Orkney Folk Tales Page 12

  The painted ship that sailed before them suddenly melted away into smoke. A blue flame shot up from the sea where it had been and it was gone. A phantom ship created by witchcraft to lure them to their doom. But from where the flame had been there appeared a boat that glided over the sea towards them. In it were two spectres; one old man with white hair and a young man with raven black locks. The young man spoke, ‘Come down to me, Lady Sarah, for our wedding is arranged. The priest is waiting and the feast is ready for us. Remember the vow that you took to be faithful to me? How true have you been? The wedding bed is far away and the wedding night will be long. Hear the surf on the shore; it plays the Death March for you tonight. Join me, my love, in the land of the dead.’

  Then the old man spoke to the Rover, ‘Proud Rover; you have wronged me greatly and now you have taken my daughter to her death. You have gathered your wealth by villainy and your pride has corrupted you. You shall never know peace and your soul will burn with anguish so that you would welcome death to free you from its pain. But in death you will suffer still as a cursed and evil man.’

  The old man gave his daughter a last look and with tears in his eyes he raised his hand in farewell and then the spectral image vanished from sight. At that moment the ship struck the rocks and a hole was torn in its side. The Rover ordered his men to the pumps, but the water flowed in too fast for them to master it. Some of the crew found the rum and wine that was on board and they drank their fill, deciding that if they were about to die then they would be merry before their time ran out.

  The maidservant stood before the Rover and cursed him to his face, ‘You lied to her, and to me. You’ve doomed us all to die by your greed and pride. I know well what you are! A pirate, a low-life buccaneer who stole everything he has. May the Devil curse you and torment you in the deepest pit of hell.’

  The ship lurched, stuck fast on the Yarrow Bank in Sanday and started to break into pieces. Lady Sarah stood by the side of the Rover as the ship was torn to pieces around them. She had made her peace with God and said her farewell to the man who had deceived her and wrought her destruction. He grabbed her and jumped into the sea; holding her tightly with his left hand he struck for the shore using his right one. The sea was wild and the current strong as he tried to reach the shore, being pulled back by the sea when he got near to land. Eventually he reached the shore and collapsed in a faint. When he recovered his senses he could see Lady Sarah’s face in the moonlight next to him. Her hand still grasped his arm, but she was already dead. He looked at her pale face in the moon’s beams and kissed her cold, wet lips a last goodbye. Inside he felt his heart break and his spirit bend, like it had never done before. With the first light he saw the carnage on the sea-strand as heads and limbs were washed ashore among the seaweed. Dead eyes stared at him accusingly, and they seemed to say, ‘This was all your doing.’

  Among the mangled corpses, ship’s timbers, sailcloth and ropes were the remains of the Rover’s treasure. A white damask cloth was found and he used this as a shroud for his lady. A golden girdle was fastened around her waist and he carried her to the shore where she was to be buried. Of the crew only one man survived. The rest were laid in graves by the Yarrow Knowes37 and Lady Sarah was laid in a grave where the daisies now grow over her. The Rover wandered the earth for the rest of his days, a haunted man with a tormented soul who was doomed to enjoy none of life’s pleasures in this life or the next.

  Scota Bess was a real Stronsay witch who was said to be able to raise a thick sea fog and phantom ships to lure the unwary onto the rocks. She was murdered by a group of men around the year 1630. They had somehow lured her to the barn at Huip and then beat her to death using flails that had been washed in what they believed was holy water (the water had been used to rinse out the communion cup at the local church). She was buried in a nearby field, but in the morning her body was found lying on the surface. The following night they took her body to a loch in the middle of the island called Meikle Water and dumped it there before carrying boatloads of earth and stones to the spot to cover her with. They used so much material that they created an island in the loch, which can still be seen to this day. One interesting fact is that a few years ago I had the pleasure of hosting the Icelandic writer and journalist, Łorgrímur Gestsson, who was researching an historical travel book based on the Icelandic Sagas. One night, as we chatted by the fire, he told me that he was interested in old Nordic words and while he was in the far north of Norway he heard the word skodda, which meant a sea fog. He checked it out on his return home and found that it was used in both Norway and Iceland. Could ‘Scota Bess’ actually be ‘skodda Bess’, meaning ‘foggy Bess’? I rather think so.

