Tales from the Tent (20 page)

Such was the pain in his heart he decided to visit the ancient field witch who, they say, knew all things.

Gathering his people round him, he told them what he intended to do.

‘No, sire, please don’t, it is folly.’ The people knew her evil ways would indeed lure their beloved King away, and they pleaded for a week with him to change his mind. No,
he’d made his decision, the witch it was: there was no other choice.

His dearest friend, an old soldier who had fought for his late father when he was king, asked Ruan to stay and be patient. One day the right girl would win his heart. But it was no use,
he’d made up his mind.

Now, although folks knew of the wizened woman from the green grass, they had never set eyes on her, it was enough to know that she was a demon who stalked the country when the moon was full.

Ruan set off to find her, looking in caves, calling from hilltops, searching in undergrowth, but after a week and some more he was no further forward. At the end of each day he would find a
quiet secluded spot and lie down. One night, while he was in the deepest slumber, a voice calling in the wind awakened him. ‘Help me, Ruan!’ it cried out. He jumped from his bed of
rushes and stared around at the cold damp ground. The spreading moonlight gave the merest glimpse of trees in the night. He called out to the forest, ‘I am here, what do you want from me,
stranger?’

‘Ruan, I am the witch of the fields. I hear you calling my name, but before I help, you must free me from the trees.’ Ruan thought he was being haunted by the evil beast, and called
back that he didn’t need her help after all, he was on his way home. It was with the fastest legs he ran all the way back, not looking in caves, or calling from hilltops, or peering into
undergrowth. Completely exhausted, King Ruan fell into the arms of his anxious friend, the old soldier. ‘I knew she would try to spellbind you, sire,’ he warned him, adding,
‘don’t you be a-going looking for her kind no more. Sooner or later a lass will be to your liking, just be patient. Thon demon knows your mind and would hide in the dreaded trees for
you.’

And so it was that not a single night passed without the sad voice calling into his slumber, ‘Help me, Ruan, help me.’ Unable to resist his dreams a minute more, he called his
faithful followers to his side and told them he had to go and find the field witch or else he’d surely go mad. ‘You don’t want me to be a mad king as well as an ugly one, now do
you?’ he asked them.

‘Sire, it is not your ugliness that bothers us, rather it be the sadness that it brings to your heart,’ said his friend. ‘We love you too much to see an evil auld biddy steal
you away from us.’

However he knew that peace would never be his until he found the field witch.

Again he called from hilltop and undergrowth and caves, ‘where are you, woman?’

Weeks passed with no sound from the demon, until one night a storm of nightmarish proportions forced him to hap on the boundary line of a thick forest. All night long he lay staring into the
deep dark branches. Like giant fingers they slapped and flapped against each other. Ruan became so frightened he could not move.

As quick as it began the storm winds dropped, and the moon like a flower within the darkened sky spread her light in streams of shadows. ‘I must go from this place or else the trees will
surely have me.’ He shivered with a deep fear and speedily rolled up his bed. No sooner had he taken a step, when from out of the forest came the voice he’d waited so long to hear.
‘Ruan, help me, they are closing in. I have little time left.’

Without a moment’s thought he turned in his fear and as before ran and ran and ran. Not a breath of extra air did he inhale until his almost dead body lay once more on the lap of his old
friend.

‘This time, sire, I will not allow you to go out of my care again,’ he sternly said.

Next day the old soldier called on as many people as he could and told them that under no circumstances were they to allow King Ruan out of their sight, because ‘she of the fields’
had bewitched him and would certainly kill their monarch if she could. From then on, wherever he went, a shadow of stern faithfulness followed. Yet still rest evaded him, as each night that oh so
haunting voice beckoned him, ‘Ruan, my life drains, please, I beg you, come.’

Unable to contain himself another minute he dressed before the sun yawned over a sleepy horizon, but this time however his faithful friend would go with him. Before long the pair were on the
skirts of the vast forest that held Ruan in a grip of fear, and there they waited. The old soldier had come armed for a fight with the she-devil, for he would rid his master of her spell or die.
Late afternoon saw a thundery sky spread out to meet a dark and fearful night. Together the two waited and soon they heard, through peals of thunder and flashes of jagged lightning, a gentle voice
calling. This time his heart froze as he heard the witch say, ‘Ruan, I am slipping away, I fear you’re too late.’

‘Stay here, I must go into the forest, old friend. Do not worry, I have a feeling she means me no harm.’

‘Master, it’s a folly you do this night, for the forest will strangle you. She knows what you are afraid of, I beg on my old painful joints, dear King, do not venture
forth.’

