Scots vocabulary
Greeted/to greet – to cry i.e. she went greeting (crying) to her Ma’.
Whuppity Stoorie – one of the few Scottish folktales that remained intact in its original form when I incorporated it into the podcast. The story Maya tells here about Whuppity Stoorie and the auld wife is the actual tale. Thsi story has been described as the Scottish version of the better known Rumplestiltskin. I got my version of the tale from the Scottish Storytelling Centre, although can’t seem to find a link now.
roaster – idiot
Story
Sometimes, all you need is time to yourself. A rare commodity in the shop these days. Before anyone starts thinking the worst, Fionn is still in the shop. He’s taking to spending a lot of his time in storage. He’s probably been through all the items in the shop a hundred times over by this point and needs new things to look at. What better way to waste time than by getting lost in storage? Chronos and I take turns checking he’s still in one piece because neither of us know the small print on my deal with Death. Only alive was stipulated, how did that work if he was mauled to “death” by a storage monster?
Reid, as you’ve probably guessed, is with his boyfriend. No, girlfriend. No, no, definitely boyfriend…or was it a thruple this week? I’ve officially lost track, and a few bets with Fionn, and now Chronos has joined in. Let’s just say the only fox I regularly see is the one on my ring.
It does mean I’ve had a few rare days of complete solitude in the shop, and recently something’s been sticking out. The book. The one with the strange landscapes and deceptive words. The one with my name in it. The one the red-haired lassie was inside and is now roaming around because I couldn’t keep my curiosity in check.
I began to leave it lying around in the hopes that someone, I didn’t care if it was a customer or not, would see it and give me all the answers I need. Nope. That book’s like the bloody shop, except worse. Only I can see it! I’ve almost given up, there’s no way I’m ever going to figure out her name unless someone tells me.
I say that but I’ve kept my ears open. That was how I found her the last time, a pal of a pal, but what’s the chances of being that lucky the next time? And what’s the point? I still don’t know her name to put her back in the damned book.
I still keep it within sight, as if I’m punishing myself.
Thankfully, I had better things to worry about that day. One of ma pals is a member of the drama club at uni, and that night I’d been invited to their performance at the student union. I’d already been to a few and they were always a good laugh, although whether that was the performances or the free-flowing booze was up for debate. Regardless I was in for a good night.
The stage is set, complete with red velvet curtain. People sit at wee round tables with their pints taking up most of the space. The room is dark, the stage casting shadows all the way to the bar. The theme of the performances are Scottish folk tales. The ensemble cast comes out dressed as kelpies, brownies, old hags, and well-known ghosts. The audience laughs and sniggers where appropriate, because what’s a good Scottish legend without humour?
I take a sip of my drink and wait for the next tale to come on. A man dressed as a pig, complete with curly tail, a woman with mob cap and apron, and a 6-foot-tall lad in clothes that were a few hundred sizes too wee for him entered: the narrator an ever-present guide at the side of the stage.
The pig-boy laid on the ground, belly up, his four trotter-feet pointing up as if he’d been knocked over by a quadbike on the farm. The woman and 6-foot-tall lad, who we were told was her “wee laddie” or her son, fretted over the swine.
The narrator tells us that this is an auld wife whose husband went away for market day and never came back, leaving her with only her wee laddie and a single pig. The pig, by the looks of it, was on its last legs, which would’ve been bad enough if it weren’t pregnant. If it died her entire source of income from all the pigs would be gone. She fretted and fretted until she saw a mysterious figure walk down the road.
Enter stage left my pal, adorned with green velvet dress, flaming ginger hair, and a strange misshapen staff. She approached the auld wife, her wee laddie, and the sickly pig and announced that she knew all about what was happening and how terrible it was. But the auld wife didn’t need to fret because she had just the solution.
The auld wife in disbelief asked her if she could really help fix the pig.
The red-haired lassie nodded vigorously but inquired what she’d get in return for saving the swine.
The next words will haunt my nightmares to the end of time.
“I’ll give ye anything!” the auld wife cries.
Aye, that always ends well. Satisfied with the answer the red-haired lassie steps towards the pig, produces a small glass bottle with black liquid in and puts three drops into the creature’s ear, or the flap of fabric that was supposed to be its ear. Immediately the man-pig jumped up on all four trotters and started making oinking noises to show it’d fully recovered.
The auld wife was ecstatic and thanked the red-haired lassie, asking what it was that she wanted. Food, clothes, drink?
The answer was a shake of the head and a pointed stare at the wee laddie. She’d take him.
The auld wife’s face fell in dismay as she protested. A deal is a deal, a promise is a promise, the red-haired lassie reminded. The auld wife began to cry. The lassie relented a wee bit and said that if the auld wife could come up with her real name in three days then her wee laddie would be returned to her.