  THE BATTLE OF SUMMERDALE

  The Battle of Summerdale in the summer of 1529 was the last pitched battle fought on Orkney soil. It was a dispute about the inheritance of the Earldom of Orkney, more an inter-family squabble than anything else. King James V had to stamp his authority on this unruly and relatively new addition to Scotland, so he sent an army to Orkney led by John Sinclair, Earl of Caithness (and kinsman of the feuding Sinclair earls of Orkney). The invasion fleet sailed into Scapa Flow, but a thick fog made them lose their way so instead of landing at Scapa Bay and marching towards Kirkwall they landed at a beach in Orphir, probably Waulkmill Bay. On landing they found a witch waiting for them. She held a ball of coloured wool in each hand, one blue and one red, which she unwound as she marched up and down before them. The ball of red wool ran out first and she declared that the first blood to be spilled would be on the losing side. Determined to give his men a good omen the earl ordered them to seize a herd boy who was on the hillside and bring him down to the beach. The trembling boy was brought to the earl who drew his sword and killed him on the spot. The old witch shook her head and said, ‘That’s a bad thing that you’ve done, for that was not an Orcadian but a Caithness boy who came here to live last year with his mother.’

  When the earl’s men heard this they started to murmur that this didn’t bode well, but the earl ordered them to march onwards. They passed the Kirbister Loch and ended up, not in Kirkwall as they had intended, but in the valley of Summerdale near the boundary of the parishes of Orphir and Stenness. Here the Orkney men were waiting for them in ambush, their spies having kept a close watch on their enemy’s movements. A fierce battle ensued, in which the Earl of Caithness was killed. The Orkney men had divine help, as a cross appeared in the sky above the battlefield and St Magnus himself was seen fighting on their side. Stones also miraculously appeared at the Orkney men’s feet, ready to be thrown at the invading Scots.

  By the end of the battle all the Caithness men were killed and not a single Orcadian had fallen in battle. In fact, there was only one casualty on the Orkney side and that was not as a result of the fighting. He was a poor crofter who lived with his mother in a small house called Tuskerbister38 up on the side of the hill. After the battle was over he went down to the battlefield and started to strip the bodies of the dead Caithness men. He dressed himself up in their fine clothes and returned home. His mother saw a stranger approaching the house, dressed in a strange fashion, and she thought it was a Caithness man. She went inside and took a woollen stocking and filled it with stones. When the stranger walked through the door she struck him on the head, killing him instantly. Imagine her shock when she recognised the body of her own son lying dead on the floor before her.

  TAKING THE PROFIT OF MILK

  Witches were always trying to steal the profit from their neighbours’ cows so that they got the creamy milk while their neighbour got nothing but thin, watery fluid that was useless. There are so many stories of this kind, but I will only tell one here.

  A young man in Birsay was looking for work as a farmhand and was given the job as a cow man on a large farm. After a short time the cows stopped giving milk and the grieve39 became suspicious. He called the cow man to him and asked if he had seen anyone or anything strange paying attention to the cattle. The man thought and s
aid, ‘Well, yes; there was an old woman who came to the field and called to the cows and they all came running up to her. She talked to them and petted them for a while and then left.’

  ‘Ah ha!’ said the grieve. ‘That’s her; she’s a witch and has taken the profit from our cows. But I know how to beat her at her own game.’

  He took down a bottle from a shelf and gave it to the man, saying, ‘When one of the cows is pissing hold this bottle under the stream and fill it, then take it back to me.’

  The man was puzzled, but he did as he was told. When a cow pissed he filled the bottle with her water and took it to the grieve who put a cork tightly in the bottle and said, ‘There; now we will find out who it is.’

