Scottish Folk Tales of Coast and Sea E-Book

Tom Muir

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Folk Tales
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 296

Beschreibung

Scotland has over 11,600 miles of coastline, so it's no surprise that the sea and shore have been inspiring folk tales for millennia. In Scottish Folk Tales of Coast and Sea, Orkney storyteller Tom Muir weaves tales from this lore-steeped shoreline, finding selkie folk, pirates and even the devil in the liminal space between land and sea. Learn how death was captured in a nut, how a mermaid wreaked her revenge and how whirlpools were created. Discover a land beneath the waves, the mysterious island of Tir-nan-Og and a chorus of demon cats – but beware the most grotesque monster of them all, the hideous Nuckelavee.

Leseprobe

First published 2024

The History Press

97 St George’s Place, Cheltenham,

Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

Text © Tom Muir, 2024

Illustrations © Bea Baranowska, 2024

The right of Tom Muir to be identified as the Author of 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 1 80399 206 8

Typesetting and origination by The History Press

Printed and bound in Great Britain by TJ Books Limited, Padstow, Cornwall.

eBook converted by Geethik Technologies

DEDICATION

This collection of tales of the sea I would like to dedicate to my brothers and sister:

Jim, Cecil, John, David & Elizabeth Muir

In appreciation of your kindness and patience over the years and for putting up with your feral peedie brother.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Introduction

East and North Coasts

Northern Isles

Western Isles

West Coast

And Finally …

Sources

Bibliography

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Firstly, I would like to thank Nicola Guy for inviting me to write this book in the first place, and to all the staff at The History Press for making it a reality. A huge thank you to Bea Baranowska, whose artwork lifts the stories from the page.

While this was very much a book-led publication, I would like to say a very special thank you to Linda Williamson for her kind permission to let me include two of Duncan Williamson’s wonderful tales, ‘The Selkie’s Revenge’ and ‘Death in a Nut’. They add so much to the book. Also, my thanks to Erin Farley for her help and permission to use the Bell Rock story from her Angus Folk Tales. Erin is like a daughter to me, and a fine storyteller to boot! I am also indebted to Cairistìona Stiùbhart for her help with the Gaelic in two stories.

To my family; my son Danny, his wife Amy and their beautiful little daughter, Lily. My first grandchild! To my daughter Josie and her partner Phil. To my stepchildren (although they are hardly ‘children’) Sarah, Luke, Bridgett and Rachel, and their significant others, from your faux pa. I want to thank you all for being in my life and for your support and love. That goes for Rhonda’s family too, brothers Jeff and Dave, sister Heather and stepmother Londa, and the irrepressible Cindy, my really cool mother-in-law.

My brothers and sister I have already thanked in the dedication, but I would like to acknowledge their tremendous help and support with their own real, live Assipattle. As a dreamy dyslexic bairn, it was they who taught me, not the schools. Being supplied with comics by David helped me to learn to read, which I struggled with, and to Liz for reading to me when I was very small. I am now surrounded by books and love to write. Sadly, Cecil lost his battle with cancer in 2010, but he is still around. As are my parents, Johnny and Lizzie. As you grow older you come to realise more and more just how important, and what a blessing, your family is.

Tragically, my sister Liz didn’t live to see this book as cancer took her on 9 August 2023. Her loss will be hard to bear, but she will always remain in our hearts.

Lastly, but by no means least, I would like to thank my dear, best-beloved wife, Rhonda. Without your support, as my rock in life’s storms, I really don’t know what I would do. You mean everything to me. Also, Rhonda is my editor and proof reader. A perfect team. I am a lucky dog!

FOREWORD

Scotland is a land defined by its seas and coasts. The indented western seaboard adds hundreds of miles of sea loch to numerous island and mainland shores. To south, east and west, the mighty firths or estuaries of Solway, Moray, Tay, Forth and Clyde define patterns of land use and settlement. To the north the Atlantic and North Sea ocean currents clash with mind-blowing force in the Pentland Firth. In Argyll, at the head of the Sound of Jura, the Corryvreckan Whirlpool, third largest in the world, is a lurking danger to the boats that ply that often balmy coast.

This makes sea and coast a major factor in people’s lives and livelihoods in Scotland, and so consequently an abundant source of folklore. In this salty collection, Tom Muir nets a choice harvest of tales that can only delight storytellers, sailors, and coastal explorers alike. There are some classic favourites here but also lots of fresh catches, with the various supernatural creatures of the sea interacting with long-suffering and sometimes lucky humans.

