Thistle and Thyme (3 page)

I'll get you talking yet, my lad, the wee man said to himself.

So, when the gobha's son started to put the shoe on the wee nag's foot, the manikin said, “Have you e'er seen the bonny daughter of the laird up at the castle?”

The gobha's son jumped as if he'd been stuck with a pin. But all he said was, “Aye.”

The wee man waited until the lad finished putting the first shoe on. When he picked up the second leg and started to fix the second shoe to the hoof, the wee man asked, “Has anyone told you that she's mortal ill?”

The gobha's son gave a great big sigh, but all he said was, “Aye.”

He finished with that shoe and went around to the other side of the wee horse. When he looked to be well started on the third shoe, the man in green asked, “Have you no been up to the castle to ask about the laird's bonny daughter?”

The gobha's son shot him a glowering look “Nay,” said he.

That took care of the chatting between the two until the horse was nearly shod. As he was about to fix the last nail in the last of the shoes, the man in green said, “Would you be knowing what ails the bonny young lady?”

The gobha's son waited until he had finished his work and the horse stood with shoes on all four feet. Then he turned to the wee man and he said, “Nay!” He threw the hammer he'd been using aside and told the wee man, “There's your horse all shod and well shod. Now will you take it and yourself away and leave me in peace?”

The wee man stayed where he was. “Not yet!” said he with a grin. “Why do you not go up to the castle and cure the laird's bonny daughter yourself?”

“Cure her!” shouted the gobha's son. “I'd lay down my life to cure her, the bonny young thing.” And he asked the wee man furiously, “How could the likes of me do any good when they've had the gypsy woman with her spells, and the old wife with her herbs and simples, and the best physician come all the way from Edinbro', and not one of them could set her on her feet again?”

“Whisht, lad!” the manikin scolded. “Would you have all the village running to see what the matter can be? To be sure, they couldn't help her. But I know a way you could cure her. If you'd want to.”

As soon as the gobha's son heard that, he was at the wee man to tell him, so that he could run to the castle at once and cure the laird's daughter of her illness.

“Answer me this first,” the green manikin said. “Would you like to wed the bonny young lady?”

“Are you daft?” groaned the lad. “Who ever heard of a gobha's son wedding the daughter of a laird?”

“'Tis not what I asked you,” said the wee man. “Look, lad!
Would you like to wed her?”

“Before I'd wed with anyone else, I'd just lay down and die!” cried the gobha's son.

“'Tis just what the laird's daughter said about yourself,” said the wee man with a satisfied grin. “So, since you are both of the same mind, I'll help you!” Then the wee green man told the gobha's son what he and the lass had been up to.

“Och, nay!” said the lad, “'tis beyond believing.”

“It all started because she made up her mind to wed the gobha's son,” said the manikin. “So let's you and me be finishing it!”

The wee man gave him two wee things, like rowan berries, as like the ones he'd given the lass as they could be.

“Here's the cure for what ails her,” he told the gobha's son.

The lad was all for rushing off to the castle at once, but the wee man held him back.

“Will you be going up to the castle the way you are with your leather apron and soot from the forge all over you?” he scolded. “Och, they'd run you off the place e'er you got the first word in. Tidy yourself first, lad!”

So the lad went and cleaned himself up and got into his Sunday clothes, and a fine figure he was, to be sure. 'Twas no wonder the laird's daughter had set her heart upon him!

“Go with my blessing,” said the wee man. “But remember! Don't cure the lass till the laird has given his promise that you can wed her.”

“That I'll not!” said the gobha's son. He squared his shoulders, and off he marched to the castle.

The wee man got on his wee horse's back and where he rode to, nobody knows.

Things at the castle were in a terrible state. The laird was at his wit's end. The laird's wife and the castle servants had wept till the walls of the castle were damp with the moisture from their tears. The laird's daughter was getting tired of being a dog, and beginning to fear that she'd ne'er be anything else for the rest of her life. She had snapped at the laird's hand that morning because she was cross with him for not letting her wed the gobha's son in the first place. 'Twas a weary day for the old laird.

