Scottish Urban Myths and Ancient Legends E-Book

Grace Banks

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 283

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Beschreibung

Monsters, lunatics, vampires, werewolves and evil dolls, stones entombing bodies, faces appearing in walls, curses and meetings with the Devil – all this and more are contained within this book of myths and ancient legends. Well-known storytellers Grace Banks and Sheena Blackhall recount a range of intriguing tales from the top to the bottom of Scotland, from ancient times to the present day. Folklore embeds itself in a local community, often to the extent that some people believe all manner of mysteries and take them as fact. Whether they're stories passed around the school playground, through the Internet, or round a flickering campfire, such legends are everywhere. Scottish Urban Myths and Ancient Legends is a quirky and downright spooky ride into the heart of Celtic folklore.

Leseprobe

Ruth, Esther, Peter and Josh, thanks for listening!Love Mum

Dedicated with thanks to Alan Spence for the support given.

Stories paint colour, texture and depth onto a flat, blank landscape.

Expression, emotion and the senses give characters life, breath and movement.

CONTENTS

Title

Dedication

Quote

Foreword

To Begin …

The Highlands

Aberdeen City

Aberdeenshire

Perth and Kinross

Angus

Fife

Stirlingshire

Edinburgh

Lothian

The Borders

Glasgow City

Argyll and the Inner Isles

Outer Hebrides

Sutherland

Orkney

Shetland

Inverness

Wester and Easter Ross

A Mix o’ Urban Tale Shorties

Bibliography

Copyright

FOREWORD

Everybody loves an urban legend, an urban myth. We’ve all heard them, usually told by someone who insists the story is true, 100 per cent – it happened to the cousin of a friend of somebody they know. These myths are an important part of our oral tradition, along with (and often including) the ghost story, the yarn, the tall tale.

These stories are universal, the same themes and motifs occurring in many different cultures, and they tend towards the archetypal, the apocryphal. They reflect something profound, those deep structures by which we frame and understand experience. But what gives them their power, their magic, their charm and recurring appeal, is the particular detail, the locale, setting the story in time and place.

Scotland has a rich history of such tales, and two of our finest storytellers, Sheena Blackhall and Grace Banks, have joined forces to set down their own versions of their personal favourites. There will be tales here you recognise, stories you’ve been told (with that assurance that they’re absolutely true!) and others that are new to you. There are stories from all over Scotland – rural myths as well as urban – from centuries past and from the present day. There are stories to make you laugh and stories to chill your spine, told (or retold) with a freshness that’s invigorating.

The art of storytelling is alive and well.

Alan Spence, 2014

TO BEGIN …

To Help You Understand …

When asked to write Urban Legends as part of the UK series, we were told one book would cover the whole of Scotland. We were asked to include the legend of the Loch Ness Monster. Not exactly an urban myth you might say! So this book has become a mix of both urban myths and local legends. And only a few of many are covered here.

This book will take you on a journey around Scotland, to a variety of places where you will meet characters and creatures, some kindly, many not. We just wish there had been room for more!

Grace Banks, 2014

Urban Myths …

Anecdotes, rumour, gossip … urban myths can straddle all those categories. Often they are short like fables and can be told quickly in a paragraph or two. Originally, I became hooked on urban myths after reading Paul Smith’s Book of Nasty Legends. He stated that ‘in the real world, not just a single, oral medium transmission is utilised to communicate folklore but any available and relevant media is employed’.

Recently scholars have examined how legends are formed and spread through popular print media and other non-oral methods. I like to think of urban myths as little acorns desperate to grow into oaks where I provide them with knots, gnarls and leaves (see the Chimera Institute 2011). Most writers in this genre draw on global examples, but this book is different; the tales and urban myths are specific to Scotland. It is the land of the mysterious Big Grey Man of Ben Macdhui and murderous clowns loiter in transit vans to inflict the infamous ‘Glasgow smile’ upon their victims.

Sheena Blackhall, 2014

Local Legends …

Alan and Cathy Low run a B&B in Ballater. Each night, guests are privileged to enjoy a bedtime story from Cathy. After staying three nights, one woman asked Cathy if she could take her voice away with her. Listening to the rhythm of story, this lady had relaxed and rested mentally and physically for the first time since childhood.

What a simple life-giving remedy – to share a tale, yet such a rare commodity in our screen-fixated world.

Simple fireside evenings

Eyes meet, gleam with treasures shared …

Tales warmly spoken, familiar, alive

Cherished, polished with use

Known. Loved. Timeless.