Tom Muir is a storyteller and folklorist based in his native Orkney. He combines those two roles with a special passion that leads him to excellent story sources, and a respectful determination to deliver traditional tales to fresh hearers. To do this, Tom resists embellishments of story or performance. He has a gift for conveying the clear lines and the heart of a tale in a direct no-nonsense fashion. But that tone is firmly grounded in his own understanding, his unique voice as an Orkney storyteller who has gone out into the world, like a seafarer, to share and gather tales from many nations connected by the sea.

There is no better guide to the stories of Scotland’s seas and coasts than Tom Muir. In this book he opens up a theme that is more relevant to our shared global future than ever before. I feel sure that this fine collection will be followed by more voyages of discovery.

Donald Smith

Director

Scottish International Storytelling Festival

INTRODUCTION

The coastline of Scotland, which takes in every island, great and small, is a place steeped in lore. It is a liminal space, between sea and land, and those who live there must be careful of the supernatural as well as the physical world. The folk tales that have grown up along the coast reflect not only the old beliefs of our ancestors, they also reflect the migration of peoples. Scotland was never a country with only one ethnic group. Waves of invaders and settlers brought with them their own cultures and stories. In the west we find that connection with Ireland, which is reflected in the tales. In the northern Isles and north Scotland, the Vikings brought stories and songs that mingled with an older tradition. In the east, in what was the homeland of the Picts and Anglo-Saxons, the tales have their own flavour. Some areas have more sea tales than others, which was frustrating when trying to represent the eastern Central Belt and Borders. I hope their people will forgive my failure.

I was born by the sea, and it has always been an important part of my life. While I didn’t make my living from it, the sea shapes the lives and destiny of all islanders. It seeps into every cell in your body; that connection cannot be denied or ignored. There is something much deeper than just affection. The sea calls to you and you miss it when you are away from it for any length of time. In times of sorrow, I head to the sea to draw solace from the sound of its lapping waters. It is a balm for the soul. The sight of huge breakers smashing against the rocks is a constant fascination for me and many hours could be spent watching them.

But you must never underestimate its power: I lost an uncle to the waves long before I was born, and a dear friend. The sea can be cruel and unforgiving, as you will see in some of these tales. They contain a wide pantheon of supernatural beings, from the dangerous Blue Men of the Minch and the jealous mermaid to the gentle selkie folk who live between two worlds. I hope that my selection and retelling of these stories will meet with your approval, like the warm sea washing a sandy beach, and not with the fury of an Atlantic wave crashing against a cliff.

Tom Muir, May 2023

EAST AND NORTH COASTS

THE THREE QUESTIONS

Fife

In the Kingdom of Fife, there once lived a fisherman called Davie, and his wife Maggie. Their home was a wee cottage by the sea and Davie scratched a living from the deep. He had become a fisherman when he was just a boy, but that was not of his own choosing. In fact, if the truth be told, Davie hated the sea, and he hated his job. He would never be competent enough to buy his own boat, that was for sure, so he used to hire himself on whatever fishing boat would have him. All the local skippers got to know his reputation as a man of limited use on the sea, so work was scarce.

One day, as Davie was out at sea, the net was hauled and the fish cascaded onto the deck. It was Davie’s job to sort out the catch and to throw back the undersized fish, so that they could grow and be caught again. Then he had to start gutting them, a cold, dirty and smelly job that Davie hated most of all. This was always his lot on board a fishing boat. He got the dirty and menial tasks that the more accomplished men disdained to do.

Davie started to throw the small fish over the side of the boat. This was the only thing that he liked to do, to spare the life of another living creature. As he was doing this, a large fish wriggled its way towards the top of the pile. Davie stood stock-still, staring at it. It looked like a mackerel, with the distinctive blue and black stripy pattern along its back and sides, while the rest of it was silver. But this could not be a mackerel, because it was at least four times as big as one of those.

It had such a beautiful look about it that Davie felt compelled to spare its life, like he had spared the life of the small fish. He had a quick look around and saw that the skipper and the rest of the crew were too busy to see what he was up to. Davie picked up that large fish and he tossed it over the side of the boat and into the sea with a splash. He saw the fish dive down into the depths of the sea, then it was gone.

But Davie had been seen, and soon the skipper was standing in front of him, shouting and swearing at him. Davie was told that he was not paid to throw away valuable fish, and that once back in port he could go to a warmer place than on that boat. Not only that, but the skipper said that he would spread the word and Davie would be lucky if he ever got a job linked to the fishing trade for the rest of his life.

