Adventures of Hamish and Mirren Read online

  The Adventures of

  Hamish and Mirren

  Magical Scottish Stories for Children

  MOIRA MILLER

  ILLUSTRATED BY

  MAIRI HEDDERWICK

  Contents

  Introduction

  Hamish and the Wee Witch

  1. Hamish and the Big Wind

  2. Hamish and the Wee Witch

  3. Hamish and the Pedlar’s Pipe

  4. Mirren and the Spring Cleaning

  5. Hamish and the Sea Urchin

  6. Mirren and the Fairy Blanket

  Hamish and the Fairy Gifts

  7. Hamish and the Fairy Bairn

  8. Hamish and the Seal People

  9. Hamish and the Bogle

  10. Hamish and the Green Mist

  11. Hamish and the Birds

  12. Hamish and the Fairy Gifts

  Introduction

  The village of Camusbuie lies at the head of a silver sea loch on the west coast of Scotland.

  There are three roads leading out of Camusbuie. The broad straight road marches to the south. The rough stony road struggles up the hillside to the Ben of Balvie, and the mountains beyond. But the third road meanders happily through the trees, down along the lochside where the sun dances on the water, and across a little wooden bridge over the Balvie Burn to a white farmhouse.

  Before Mirren joins them, the farm is home to Hamish and his old mother. She’s always right, the old lady. Somehow she seems to know more than most people have ever forgotten. She even knows a good deal more than is usual about the Wee Folk and all the mischief they can brew up. Hamish used to smile at some of her stories, calling them fairy nonsense, but there came a time when he was very grateful indeed for what she knew.

  Hamish and the Wee Witch

  1.

  Hamish and the Big Wind

  It was a beautiful late summer evening. The sun had shone all day, warm and golden on the hayfield, dazzling on the little white cottage and dancing, sparkling and silver on the sea loch.

  It was setting now in a glowing scarlet ball, filling the cottage kitchen with rosy light.

  Hamish stretched his long legs out across the hearthrug, yawned and wiggled his toes in his socks.

  “You great big clumsy tumshie!” grumbled his old mother, tripping over his feet. “Mind what you’re doing.” She leaned across him to stir the soup in the iron pot over the fire.

  Hamish chuckled. He was happy after a good day’s work, and even his old mother’s scolding was not going to change that. From the crisp early morning mist to the long golden evening he had worked in the two green fields that ran from the farmhouse down to the shore of the loch. The rich grass he had cut and spread to dry in the sun was now piled up into two neat round haystacks by the byre. The animals would feed well through the long, cold winter months. Everything on the farm was quiet and peaceful. Just as it should be.

  So Hamish stretched out his legs, rumpled his fair hair until it stood up like a corn stook above his rosy face, and smiled contentedly.

  But not for long.

  WHOOSH!

  Suddenly with a crash and a cloud of black smoke a great wind blew down the chimney into the room. The cat shot off the rug and ran squawking under the table. Hamish’s old mother coughed and screeched and threw her apron over her face. The wind howled round the kitchen toppling cups and plates on the dresser, slammed the door open and stormed, roaring with laughter, out into the yard.

  “Come back here, you great hooligan!” roared Hamish, struggling to pull on his boots. He tumbled out after the wind, and what a sight met his eyes.

  The wooden bucket clattered noisily round and round on the cobble-stoned yard. The hen house, blown over on its side, was a screeching mass of feathers. The door of the byre crashed to and fro madly on its old hinges. Worst of all – the two neat round haystacks had gone.

  Blown clear away with the Big Wind.

  “What a mixter-maxter!” gasped Hamish, grabbing the bucket as it trundled past. He set to work to clear up, and all the time he raged about his haystacks.

  “I’ll get them back though,” he growled.

  “Never you fear.”

  His old mother sniffed and shook her head.

  “Your haystacks will be over the hills and far away by now,” she said. “You’ll never catch the Big Wind.”

  “Will I not?” said Hamish. “We’ll soon see about that.”