The gobha's son walked up to the front door and asked to see the laird. He had such a masterful way with him the servants let him in at once. In no time at all there he was, face to face with the laird.

The laird had left his manners off for the time. “Well who are you and what do you want?” he asked with a frown.

“I'm the gobha's son,” said the lad. When the laird heard who it was, he jumped from his chair and started for the lad, ready to throw him out with his own two hands. Because it was the gobha's son who was at the bottom of all the trouble.

The gobha's son sidestepped the laird and said quickly, “And I've come to cure your daughter.”

Och, now! That made a difference. Where the laird had been all wrath and scowls, he was now all smiles. He caught the lad by the arm and said, “A hundred thousand welcomes! Come, let's be going to her then.”

“Nay,” said the lad. “I must know first what I'll get for it.”

“Do not let that fash you,” the laird said eagerly. “Och, I'll give you a whole big bag of gold. Or two if you like. Come. Let's be at it!”

“'Tis not gold I want,” said the lad.

“What is it, then?” the laird asked impatiently.

“Your leave to marry your daughter,” said the lad as bold as brass.

“Nay!” thundered the laird. “That you shan't have.”

“Then I'll bid you good day,” said the gobha's son, and started for the door.

But he never got there. The laird was beside him before he laid his hand on the door knob.

What could the poor old laird do? He had to give in and he knew it. So he did.

“You can have her,” said the laird to the gobha's son.

The wee dog jumped from the bed and ran up to the gobha's son the minute he and the laird came into the room. The lad took the berries from his pocket and popped them into her mouth and she swallowed them down. Before you could say, “two two's,” there stood the laird's daughter in the wee dog's place!

She took the lad's hand in her own and she turned to the laird and said, “I'm going to wed the gobha's son.”

“Wed him then!” said the laird, not too unhappy about it since he'd got his lass back again. “But you'd better go tell your mother and the maids, so they can stop crying if you want the castle dried out by the time of your wedding.”

So the pawky lass got her way in the end and married the gobha's son. The laird was not ill pleased for he found his son-in-law as likeable a body as any he'd ever found. So he made him steward of his estates and a good one the lad was, too. So it all ended well and that's all there is to tell about the laird's daughter and the gobha's son.

St. Cuddy
and the Gray Geese

T
HERE WAS ONCE A GOOD SAINT AT MULROSS AND HIS
name was St. Cuddy. If folks who have the notion they know better, tell you it was Cuthbert, don't you be believing them, for the folks of his own place always called him Cuddy and if they don't know, who does? It was this saint who had a great knowledge of birds and their ways and the manners of all wild things in the air or on the land or in the sea. The fame of his knowledge spread far from his own land to others in distant places. Great folks came to him to ask him things they didn't know themselves about the birds and the beasts. St. Cuddy was a great one for tramping around the countryside and often even by night he'd be stravaging over the hills or along the shore, peeping into this and poking into that and inspecting and examining to find out what the wild creatures were up to.

The birds were what he liked best. 'Twas a marvel what he could do with them. He had such a way with the eider ducks that they're still remarkably tame. Folks still call them Cuddy's ducks. Loving the birds so dearly and knowing them so well, it is no wonder that when he got to Heaven they gave the flying creatures over to him, so he's the saint that's protector of the birds.

It wasn't just the birds St. Cuddy kept an eye on. He looked after people, too. When he was at home in his monastery, there was always a line of poor folks coming up the road to ask for help. Never a one of them went away empty-handed, and the kind word and the bit of good plain advice he gave them did them more good than the bundle of food they carried away, and they went home happier and wiser than they came.

The kind words were for those that deserved them. Whenever he came across anyone that was doing anything he shouldn't be doing, he had a whiplash to his tongue that could give a rare thrashing. And St. Cuddy never held back from using it when he thought it was needed.

