Tears for a Tinker (30 page)

Sanderlings rushed by on twinkling legs along the surf, slowing only to eat, as we raced through them to belly-flap into the foam. The salty water further stung my poor skin; I made to rush out,
but Dina gestured me to stay. She rolled over and over, so I did it too, and honestly, I kid you not, those nettle stings began cooling down. I thought my body would be covered for days in pink
calamine lotion, but thanks to my wee silent mate every red spot had gone.

We wandered home toward her tunnel-tent in the dunes with her granny’s nettles, feeling recharged with new blood. I don’t know if the stinging or the salty dip did it, but my flesh
was tingling with newness. Yet it might have been that I’d not bathed for ages! Shameful, I know.

Granny Hearne washed the nettles, correcting me when I called them weeds, saying they were vegetables. What a let-down, when all she did was simply cut and boil them in salted water. I thought I
was going to be initiated into an ancient weird spell—involving a black pot with frog’s elbows and spider’s webs thrown in to add to its healing power.

She then drained them and popped them back into a dry pot with butter and some cut mint.

‘I’ll give your mother a taste if she comes by,’ said the old woman with a wink to her eye, as she handed me the drained liquor from the boiled nettles and added, ‘drink
that, Jessie, it’ll clean any nettle poison from your blood.’

I was alarmed by this remark, but she said that sometimes allergies can be started if too much poison gets into good blood. I didn’t fancy drinking nettle juice, but Dina halved it with
me, swallowing it quickly, so I did the same.

That day when I arrived home, I was saddened to find my family packing away to head back on the road next day. Daddy planned to go up to Stirling. So that night I said my tearful farewell to
Dina Hearne, a remarkable wee lassie who, thanks to my father’s visit to his old friend, I now had the honour of calling my ‘silent friend.’

30

STIRLING TALES

S
tirling in the central belt was the place travellers called ‘the neither-here-nor-there town.’ This was simply because it was as far
north as it was south, and so folks couldn’t make up their minds about the geography of the place. I heard tales that at one time it was submerged under the ocean, but I believed that was
rubbish until I discovered a few facts for myself about Stirling. It was known as the royal seat of Robert the Bruce—the hero-king of Scotland made for this castle stronghold after defeating
the English at neighbouring Bannockburn. There were strange secrets hidden beneath the thick marshland that covered the flat country around as far as the eye could see. Here two rivers, the Teith
and the Forth, flow from east to west. Let’s take a look at this place, and the travellers’ folklore about it that was kept secret from the wider world. Three very old travellers who
asked for anonymity gave these wonderful stories to me. Let me now share them with you. After all, according to one of my tale-givers, ‘Stories of Scotland belong to the Scots and whoever
else lives here.’ So take these gifts, my friends, they are yours after all!

Neptune and Dunvegan

Once, in a time very long ago, when the world was more water than land, there was a beautiful island called Sphag. Neptune, the King of the Ocean, sometimes loved to get away
from rocking waters and stormy seas, where the sun boiled the water and made the earth sizzle under its heat. His favourite place was the small island of Sphag. The blue waters that surrounded this
idyllic spot were seldom rough or stormy, and its inhabitants were a handful of giants who never interfered in each other’s business.

Neptune was a bachelor king, and although a wife would have been a treat for him, a suitable female never seemed to catch his eye. Until one day, while he was swimming around the west coast, he
heard a hypnotic sound. On investigation he discovered it was the beautiful singing of a mermaid. On further investigation, her captivating beauty revealed itself in splendour as she dived from a
rock into the sea. At first all he could do was listen and watch this gorgeous creature as she flipped and dived and swam, with her silvery tail, in and out from the shoreline. Her long golden hair
bobbed upon the tide as she swam, turning over and over and singing all the while.

Not wishing to disturb the mermaid, he sank deep into the sea, swimming around to the east coast where the water spirit Shanna lived. When he arrived at the home of this sea spirit, he told her
of his love for the mermaid and asked what manner of gift would be suitable for her. The spirit thought for a moment, then said that a bed of rare mussel shells lay at the mouth of a gentle river,
collecting pearls within themselves of an age-old beauty.

There were four beds of these, and when Neptune visited the place he decided that the fourth bed was the biggest. He instructed Shanna to name this river ‘The Forth,’ because of his
choice of the fourth as the best bed. Such lovely pearls grew here that when strung into a necklace they would be a love token like no other. The mermaid would be His Majesty’s for ever if
she were presented with a gift of such wonder by his hand. That was settled then: the bed of mussels must be protected until they matured to perfection.

Next day, Neptune swam back into the west to find his beloved and tell her of his gift. First he introduced himself as Neptune, and she, he discovered, was the coy Dunvegan. When she saw him her
heart skipped a beat—here, with promises of love and fine pearls, was the King of All the Seas. She thought him a fine lover, and soon they were to be seen sunning themselves together on the
shores of that bonny little piece of land which was her home. He said that when they were together he felt like he was floating in the heavens, so they named their secret meeting place Skye.

However, somewhere in the north, a giant named Aberdeen had fallen in love himself, but the giantess he desired was not interested in him. She was known as Stirling, and had long since shown an
interest in fine jewels. One day, when Aberdeen was striding across the land, he heard an elf singing a song: ‘Listen to me now, a worthy snip of news, the king of mighty ocean has fallen mad
in love, with a golden haired mermaid, with swishy tail of blues, he will shower her with pearls from a warm mussel glove’.