  He pulled on his jerkin, took the stout leather bag that hung behind the door and filled it with bread, meat and cheese. He tied it firmly round the top with a length of rope and kissed his mother goodbye.

  “What about your soup?” she shouted after him.

  “Keep it till I get back,” called Hamish, “with the haystacks.”

  She shook her head as she watched him march off through the heather up across the hill, following the path the wind had blown.

  ***

  For miles and miles he walked, over high windswept moorland. He had finished most of the bread and had no meat or cheese left when he came upon a lonely farm cottage.

  “Have you seen a Big Wind pass this way?” Hamish asked of the farmer.

  The man stopped digging and leaned on his spade.

  “Would that be the wind,” said he, “that came by here the other night and made away with the thatched roof of my cowshed?”

  “The very one,” said Hamish. “He’s away with my two round haystacks and I’m after fetching them back. It may be that I can help you too.”

  “Then good luck to you, laddie,” said the farmer. “For it’s the long cold road you have to follow. You’ll stop and have a bite to eat with us first.”

  Hamish set off again with his bag once more full of food. He walked on and on across hillside and glen, by river and loch until he came to a mill.

  “Have you seen a Big Wind pass this way?” Hamish asked of the miller.

  The man put down the heavy bag of grain he was carrying and stood up, stretching his back.

  “Would that be the wind,” said he, “that came by here the other night and made away with my wheelbarrow?”

  “The very one,” said Hamish. “He’s away with my two round haystacks and I’m after fetching them back. It may be that I can help you too.”

  “Then good luck to you, laddie,” said the miller. “For it’s the long cold road you have to follow. You’ll stop and have a bite to eat with me first.”

  Having eaten and rested Hamish set off once more and came at last to a little dairy by the roadside. In the cool white kitchen a young girl was stirring cream in a big wooden churn to make butter.

  “Have you seen a Big Wind pass this way?” Hamish asked of the dairymaid.

  “Would that be the wind,” said she, “that whistled through my garden the other night and made away with my best petticoat from the washing line?”

  “The very one,” said Hamish. “He’s taken my two round haystacks and I’m after fetching them back. It may be that I can help you too.”

  The dairymaid looked him up and down, and giggled. “Then you’re the very lad they’re looking for up at the castle,” said she. “The Laird himself has offered a rich reward to the man who can catch the Big Wind.”

  “Indeed?” said Hamish.

  “Half his gold and silver,” said the dairymaid.

  “Fancy that!” said Hamish.

  “And one of his daughters to marry,” sniffed the dairymaid. “Hoity toity misses!”

  Hamish laughed, gave her a kiss on the cheek and asked the way to the castle.

  ***

  In the great hall the Laird sat at dinner with his three daughters. The two older ones ignored Hamish completely, but the youngest one, wi
th long golden pigtails and freckles like new pennies, offered him a stool and a cup of wine.

  “That’s the way, Mirren,” said the Laird. “Come away in, laddie. Sit down and tell us your story.” He listened carefully while Hamish told the story of his haystacks, and how he was determined to win them back again, along with the reward.

  “Aye, well,” said the Laird, “there’s some fine young men have come after the reward. And gone home again in a very sorry state… very sorry indeed…” He shook his head and stared gloomily at his daughters.

  “Och, Father,” said the oldest one, “they were none of them grand enough to marry us anyway.”

  “One day,” said the second daughter, looking down her nose at Hamish, “a real prince will come and claim the reward – and my hand in marriage.” She stared dreamily into her pudding.

  “He will not!” screamed the first daughter, thumping the table till the plates jumped. “He’ll want me.” The Laird sighed, shook his head and led Hamish over to the window.

  The old grey stone castle stood on a cliff top overlooking the sea, which lapped grey and cold on the rocks beneath them.

  “Do you see yon island out there?” said the Laird. Through the evening mirk Hamish could just make out the jagged shape of a small island in the bay. Looming above the rocks, and seeming almost to have grown from them, there stood an old ruined tower.