  The following day an old woman who lived nearby came to the house in great distress and pain. She knocked on the door and when the grieve opened it she said, ‘For mercy sake will you uncork that bottle? I’ve not been able to piss for a whole day and I feel as if I’m going to die because of it.’

  ‘So, are you the one who has been stealing the profit of my cows?’

  ‘Aye,’ muttered the old woman, ‘I did indeed.’

  ‘Well,’ said the grieve, ‘you had better promise to return it and to never interfere with my cows again or the next time I won’t uncork the bottle. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ said the old woman, ‘as clear as day. I promise never to touch your cows again.’

  So the grieve uncorked the bottle and the old woman was relieved in an instant. Never again did she try to steal the profit from those cows.

  My mother, who came from Westray, once told me that her father, Geordie Drever, lost the profit of his best cow to a witch in the years between the wars. He had a cow that was a great milker and when she had a calf the thick, creamy milk was excellent for making butter and cheese. One day this old woman came to visit, saying that she had heard about his cow who gave such a lot of good milk and she asked to see it. My grandfather was reluctant to let her in the byre as her reputation for witchcraft was well known. But she pressed him and nagged him until in the end he took her to see the cow. She admired the cow, stroking her hand up and down her back and muttering, ‘What a bonnie cow; what a fine cow.’

  After that she would not give a drop of milk. He went to see a neighbour who advised him to sell the cow, as this was the only way that the spell would be broken. He sold the cow and she started to give milk again just as well as she ever did.

  9

  THE DEVIL

  THE LAIRD AND THE DEVIL

  Thomas Traill of Holland, Papa Westray (1668–1694) was known simply as ‘the wicked laird’, a reputation he richly deserved. To many of these early lairds their tenants were little more than livestock to do with as they pleased. The Traills of Holland claimed the right of the virginity of their crofters’ daughters, taking the frightened girl from her wedding feast to satisfy the laird’s lust. But Thomas, it was said, was in league with the Devil; not only that, it was said that he was so evil that he had beaten the Devil at his own game.

  Thomas Traill had indeed sold his soul to the Devil and the contract came to an end. One day, as Traill sat at his leisure, the Devil appeared before him and said, in a very formal and well-educated voice.

  ‘Well Thomas; I believe that you have something belonging to me that is now ready to be – harvested.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ said the laird, ‘I’m quite happy where I am and am not in a hurry to change my circumstances.’

  A black looked crossed the Devil’s face, as he was not used to being argued with or treated so lightly.

  ‘Now, come on,’ he demanded, ‘a deal is a deal and your time is up!’

  But the wicked laird could not be persuaded to come peaceably and the two started to fight. Their battle was said to have taken place at a field called the ‘West Park’. In the end the wicked laird drove the Devil down through the ground and since that day not a blade of grass or as much as a weed has grown on that spot.

  Now free of the Devil the wicked laird continued his persecution of the tenants who lived on his island. Every year the crofters, who rented small farms from the laird, and the cottars, who lived on pieces of poor-quality land and paid their rent in labour, brought their sheep in from the common grazing to shear them. At that time the laird would ride up on his horse and select the finest lamb as a gift for his lady wife. One year his eyes fell on a fine grey lamb that he considered to be better than the others. He ordered that the lamb be brought up to the big house immediately. The owner of the lamb was a poor cottar widower who had two small children to support on his own. He begged the laird to be merciful, ‘Please, sir, spare me my lamb. It’s the only thing that I have in the world and is the only hope of keeping life in me and my bairns over the coming winter. Take another lamb, but spare mine, for the sake of God.’

  The laird fixed him with a look of contempt, saying, ‘I don’t care whether you or your brats live another winter or not! I want that lamb for my lady and that is final.’

  Seeing starvation staring him and his children in the face the cottar pulled himself up to his full height and uttered this curse, ‘All right, take the lamb; but I’ll tell you this. Your lady will never live to see that lamb and when you die you will go to your grave without a drop of blood in your body!’

