The Coming of the Unicorn (9 page)

The fisherman said, “Look, I’ve never seen boots like that before. These boots are fit for a king – never mind a tramp!”

Then the tramp said, “They were made for a king; they were made for a king a long time ago. They were made for the King o’ the Fairies! And the fairies were so kind to me because I landed on their little hill and they wanted me to move on, they gave me their boots.”

The fisherman said, “The fairies? And the Fairy King? Ha-ha-ha!” And he picked up his rod and he walked on. The tramp watched him while he walked up the river.

Then the tramp turned round and he looked – his boots were gone mysteriously disappeared. And then it dawned on him: he had broken his promise to the little man. He was so sad! His boots, the most beautiful boots that had carried him so many, many miles, were gone. He sat and he sat for a long, long time and he knew in his heart there was no solution to his problem. The fairies had gifted him the boots to move from the little hill because they were going to have a fairy party there.

So he had to get up and walk on his way in his bare feet, till some poor crofter or some poor farmer took pity on him and gave him a pair of old boots. But to the end of his days the old tramp never saw his boots again, because he had broken his promise to the little man who had given him the boots of the Fairy King.

And that is the end of my story.

I heard this story a long time ago in Furnace when I was about twelve years old. I think I first heard it from a cousin of my father’s, an old man called Willie Williamson whose brother stayed in Carradale.

Nobody knew where Johnny McGill came from. Johnny was a wandering vet who just lived like a Traveller. Mary, his wife, walked with wares from door to door and sold things from her basket. She was a fortune-teller. But Johnny had no ambition in the world. Johnny didn’t want to own anything or have any riches. His one love in life was looking after animals – all kinds, birds, the very mice, rats, anything that walked on four legs – Johnny McGill took care of. There were seagulls and crows with broken wings, even fish he was known to cure. He set out in his life to take care of all the little creatures who could not take care of themselves. Once on a camping place Johnny never left till the sick animal he was tending was as right as rain.

Oh, there’s some great stories about Johnny McGill! The things Johnny did always turned out good for him. All the little creatures he sorted had a way of paying Johnny back, and Johnny said that it was in more important things than money.

One morning Johnny and his old wife were walking along as usual, with a little handcart, travelling on to no one knows where, wherever they could find a nice resting place by the roadside. Johnny had picked up a few things on his travels, a bird with a broken wing and little creatures he had mended on his way while his old wife sat patiently. And he let them go. But the ones who were seriously damaged he always carried with him.

So, the place they came to this morning was an old farm track, and Johnny was pushing his small handcart along when he stopped. And his wife who was beside him, Old Mary, wondered
why he had stopped so suddenly. For there before them Johnny saw a common frog. And Johnny could see that the frog had been tramped on either by some cattle beast or by a horse or a rider who had paid no attention. But Johnny’s eyes had seen that it was in trouble. So, he bent down quietly to pick up the frog.

Mary said, “Johnny, what are ye doing?”

He said, “Mary, my dear, it’s a frog.”

She said, “I know, Johnny. But it’s just a frog.”

“Oh, Mary, it might be just a frog to you but,” he said, “it’s another creature to me. Ye know, Mary, they all feel pain and they all suffer. But no one pays much attention to them, do they?”

So, he picked up the frog and he could see that one of its hind legs was broken. Johnny said, “Mary, it won’t cause any trouble. I’ll just take it along with us till we find the next camping place.”

So, he put the frog on his little handcart in a safe place where it would not fall out and he travelled on. He hadn’t gone far when he came to a little spot along the roadside which was derelict ground.

“Johnny,” said Mary, “we’ll stay here tonight.”

He said, “I dinna see any fire marks. There’s no been any Travellers around.”

Johnny was always interested in the Travelling community, though they were not interested in him very much. They were kind of dubious about him because he was so clever and not one of their kind. And Johnny McGill was a great reader. So, he pulled in his little handcart, put up his tent, kindled his fire and Mary made some supper. So they sat and talked for a while.

Then Johnny said, “Mary, I’ve something to do.” And he got to his frog: he took it, examined the frog all up and down, across its leg. He said, “Little fella, yer leg’s broken. Ye’re no good like that, ye’ll never hop again unless we do something for ye. But don’t worry, little friend, I’ll soon fix ye.” So, he set very carefully with some thread and some matchsticks, he bound and set the
frog’s leg.

“Now,” he said, “little fella, ye’ll be okay. My old wife and me has travelled far this last two weeks, and we’ll just sit here and rest for a while, unless the police come along and move us on.” Which the police seldom ever did to Johnny McGill because he was well known in the West Coast.

