‘That was wonderful, Janet. I’m not surprised that you did so well in the Mod.’
About ten of us were crammed into Mary’s living room one cold February night. Janet had just entertained us with one of the pieces she had performed so successfully back in the autumn. Rather like the Welsh Eisteddfod, the Scottish Mod gave young people a chance of recognition in their chosen field of music or poetry. Janet played the bagpipes, a difficult instrument not always appreciated in confined spaces! But she always practised outside, standing at the end of her parents’ croft house on the hill. I had heard her playing on the very first day that we had set eyes on the house that was now our home. The ancient lament had come drifting across the glen, adding its sad, haunting beauty to the peaceful scene. Tonight, it was different. Janet had just played in Archie and Mary’s porch and had come back in to join the ceilidh, receiving the congratulations with her shy smile. She was 12 and already held the promise of the slender loveliness to come.
I looked around at our friends and neighbours squeezed into the small room. Marion and Murdoch were huddled into a corner. Katy, in remission from the leukaemia once more and looking fitter than she had for months, had been given a fireside chair. Big Craig, Dhubaig’s roadman, sat on a milking stool by the door ‘to get a wee drop air’. George, Nick, Andy and I had been afforded the comparative luxury of a two-seater settee, where we tried to look comfortable. Catriona, from the Cill Donnan shop, perched on Rhuari’s knee, and the frail dining chair beneath them creaked in pain. Archie was in his favourite chair that he never gave up for anyone, while Mary bustled about with dumpling and cake. Lounging against the kitchen door was Fergie, whom we had not met before. Mary introduced him as her cousin, a salesman in ‘frozen foods and other combustibles’. We were fairly certain that she meant ‘comestibles’. But that was Mary!
These small ceilidhs occurred almost by accident and everyone was welcome. If this one ran true to form, another eight or nine people would pack into the little room before the evening was over. It would become unbearably hot, the windows would stream with condensation and someone would eventually be forced to open the door to allow a blast of cold, damp but blessedly fresh air into the stuffy atmosphere. But, in spite of all this, Archie would continue to throw another peat onto the blazing fire at the rate of about one every ten minutes.
We had all donated something to drink, and the unsophisticated entertainment was in full swing. There would be poems, a song or two, stories, and jokes (always in good taste when ladies were present) and, the most interesting thing of all to me, reminiscences about times gone by and people long dead.
Archie threw the inevitable peat on the fire and leaned back in his chair. Lucky man! Our cramped conditions allowed for only synchronised movement and the shallowest of breathing.
‘Well, Mary-J,’ he said, glancing around. Archie was about the only crofter who called me anything but ‘Nurse’. ‘I never told you about old Morag when you bought the house, did I?’
Surprised, I said, ‘No, Archie, you didn’t.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you now if you like.’
We did like! We had always heard that there was some sinister reason for the cold spot that persisted under the stairs in spite of all the heat we put into the rebuilt and refurbished house. Until this minute, everyone had been evasive whenever we mentioned this phenomenon.
‘Aye, well. It was like this, y’see,’ began Archie. ‘Morag was an old besom. I mind as a wee boy I was afeart of her, but as we grew, we lads used to play tricks on her. One evening, we climbed the roof and stuffed some sacks in the chimney. Then we hid and watched. Out she came, bawlin’ and hollerin’ and screamin’ blue murder and black as a sweep she was. By! That woman’s language!’ He shook his head in mock horror, as island women rarely swore. Then he became serious.
‘Even as a wee girl, she was evil. She’d steal folk’s cats and string them up in her byre and then invite them in to see the poor dead things. Once, when the laird, Duncan’s grandfather y’understand, was ridin’ his lovely white horse near the castle, she jumped out, screechin’ and screamin’, and scared the poor brute that much he threw the laird off. He broke his shoulder and the horse bolted and fell in the sea. When she grew up, she’d tramp the hills, gatherin’ all manner of weird plants and insects, and then she’d boil them up in a big old pot. By! Did it stink! Then when the tinkers came, she’d get them to buy it, tellin them it was medicine.’