  The wicked laird just laughed in the cottar’s face and then turned his horse for home. On arriving at the big house he dismounted his horse and strode inside. He shouted to his wife, but there was no reply. He went upstairs to her bedroom and found her lying dead on the bed. Her body was contorted and her face twisted in horror. The cottar was right – she would never see the lamb.

  The years passed and the laird grew in size, as well as in evil reputation, until he finally gasped his last. A huge coffin had to be built; it was said that it took eight score of nails to fasten it together. His remains were laid in the coffin and he lay in state in the hall of the big house for his peers to see him. If anyone had a good word to say about him then it escaped them at that time for no one had any fond memories of him. But there was food and drink aplenty and so they came from all over Orkney. As they gathered in the hall on the day of the funeral they heard a strange, scuffling, scratching sound coming from the chimney breast. Suddenly, two immense ravens burst out of the fireplace and flew around the room, uttering terrible croaks. The two ravens landed on the lid of the coffin and started to fight, but the people shooed them off so that they flew to the mantelpiece and continued the fight there. People were sure that this was the soul of the laird and the Devil, gripped in mortal combat.

  They lifted the coffin and started to carry it towards the kirkyard to lay him to rest with his ancestors. The two ravens flew out of the door and circled over the coffin as it went, still tearing at each other with beak and claws. As they walked along the road they saw it; a drip – drip – drip of blood coming from the coffin. They sent a servant back to the house to get a spade to cover the blood with dusty earth, but it was no use. The further they went the worse it got. The drip turned into a trickle, which turned into a pour until blood was running freely from the coffin. By the time that they got the wicked laird to his grave there would not have been a drop of blood left in his body, and so the cottar’s curse had come true.

  THE BOOK OF THE BLACK ARTS

  Where the Book of the Black Arts came from, no one knows, but it was said that it was written in hell by the Devil. It was written in white letters on black pages and contained spells that gave the owner great power, but it came at a price. If you died with the book in your possession then the book, and you, would be claimed by the author and you would suffer a special torment in the deepest, darkest pits of hell.

  There was an old woman in Sanday called Rachael who had sold herself to the Devil long ago and was the proud owner of a copy of the Book of the Black Arts, but as her days drew to an end she was keen to be rid of it. However, this was not as easy as you might think for you could not give it away but you
had to sell it to someone who agreed to accept it. Moreover the price was a silver coin of a lesser value than the one that you had bought it for.

  A local crofter had fallen out with old Rachael and was suddenly taken ill. His teenage daughter, Jessie, suspected witchcraft, but didn’t know what to do to save her father. She slipped quietly out of the house and went to see old Rachael, who didn’t give her a very friendly reception.

  ‘Please,’ said the trembling girl, ‘I have come to beg you to spare my father’s life. I know that things are not good between you, but don’t take him from us. I couldn’t bear to lose him and would do anything to save him.’

  A look of cunning crossed old Rachael’s face and she said.

  ‘Aye, there is something that you can do to save your father. I have an old book here that I want to be rid of. Buy it from me and I’ll spare your father.’

  ‘I don’t have much money,’ said Jessie.

  ‘I only want a silver threepenny bit for it.’

  Old Rachael’s eyes glowed in their sunken sockets as the girl took out her purse and gave her the coin. The strange book was thrust into her bosom and she was told to leave. Jessie ran home, her heart pounding as she clutched the book to her breast. She hid it in the barn before going inside to see how her father was. To her delight he seemed to be a bit better and it soon became clear that he was well on the road to recovery. But there was still the matter of the strange book. Jessie took it from its hiding place and brought it inside, when no one was around. She sat on her bed and opened the pages. A vile stench seemed to rise from it as her eyes scanned the strange white words written on the coal-black pages. It was in an antique style of writing and some of the words were unknown to Jessie but she got the gist of their meaning. There was nothing good in this book; it was pure evil. The spells were not about getting a handsome young man to fall in love with you, or giving good luck to anyone, but about spite and hate. How to kill animals, cause crops to fail, bring sickness and death on people and how to raise storms or capsize a boat at sea. Jessie shuddered as she read the words. She had to destroy this evil thing.