The Anthology of Scottish Folk Tales: Volume II E-Book

Folk Tales Authors

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

Seitenzahl: 199

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

'For fans of folklore this is a must read.' - Scottish Field magazine This spellbinding collection of stories once again gathers together legends and lore from across Scotland in one special volume. Drawn from The History Press' popular Folk Tales series, this second selection features further tales from authentic Scottish storytellers, honouring the unmistakable character of Scotland's customs, beliefs and dialects. From the fearsome elfin warrior haunting Carterhaugh Woods to the beautiful mermaid enchanting young men off the coast of Orkney, this collection of tales belongs on the bookshelves of all who enjoy both the magic of Scotland and a well-told story.

Leseprobe

Dedicated to Scotland’s Storytellers

First published 2025

The History Press

97 St George’s Place, Cheltenham,

Gloucestershire, GL50 3QB

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

© The Authors, 2025

The right of The Authors to be identified as the Authors 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 873 2

Typesetting and origination by The History Press.

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

FOREWORD

Turning the pages of this traditional story collection, you can hear a gentle wind rustling in the wood as it stirs the leaves. Or perhaps echoes in an old chambered cairn – layers of voices carrying the tales.

There are the voices of these named storytellers with their skills of phrase, rhythm and intonation. This is the craft of storytelling serving the art of story. But behind them are other voices: older storytellers, family members, community traditions. Some of these are named, such as Alec John Williamson the Highland Traveller, or Lady Evelyn courteously encouraging and painstakingly recording stories from the people of Atholl. Lawrence Tulloch’s tales draw on generations of his Shetland family, and now that tradition is continuing through his daughter Liz Tulloch. It is like a choir in which every voice is still distinct.

And then there are the places. The stories Tom Muir tells do not come from a generalised Orkney: this one was recorded in Sanday and that other in Rousay. Across in the Western Isles, Ian Stephen weaves together new tellings of home, community and memory from North Lewis. The language, as in the Scottish Borders, is locally rooted.

With this anthology you are holding not just a book, but a long tradition. And as human-induced climate change threatens our existence on planet Earth, these voices are more eloquent and precious than ever. They speak for lives lived close to nature, and offer a sustainable gift for future generations.

Donald Smith

Director

The Scottish International Storytelling Festival

CONTENTS

Shetland

Gibby Law

The Borrowed Boat

Orkney

The Mermaid Bride

Peerie Fool

Western Isles

A Disappearance

A Fertile Island

The Highlands

Margaret and the Three Gifts

Stine Bheag, the Wind Witch

Aberdeenshire

The Highwayman and the Orra Loon

Auld Slorachs

Angus

Finella

Jockie Barefit

Perthshire

The Legend of Luncarty

Sundancing

Argyll

The King Who Wished to Marry his Daughter

The Tale of the Soldier

Fife

The History of Kitty Ill-Pretts

The Gudewife o’ Auchtermuchty

Midlothian

The Mauthe Dog of Roslin

The Last Highwayman of Dalkeith

East Lothian

The Fairy Tournament

The Gyre Carling

Scottish Borders

Son o a Ghost

Tam Linn

Dumfries and Galloway

Adam Forrester and the Circle of Steel

The Rope of Sand

SHETLAND

LAWRENCE TULLOCH

LAWRENCE TULLOCH was born in North Yell in 1942 and was introduced to storytelling by his aunt and his father. His interest in folklore led to him making several radio broadcasts, and he wrote for magazines and local papers. He had four books published and left two written but not published when he sadly passed away in February 2017.

As a storyteller he travelled extensively, to Washington, USA, the Faroe Islands, Sweden, Norway, Slovenia, Ireland and Orkney, and he participated in several Scottish festivals including the International Storytelling Festival in Edinburgh and Celtic Connections in Glasgow. He recorded two tapes of stories and had them remastered to CDs.

He enjoyed telling stories and loved the audience reaction which always left a twinkle in his eye.

GIBBY LAW

Gibby Law was a young man who lived of the west side of the Shetland Mainland. He was a landowner, not a very rich or powerful one, but a laird nonetheless, with land and tenants to his name.

He was a big, strong, handsome man and the most eligible bachelor in the parish, but he had been born with one defect. One of his eyes was bright blue and farsighted but the other eye was blind.

It had a thick, grey, opaque film covering it and there was no chance of any help for it. Being born like this he found it no great inconvenience, it was the way he was. One year, at the New Year soiree, he announced his engagement to the girl that he had been courting for some time.