Mary eagerly joined in, ‘You mind what she did to Roddy’s mother?’
‘Aye, she took all the blankets off the bushes where they were dryin and threw them in the sea. Then she goes into the byre, gets the cow and drives the poor beast over the cliff. She got worse and worse, and nobody felt safe from her. She let on she had “powers”. Witch’s powers, y’ know.’
Archie sighed, and we sensed a change of atmosphere in the room.
‘Douggy’s mother, Mairie, gave birth to a wee girl.’
‘Ah, the soul,’ put in Marion, shaking her head. Douggy, who had just come in, nodded sadly.
We were riveted. ‘What happened?’ asked Nick.
‘That besom turned up and made all sorts of weird noises beside the two o’ them and threw some of that filthy muck of hers over the child. Then she pretended to make a curse on her. Mairie screamed, but Morag just laughed and said, “That child will be dead within a week.” And she was!’
Marion and Mary were openly sobbing now, although they must have heard the tale a hundred times. We were horrified.
‘How?’ I whispered.
Archie shook his head. ‘ ’Twas thirty-odd year ago, Mary-J. Nobody knew why the wee girl went, but from the day she was born, she was dyin’. She just faded away. And that wicked woman was in the kirkyard when they buried the wee soul, and she laughed and yelled that it proved that she had “the powers”.’
Another peat went on the fire. Archie cheered up a little and grinned at Douggy. ‘A couple of nights later, someone set fire to her byre where she kept all her potions and rubbish.’
‘Aye, ’twas my father. Everybody knew, but no one ever spoke of it.’ Douggy gave his gentle smile.
Archie resumed, ‘After that, she started to get letters threatenin to burn her house down as well . . .’
‘That wasn’t my father.’
‘I know, Douggy, but it frightened her and she disappeared for years. Nobody knows to this day where she went, but one day, back she came, even battier than ever! She’d have been about in her 50s by then, I’m thinkin’. That’s when we boys used to play tricks on her, and our parents never stopped us; they couldn’t forgive her for all her evil deeds, y’see. Well, next thing was, some years later, her aunt turns up to look after her. Morag was too batty to be able to see to herself, y’see, and folks didna know what she might get up to. Old Shona had a job, to be sure, but she managed pretty well. She’d lock Morag up when she got too violent, and we’d hear that besom’s screamin’ and swearin’ across the glen, just. Shona was a big, strong woman, very dour, and wouldn’t let anyone help her. That went on for years.’
Archie took a large swig of whisky.
‘Why didn’t she get sent away to Craiglan?’ I asked, mentioning the area’s psychiatric institution.
‘Ach. Too proud was Shona. She was from Uist, y’see.’
This was obviously meant to explain everything.
Having fortified himself, Archie settled back once more, Mary’s face took on its rapt expression and we realised that the story was far from over.
‘One night, there was even more yellin’ and screamin’ than usual, and in the morning there was nae smoke comin’ from the chimney. Several of us men went over to see what was the matter. My dear Lord! What a sight! The pair of them slept on that old box-bed, and that’s where they were—dead as doornails! There was an old kitchen knife on the floor by the bed and blood everywhere!’
We gasped. Andy and Nick were enthralled.
‘We went for the doctor and the polis and the undertaker, and then we thought maybe we should get the minister. Well, the doctor was on Rhuna, the polis had to send for detectives and there was no money for the undertaker, so he went home again. The minister thought Shona had killed Morag and then herself, and the doctor said Morag had murdered Shona and then done away with herself. At first, the polis agreed with the minister, so the doctor wouldn’t sign the death certificates. What a do that was! In the end, the polis said the doctor was right after all, and so he signed. The minister wasn’t convinced and said how would he know which one to bury in hallowed ground? And he refused to bury either of them in the kirkyard. There was no family to protest, y’see, so they were buried just over the kirkyard wall. But there was no money . . .’
‘They died intesticle,’ said Mary importantly.
There was dead silence. I stared hard at Nick, willing him not to laugh.