Rhythm of life

Stories, vibrant, significant

gave shape, colour and depth

To their surroundings

But unspoken, they

Fade, wither and vanish.

Now silenced.

Words hidden

on dusty, tired pages.

Leaving the land, the people

More bereft. Barren.

But not many see.

Yet in this winter,

Green shoots appear

Caressed into life

Valuing of wisdom

Lessons from nature

Beauty, joy, sorrows

Words, giving shape, colour and depth

To their surroundings.

Timeless.

Rhythm of life.

Grace Banks

With Thanks …

We are grateful to all of you who have told us your stories; much of this book has come together due to your open-handed generosity. Thank you!

A Wish for You …

Certain myths and legends grip the human mind with almost obsessive belief or scepticism. In this collection we hope that amidst the strident well-aired tales, some of those that have become whispers may regain their voice and become familiar and loved once more. May they whet your appetite to listen for or seek out the tales around you, the little and the larger, and encourage you to tell them to others.

Grace Banks, 2014

THE HIGHLANDS

Heroes of Old

While exploring books of myths, legends and folk tales I have frequently come across stories of the Fenian or Fian heroes. I was confused how Finn or Fionn’s name came up repeatedly as being a Scottish hero of old, yet I had always associated him with Ireland as the giant hero, Fionn Mac Cumhail. And the name Ossian or Oisín came into the mix, known as the son of Fionn. I have discovered there are overlaps between these two and there appear to be landmarks, some of which have association to both. This whole book could be dedicated to these ancient warriors whose origins are certainly Irish. As priests brought religion west, so legends and stories spread. In Scotland the Fionn and Oisín stories abound in the Gaelic-speaking areas of the country, popularised by MacPherson who claimed to have collated ancient manuscripts and written down the oral form of the poet Oisín’s words.

To me the backgrounds of Eirinn (Ireland) and Alba (Scotland) seem almost synonymous in the tales, as if there were no sea in between; the uniting element being their chief enemy, the Lochlannaich, the Vikings whom they fought against for their High King.

In this short account, I give a little flavour of the Fenians, in the hope that readers might be encouraged to burrow deeper into the fascinating and rich lore of these heroes, handed down through generations in one way or another. These tales span legend and myth with a few grains of possible fact from the distant past. GB

The Beginning

Many tales are told of Fionn and his great deeds. This simple story is an account of where it all began.

Cumhal was the chief of the Fenians. In a battle between the Fenians and the powerful clan Morna, Cumhal was killed, and Goll, the one-eyed leader of the Morna, became chief of both clans.

Cumhal’s wife had just given birth to a son, and knowing Goll would be merciless towards his vanquished foe’s newborn, she hid the child away, to be raised in secret.

His guardians named the fair-haired boy Fionn, and as he grew, he flourished and became straight, tall and fearless. As Fionn grew in stature, his deeds were spoken of with awe; he was as fleet as a deer, and deadly accurate with the sling.

Word came to Goll of this young man’s exploits, and the chief realised this must be Cumhal’s son. He ordered that Fionn be hunted down and killed. His guardians, hearing of the danger, dyed Fionn’s hair black. They gave him the name Deimne, and bid him flee for his own safety.

And so Deimne travelled far and wide, and wherever he took service, he would learn the ways of battle. As his strength grew, he was able to wrestle any man to the ground.

But in Deimne’s heart, he longed to learn the lessons of wisdom and to search for the beauty of song and music. One day, he came by a river and found a simple hut where a hermit called Finegas lived. Young Deimne asked the old hermit if he might stay awhile and serve him. Finegas agreed but told him nothing of his own reasons for being there.

The hermit had dwelt by the river for many years and fished in the river daily, in the hope of catching the salmon of great wisdom that was said to live within the pool. For years this fish had eaten nuts that had fallen in the water from the overhanging hazel trees. It was believed these nuts had given the salmon great knowledge and discerning ability, and when a man named Fionn caught and ate of this fish, it was said that the wisdom would be passed on to him.

The third day after Deimne’s arrival, Finegas felt a tug on his line. As he hauled in the salmon, he knew that this must be the legendary fish at last. Delighted, he asked Deimne to prepare and cook the fish, but not to taste of it before the hermit. The young man obediently did as he was asked, and set about preparations. When the salmon was cooked, it smelled delicious. However, Deimne, seeing a blister on the skin of the fish, pressed it with his thumb. The blister burst and burnt him, and without thinking, he whisked his thumb up to cool it against his front tooth. Immediately, Deimne felt a strange sensation course through his whole being. He felt clearer and more aware of all that was around him. Giving his head a shake, he presented the cooked salmon to his master. Finegas looked at him with piercing eyes. ‘You did not eat of the fish, did you?’