It came as no surprised to the community. She was from another village on the other side of the hills, and she and Gibby Law had been seen together at a number of gatherings. Everyone wished them well and said they made a handsome couple.

But Gibby Law had a rival. His name was Simon Arthurson and when he got news of the betrothal he was heard to say through gritted teeth, ‘She’ll never marry him.’

In the weeks that followed, Gibby was in the habit of walking across the hills to see his fiancée on a regular basis. One night Simon Arthurson got wind of such a visit and he lay in ambush.

There was no road and the place he chose was at the bottom of a dale with steep sides and no more than a narrow sheep’s path leading down and up the other side. A burn ran through the dale and Arthurson hid behind a large rock near it.

When he broke cover and confronted Gibby Law the surprise was total. There was little said by either of the men, but a fierce, no holds barred fight at close quarters broke out. In grappling with each other they lost their footing and both rolled into the burn.

Gibby Law was the bigger and stronger man and he was on top, holding down Arthurson. Simon Arthurson thought that Gibby Law was going to hold his head under the water and drown him. He panicked and drew the knife that he was wearing in his belt.

He stabbed upwards and Gibby Law slumped on top and the burn turned red with his blood. Arthurson crawled out and saw, to his horror, that Gibby Law was dead, the knife had gone into his heart.

He had never intended to commit murder but this was what he had done and given that himself and Gibby Law were sworn enemies he did not fancy his chances if he confessed to the crime.

He dragged the corpse out of the water and with a super human effort he managed to carry it up the path to the moorland above. As fast as he could run he went home to his own croft and picked up a spade.

Going back to the dead man he dug a grave and buried Gibby Law in the hope that the body would never be found. It was more than a week before any alarm was raised.

Gibby Law’s fiancée did not know that he had set out to see her and his folk did not know that he had failed to reach his destination. A full-scale search was eventually undertaken but without any success.

It was not unknown for someone to fall over a cliff and be swallowed up by the ocean and after weeks of looking, folk began to believe that this might be the case. Life for Gibby Law’s fiancée and his parents was never going to be the same again but eventually they learnt to get on with their lives. Gibby Law’s dog, however, never gave up the search. He would go out every day, some nights he never came back home. Sometimes only hunger would drive him back. He became as thin as a rake but he persisted; hour after hour and day after day he sought his master.

It was mid-May, the crops were all planted and men were in the hills cutting peats. Two men working together had stopped for a rest and a smoke when Gibby Law’s dog came to them barking in a most excited manner.

At first they ignored him but he would not give up and he tugged at the trousers of one of the men. He seemed as if he was trying to tell them something, so the man followed him. When the dog stopped, sat down and barked louder than ever it dawned on the man that the dog had led him to Gibby Law’s grave. When the grave was made it was winter and the ground was wet, now in early summer it had dried up and the turf covering the remains had shrunk. The gaps between the turfs had opened and he could see cloth underneath. He called for his friend to come and the two of them took off the soil to reveal the partly decomposed corpse of Gibby Law.

They went back to the village and told the minister. At that time the church looked after all aspects of community life. There was no police presence and the church concerned themselves with civil matters as well as spiritual and moral matters.

It was customary for a dead body to be laid out so that men could pay their last respects. As a mark of respect they touched the forehead of the dead person as they filed past. Of course, Simon Arthurson had to do this too. If he had stayed away he would immediately be suspected. He knew that the minister and the elders were watching very closely, looking for signs that someone might be guilty.

Arthurson was extremely nervous and his hands were shaking, so he kept them in his pockets until the last minute, but despite his efforts to act normally it all went wrong for him. When he attempted to touch Gibby’s forehead his hand shook until he poked Gibby Law’s eye, the eye that had always been blind.

He broke the opaque film covering the eye and a single tear of blood ran down the dead man’s face. At this, Simon Arthurson broke down and confessed that it was he who had killed Gibby Law. He told the authorities the whole story and he was given a trial. The trial had an entirely predictable result. Simon Arthurson was found guilty and he was sentenced to death. After he was hanged his head was cut off.

The head was put into a basket and given into the care of an old woman. She was one who had no means of supporting herself, and was said to be ‘on the parish’ – that is she was given a small pension to buy essentials with. In return for this she was expected to do jobs around the place. In this case she was instructed to take the basket with Simon Arthurson’s head to every house in the parish to show them what happened to wrongdoers. She had a cloth that covered the head and at every house she would take it off with a flourish and say, ‘See ye whit I hae!’