However nothing would relieve his anxiety but to meet with the witch, and striding into those dreaded trees our brave lad went to meet not just his fear of trees but the witch herself. All night
long the old soldier stood in the place his master had bid him stay and waited like a faithful dog. He stayed there until all the storm’s power had abated and then he saw him. Coming forth
hand in hand from those terrible trees was brave Ruan with his witch: a beautiful young girl. ‘Master, what form of evil spell has she been under?’ asked his bewildered companion. Ruan
told him to sit down and he would explain.

‘When I was born, an evil witch of the fields took my love stone from my crib and hid it in this forest. If ever a maiden fell in love with me, then the wicked one would steal her away and
hide her in the trees of which she had given me a deep inborn fear. The only way I could release my love was to conquer the fear and rescue her. But I only had two chances. You see, old friend, if
I failed a third time then the spell would never be broken. I would live in my ugly form and happiness would forever flee from me.’

His old friend turned to the girl and asked her how she came to love his master who was so abhorrent to the eye?

‘When passing the castle to gather nuts one day I saw my beloved, he was sleeping by the burn. When I leaned down to gaze upon his face I did not see a thing of ugliness. I saw a tender,
caring face with a hidden depth of blossoming love. I could not sleep but his face came to me. So I whispered his name to the wind. One day, however, the witch who stole his love stone heard me.
She captured my spirit and hid it in the trees, thinking Ruan would never have the courage to rescue me. Please, soldier, put down your weapon, I tell the truth.’

The old man lowered his sword and he saw the love shining between his master and the girl. ‘Yes, this is indeed the way of things,’ he thought as he followed behind his master and
the young woman who had brought the love his heart had so desired.

The wedding was a day of wonder for all to enjoy. The couple lived a long and happy life, giving to the place by the Tay many wonderful children. And as for the witch of the fields, well, she
was never seen or heard of by anyone.

Now, reader, as was the way of ancient Scotland, two large standing stones have been placed side by side in a field twixt Tulleybelton and Bankfoot, and they are to this day a prominent feature
for all eyes to see. One is square and misshapen, resembling, some might think, a donkey, while the other is pointed and slender—they represent Ruan and his Queen, the nut gatherer.

I wondered about the crib ‘love stone’ mentioned in this tale, and through research found that crib stones were four tiny pebbles blessed with Mother Nature’s
kisses and arranged round the head of a new-born royal. They represented: 1st—love; 2nd—health; 3rd—wealth; 4th—wisdom. I can’t say for certain, but during the time of
the Druids it is thought they used stones a lot.

The late father of my friend Mamie Carson, Keith Macpherson, who had a gift for verse, wrote the following poem about a Standing Stone and I thought this a fine place to slip it in. For your
pleasure now, folks, I give you—

It stands in the field at the fit o’ his lane,

A link wi’ the Romans wi’ cup and wi’ mark

Their ghosts gethir roond every nicht efter dark,

And Andra, guid man, maks it one of his rules

Tae join in their crack on his way fae the bools.

He passed without stoppin at the muckle big Stane,

Wi’ his chin on his chest, and sae doon at the moo,

The ghosts thocht at first sicht that Andra was fou,

And they agreed that strong drink maks the best o’ men fools;

Then they heard Andra mutter ‘I’m bate at the bools.’

And they sat themselves doon by the muckle big Stane.

Andra spoke oot—and his heart it grew sairer—

He jist couldn’t thole bein licket by Crerar,

A buddie gey handie wi’ blacksmithin tools,

But no in a class wi’ himsel at the bools
.

And they swore by the marks in the muckle big Stane,

That Crerar the smith they would visit that nicht,

And leave the puir buddie half dein wi’ fricht;

They swore by the elves wha bide under toadstools,

He’d never again bate their man at the bools.

Aye stops when he’s passin the muckle big Stane,

Since that fearfu nicht, when he gain them his crack

The whole Roman Empire he’d had at his back.

So long as the Stane, Andra’s destiny rules,

He’ll no lose tae Crerar again at the bools
.

19

HELENA
’
S STORY

I
am going to shock you with this next story, but I hope that when we’ve shared this, my friend, you will understand that, of all the evils
in the world, beating a pregnant woman must rate one of the worst.

Yet it’s sadly a common picture today, as it was then, a battered wife. Nowadays it is referred to as domestic abuse. Traveller folks loathe a man who beats his wife. It is regarded as the
despicable act of a coward. For a man to lift a hand and strike a woman is, in their eyes, the same as an Alsatian attacking a Westy.

Here is Helena’s story.