‘No sir,’ Deimne said hurriedly, ‘but I burnt my thumb and gave it a sook.’

Finegas sighed, then smiled and shook his head. ‘Your name is not Deimne, is it?’

The young man looked at the hermit. ‘No sir, it is Fionn.’ He quickly explained the reason for changing his name.

The hermit nodded and suddenly burst out laughing. ‘You have no idea what you have done, do you?’ Fionn shook his head, puzzled. Finegas explained about the salmon of wisdom, and light dawned on Fionn’s face. Now he knew why he felt so clear-minded.

From that day on, whenever Fionn wished to know anything, all he had to do was press his thumb to his tooth. In time, Fionn returned to the Fenians and became their chief, but that, as they say, is another story.

The Life of Oisín

In this legend, you will hear just a little of the life of Oisín, and in your imagination you can see from where this eloquent poet drew his inspiration.

Fionn and his men were returning from a day’s hunting when they startled a white doe. Fleet of foot it ran away, with men and hounds in hot pursuit. Fionn and his two dogs soon left the others far behind, but even he was growing breathless when the bonny deer disappeared over a small hill with the dogs, Bran and Sceolan, giving chase. When Fionn reached the top, he halted in astonishment. Below him the doe was lying on the grass, with both dogs gambolling around her, licking her nose and ears as if they were pups.

Fionn smiled and shook his head in wonder; this was a deer that no man would kill.

That very night as Fionn lay sleeping, he felt movement in his bed and there, lying beside him, was a beautiful young woman. She thanked Fionn for saving her and explained that she had been the doe. Three years previously an evil magician had put her, Sadhbh, under an enchantment. Fionn in his mercy had rescued her and now she was free.

The two found love in each other’s arms and from that day Fionn did not leave his Sadhbh’s side.

But one day word came that an enemy approached and although Sadhbh pleaded for Fionn to stay, he had to lead the Fianna in battle. He returned in triumph seven days later to find his lovely lady had disappeared and not one of his people had been able to save her. He demanded to know where his beloved had gone. With great sorrow they explained that while he was away Sadhbh had watched for his return each day. One morning she had heard the sound of a hunting horn and with great joy Sadhbh had looked out and seen the figure of a warrior approaching with two dogs at his side. Overjoyed to see her beloved once more, Sadhbh had run from the safety of the fort to welcome Fionn home and tell him the joyful news that she was expecting their first child. But when she got closer, Sadhbh gave a cry of fear and anguish. This figure was not Fionn but none other than the enchanter in disguise. Swiftly he smote her three times with his rod of yew and immediately Sadhbh became a deer once more. The two dogs changed and turned into fierce, bloodthirsty hounds who gave chase to the fleeing doe. People streamed out of the fort to rescue Sadhbh, but it was too late. The enchanter, the dogs and the deer all vanished into a mist.

Fionn was broken-hearted, and though he continued to lead his Fianna, he searched for his beloved whenever he could. After seven years he gave up hope and gradually returned to hunting with his men. But one warm summer’s day while out hunting, the men heard their hounds baying in the forest ahead as if they had cornered a great beast. But when the men approached they saw no sign of danger; there was just a wild, young boy standing naked and bewildered under a great tree. The dogs were called off but Fionn’s hounds remained. They gently lay down by the child and fondly licked the boy’s arms and face as if he was familiar to them.

The child returned with the hunters but he had no words. Soon he began to learn to speak and before long he was able to recount his tale. From his earliest memory his only companion had been a white doe, who had loved him and shown him how to find food. They had lived simply in a cave where he had been content. Now and again a dark, cruel man would come to their cave and the boy and the deer were very frightened of his power. One day this evil man came and spoke threateningly to the doe. He smote her harshly on the back with his rod of yew and forced the doe to follow him. She had turned and looked at the boy with eyes that held great sorrow; she did not want to leave him. The boy had tried to follow but found he was immobilised. The next thing he knew, he was waking up to the sound of dogs baying around him.

Fionn had no doubt that this boy was his own son and he loved him dearly. He named him Oisín, meaning little fawn, and whenever he looked upon his son’s features, he was reminded of his beautiful wife Sadhbh. Oisín grew to become a brave warrior like his father but his greatest gift was in crafting words. Poetry, stories and songs seemed to flow from him, painting pictures of beauty, war, women and great deeds.