Johnny stayed there for two weeks attending to his frog while old Mary called the houses, sold her clothes pegs, leather laces and anything she had from her little basket. She told fortunes and she was quite happy. Johnny attended to many little creatures forbyes his frog. But one evening they sat up late in their little tent, and all the light they had, because it was near wintertime, was a candle. Johnny was reading from a book, and because he was tired he had placed the frog by his feet in a little box. Then, he got tired reading his book and he placed it by his side. He quietly dozed over to sleep.

But, unknown to Johnny the candle burned down. And there was some straw scattered around inside the tent which they used as a cushion for their bed. And the straw became alight… but Johnny was asleep. Then, as you know, Johnny lay naked from the waist. When something cold jumped on his chest! And he sat up with a start. He wakened, he looked all around – the straw by his bedside was on fire! Johnny clasped one hand to his breast, and with the other hand he put out the fire. Then he turned around and on his hand was the frog.

“Little fella,” he said, “you’re jumping again. And you’ve saved my life! I could have been burnt to death only for you – your coldness wakened me. Why did you jump on me? I know why you jumped on me: you wanted to tell me the tent was on fire. And now because you’ve jumped, I see that your leg must be better.”

So, Johnny sat up there on his bed, and he quietly unrolled the thread from the frog’s leg and the matchsticks and he tested it. He found that the bone had mended completely.

He said, “Little fella, ye’re all right now,” and he placed him by his bedside and went back to sleep.

In the morning when he awoke he sat up, said, “Mary, it’s time to make some tea, breakfast time.”

Mary got up quickly, washed her face, washed her hands, made some breakfast, filled her basket, said, “Johnny, are we staying here today?”

“No, Mary,” he said, “I think we’ll move on, because I see that my little friend has gone.”

That’s one story from my collection of Johnny McGill.

Many, many years ago, hundreds of years ago, when there were no police or anyone to take care of the law and one thing and the other in wee villages, a man looked after the village and they called him a “burghmaster”. And he held court out in front of his house. If anybody had any grievances or arguments to settle they came to the burghmaster and laid their disputes before him. He settled all the arguments, he was the master of the village.

In this village, it wasn’t very big, there lived an old man called Thomas and he was the thatcher. He thatched all the roofs for the people of the village and he was known far out the land as the finest thatcher in the country. And when he went and did a job it was just immaculate – nobody could beat him at his job. His name spread far and wide as “Thomas the Thatcher”. If he had another name nobody knew it.

So, one day the burghmaster is sitting at the front of his house when up comes two-three people from the village.

“Good morning, gentlemen!” he said.

“Good morning,” they said, “Master. We have come to lay a complaint.”

“Oh, aye,” he says, “come in! Come in, sit down, men. What is your complaint?”

“We want to lay a complaint against Thomas the Thatcher,” one said.

“Come, come, come! A complaint against Thomas the Thatcher?” he said. “I hope ye’re no complaining about his work.”

“Oh, no, no, no, Master,” they said. “We’re no complaining
about Thomas’s work,” one said. “It’s not his work.”

“Well, I hope not,” said the master. “Because he was here the day before yesterday, and look at my roof – look at my shed and the way – Thomas is the greatest thatcher in the world!”

“Yes,” they said, “Master, we know that. But, we’re here to complain about Thomas’s
own
roof. The roof of his own house is in a terrible mess. And the thatch is all blown off with the wind. It’s scattered high and low. It gets in wir feet, it gets in wir walks, it gets in wir gardens and he’ll not do a thing about it. So, we want to charge him, lay a complaint so that you will get him to sort his roof and it won’t be a nuisance to us any more!”

“Well, gentlemen,” he says, “it’s the first complaint I’ve ever had against Thomas the Thatcher. But it is a complaint. Thomas will be called to court tomorrow in front o’ me, and I’ll see his roof won’t trouble you any more. Good day, gentlemen!” Off the men go.

So, the next day was court day. And Thomas was sent for, called in front of the burghmaster. And he came up along with the rest of the folk to hear the charges against him. So, he sat and he heard all the charges till it would come his turn. And he was called before the burghmaster.

“Thomas,” he said, “I have a charge against you.”

“Well, master,” he said, “what is the charge? I have hurt no one.”

He said, “You have hurt no one, but it’s your roof, Thomas. You’re known as the finest thatcher in the land and you do your work better than anyone we’ve ever known about. You work for me or work for anyone in the village. Every roof is so tidy – except yours! Why is your roof in such a mess compared to everybody else’s roof, and you are a thatcher? I want you to tell me why your roof is not like the rest of the roofs that you work on.”

So, Thomas walked up. He stood in front of the master and his
head was bowed. “Master,” he said, “it’s not me. It’s my friends.”

“Come, come now, Thomas,” he said, “we’re all your friends. We’re all your friends here. You mean to say it’s us?”

