chief leapt up from his throne to shake Jack’s hand and clap him on the back. Upon which, a small shoal of fish entered the arena and performed a synchronised swimming routine. When they were finished the chief addressed his subjects, exuberantly waving his narwhal tusk.

‘Friends, Blue Men, Countrymen. Today we have witnessed a feat never seen before – the out-rhyming of the chief. Our competitor has earned his freedom and his dearest wish to return home to help his mother and clean up his room.’

‘Clean up his room,’ chorused the Blue Men.

‘Hame to clean up ma room,’ said Jack.

The chief snapped off a small section from the tip of the narwhal’s tusk and presented it ceremoniously to Jack.

‘Thank you,’ smiled Jack, and in what seemed like a nanosecond, he experienced a weird sensation, like being shuggled at his shoulders and tickled on his toes. Suddenly he found himself wide awake, sitting with his back to the standing stone.

‘Hame to clean up ma room?’ he laughed aloud in puzzlement. ‘That was some dream.’ But then he looked down to find he was holding something strange in his hand. As he uncurled his fingers he found that the object was nothing more than the tip of a narwhal’s tusk.

2

KELPIE CAPERS

It’s a rare thing for kelpies to meet up in groups as generally they are solitary creatures, haunting the lochs and burns around Scotland. But with the advent of the giant kelpie head sculptures in Falkirk and all the fuss it created, things changed, for a short while at least.

When word got out, kelpies near and far agreed that they had to meet to decide what, if anything, needed to be done about it and whom, if anyone, was going to deal with this potential problem. After all we had our reputations to keep, the kelpies’ code had to be upheld and all the other things in between needed to be considered.

Gathering the herd together was not an easy thing. Where to meet, and when, proved to be a real sticking point. After all, Kelpies don’t use social media, texts, phones or even letters for that matter. Everything had to go out by ‘word of muzzle’. And then there’s the problem of getting to the appointed place. Kelpies can’t exactly use public transport or main roads now can they?

Finally it was agreed that the herd should meet at the Kelpie’s Stane, near the River Don in Aberdeen. It’s been a popular holiday spot for kelpies Scotland-wide for the last several hundred years at least, so it proved to be a popular choice. The gathering was quite an event; Kelpies reunited, who’d have thought it! It was all rubbery smiles (kelpie selfies), prancing hooves, whinnies of delight and galloping about up and down the River Don in a mindless fashion for a while; until we had galloped the excitement out of ourselves at least. We were one great big herd of black, fit-looking horses complete with customised silver bridles, like Appleby Cross fair without the people.

Naturally one of the first things discussed was who among us had posed for the kelpie structures. The general consensus was that ‘Falkirk Shuggie’ was responsible, but he was having ‘nane o it’ and in hindsight he was probably right. His nostrils are far too close together in any case. Personally I would have put my shiny hoof on it being Shona from Invergowrie; she always acted as if she were a cut above everyone else.

The best thing to come out of the gathering, aside from meeting old friends or enemies for that matter, was the stories of the encounters we had had with humans. The lives we had taken and the ones that got away. After all, we’re not exactly known for being kind and considerate are we?