THE BORROWED BOAT

In days long ago, almost every household owned a boat. The boat would be the responsibility of the man of the house. Some women were good at rowing and boat handling but it was nearly always men who went to sea.

A boat was very useful; it was used as a carrier, a means of transport from one village to another and for fishing. People depended on the sea to provide a vital part of their income and food.

It was an unwritten law that no one interfered with another’s boat. The only exception was if the boat was in danger, then someone in the area might be able to save it. But it was unthinkable that anyone would use another’s boat without permission.

It was December and all the boats had been, with the onset of winter, taken well clear of the sea and secured, propped up and tied down by heavy stones at either end. During a Shetland winter the weather seldom allowed fishing to take place.

One man who was out feeding his sheep and passing close to the beach was aware of something not quite right with his boat. When he took a closer look he saw that it was not secured in the same way as he had left it. Indeed, all the evidence suggested that the boat had been used. The most telling sign was a fresh grove in the beach that the keel had made when it was launched and drawn up again.

The crofter found this astonishing but he put everything back to rights again and resolved to check on his boat more often. A few days later there was more evidence of the boat being used and no one in the community had asked permission to use it.

In the weeks that followed the same thing happened again. He was certain that someone was using his boat. He decided that the only way to get to the bottom of the matter was to keep watch.

On a December night, to keep watch in the open was a cold uncomfortable business, so he stepped into the boat and lay down near the bow and covered himself with a piece of canvas that had once seen service as a sail.

The crofter made sure that he had a peephole so he could see anyone who came to the boat. He made himself as comfortable as possible and settled down to wait. The wind fell away until it was flat calm, and the moon rose to shine from a clear frosty sky. The only sound came from the sea lapping on the shore.

He did not have very long to wait before he heard the crunch of boots on the shingle. He hardly dared breathe as he saw small hands deftly untying the rope at the bow and the stern.

When he got a better view he saw that the users of his boat were trows, the little people. There were three of them, all small males, and he was amazed at the ease with which they were able to pull the boat down to the water’s edge.

They launched the boat; one trow sat on the seat nearest the bow of the boat and manned two oars, the other two sat in front of him and had an oar each. After clearing the beach the trows took just three strokes of the oars before they landed on another beach.

The crofter could not think of a place where such a short journey would take them but the trows left the boat and pulled it part of the way up the beach. The crofter ventured out from under his covering to see if he could ascertain where they were.

The moonlight was still bright and he immediately knew exactly where they were, it was a place that he knew well. But it was nowhere near his home beach, it was miles away and it would take three ordinary men hours to row there.

The crofter watched as they walked towards the cliff that was at the top of the beach. When they got near to it an opening appeared and they disappeared inside. He had been there before, salvaging driftwood, and he had never seen a cave in that cliff face.

It was not long before the trows reappeared, each one carrying a wooden keg. The crofter hid himself again but saw them put the kegs into the boat. One of the trows went back up the beach and returned with another keg. This done, they re-launched the boat and another three strokes of the oars took them back to the home beach.

The trows took the boat up to its resting place just as easily as they took it down and re-tied the ropes. As they left the boat each of them lifted a keg and said, ‘One for me.’

The fourth was lifted and set down near to where the crofter was hiding and they all chanted, ‘One for the owner, one for the owner.’

The man realised that the trows had been aware of him from the start but had given no sign of their knowledge. He secured his boat in the way he wanted it and when he lifted the keg from the boat he found that it was very heavy – it was full of some sort of liquid.

He thought that he had been away for a very long time, but when he got home his wife told him that he had been gone for no time at all. He opened the keg and sampled the contents.

It was brandy, but of the most superior quality, miles better than any spirit that he, or his wife, had ever tasted. When Christmas came and they had visitors they were very proud to be able to offer such a beautiful drink.

The visiting men asked where he had obtained such wonderful liquor from and, rather shamefaced, he told them about the trip he had been on with the trows. When some of the younger men heard this, they were determined to make the same journey to see if they could bring back some more.

The weather continued to be calm and frosty, and a boat with four men set out to the beach far away where the crofter said that the trows had taken him. This time, three strokes of the oars moved them a few feet and it proved to be back-breaking work to get to their destination.

