Thistle and Thyme (11 page)

One day, when the demon was hopping around doing whatever mischief he could, Michael Scott said to him, “Och, now, 'tis weary work this must be for you what with all the flitting around you've got to do. Sit ye down and rest yourself for a while and let's have a gab together.”

“Och, I'm not weary at all,” the demon said. “It suits me fine to be busy.” But being willing to oblige Michael, he perched himself on the edge of the hob, anyway.

“I can see that fine,” said Michael Scott. “But can you not go and be busy elsewhere?”

“That I cannot,” said the demon, “because my master has sent me to attend to you.”

“'Tis sad,” said Michael Scott. “Such a wearying job for a braw young lad like yourself. Is there no way you could be getting out of it?”

“There is not,” said the demon cheerfully. “But it suits me fine, anyway.”

“Och, aye,” said Michael Scott. “But that is for now whilst it's all new to you. However, I'm none so old and 'tis likely I'll live long. The heart of me aches to think of the long weary years you have ahead of you. It does indeed!”

The demon stopped looking so cheerful. “That may be so,” said he, “but nevertheless I must just make the best of it.”

“Aye,” sighed Michael Scott. “So you must. And there's no way at all that you could be rid of the job?”

“None,” said the demon, sighing, too, in spite of himself. “Barring one.”

“And what would that one be?” Michael asked kindly, taking care not to seem too interested and eager.

“Well, if you could be setting me a task that was too much for me so I'd not be able to do it,” the demon told him. Then he laughed, and added, “Never fear! That you ne'er could do.”

“Well, 'tis worth trying,” said Michael Scott. “We could make sort of a game of it. 'Twould be a change for us both and make time pass quicker.”

Well, the demon could see the sense of that. He'd been overturning pots and smothering fires and the like for a fortnight past. It was a bit monotonous, if you came to look at it straight. And it could get more so as years went by. He would like a change himself for a bit of diversion.

“Give us a task then!” he said with a chuckle, being terribly sure of himself.

Michael Scott thought for a minute or two. Then he said, “River Tweed does need a cauld to it up by Kelso Town. No man's ever been able to build one, for the water there runs too fast and deep. Would you like to be taking that in hand?”

“I will so!” said the demon, and off he went.

Michael Scott had one night to work in peace, but no more than that. The next morn, in came the demon very full of himself with his chest stuck out and a grin on his face that stretched from ear to ear.

“'Tis done!” said he, putting a foot on the fire to set it smoking, and o'erturning a pot or two.

“Is it now?” said Michael Scott, hiding his disappointment as well as he could. “Och! 'Tis something harder I should have asked you to do, for I'd have been able to do that myself.”

“Have another try!” said the demon, laughing at him.

“That I will,” said Michael Scott. “You'll be knowing Ercildoune Hill where it sets in the plain like a big sugar loaf? Well then! Break it up and make three hills of it, if you can.

“I'll be at it at once!” the demon said. “I'll be finding it easier far than last night's work.”

So Michael Scott had another night's peace. He did no work in it but he set his wits to work for him. He sat in his chair and thought and thought and thought. He misdoubted that the demon would be back on the morrow's morn, and he wanted to be ready with a task that would free him from the demon for good and all.

Well, back the demon came the next morning, and the grin on his face was wide enough to near split his head in two. “ 'Twas no trouble at all,” he told Michael Scott gleefully. “I'd have been back long ere this, did I not stop to hear the commotion of the people to see three hills this morn where only one was the night before. 'Tis sore befuddled and bemazed they are, to be sure!” And he screeched with laughter at the memory.

“I'm hoping you'll have something as easy and entertaining for me to do next,” he told Michael Scott.

“Och,” said Michael Scott, putting on a doleful air. “I fear you are too much for me. 'Tis past believing the wonders you can bring about. I'm just at the point of giving it all up.”

“Och, come now,” said the demon kindly. “Give it another try, anyway.” He looked pleased at the praise Michael had given him.

“Happen 'tis too trifling a task for a lad with powers like your own,” Michael Scott said reluctantly.

“Nay! Nay!” said the demon. “Tell me then. I'll not be offended.”

“Well then,” said Michael hesitating-like, “'Tis not much, but I'd like it fine if you'd go down by the sea and make me a few fathom of rope from the sand on the shore there.”

“I will so!” cried the demon happily. “And be back in time for my tea. 'Tis the softest task of them all!”

So off he went and left Michael Scott with a promise that he'd not be long gone.

But he never came back again. For Michael's last bidding had stumped him entirely. To this very day the demon is still there by the sea trying to make ropes of sand, and all in vain.

When the wind blows high and the waves beat the shore, if you listen you'll hear him whispering, “R-r-r-r-ropes of s-s-s-s-sand! R-r-r-r-ropes of s-s-s-s-sand!” as he works away at the task he ne'er can do.

So Michael Scott had peace at his magic for all the rest of his days. Even the De'il himself did not bother him any more, for he was afraid if he did, Michael Scott would get the best of him, too.

About the Author

Sorche Nic Leodhas (1898-1969) was born LeClaire Louise Gowansin Youngstown, Ohio. After the death of her first husband, she moved to New York and attended classes at Columbia University. Several years later, she met her second husband and became LeClaireGowans Alger. Shewas a longtime librarian at the Carnegie Library in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where she also wrote children's books. Shortly before she retired in 1966, she began publishing Scottish folktales and other stories under the pseudonym Sorche Nic Leodhas, Gaelic for
Claire, daughter of Louis
. In 1963, she received a Newbery Honor for
Thistle and Thyme: Tales and Legends from Scotland
. Alger continued to write and publish books until her death 1969.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1962 by Leclaire G. Alger

Cover design by Liz Connor

ISBN: 978-1-4976-4011-5

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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