Well, being a great traveler, there wasn't much that went on that didn't come under his eye. What he didn't see for himself, he was bound to hear about, for someone was sure to tell him. So, one way or another he learned about the greedy old wife.

This old wife lived by her lone on her tidy farm, having neither husband nor bairn to keep her company. Her cow was sonsie, her sheep were fat, her henyard was a treat for the eye to see. But she was never one to share what she had. She was so greedy and close-fisted she was a scandal to all who knew her.

She had a crafty way of getting out of giving anything away. When poor folks came begging she'd tell them, “Och, now! 'Tis terribly sorry I am! I'd give you somewhat sure but I've got a sluagh of poor kin and I've got to save whate'er I can spare, for them.”

Then, when her poor relations came and asked her for help, she'd say, “Well, now, I'd give and gladly if I could. But more than what I need for myself must go to the poor, for they're worse off than yourself.” That way neither the poor nor her poor relations got a thing and she could keep all she had for herself.

When St. Cuddy heard what was going on he didn't like it at all, so off he went to have a talk with the old wife herself.

Now it happened that she had a fine flock of geese that she'd raised. She was mortal proud of them and fed them and tended them well till they were fat enough to drive to market to sell.

It was market day when St. Cuddy came along and met her on the road driving her great gray geese before her. There were twelve of them and every one so big and fine and fat it would make your mouth water to look at them, and think what they'd be like lying roasted on a platter!

St. Cuddy was a very large man, and the way was narrow. He stood in the middle of it and he filled it up so that she couldn't get by on one side or the other.

“Good day to you, old wife,” said the saint. “'Tis a fine lot of geese you've got there!”

“Fine or not,” said the old wife, “I'll be troubling you to move over so that I can get by with my geese.”

“Och, come now,” St. Cuddy said pleasant-like. “The morn's early yet. Hold a bit and the two of us will be having a bit of gab.”

The old wife didn't know St. Cuddy at all for she'd never laid eyes on him before. But she wouldn't have cared if she had.

“Get over, old bodach!” she ordered angrily, “and leave me and my geese go by.”

But St. Cuddy moved not so much as an inch. On the contrary, he sort of spread himself out further over the road.

“Och, now, be easy,” he said in a soothering sort of a voice. “Happen I can do you a good turn, woman.”

“The best turn you could do me would be to get on your way,” said the old wife. She was as cross now as two crossed sticks.

St. Cuddy could see well that folks had been telling no lies about the old wife, but he was willing to give her a chance.

“They tell me you've been saving a goose for your poor kin over at Mulross,” said he. “'Tis on my way to Mulross I am myself. I'll just be taking it along with me and save you the trouble of the journey.”

“A goose for my poor kin indeed!” the old wife cried with scorn. “If my kin were as careful and thrifty as me they'd have a goose of their own.”

“Och, well! Maybe so, maybe so,” the good saint agreed. “But what of the one that I hear you've been setting by for the poor? We've a wheen of poor folk over at Mulross. How about me taking yon fat one along with me for them? Then you'll have done with that.” And he pointed his finger at the best goose of the lot.

The old woman flew into a rage. “Not my kin nor the poor nor anyone else shall ever have one of my geese,” she shouted. “As sure as I stand in this place. So be on your way, you blethering old man!” And she raised the stick she was driving the geese with and made as if to rush at the saint to drive him away.

St. Cuddy raised his hand and thundered out in a mighty voice. “As sure as you stand in this place, old wife? Then stand in this place you shall! And the geese you would not part with, for love of kin or charity to the poor, shall keep you company!”

And true it was. For where she stood she stayed. She and her twelve fat gray geese had all turned into great gray stones.

And if you should be coming along from Mulross toward the sea, you can see them for yourself. Twelve round gray stones in a line and a bigger one behind them just where the road makes a bend to get around them.

When the auld wife didn't come back, the poor relations got her farm. Now that they had a bit of gear of their own, they were as thrifty as anybody needs to be. But they were always good to the poor, for they remembered what it was like when they were poor themselves.