Suppressing a snigger, Douggy said, ‘I think you mean “intestate”.’
Completely at ease, Mary murmured, ‘Oh aye.’
‘How long ago was all this?’ asked George.
‘The deaths? Oh, about seven, eight year ago. It was the year we got the hay in before August, I mind.’
‘Yes, and wee Janet started school,’ said Katy, smiling at a rather white-faced Janet.
‘Shona didna rest easy, though. She was seen.’ Mary was following a thought of her own. She nudged Archie, ‘You haven’t told them about the ghost.’
So there was still more?
‘Ach ’twas only once or twice. Old Hughie thought he saw Shona walkin’ the hills, but it might have been the drink, and Murdoch here thought he saw her over the croft one day.’
‘No “thought” about it. I did see her. ’Twas broad daylight and I’d not had a drink at all.’ Murdoch sounded indignant.
Marion rushed to the rescue, ‘Well, anyway, we told the minister and he came over to the house . . .’
‘And he did an exercise,’ said Mary.
‘Exorcism!’ Laughing, Fergie spoke for the first time.
‘Aye, he did, and she was not seen again. Then he blessed the house itself, as it had seen so much evil, he said.’
Big Craig spoke up. ‘Aye, but we all felt it was not fair on Shona not to be buried in the kirkyard. Just because she didna go to the kirk didna mean she was not a good woman. By! There’s not many as would look after such a one for nigh on twenty years!’ There were murmurs of assent. He continued, ‘We reckoned she’d been tryin’ to tell us that she was not at peace, so some of us made a wooden cross with some wood from the shore and set it up on Shona’s grave. Grand, it looked. The minister didn’t like it at all, but he couldn’t very well go pulling up the Lord’s Cross now, could he?’ He paused and then, with a sly grin, he said, ‘Anyway, we buried the bottom so deep he couldn’t have got it out. We all felt better about her after that.’ He looked round for confirmation.
Everyone nodded, ‘Aye, we did, we did.’
‘I wonder why we still have this cold spot where the bed was?’ asked George.
Katy spoke again. ‘I think the house needs the warmth of people and laughter and love to get rid of that. It’s not real cold. It’s just a memory. A memory that will fade now that you are here and your family comes and goes, and good things happen. The house does not have any evil there any more, so it will forget all the dreadful things.’ She stopped and looked round. We were all staring at her. She blushed and we looked at the fire instead.
I had the oddest feeling, as though I were listening to someone who knew so much because she was close to knowing everything. In other words, close to death—the ultimate knowledge. Lovely brave Katy, who looked so well at the moment. Was this remission to be short-lived? I was suddenly very sad.
George was speaking. ‘What a tale! And you were all involved.’
‘Aye, we were, we were.’ Again, the older ones nodded in unison. Then, by some unacknowledged resolve, the subject was changed, while dumpling, Scotch pancakes, and tea were handed round.
When we wandered homewards across Archie’s croft, the sky had cleared to a crispness that dispelled the heat and smog of cigarettes and peat smoke, and we took in lungfuls of clean air.
‘Mum. Look!’
We looked skyward. All around us were shimmering curtains of gold and blue and red, flowing to and fro like the swishing drapes of an opulent theatre stage. We turned slowly through 360 degrees and the same lights were above, to the sides, behind—everywhere at once! Like a huge domed tent of some fabulous, golden fabric, the northern lights displayed their splendour in a beautiful, swaying, rhythmic movement that glittered and glowed in the night sky. Awed and amazed, we could only stand and watch. I could imagine choirs of angels, jewelled harps, Heaven’s golden gates and, perhaps, God himself, walking in the billowing space surrounded by these magnificent lights. I could only wonder at the marvels of this universe and the diminution of puny humanity when faced with such grandeur. Scientists can explain the aurora borealis if they wish, but they cannot take away its impact on an individual’s consciousness. What we know and what we feel do not always coincide. I have seen the ‘Merry Dancers’ many times since but never in such splendour as on that night, and it is an experience that will remain with me forever.