“No, no, not you, master,” he said. “My
little
friends,” he says, “my friends of the air – the birds.”

“What’s about the birds, Thomas?” he said. “It’s not the birds that’s doing it, is it?”

“No, master, it’s not the birds,” he says. “But your roof and every roof in the village is pegged down with ash pegs, as I did myself and made your roofs tidy and neat. But there’s not one single place in your roof where a bird could lie and could sleep for the night, and keep out of the cold air, is there? I leave my roof like that for my little friends to shelter in. I could tidy up my roof and peg it down and make it beautiful like your roof or anyone else’s roof, but where would my little friends go in the wintertime, master?”

The burghmaster stood up. But before he could say another word – all these birds came down. And they gathered round old Thomas.

He says, “Come, come now, children, don’t cause any disturbance with the people! You’ve got a complaint against me already, I don’t want any more.”

So, the burghmaster stood and said, “Thomas, you are a man, no only a thatcher but a man, a
real
man. In fact, you’re the best man in this village. And I want you to know that. You go, Thomas, and take your little friends with you, and you leave your roof as it is and let them have shelter. We of this village never gave it a thought that a bird needs somewhere to sleep in the wintertime, we only thought of wirselves. And gentlemen,” he said, if I ever hear of another complaint against Thomas the Thatcher as long as he’s alive, I’ll punish the complainer like I’ve never punished another man before in my life.”

So, old Thomas went away and he took his birds with him.
His roof remained like that for many’s and many’s a year… until Thomas died.

And when he died the villagers built a little statue for him made of iron, metal, of an old man kneeling feeding birds. So, if ever you’re somewhere in a wee village in the East and ye come across a forgotten cemetery, and ye see a statue of a rusty old man feeding birds, you’ll know that that was Thomas the Thatcher.

And that’s the end of my wee story.

I heard this story from an old man called Johnny Townsley, a cousin of my mother’s. Where the story originated I don’t know; it could be a German or Flemish story. Some of my forebears probably heard it when they were abroad serving in the army. This is one way a story can be passed from place to place.

Why the white heather is lucky goes back many, many years…

There once lived a laird who had a great estate and he was dearly loved and respected by his own people, the villagers and his workers. He only had one fault – he didn’t believe in good luck or wasn’t superstitious in any way. When the men went on a boar hunt or a deer hunt all the women of the village would come out, and offer good luck charms to protect the men from getting attacked by a wild boar or falling off their horses.

But the laird would just laugh and scorn them, “Children!” And the thing was, he was the finest hunter among them and always came off best at the hunt. Till one day.

They were going on another boar hunt. As usual the ladies came and offered their men charms, which they accepted.

This one, the oldest woman of the village came to the laird, “Why don’t you take something with you, sir, to bring you luck?”

He says, “Old woman, I don’t need anything to bring me luck. I’ve never needed anything in all my days and I don’t think I’ll need it now. I don’t believe in these things!”

She says, “Take a good luck charm with you, sir, you’ll probably need it!”

“Not me,” he said to the old woman, “I never bother about these things.”

So they set on their way, all the huntsmen with their hounds to hunt the boar. And after they had gone a long way there rose a great black boar. They all set after it. But the laird got lost and landed by himself.

Then he got on the track of the boar and got it cornered. It
charged his horse. The horse reared. And he was right on the face of a cliff, a steep cliff with a drop of hundreds of feet. When his horse reared up he fell off and rolled right over the cliff face, dropped twenty or thirty feet.

He’s trying to get any kind of stone or something… when he grips this bush, a large bush. He’s hanging on! And it took his weight. He started to shout for help. For at least half an hour he must have hung on afraid the bush was going to give way from the face of the cliff. But it took his weight still. Some of the men heard him shouting and they came to the cliff face. They lowered down ropes and rescued him.

When he came up he was all frightened and shaking, “I thought my time had come,” he said. “If it wasn’t for that bush I would have plunged right over the cliff.”

And one of the men said, “Sir, that wasn’t a bush. That was a sod of heather.”

So he told one of the men, “Well, you go back down there and bring me up a piece of that heather! It saved my life. I want to take it home with me.”

So a man was lowered down with a rope. He took a sod of the heather and brought it up. And what he brought up to the laird was white, white heather. The laird fetched it back to his castle and told the gardener he wanted it put right at his front door. Next morning everyone came and admired the laird’s white heather at the front of his mansion. They were thankful that it had saved their master’s life.

Each year it spread and got bigger till the laird was able to give everyone a piece of it. Everyone who got a piece of that heather kept it, and then gave a piece to somebody else. The luck of the white heather spread far and wide. Till today it’s spread over three parts of the world!

But that’s where the legend of the white heather came from, and that’s a very old, old story.