She fell asleep picturing the harvest feast but woke suddenly, her heart pounding. Was it a dream that had roused her? No, she could hear muffled shouting coming from outside.
She swung her legs out of the box bed and peeped round the curtain to see Pappa groping around in the dark, searching for his boots. Quietly she pulled on her shawl and skirt over her shift.
She crept outside, following Pappa but keeping her distance. He tilted his head to listen as the noise started up again. It didn’t sound like someone shouting in pain or fear, more a sort of bellowing. He hurried towards the house of their neighbour, Donald MacKinnon. At first glance his home looked much like their own, crouching down into the earth, but as they came closer they could see the ragged line of the turfs on the roof, the lopsided peat stack and the muddle of tools by the door. There was his black cow, shaggy head lowered, treading backwards and forwards in front of the byre. She was lowing in distress, stamping her feet and banging her horns against the door. A strange crooning came from inside.
Màiri stood back in the shadows as her father whispered to the beast. ‘What’s the matter, old girl?’ He half turned and out of the corner of his eye he saw Màiri move.
‘What are you doing here, lassie? Well you can make yourself useful calming her down while I see what’s going on.’
She inched forwards, singing her own cow’s favourite tune. The animal turned her big mournful eyes towards Màiri, dark pools fringed with eyelashes thick as reeds. While her father slipped inside the door she found a piece of rope snaking among the abandoned pots and nets. After tethering the beast to a tree she put her head round the door. Her mouth fell open. A young red calf stood there, stumbling on its neat little hooves. Clinging to its neck and slobbering into its face was a strange creature with a pale back, scrawny legs and sagging buttocks. Pappa was pulling the creature off the calf. It turned, arms flailing and she recognised the blotched red face of old Donald. What drew her eye though was the purplish worm nosing out from the undergrowth between his legs. She gasped in surprise making her father spin round.
‘Go into the house and bring some clothes for him.’
She hurried back with a long shirt. Together they pushed the old man’s protesting arms through the sleeves.
‘Come on now Donald, we need to take the wee beast back to her mother before she curdles her milk with worry.’ Between them they half led, half lifted him inside to his bed. He muttered and groaned in protest but soon he was snoring and dead to the world.
Màiri felt pleased that her father had not ordered her back home but let her help him. There were so many things she was told she couldn’t do; fishing, playing shinty, drilling like a soldier and going to the cèilidh house. The night’s events must be some sort of omen, she decided. It was as if she had climbed up one of those tall Canadian trees that barred her way. Now she could see the way ahead.
During the next week she hurried to finish all the mending jobs her mother had given her, even completed the hated shawl for her sister. She was all quiet diligence, no complaining or making faces. The other unusual change her mother noticed was that Màiri often had a faraway expression on her face and her lips moved silently. Well, she’s growing up and maybe she’s even learning the consolation of prayer, Flòraidh thought.
That evening Màiri said, ‘I thought I’d go out and take the air, it’s such a fine evening.’
‘A good idea.’ Flòraidh ignored the whisper of suspicion in her mind. Instead she smiled and patted Màiri’s arm.
Once out of the door she ran to Alasdair Dubh’s house. He was renowned as the best storyteller in the village so the cèilidhs were held in his house. Most of the local men and boys came to listen to tales and riddles, exchange news and gossip and sing a few songs. Màiri crept in and stood at the back, unnoticed in the deep shadows thrown by the candlelight. Her lips moved as she readied herself. Alasdair himself was preparing to tell a story. He put down his clay pipe and wet his lips.
‘I thought, my friends, that you might like to hear another of the adventures of the old fool, although some folk called him a wise man.’ There was a murmur of approval.
‘One night when the rain was heavy enough to drown in the fool knocked at the door of the big house belonging to the minister. He could hear heavy footsteps approaching until at last the door creaked open. There was the minister himself in his nightshirt, a candlestick in his hand. He glared at the fool.
“Please, kind Sir, it’s a terrible night and I’m soaked to the skin. Will you give me a bed for the night?”
“No, I’ve no room.”
“But you must have plenty of rooms in such a big house.”
“No, I haven’t.”