Sure enough, on reaching port Davie was kicked off the boat with no wages, but with his reputation in tatters. What would he do now? What would Maggie say when he told her that he was finished in the area? It was a very sad and sorry Davie who slowly walked home that evening.

As Davie trudged on along the road nursing his misery, he became aware that he was not alone. A stranger had fallen into step with him and was now keeping step with him by his side. The stranger was a tall, good-looking man, and he was leading a black and white cow by a rope around its neck. Davie was too depressed to pay much attention to the man, which was something he regretted later. Had he looked a bit closer he might have noticed his feet. He didn’t have any! Just a pair of hooves, while on his head there grew a pair of horns. But Davie didn’t notice any of those things.

Then the stranger spoke. ‘It’s in low spirits you are this evening, Davie.’

‘Aye,’ sighed Davie, ‘I don’t have my troubles to look for. I’ve lost my job on a fishing boat and it looks like it might have been my last one, too. I don’t know what to do, or what to tell my Maggie.’

‘Ach, that’s an awful shame, Davie,’ said the stranger, ‘but I might be able to help you out. You see this cow here? Oh, she’s a fine beast! She gives so much milk and cream that you and your wife could make butter and cheese to sell, along with the milk. I’ll tell you what I’ll do: as I am a fair man, I’ll let you borrow my cow for three years, but after that time I’ll return to collect her. I will ask you three questions and if you can give me an answer to them, then the cow is yours to keep.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Well, if you don’t then you’ll belong to me.’

Davie started to feel uneasy, but he was desperate.

‘Okay, you have yourself a deal! Oh, by the way, what’s your name?’

‘The Devil,’ he said, then vanished in a puff of smoke.

It was a very sheepish Davie who had to explain to Maggie about losing his job and his soul, all in just one day. But she remained remarkably cheery about the situation. She had been married to Davie for long enough to be familiar with disappointments in life.

‘Well Davie, we have three years to turn our fortunes around and maybe we can figure out an answer to the Devil’s questions too. I’m off to milk the cow.’

Maggie milked the beast, which had a very different temperament from its previous owner. She stood as still as a rock while Maggie filled buckets and pots and pans with milk. She had never seen a cow give so much rich, creamy milk before.

‘Davie, my lad, we will make a fortune with this cow. You know, I have always had a dream. I have always wanted to open a nice little tearoom. With the milk, cream, butter and cheese from this cow, we can make that dream a reality.’

So, Maggie made butter and cheese to sell in the market, and she always had the finest milk to sell as well. Soon they had enough money to buy a small tearoom that Maggie could call her own.

Business boomed, and before long they were as rich as the milk. But time doesn’t stand still, and eventually the three years were up. Davie had lost track of the date when he had entered into the deal with the Devil until late one day the door opened and in stepped Auld Nick himself. He was looking pleased with himself. He looked around the teashop and saw that Davie only had the one customer, who was sitting quietly at a table in the corner.

The Devil laughed and fixed Davie with his stare, saying, ‘I’ve come for my cow, and I have my three questions to ask you. Are you ready, Davie?’

Before Davie could open his mouth, the stranger who was sitting in the corner said, ‘Aye, Davie’s ready. And that’s your first question.’

The Devil was taken aback by this, then his temper began to flare up, and he said, ‘Will you mind your own business?’

‘No, I won’t,’ said the stranger, ‘and that’s your second question.’

By this time the Devil was raging, and he roared, ‘Who is this interfering busybody?’

The stranger calmly looked the Devil square in the face and said, ‘I am the King of the Fish. Three years ago, Davie spared my life, and I have come here today to repay my debt to him. And that was your third question!’

The Devil was so consumed with a passionate rage that he stamped his hoof on the floor, leaving a mark on the polished flagstone. He disappeared in a great cloud of smoke and brimstone. He left in such a hurry that he forgot to take the cow with him, who continued to give the best milk to Maggie and Davie for the rest of their days.

THE BELL ROCK

Angus

Henry, the Abbot of Arbroath Abbey, sat in his high seat, deep in thought. His thoughts were the same ones that had been with him his whole life. He thought of the treacherous reef that stood eleven miles out to sea, called the Inchcape Rock. It had been the cause of so much misery and suffering, as ship after ship fell victim to it. So many ships torn to pieces on its jagged teeth, so many lives cut short, so many families left grieving for their loved ones who would no longer return to them.