The Fianna fought many battles, Oisín as well as any. But one evening as the men were camped around the fire, weary from combat, they heard the sound of hooves approaching. A tall white horse appeared through the wood and upon it sat an upright figure; her hair gleamed gold in the firelight. She was dressed in white and even in the darkness all eyes saw her beauty. Silently every man respectfully rose and Fionn stepped forward and bowed low. The royal maiden came forward and halted her horse before Fionn.

‘I have found you, Fionn Mac Coul,’ she said in a clear, lovely voice. ‘My name is Niamh and I come from the land of Tír na nÓg. From afar I have heard tell of your son Oisín, the gentle brave man who speaks words of silver and sings with a voice of gold.’

She then turned and her eyes searched for the tall young warrior in the firelight. When her gaze alighted on Oisín, she beckoned to him and he walked forward; he could not take his eyes from her beautiful features. In her quiet, seductive voice Niamh told Oisín of her homeland, where no sorrow was known nor did any man grow weary and old, but rather more vigorous and youthful. She asked Oisín to return with her to the land of the forever young and be her husband.

Oisín could not and did not want to refuse. As Niamh had spoken, his heart and his mind were filled with a love for the queenly lady. Willingly he climbed onto the back of her horse, placed his arms around her waist and went with her. Over sea, through storm and waves they rode. They came to a place of beauty and tranquillity where care and age fell away from Oisín as if he had just discarded his old clothes.

The warrior was given a royal welcome, and there was great joy for the young couple. The wedding feast lasted ten days and nights and Oisín and Niamh were deeply in love. Overtime she bore him three beautiful children and Oisín was a good husband and father; yet, at times his wife would see a faraway look in his eye. One day she asked him if he was content. Oisín smiled and answered that he was very happy, yet he desired to look on his land once more and smell the earth of home. Sadly Niamh begged him not to leave her but when she saw he was determined, she agreed to let him go. She warned her husband that many years had passed in the land of his birth and nothing would be as he remembered it. Niamh instructed Oisín that if he wished to return to her then he must on no account ever dismount from his horse or he would regret his actions.

And so Oisín bid farewell to his loving family and rode upon the white horse over the seas to the shores of his homeland. To his dismay he found no trace of his father or any of the Fianna, and when he questioned a passer-by, the man looked at him strangely and frowned. He said he recalled his father speaking about the heroes of old from ancient times, but it was only a distant memory. Greatly disturbed Oisín rode on to the fort where the Fianna had lived, but little remained; only weeds and brambles grew over crumbling ruins. Tears of grief fell down Oisín’s cheeks as he thought of all he had lost. Now he regretted leaving his dear Niamh and their children.

But as he pulled on the horse’s reins to leave, his eye caught sight of a water trough filled with rainwater and suddenly he smiled. This was where he and the Fianna used to wash their hands. On impulse he eagerly dismounted to use the trough one last time, but as his feet touched the grass he collapsed and all strength went from his limbs. Age and decrepitude fell upon Oisín’s frame; he was so weak he could do nothing. Too late he remembered Niamh’s warning and dismayed, he watched as the white horse turned, galloped from the glade and vanished. He tried to cry out for his comrades but his voice was cracked and reedy. He lay there for a long time, broken, sorrowful and dried out. But Oisín was not finished. He found a hazel branch and with difficulty raised himself up and feebly shuffled out from the forest. Some peasants found the frail, bent white-haired giant and took him to the home of a nearby priest.

The priest was called Patrick; he treated Oisín kindly and listened to his tales of old. The aged man spoke sadly and eloquently of times long past; the hunting and the thrill of the chase, the camaraderie of the Fianna, the wonder of spring buds and birdsong, and the joy and companionship of women. In the years that remained to Oisín, it is said that the priest tried to persuade the man to take the faith, but the poet stubbornly refused. To his last breath, Oisín’s whispers were of those he loved, of the Fianna, of Niamh and of his children.

Sites in Scotland named after the Fenian heroes

Here I briefly mention a few of the Scottish sites associated with Oisín, but I respectfully acknowledge that in Eirinn many more are to be found.

Ossian’s Cave was where the poet was supposedly born. Even today, climbers consider access to this cave a difficult and dangerous climb. It is referred to as Ossian’s Ladder. It is not a cave as such, but more of a recess in the cliff face about the length of a bowling alley.