“But I can’t stay outside in this storm.”
The minister frowned at the fool’s miserable expression. “Very well then, but it’s most inconvenient. All I can give you is the loft. Follow me.”
So the fool trudged behind the flickering light, along echoing corridors and up staircases, each narrower than the one before. Eventually they came to a dusty ladder leading up to a trapdoor.
“There you are. Climb up and sleep in the loft but you must be gone at first light.”
The fool cried out, beside himself. “You’re very kind Sir, but I can’t go up there.”
“Why on earth not?”
“I’m scared of heights and I’m so tired after my long walk that I haven’t the strength to lift up the trapdoor.”
“What a useless fellow you are,” the minister snorted. “Here – hold the candle while I open the trapdoor.” He huffed and puffed his way up the ladder for he was a heavy man. He pushed at the trapdoor until it gave way. Finally he heaved himself up into the loft.
“There you are,” he shouted down. “I hope you’re grateful for the trouble you’ve caused me.”
No answer.
“Did you hear me, you insolent rogue?”
Still no answer.
“I’m coming down and when I do I shall put you out of the house for your rudeness.”
This time he could hear a cackle. Furious now, the minister lowered himself down on the edge of the opening and stretched out a leg to reach the top rung. It dangled in the air. He peered down into the darkness. The man had gone and so had the ladder.
The fool picked the choicest food from the kitchen; venison, beef and wheaten bread. He found beer in a barrel and a bottle of whisky. When he was as full as an egg he looked in every room and lay down on every bed until he found the best one. He slept the sleep of the just on a down mattress with fine linen sheets, waking refreshed at the crack of dawn. Then he packed some provisions for his breakfast and skipped off like a goat into the hills.’
‘And what about the minister?’ one of the lads asked.
‘Oh, he shivered all night, shouting in vain for help.’
The audience laughed and clapped.
‘What about a cheery song now,’ a voice called out.
‘I’ve got one, a new one.’ Màiri wriggled and dodged her way to the front. ‘You’ll have to listen hard to find out who it’s about.’
Before anyone had time to comment she started to sing.
Save me from meddling women,
Cried out the mean old hermit.
Leave me at peace in my home
With all my stuff where I left it
I can see it there around me
While I sit and have a wee dram.
Save me from meddling women
It’s grand with my things all together
My pots, pans, nets and tools
All I own piled up in a heap
I can find at once what I need
While I sit and have a wee dram.
She paused for a moment, looking around her to see if she had their attention. Most faces looked surprised, a few of them suspicious but they were listening. Relieved, she unfolded her tale,
Save me from meddling women,
Like my sister out from Portree,
Stalking up hill and over moor
Itching to get her hands on my stuff
And tidy it all out of sight
Oh, I need to have another wee dram.
There were chuckles now and people joining in the repeated lines.
Save me from meddling women
I hunt for all my treasures
My pots, pans, nets and tools
One by one I find my precious store
And pile them up in a heap
Oh, I need to have another wee dram.
Save me from meddling women
Dog tired I go to my bed
My eyes shut, I drift away
What wonderful dreams I have
I’m young again and with my love
Oh, I need to have another wee dram.
Save me from meddling women
Morag my love comes to me
With her red curls and deep soft eyes
I cradle her head and kiss her
Her lips so moist and what a long tongue
Oh, I need to have another wee dram.
Save me from meddling women
Who is it who shouts in my ear?
“Stop kissing her poor hairy face
Take the calf back to her mother
Go and soak yourself in the loch
No, you can’t have another wee dram.
‘Go on lass, sing it again,’ a voice called out,
And so she did until they all knew the words.
‘Well Iain Bàn, I had no idea you had this young bard in your house. She’s got a gift although she’s a wee bit rough round the edges yet,’ said Alasdair Dubh. There was pride mingled with doubt on her father’s face. As they strolled home together he said, ‘Well that wasn’t bad at all. But I don’t know what your mother will say. Just as long as you don’t get above yourself and think you can be a story teller like Alasdair Dubh’.
But Màiri wasn’t listening. She had escaped the stifling forest and was striding on her way.