  “I see it,” said Hamish.

  “That’s where the Big Wind is to be found,” said the Laird. “When he’s not out and about stirring up a shindig like that pair there!” At the table his two older daughters were still squabbling.

  Hamish laughed and winked at Mirren.

  “Leave this to me,” said he. “I’ll soon see him off!” The Laird offered Hamish a suit of armour for protection, but it was so long since it had been used that the hinges were rusted solid. Mirren found him an old helmet, but Hamish only roared with laughter. “It’s big enough to make soup for the village in!”

  Taking only a small boat and his big leather bag he rowed himself out to the island, and slept that night on the beach.

  ***

  He awoke with the first light of day, stretched and sat up – and what a surprise met him then. In the still morning the island held its breath. There was no sign of the Big Wind, but tumbled all about him lay gates and fences, shed roofs and wheelbarrows. Amongst them with the dairymaid’s petticoat draped on top, were his two neat round haystacks.

  Hamish was struggling to load them into the boat when the sky suddenly darkened.

  There came a distant whistling and roaring like a huge dragon. The sea around the island tossed and boiled, the waves twisted and crashed on the pebble beach. In a great swirling of spray the Big Wind shrieked across the island.

  “Oooooooo-hoooooooo!” he roared. “And where do you think you’re going with these, young sir?”

  “Taking them home, where they belong,” said Hamish calmly, carrying on as if nothing had happened.

  “O-oh-ho, you’re not!” roared the Big Wind.

  “O-oh-ho, yes I am!” said Hamish. “And you can puff till you’re blue in the face, but you’ll not stop me.”

  The Big Wind, whipped to a frenzy, whirled himself into a huge black cloud and raged down. Hamish dropped the hay and jumped neatly aside. The Wind crashed into the wall behind him.

  “Can’t catch me for a wee bawbee!” sang Hamish rudely. The Big Wind gathered himself into a screaming rage.

  Then there followed such a racing and chasing all around the island and the ruined tower. Hamish jumped in and out of doorways, up and down stairways, in and out through empty windows, with the Big Wind in pursuit. But wherever the Big Wind pounced, Hamish had been – and gone.

  “Stand still you cheeky wee limmer!” roared the Wind, whirling into a hurricane.

  “Now I’m here, now I’m there, but you cannae catch me anywhere,” sang Hamish.

  He dodged, laughing and panting, into the hall of the old tower. In front of him the huge fireplace stood, black and empty, and at his heels the Big Wind screamed in fury. Hamish looked quickly round the room.

  There was nowhere to turn.

  “Aaaaaaaa-haaaaa, I’ve got you now!” shrieked the Big Wind. “Just wait till I catch hold of you!”

  Hamish ran for the fireplace, dodging and weaving, and scrambled up the great empty chimney. Higher and higher, faster and faster he climbed until at last he struggled out at the top, gasping for breath. Behind him the Big Wind snatched at his heels.

  Quick as a flash Hamish grabbed his leather bag, opened it wide, and held it over the chimney top.

  “Oooooooo-hoooooooo!” roared the Big Wind in terrifying triumph – and whistled straight into Hamish’s big leather bag. It was a second’s work for him to tie the rope with three tight knots and stuff the bag back into the chimney. As he climbed back down the outside of the old tower he could hear the wind howling and struggling to be set free.

  ***

  When the story of how Hamish had tricked the Big Wind became known, people came from far and wide to claim their stolen belongings. Some of them just came to look at the tower and listen to the Wind howling in the chimney. They were shown round the island by the Laird’s two older daughters, who had moved across to live there.

  “Because after all,” said the oldest, “one of these days a real prince might come sightseeing. Who knows? And when he does come he’ll fall in love with me – on the instant…”

  “Rubbish!” screamed the younger one, stamping her foot. “How could he possibly – you ugly old bat!”

  All day long their voices echoed round the island and faintly back across the sea to where the Laird sat smiling peacefully in his castle.