Henry knew that feeling all too well. His own father had perished on the rock while on his way home to his wife and newborn son. Henry had never met his father, as he was away serving in the army when Henry was born. His mother was so broken-hearted by the loss of her much-beloved husband that she gave the huge estate that had belonged to her father to the abbey, along with the care of her fatherless child.

She knew that she could not survive the grief she bore, and that death was waiting for her, ready to take her to be reunited with her lost love. The baby boy grew up not knowing his parents, cloistered away with only monks for a family. He gave himself up to do God’s work, taking holy orders and rising to become abbot. But he often thought of the rock that had robbed him of so much in life. If only there was a way to stop it in its devilish work.

The abbey at Arbroath was dedicated to the martyred archbishop, Thomas Becket. Prayers were sent up each day for the sake of his soul. The abbey was built near to the coast, and the local villagers were poor fisherfolk. The sea was both a giver and a taker, for it provided the means to make a living and food to eat, but it also claimed the lives of many of those who toiled on it. The abbey tried to help those sailors by lighting the large, round window that faced the sea, high up in the south transept. The ‘Round O’, as it was called locally, acted as a beacon to sailors after the hours of darkness, when the abbey itself was no longer visible.

One day, Henry ordered a boat to be made ready to go to sea. He ordered the men to take the boat as close as they could to Inchcape Rock, so that he could look at it. It was a calm day, and the tide was low, so he landed on the rock without much trouble. Fragments of broken ships were to be seen wedged between the crevices in the rocks. The danger of the rock was apparent for all to see. Now Henry had a plan. He returned with building materials, day after day, to labour on the taming of the reef that had stolen his parents from him. His plan was to have a bell erected on the island, so precisely balanced on its stand that the slightest breeze or surging wave would cause it to ring out a warning to any mariners who were sailing in the vicinity.

At last, a fine bronze bell was cast, ready to take up its solitary post. Henry had the bell brought to the rock, and it was suspended from the sturdy stand that would hold it. The Inchcape Rock now had a voice that would save many lives with its warning cry. The work ended on 29 December, the feast day of Saint Thomas Becket, which Henry saw as a good omen. Soon, the tolling of the bell warned sailors that the Inchcape Rock was nearby, and they could take evasive action to avoid it. The sailors who passed it now gave it a new name. They called it the Bell Rock.

While the sailors sent up a prayer to Abbot Henry for his charitable deeds, not all mariners were so gracious. No one was more depraved than Ralph Vandergroot, known as Ralph the Rover. He was a notorious Dutch pirate who raided shipping in the North Sea. His heart was empty of pity, but full of greed. He regarded human life as a mere nothing, and he murdered and plundered without mercy.

One day, Vandergroot’s ship sailed by the Bell Rock. It was low tide, and the deadly reef was exposed. Vandergroot ordered the ship to go as close as possible to the rock, as he wanted to see the now-famous bell. The boat was brought close in until it touched the rock, and the captain stepped ashore. He walked over to the bell and examined it with interest. He saw that it was made of the finest bronze, which was a valuable metal, and he decided to take it. He ordered his men to help, and the bell was removed from its stand and brought on board the pirate ship.

The ship’s second-in-command was a man called Jan Hanson. He watched with horror and disbelief as Vandergroot had the bell carried on board. ‘Captain,’ he said, ‘you cannot steal that bell. It was set up by holy men, with the blessings of saints and God Almighty. If you take that bell, then great misfortune will follow.’

‘I never had you down as superstitious, Hanson,’ sneered the captain. ‘I will not tolerate that on my ship.’

‘Then set me ashore in Arbroath,’ said Hanson. ‘I will not stay on this ship with that bell.’

Vandergroot’s faced flushed red with fury, and he roared, ‘You are free to leave this ship whenever you like, Hanson!’

So saying, he sprang at Hanson and seized hold of him, lifting him bodily off the deck and tossing him over the side of the ship before the poor man knew what was happening. Like most sailors in those days, Hanson couldn’t swim. It was only thought to prolong the suffering. He sank, then rose again. As he broke the surface of the water he fixed the captain with a stare, saying, ‘You’ll see me again!’ And then he disappeared under the water for good.

Vandergroot was unmoved by what had happened. He made a point of not becoming too attached to any of his crewmen. They returned home to Amsterdam, where Vandergroot had the bell erected in the garden of his home, like a trophy for misdeeds.

