We finished the pot of tea and the two men were relaxed and comfortable, smoking cigarettes and indulging in desultory argument about boats and cattle with rarely an acknowledgment of my presence. Erchy smoked half of his third cigarette and then with an exclamation threw the rest of it into the fire. Hector gave him a questioning glance.
‘Ach, they’re after makin’ my throat dry. This cold’s taken a hold of me, I’m after thinkin’.’
‘Let’s make another pot of tea if your throat’s dry,’ I suggested.
‘It seems as if I cannot take anythin’ hot,’ Erchy replied. ‘What I’ll take is a drink of water.’
‘I know,’ I said, ‘I’ve just the very thing. Morag was making butter for me today and there’s a bowl of buttermilk in the cupboard at the back of the house. That will help soothe your throat.’
Erchy stayed in his chair.
‘Where is tse buttermilk? I could do wiss a drink myself,’ Hector said.
‘In the cupboard at the back of the house,’ I repeated. He wandered outside and returned with the full bowl cupped tenderly between his large hands. He put it on the table.
‘Help yourself, Erchy,’ I invited. Hector emptied the remains of tea from his mug and dipped it into the buttermilk.
‘Come on, Erchy,’ I insisted. ‘You’re always saying how much you like buttermilk.’
Erchy did not move. ‘No thanks,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I would never take a drink of buttermilk from a woman unless she was a relative.’
I looked at him in amazement. ‘Why ever not?’ I demanded.
‘Well, I would not, then. An’ nor would any man that belongs to my family.’
‘But what’s wrong with accepting buttermilk. Is there some superstition about it?’
‘It’s no superstition,’ returned Erchy warmly. ‘It’s somethin’ that happened an’ it happened to my grandfather an’ his brother. Since then there’s not one of us would take a drink of buttermilk from a stranger.’
‘I’m hardly a stranger, Erchy,’ I pointed out, a little disgruntled.
But he would not be persuaded, and I noticed that though Hector had filled his mug he had not yet raised it to his lips.
‘I don’t know this story about buttermilk and your grandfather,’ I confessed. ‘But if you’re not going to accept my offer you ought at least to explain why.’
Erchy settled himself back in his chair, ‘Well, you know the Sheehan?’ he asked.
I nodded. I had heard of the ‘Sheehan’ (Fairy Hill) and discovered it quite by accident one day when searching for a heronry which the locals knew existed but which was not, so far as I could discover, marked on any of the bird maps. I had floundered through bogs, waded streams, climbed in and out of corries and had at last, to my great delight, come upon indisputable evidence of a heronry. Returning via a corrie I had never previously explored I could not help noticing a raised area of greenness, roughly rectangular in shape, set amidst the sedge brown moor. In the centre of the greenness rose a small heathery knoll, about eight foot in diameter and not much higher than myself. Strewn haphazardly around the knoll were several large white stones. I was tired and the knoll amidst the greenness looked inviting, so I sat down and leaned back against the springy heather. Almost immediately I became aware that the ground was warm beneath my bottom. I sat up and patted the knoll. There was no doubt of its warmth. I got up and walked round it, assessing its situation and pondering upon the explanation, scientific or factual, for its being able to absorb, retain and exude more warmth than other knolls, for it was not the first time that day I had rested and at no time had I found the ground anything but damp and chill. Eventually I decided it must be something to do with all the rabbit burrows around the base of the knoll; possibly it enclosed such a large colony that enough heat was generated to penetrate the covering of soil and heather roots. I sat down again, letting my imagination play with a children’s story that began with a warm knoll in a strange green place with white stones. But it was no such tale for children that Erchy related to me now.
‘It was one time when my grandfather an’ his brother took the cattle to the spring sale. It was fifteen miles they had to walk them, so when they got there they enjoyed themselves with a bitty of the money they made. You know, takin’ a good dram. Then they bought the few things they were needin’ an’ a couple of bolls of meal that they took on their backs an ‘started the journey home. It was about four o’clock in the evenin’ an’ pretty warm, an’ when they were about a third the way they began wishin’ they hadn’t taken so much whisky and complainin’ their mouths were dry.
‘ “What wouldn’t I give for a good drink of buttermilk to cool my whisky down,” says my grandfather’s brother, Finlay was his name.
‘ “Aye,” says my grandfather. “But there’s no chance of a drink of any sort till we get to the next croft an’ that’s another four miles yet.”
‘Just then they see a woman comin’ towards them, carryin’ a pail an’ a bowl. She’s a fine lookin’ woman—not young, not old, an’ she has her hair in two long pleats.