  Mirren smiled too. She smiled and tossed her long pigtails and said “yes” when Hamish asked to marry her. The party lasted for a month and a day, with feasting and dancing in the castle and the village. Even the dairymaid, who was invited, had to admit that Hamish had chosen a beautiful bride – who was not in the least bit stuck up.

  After a time, however, Hamish began to miss his home, so one fine morning he and Mirren said goodbye to the Laird, who would have been very unhappy had it not been for the fact that the dairymaid had agreed to stay on at the castle as his housekeeper.

  Hamish and Mirren packed all their belongings, loaded the neat round haystacks into a cart, and set off back to the wee farmhouse and the two green fields that ran down to the shining silver sea loch.

  2.

  Hamish and the Wee Witch

  Hamish and Mirren came home to the farm, all set to live happily ever after.

  But sometimes things don’t work out like that.

  Mirren loved the little white house on the hillside. Every morning she ran out into the fields where the fresh taste of the sea mingled with the warm smell of the wild flowers. She laughed to see how the fat brown hens came running to greet her.

  “Here, here. Chook chook chook,” she called, scattering corn like golden rain from the big basket. The hens fussed around her feet, pecking and squabbling as she called to them. The eggs they laid for Mirren seemed bigger and browner and the yolks more golden than ever before.

  “Mmmmm, she’s no’ bad – for a laird’s daughter,” sniffed Hamish’s old mother. “But do you think she can milk a cow?”

  Hamish laughed as he watched Mirren dance round the farmyard among the hens.

  “Of course she can!” he said. “My wee Mirren can do anything.” And he was just about right. Very soon Mirren was milking the cow as well and the big wooden bucket was filled to the top every day with rich creamy milk.

  “You’re a treasure,” said Hamish, “and I wouldna’ change you for all the gold and silver in your father’s kists.”

  Mirren laughed and went on about her work, singing like the thrush in the hawthorn bush. Even Hamish’s old mother had to admit that the farm was a brighter and happier place.

  It seemed as if it would always be like that, and they would live
happily ever after. but suddenly one day, there came a change.

  Mirren stopped singing.

  She came in from the byre after the morning milking with the big wooden pail only half full.

  “Och, Mirren,” said Hamish. “Is the wee cow not well?”

  “I don’t know,” said Mirren, puzzled and upset. “She seems restless and unhappy, and though I begged for more, that was all the milk she had to give.”

  “Well never mind, Mirren,” said Hamish. “Maybe she’ll do better in the morn, and if anyone can help her, you can.”

  ***

  But the next morning it was the same story. The wee cow only gave half a bucket of milk, and that so thin and weak it might as well have been water from the loch.

  Mirren was very unhappy.

  “No sense in crying over the milk,” said Hamish trying to comfort her. “I’ll see what I can do.” That evening he took the bucket and went out to the byre.

  As he stepped from the back door into the yard he was just in time to hear a scuffling sound, and catch a glimpse of a little old woman in a green cloak. In her hurry to leave she caught the cloak on a nail by the byre door.

  “Whigmaleeries!” she hooted, and pulled at the cloth to free herself. As she did so Hamish could see that she was carrying a wooden pail. And that pail was full to the brim with rich creamy milk.

  “Here!” called Hamish running after her. “That’s my milk you’re after stealing.”

  The little old woman whirled round and fixed him with a bright beady green eye.

  “Away ye go,” she croaked, pointing a finger like a twisted twig, “or I’ll turn you into a toad!”

  Hamish stepped back into the cottage and slammed the door shut as she vanished in a cloud of evil-smelling black smoke.

  “We have to stop her,” he said to his mother and Mirren as they sat down to supper later that evening. “But how?”

  Mirren shook her head. She was at a loss to know what to do. Hamish turned to his mother. She was older and wiser and knew about these things.

  “That woman is one of the Wee Folk,” she said. “And it’ll no’ be easy to stop her, I’m thinking. But there is a way.” She got up and looked quickly round the cottage – under the table and up the chimney – then closing the door tight shut she came back and sat down.