A year or more passed, and Vandergroot found himself approaching the Angus coast once again. The winter weather had been poor all day, but now a storm was gathering from the west. The wind rose, the rain lashed down in slanting sheets and the waves grew higher. Soon the ship was pitching and tossing wildly. The sun set and darkness fell; they had no idea where they were. Thunder roared above their heads and lightning flashed. The ‘Round O’ of Arbroath Abbey could be seen in the distance, which meant the rock must be nearby. But where?

A flash of lightning lit up the deck, and there stood Jan Hanson, his clothes dripping wet and seaweed tangled in his hair. He laughed, although it was more like a high-pitched shriek than a laugh, and it seemed to mix with the sound of the screaming wind. The captain stared at him in horror, then the ghostly figure spoke.

‘Vandergroot, you will sleep with me this night.’

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than there was an almighty crash as the ship struck the hidden Bell Rock. Timbers were splintered and masts fell in the carnage of the wreck. The sea and wind were relentless as they ground the ship to pieces on the treacherous rocks. Vandergroot and all his men perished on that night. It was 29 December, the feast day of Saint Thomas Becket.

At home in Amsterdam, Vandergroot’s wife was having a social gathering for friends and neighbours. The gale that was raging off the coast of Arbroath had not yet reached Holland, which was experiencing a relatively calm evening. Suddenly, Mrs Vandergroot heard the sound of the bell in her garden starting to ring loudly. Surprised by this, she went outside to investigate. There she saw the figure of Jan Hanson, his clothes dripping with water, and seaweed tangled in his hair, ringing the bell wildly with an evil smile on his face.

THE BLACKTHORN STICK

Aberdeenshire

There was once a wee fishing village on the east coast of Scotland, just north of Aberdeen. I don’t know if it is still there or not, for this story happened a long time ago.

The fishermen of the village were very proud of their boats, and who could blame them? The boat was not only a status symbol but also the means by which they made their living. Younger lads with no boat of their own would hire themselves out to a man who did own one. They took a share of the catch, but the largest portion went to the owner. And the boat got its own share too, for its upkeep and maintenance.

There was one young lad who had a fine boat. Oh, it wasn’t the biggest or the best boat in the harbour, but to him it was the most beautiful, because he owned it. It wasn’t a new boat, but it was solidly built and handled well at sea. The young fisherman had a small crew compared to most boats, but they worked hard and had money to spend, or to save for their own boat one day. The fisherman had a sweetheart, and he loved her every bit as much as he loved his boat. She was a bonnie lass, but she also possessed wisdom and was known for being level-headed. She could think her way through any trouble in a way that the young laddie could not. He knew that if they had a good fishing season then he’d have enough money to marry her and to provide a wee house for them to call their own.

But things didn’t work out the way that the young fisherman had planned. The boats left the harbour with the dawn, heading for their fishing grounds in the North Sea. The sun was shining and the weather was mild as the boats sailed further and further away from the coast. But the weather can change quickly, and that is what happened on this day. The dark clouds started to gather and the wind rose, swinging around to the north, bitingly cold, blowing from the Arctic. The wind grew stronger and the sea started to swell, with large waves forming. The cold sea spray lashed the faces of the fishermen as they tried to turn their boats back to shore. It was clear to them all: a storm was coming that would claim lives.

The young fisherman gave the order to turn the boat, but it was too late. The storm hit them with its full fury. The sea roared and the wind howled as the boats started to turn. One was caught by a strong gust and capsized, much to the horror of the young men in the boat. There was no way that they could turn the boat back to try to save the crew in the water. They had to hope that one of the other boats could reach them before the cold sea claimed them.

Another boat was swamped by a huge wave and struggled to keep afloat. The young fisherman used all his skills to save his boat and the crew, but luck was not on his side that day. A mountainous wave struck the small boat like an enormous hammer, splintering wood and turning it right over. The young fisherman found himself being sucked down, struggling to kick off his boots in order to stay afloat. His head broke the surface and he gasped for breath. The cold was unbearable; his life seemed to be at its end already. He thought of his sweetheart, so loving and kind, and called her name, almost as though he was saying goodbye.

Then he felt himself being grabbed by several hands, and he was pulled into another boat. He lay there, more dead than alive, as the boat struggled against the storm and headed towards the safety of the harbour. The men who had rescued him brought him home to his parents’ house. His mother wept as she stripped him and dried him and laid him in the bed. Memories of her mother doing this for her father flooded into her mind, and they were bitter to bear. The cold had reached her father’s vital organs. He hadn’t pulled through.