Aberdeen was intrigued, because it was always thought His Majesty would never wed, and never find a queen. It was further believed that there was no one good enough for him. He had to find out
more. So he listened, pretending to be a sturdy oak tree, and stood for days holding his arms aloft. Eventually he overheard two tiny elves saying that Shanna was guarding the fourth mussel bed,
because in its shells lay the most beautiful pearls in the entire world. His eyes lit up at the mention of precious gems. If he owned such wonders, surely Stirling would find him irresistible.

Now, no one had ever beaten Shanna in a fight, because she was a spirit creature, invisible except when the moon was full. Then, and only then, did she lose her powers and could be seen by all
mortal eyes. Aberdeen knew this, so he waited until he saw the moon waxing. Each night it got bigger, and then on the night of the full moon he challenged her to fight. Shanna, it was later
reported to the King, fought bravely, but she was no match for Aberdeen, who took the victorious spoils, those silver pearls.

Stirling was delighted when she received them, swearing at once she would wed her warrior.

It was a sad, sad day for Neptune, however, because when lovely Dunvegan heard the terrible news, she swam under her glorious island of Skye and was never seen again. Neptune’s heart broke
for his lost love. Such was his desire for revenge that he summoned the heavenly gods to make a decree that Aberdeen and Stirling be separated for their part in the destruction of such a perfect
love.

Soon winds began to blow, fierce and terrible, until trees were wrenched from their roots and crashed to the ground in other faraway places. Awful lightning shrieked across the sky, forking from
one corner of the universe to another. Neptune’s fury would soon be released upon Sphag. ‘Come to me,’ he screamed at the ocean, ‘now!’ Drawn by the power of the god,
the sea rose and rose until it reached the heavens; then, with a scoop of his mighty arm he withdrew all the dreadful weeds contained in the ocean and began piling them back towards the island of
Sphag. Over and over again, day after day, he worked, drawing back the water and stuffing the seaweed in its place until there was not a drop of water left. Finally, exhausted, the mighty sea lord
called for all ears to hear—‘I have withdrawn my sea from you and left the weeds. Now you will not swim in my ocean, nor will you feed from her bounty!’ Then, with a mighty swish
of his swordlike green scaly tail he was gone, and would never visit Sphag again.

Nothing grew on the land of weeds, later to be known as moss-land. It concealed, in its green and black depths, slimy creatures that would, on the darkest nights, crawl out of their murky
mysterious filth to steal little animals and feed on them in their underworld. Nothing grew, no human lived on its surface; there was only the sound of a low wind to remind people living on higher
ground that Sphag was a place not to venture into. The word for no man’s land in those days was ‘num’. The mass of packed weeds was therefore known as Sphagnum. Centuries later,
because a proper sea-food diet was no longer available to them, giants gradually shrunk until they reached no more than five or six feet tall. These people became known as the Scots, which means
small; it was after them that the land of Scotland was named.

The elves, however, being renowned for their adaptability, found a way under the moss and built a world for themselves called Elfin, and it is to this world we now pay a visit.

Blun’ Harry

From his first waking moment of life, Harry the fiddler was without sight; he couldn’t tell you what colour were the water lilies that grew in flat circles around his
low-roofed cottage, any more than he could describe the brightness of a yellow moon. Folks felt sorry for him, and neighbours would call with bread or some small token of their admiration of the
best fiddle player that ever lived on the outskirts of the moss-lands. No one knew what age he was, but it was thought he had reached the age of seventy. His parents, who had died young, left Harry
with nothing more than a tiny cottage and little else. Yet even without sight he could work and fend for himself. His fondness for the fiddle and skill with it was inherited from his father, who in
turn inherited his skill from his own father. So as far back as the poor folks of the bog could remember, music had been played and enjoyed in that area.

It was at weddings that his fine music was mostly employed; no payment ever crossed palms, because Harry always refused it, saying music is a gift and should be shared. Yet it was always at such
happy events that his playing brought him sadness. He would never hold a lovely fresh bride in his arms or sleep with another under the roof of his small but cosy home. So many happy, unseen faces;
he knew they must be happy, because did they not all laugh and sing, dancing around him in his world of darkness? Yet what of his loneliness? Why could he not join in the joy and fun? Poor, sad
fiddler, though all thought him happy because of the uplifting music he played, the opposite was the case. So he’d sit in that darkness and pretend to all his friends and neighbours he was
just as happy as they were for the newly-weds. The way he disguised his true feelings was to drink, and to drink more than was ever good for him—there was no moderation, just pour and swallow
until natural thought had been dispersed and everything was given over to his wonderful music. Then, at the end of every wedding, he’d collapse into exhaustion, relying on some strong person
to walk him home along the narrow causeway that wound its way through the treacherous moss and see him safely home.

One day a request for him to play came from the Laird, who lived in a grand house perched high upon a steep hill overlooking the moss-land. The invitation came by one of the Laird’s
horsemen, who read to Blun Harry its fancily worded request: ‘On the 30
^th
of October, Madam and Lord Kane have great pleasure in inviting you to play at the wedding of their
daughter Annabelle to Kenneth Duncan.’