Clach Ossian is a great boulder, eight feet in height. When General Wade sought to make a straight road through the Sma Glen this massive stone barred the way. With great difficulty it was shifted, and beneath it a grave was found, containing shards of bones and ashes. These were presumed to be Oisín’s remains. In honour of the great and well-loved bard, men gathered with great solemnity to lay Oisín’s bones to rest high in the hills of Glen Almond.

Loch Ossian is situated at the north-east side of Rannoch Moor and is surrounded by hills and mountains. There are no roads to this place, but the railway takes you to Corrour. From here, access to the loch is by footpath.

Pobull Fhimm, or Fionn’s People, are standing stones that lie seven miles south of Lochmaddy Langais near Clachan in North Uist.

Suidhe Coire Fhionn, or the place of Fionn’s cauldron, is in Arran and was the site of a cooking pot where Fionn and the Fenians cooked their deer. Two circles of boulders make up this site and a small cist has been found underneath.

Sòrnaichean Coir’ Fhìnn, or the fireplaces of Fionn, can be found near Kensaleyre in Skye.

ABERDEEN CITY

Aberdeen is the oil capital of Europe. It is also my native city, and has this rather charming epitaph on a headstone in one of its cemeteries:

Here lie the bones of Elizabeth Charlotte

Born a virgin, died a harlot

She was aye a virgin at seventeen

A remarkable thing in Aberdeen SB

Unexpected Consequences– a tale fae King’s College

King’s College was commissioned by Bishop Elphinstone, and was the fourth university in Scotland. As the name indicates, it was built with permission from, and in honour of, King James IV. Elphinstone’s vision was to bring learning and knowledge to the north. It began with only a few students, who graduated by the age of nineteen and then made their way into academia or the Church.

As the number of students grew, it became necessary to establish and define better rules and regulations. Today College Bounds is still the name of the nearest street to King’s, and as such was the containment area for roving students, who also had a curfew to encourage study and curb extreme carousing. The university did not want its name blackened by drunken students tearing across town. Discipline could be an issue when many of the lecturers were only a few years older than those they were teaching.

The university was founded on a strongly held code of beliefs, and thus the students were obliged to adhere to the religious order of prayers, services and scripture learning. If you enter the chapel today, you can see how some of the students spent their time. Over the years they attended chapel, each student must have remained in the same seat. Dating back to 1617 the students have carefully and laboriously carved their names into the wood behind or above their seats. GB

For as long as they have existed, students have persisted in certain pranks and behaviours. However, when Sacrist Downie was given charge over the students at King’s, they had met their match. He was shrewd, and seemed to have foreknowledge of all possible routes out of the grounds, while he relished stamping out misdemeanour in all its forms.

The students felt repressed, for Downie showed no lenience. Over the months, high-flung behaviour was curbed, and the students were eventually forced to comply with anything the sacrist demanded. Murmurings grew to whispered mutiny. Grumblings formed into seeds of revenge. Imaginative minds schemed and planned. As details were finalised and word spread of revenge on Sacrist Downie, it was greeted with great enthusiasm.

One late winter’s evening, as Downie prowled round on his usual circuit, powerful hands suddenly gripped him tightly and tied his wrists behind him. A cloth was roughly tied in place, gagging him. Struggling in protest, he was dragged to a dimly lit room, where he was propelled to a stool and forced to sit down. As Downie was held there, he became aware of a large number of figures surrounding him. Indignant, he tried to shout through the cloth, but only strange gargled sounds came out. He felt angry and helpless. He tried to turn about to see his captors’ faces, but he was forced to face forwards. The room was ominously silent as Downie continued to struggle to get free; the only sounds were his moans and groans. Eventually the man quietened down.

In front of his stool there was a table; sitting behind it were four shrouded figures, no faces could be seen. Downie decided his best chance was to see what this nonsense was all about, and look for the first opportunity to escape and report these young whippersnappers to his superiors.

One of the figures at the table cleared his throat and spoke in a deep, booming voice. ‘Downie, you are here to be tried for your misdemeanours and unfair treatment of those under your care. The following witnesses are all willing to testify to your guilt, and by the end of this trial, we hope that you too will see that you are in fact culpable as charged. Let the witnesses be brought forward.’

A line of young men approached the table. Their faces were all familiar to Downie. His anger began to burn in his belly; how dare these impudent rascals treat him in such an undignified manner! One by one, the students came forward and stood in front of the sacrist and clearly stated how Downie had abused his position. Humiliated and helpless, but in no way cowed, Downie found himself trembling with rage. Such insolence! When the line of accusing students had come to an end, Downie’s eyes were defiant and sweat was dripping down his face.