But the lad was strong and his love for his sweetheart may have made the difference, because he recovered. His mother and his own dear sweetheart tended him with loving care while he slowly grew stronger. But while his body was healed, his mind and his heart were broken. He knew that he was lucky to be alive. Many families mourned the loss of their sons, fathers and brothers who were not so fortunate, but his beloved boat was splintered and had sunk to the bottom of the unforgiving sea. Without a boat, how could he marry his love? He had no house to shelter her and no boat to provide an income to support her. He could see no way out of this tragedy that had befallen him.

His mother said that he should marry her anyway, and they could live with her and his father, but he thought that was unfair on them. His sweetheart said that they could wait a while until they saved their money and were able to wed. Seeing his despair, his sweetheart, who was a wise and level-headed girl, proposed another plan. Instead of him moping around the harbour lamenting the loss of his boat, he should swallow his pride and sign on as a crewman on another fishing boat. That would at least bring in some money that they could use to get themselves established with. She would also leave the village and head inland to seek employment on one of the crofts. Little by little, they would earn enough to be able to marry. With a deep sigh, he agreed with her, his sensible girl, so strong, so supportive.

The next day, the young couple set off on the road inland. The young man was quiet and thoughtful, while the young woman was cheerful – or at least she pretended to be. They walked along until the road met the highway, and there they had to part company. He would return to the fishing village where they were born, where they had both grown up and it had always been known that they were destined to be together. She would head inland and trust to her luck for finding work.

As they parted, he handed her a strong, sturdy blackthorn stick that he had been carrying under his arm, saying, ‘It’s not much of a gift to give to the one you love, but take this stick to help you on your journey and to support you, just as you have supported me.’

They kissed lovingly and he turned his back to her and returned to the coast. She picked up the bundle that contained all her worldly goods and headed inland, looking for a crofter who wanted to hire a servant lass. But as she went from croft to croft, she always got the same answer: ‘We don’t need a servant lass; we hired one at the fair last month.’

She had missed the hiring fair, and now all the posts were filled. As darkness fell, she saw a small shepherd’s hut and she sheltered there for the night. In the morning, she dusted herself down and fixed her hair before having a wee bite to eat of the food that she had brought with her. She then went to a nearby burn and drank the cold, clear water before washing her hands and face there. With her bundle under her arm and her strong, sturdy blackthorn stick in her hand, she set off again.

All that day she walked from croft to croft, but it was always the same story. No servant lasses were needed. As the evening wore on she finally saw a large house, a bit finer than the other houses had been. It had two storeys and looked like the prosperous dwelling house of a well-to-do family. She headed up the path that led to the door, hoping for a change of luck.

Inside the house the family were gathered, covered in dust and cobwebs from their day’s toil. In the front room, the old man was lying dead.

They were, indeed, a well-off family, as the girl suspected. But the old man loved his gold more than he loved his children. They had all worked hard on the farm, but it was the father who took the sheep and cattle to the market, and it was he who came home with the money. But they never saw a penny of it. He hid it – where they did not know, but when he took ill and went to his bed the family tried to find out. When they saw that he was near to death they harassed him, constantly asking him where the money was hidden, but he just grinned and said nothing. He had died that morning, and the family had made a thorough search of the house, but without finding the hiding place.

The eldest son saw the young woman coming up the path towards the house and said, ‘Look, a stranger is coming.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said his wife, ‘a stranger is coming. Maybe she can be of use to us.’

‘Just what I was thinking,’ said her husband, who looked knowingly at his brothers and their wives.

They all smiled and nodded at each other. For they knew the old tradition that had been handed down among the farming folk for generations. If someone died who had a secret, and if you asked them what you wanted to know then got a stranger to sit with the corpse all night while the outside door was ajar, then the dead would rise and tell the secret. This was the task that they wanted this stranger to do for them, but of course, they were not going to tell her about it.

When the young woman knocked on the door the eldest son answered it. She asked if he had any work, and the elder son asked her where she came from and quizzed her, to see if he could find out if she knew anything about the tradition of sitting with corpses.

Once he was sure that the girl knew nothing about it, he said, ‘We don’t need a servant, as there is a large enough family here to carry out the work. But,’ he added, ‘this is a house of grief, as our father died this very morning. We sat nursing him in his final hours and we are very tired, so we would hire you to sit up all night, watching over his body. I’ll give you a gold and a silver coin as your pay.’

‘Aye,’ said the young woman, ‘I can do that.’