‘ “Well, boys,” she greets them. “Am I not hearin’ you sayin’ you have a fancy for a drink of buttermilk? Here then. I just finished makin’ butter myself. Take a drink an’ ease your thirst.” She pours out milk from the pail into the bowl an’ holds it out to them. My grandfather gets suspicious an’ refuses, an’ he wasn’t pleased to see Finlay take the bowl an’ drink up the buttermilk. Then the woman says, “My house is just in the glen there, will you not come an’ rest yourselves for a wee whiley?” Now my grandfather knows that this woman is no ordinary woman because he went this way many times an’ he never saw a house of any sort in the glen. But Finlay seems to suspect nothin’. “Come on,” he urges, an’ follows the woman. My grandfather knows he must follow his brother an’ try to save him from the fairies before they have complete power over him, so he follows too an’ they come to this green place with the heathery cnoc in the middle. In this cnoc there’s a dark passage leadin’ to a thick heavy door and from beyond comes the sounds of music an’ laughter an’ dancin’. Finlay’s all excited but my grandfather knows it’s a trap and tries to persuade him to turn away. But the door opens an’ Finlay follows the woman in. My grandfather thinks he’s gone for good but then he remembers that after the sale he bought a packet of iron nails that he has in his pocket, so pretendin’ he’s tired with carryin’ his boll of meal he stumbles against the door an’ drives a nail into it so the fairies won’t see it. Without that nail, he knew he would never be able to go out through that door again. Inside they’re invited to dance an’ Finlay, still with his boll of meal on his back, joins in. My! but how they dance, those folk, swingin’ Finlay round from one to the other an’ all the time to strange wild music that made my grandfather so feared he pulled moss to stop his ears from hearin’ it.
‘ “If you won’t join our dancin’ sit yourself down on the hearth.” That was the woman with the buttermilk speakin’ to my grandfather again. She showed him the white hearth stones, but he wouldn’t sit down an’ stood with his boll of meal on his back, waitin’ a chance to slip a nail into his brother’s pocket an’ so help him to escape from the fairies. But Finlay never stopped dancin’ for a second an’ even with the boll of meal on his back he never sweated a drop or showed a trace of tiredness. At last Finlay swings against his brother, an’ there’s his chance. My grandfather got the nail in his pocket an’ Finlay seemed to wake from a dream. The two of them made for the door, pulled it open an’ ran out. They didn’t stop runnin’ till they’d done about four miles an’ could see the next croft. There Finlay collapsed as if he was dead an’ my grandfather couldn’t wake him. He went for help to the croft house an’ told them the story, an’ soon all the men of the village banded together, called on the minister begging him to go with them, an’ followed my grandfather to the place of the green grass an’ the heathery cnoc. But they found no passage an’ no door. An’ though they took spades an’ dug at the cnoc they found nothin’ to prove my grandfather’s story except for some white stones that looked like hearth stones an’ these they threw out, scattering them around the cnoc.’
‘An’ a nail, did tsey not?’ Hector reminded him. ‘A shiny new nail, like as if it was never used.’
‘Aye,’ Erchy remembered. ‘Aye, you’re right.’
‘It was lucky for him he bought tsose nails,’ Hector murmured.
‘What about Finlay?’ I asked. ‘Did he recover from his ordeal?’
‘He was never the same again,’ replied Erchy. ‘He slept for three whole days before they could wake him an’ when they did wake him he had such a stammer they couldn’t understand much of what he said. He never got rid of it. Never.’
I indicated Hector’s mug of buttermilk, still untouched. ‘So you don’t trust me enough to drink my buttermilk,’ I teased them.
Hector gallantly took up the mug, wished my good health and drank deeply. He smacked his lips. ‘Tsat was good,’ he said.
Erchy said: ‘It’s all right for him. You notice he’s wearin’ tackety boots.’
‘Oh, Erchy,’ I laughed. ‘Can you imagine anything less like a fairy than I am? Honestly? Wouldn’t I need to be a “fine lookin’ woman” if I wanted to inveigle you into my power. For goodness’s sake take a good long look at me and see if you can see the slightest resemblance to a fairy.’
I am no beauty at the best of times and I knew how revolting I must look after my dose of ’flu. Lank hair, puffy red-rimmed eyes, red nose and pale cracked lips. Erchy stared at me long and hard.
‘Well?’ I demanded cynically. ‘Anything seductive in my appearance?’
‘No,’ he retorted relentlessly, and picking up the bowl of buttermilk he drank it to the last drop.