Once more the booming voice spoke out from the darkness. ‘Downie, you have heard the charges pronounced against you by these witnesses, you have been convicted of your crimes, now comes your judgement.’

In vain, Downie struggled for the right to be heard, but the cloth around his mouth muffled any sound he tried to make. It was almost as if he was not actually present. He felt powerless, and as the voice continued, for the first time he felt a frisson of cold fear.

The voice said, ‘Your punishment is death by beheading.’

Suddenly the sacrist ceased to struggle. He stared at the table and the figures behind it. He must have misheard. Surely? He looked wildly around the room for a sign of laughter. This was ridiculous! It was all a prank … was it not? Downie felt panic rising; a hysterical high-pitched whine was heard through the gag, while the man pleaded with his eyes for it all to stop.

Hands raised him up and pulled a black hood roughly over his head. Downie felt completely claustrophobic, almost as if he were drowning. It was a struggle to breathe, and his heart was racing uncontrollably. Feebly, he moaned and staggered between his captors. Strong arms hauled him forward a short distance until he was thrust down, this time upon his knees.

Through the black cloth, he was horrified to hear the sound of metal being sharpened. Desperately, he tried to struggle to his feet, but his bound hands hampered him, and he collapsed to his knees and his head slammed against a wooden block that had been placed in front of him. Hands held him down.

‘And so Downie, to your execution!’ The words were pronounced coldly, but to the prisoner, it felt like he was hearing them from afar.

The student beside the kneeling sacrist took a wet cloth and whipped it lightly across Downie’s bare neck. He grinned as the body below him slumped forward and fell to the ground in an ungainly manner.

He looked around at the crowd behind him. Everyone was nodding, smiling with satisfaction, except for one. This student was looking at the still body of the sacrist, lying inert and undignified. Swiftly, he stepped forward and knelt down beside Downie’s head. He whipped off the hood and gasped. It felt like time stood still. All seemed suspended. Wildly, he turned, his eyes full of terror. ‘I think he’s dead!’

The gag was removed, and the students tried desperately to fill the sacrist’s lungs with air, but Downie was gone, his heart unable to cope with the trauma he had experienced.

It was agreed by all present that the night’s activities would never be retold until the very last of them had reached old age. The body of the sacrist was smuggled out from the university grounds and buried in a lonely area known as Berryden.

In 1824, the story was published of how Aberdeen students had put their porter on trial and then murdered him. This tale seemed to gather momentum and reappeared in print through the nineteenth and into the twentieth century.

‘Airt and part in Downie’s slaughter’ became a well-known saying, meaning confederates will not inform on one another. As to Downie’s memory, a stone tribute to the sacrist can be seen, obscurely placed in bushes outside of Seaton Park, north of the university.

Of Little Girls and Dolls

A travelling woman called Esther Stewart worked in a fish house in Aberdeen. In 1947, two years after the war had ended, Mrs Stewart’s little daughter Charlotte was very ill. SB

Esther and her husband occasionally hawked round the doors of the city to make ends meet; one particular night they came to a huge house belonging to a colonel. Esther’s husband had been a soldier in the army and the colonel had been his senior officer. The couple were asked in and there in the hall Esther caught sight of a most beautiful lifesize doll. The colonel had bought it in America for his daughter, who was now a married woman living away from home. The doll resembled the fairy from The Wizard of Oz; it had pale skin, long golden hair, blue eyes and wonderfully made clothes. Esther was very taken with the doll, and the colonel’s wife was delighted to gift it to her daughter.

When Esther arrived home, she gave the doll to Charlotte, who was thrilled to be given such a beautiful gift, but at night-time her mother insisted that because Charlotte was ill and the doll so large, the doll must sit on a chair beside Charlotte’s bed. The next morning Esther was annoyed to find Charlotte sleeping with the huge doll in her arms, but Charlotte insisted the doll had come by itself. Every night it was the same. Esther tried putting the doll at the bottom of Charlotte’s cot, but the same thing happened: in the morning it was back in the little girl’s arms.

At first, the travellers thought this was their daughter’s imagination, but gradually they noticed Charlotte’s health was not improving; her cough had become worse and she looked pale and fevered. The parents took their daughter into their own bed. That night they were woken by a cry of ‘Mamma!’ To their horror they found the doll had managed to move up from their daughter’s cot and had crawled in between them to be with Charlotte. For the next week the parents tried everything to stop the doll from climbing into bed beside them, but they could not prevent it.