They searched the cliff face but there was no opening and, reluctantly, they had to give up and return home. By the time they got to the home beach it was dark and they were all exhausted.

The crofter kept an eye on his boat but there was no evidence that the trows had ever used it again. He would have gladly gone with them again to get another keg of brandy, but the opportunity never came.

ORKNEY

TOM MUIR MBE

TOM MUIR tells traditional stories from his native Orkney Islands. He has a great love for both folk tales and local traditions, and his humorous delight in the humanity of the stories is infectious. As storyteller and folklorist, Tom is comfortable with all kinds of adult groups in whatever environment they meet and work. He also works with young people and children, in schools and community venues and has run workshops on storytelling and Orkney’s folklore. His job as Engagement/Exhibitions Officer at the Orkney Museum sees him working as a storyteller with local schools and senior citizens’ clubs. His most recent book for The History Press is Scottish Folk Tales of Coast and Sea. Tom was awarded an MBE in the 2025 New Year Honours List, for services to Orkney folk tales.

THE MERMAID BRIDE

This story was collected on the island of Sanday by the folklorist Walter Traill Dennison (1825–94). He said that he had heard more stories of the beautiful but dangerous mermaid than he had heard of any other supernatural creature. He recalled that the men in Sanday said that the mermaid’s tail was a part of her body, but the old woman called them ‘foolish’, stating that it was, in fact, a beautiful petticoat embroidered with silver which was fastened over the mermaid’s feet while she swam. This made it look like a tail.

The mermaid had to marry a human husband rather than a fin man or she would lose her incredible beauty forever. She watched the shoreline, keen as a hunting cat, for a handsome young man who she could abduct and take below the sea to her palace made of crystal and coral.

Johnny Croy was the most handsome man in all of Sanday, if not the whole of Orkney. Many a young lass gazed on him with hungry eyes as he passed by, but he was a shy young man and if he noticed their looks then he never let it show.

Sanday, as the name implies, is a flat island with beaches of white sand that stretch for miles. One day Johnny was out by the cliffs at the south-west of the island, where the sandy land rises and the selkies play, looking for driftwood for the fire or to make things with. Suddenly he heard a more beautiful sound than he had ever heard in his whole life before. Music was being carried towards him on the warm, summer’s breeze; a song as intoxicating as strong, sweet perfume. It filled his senses until his head was spinning like he was about to faint. Johnny braced himself for a moment, fighting the enchantment of this song, but the urge to see where it was coming from was too great and he moved forward, slowly, among the stones and seaweed that formed the beach. Then he saw her. He stood fixed to the spot like a statue as he stared in wonder at the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his whole life. The mermaid sat on a rock in the sun, combing her long, golden hair with a comb of pure gold. She was naked from the waist up, but wore a petticoat of silver, shot through with blues and greens, which was twisted together to form a tail. She sang as she combed her hair and her song drew him to her like a moth to a flame. Johnny swore at that moment that he would never take a bride unless it was this mermaid; his heart was filled with love for her and desire burned within him like the sun.

The mermaid had not seen him, so completely was she lost in her song. Johnny realised that he must act fast, but what was he to do? He crouched down on the beach, crawling among the rocks and seaweed like an animal until he was between her and the sea. She still had not seen him when he was within striking distance and then, with a lunge, he grabbed her tightly and kissed her on the lips. The mermaid sat there for a moment, stunned, but then she swept up her tail and hit him on the side of the head, sending him sprawling among the rocks. She gathered up her petticoat and ran down to the sea and plunged into the water. Now it was Johnny’s turn to be stunned as he gathered his senses together and shook his head. He was impressed at her strength, as no man had ever been strong enough to put him on his back before. He saw that she was in the sea, just off shore, and she stared at him with smouldering eyes. She was furious with him for having so rudely kissed her without asking her permission, but mixed in with that anger there was love at the sight of this handsome man.

It was then that Johnny noticed something at his feet, glinting in the sunlight. He saw that it was her golden comb lying among the seaweed. He picked up the comb and held it aloft for her to see and said, ‘Thank you for leaving me this token of your love.’

‘My comb!’ cried the mermaid. ‘Give it back to me; please! I cannot go back to my home under the sea without my comb; I would be mocked and laughed at. Oh, my handsome man, please give it back to me.’

‘No, no, my pretty maid,’ said Johnny, ‘I will only give this back to you if you promise to marry me and come and live with me on land. I have a fine farm at Volyar with a good stock of cattle and sheep.’