If this is ringing bells in anyone’s mind, then they’re not alone.
For two days the auld wife greeted and fretted and knew there was nothing she could do. On the third day she rose and went on a walk through the woods where she used to bring her wee laddie. She followed the sounds of water, of a stream, and began to hear singing. The voice belonged to the red-haired lassie, who sat beside the stream spinning wool on her wheel. The song, conveniently, had her name in it.
The auld wife snuck away and bided her time until the lassie returned. On her third guess, the auld wife told the red-haired creature her name and the wee laddie was returned to his mother. Thwarted, the lassie retreated and was never seen again.
Except I knew differently. Somehow, she’d ended up trapped in a book in the shop. And that red-haired bitch’s name was Whuppity Stoorie. I’ll admit, I’d never heard of this folktale, one of many no doubt. It’s more or less the Scottish version ae Rumpelstiltskin.
I barely sat through the rest of the performances, burning to leave and track Whuppity down and finally get her back in that damned book. But I had to wait until the next day when I could go and get the book from the shop.
After the performances were over and I was a few glasses deep in drink, I helped my pal get out ae her various costumes and makeup. As everyone was saying goodbye at the end of the night I was standing a wee bit away from the entrance, wondering if I was going to make it home without falling over. I felt a presence, but the drink prevented me from getting startled. I knew who it was, the woman has a presence. Madam Anora stood a few feet away, looking at me bemusedly, no doubt also wondering if I was going to fall doon.
I slurred out words demanding to know why she was here. She complimented my pals’ performance but mused that the story we’d been told about the Whuppity Stoorie wasn’t all there was to it. Like most things in this world, there was more than there appeared.
Looking back on this interaction I’m not sure it was even real, or a hallucination. My pal called me over so we could get a taxi, but when I turned back around to tell Madam Anora where to go there was nothing but shadows. I stumbled back over to my pal, hoping I’d be too drunk to remember the encounter. Which obviously, I wasn’t.
The next evening, with a wee bit of a hangover, I nip into the shop to get the book and head to the last place I’d heard mention of her. Another pub, different to the last one, barely within the city bounds. I open the door, assuming I’m going to have a long wait on my hands to confirm if she’s still haunting this place, when I see a flash of red hair and the shimmer of a green velvet dress heading out the opposite side of the pub to where the toilets are.
I quickly squeeze in between the already forming crowd, there’s a big football match on and everyone’s clamouring to get a better look at the screen. I finally get to the back where she’s disappeared only to hear the clink of the fire escape door close. The alarm hasn’t gone off, so I follow. It doesn’t occur to me that she might aof silenced the alarm, but I’m relieved when I push the bar and open the door to silence.
I’m spat into a side alley with uneven cobbles waiting to trip up the unsuspecting, and industrial sized bins pushed into bare brick walls so bin lorries can squeeze past once a week. Over the slamming of taxi doors and clip of high heels on pavements, I can hear two people hissing at each other. I immediately think it’s Whuppity up to her old tricks, trying to manipulate someone into giving her something of worth. I’m hidden by a large bin, and when I emerge onto the cobbles, I indeed find Whuppity talking to someone, a middle-aged man whose balding head caught the amber light trickling down the alley from the main street.
I proudly announced that she could stop now, that it was all over, that I knew her name. Whuppity whipped around to me, a storm of emotions running across her delicate features before she landed on pleading. I smirked. I’d won, finally, after all these months. I wasn’t such a fuck-up after all.
I told the older man that he could go, and that whatever she’d offered him wasn’t worth what she’d take from him. He looks at me blankly when Whuppity begins to beg me not to put her back in the book and that I don’t understand what I’ve walked into. By this stage I’m fishing the book out of my bag, unable to stop smiling. The more desperate she sounds the happier I become. I anticipate the great burden being lifted off my shoulders, no more book, no more thinking about her red hair and green velvet dress, no more frustration at not being able to talk about it or get help. No more feeling like an absolute roaster – at least concerning this.
Whuppity eventually surmises that I must’ve heard the story, the folktale that she’s in, and she tells me that it’s not true. She didn’t trick the auld wife and steal her laddie, that was all a lie that was made up to discredit her. This caught my attention and my smirk began to falter.
Whit did she mean?
The older man, still standing in the background, mutters under his breath that she would say that. It’s not so much that he’s said anything that bothers me, it’s that he’s still here. Why hasn’t he left? I could feel my elation dampen as I began to really look at the situation before me.
Whuppity says that the tale about her isn’t true, that it was all a lie made up by the auld wife’s absent husband. In reality the auld wife and Whuppity were pals. Yes, she helped her with things like the pig, but it was never in exchange for anything as extreme as her bairn. The husband had only married the auld wife for her money, and regularly left her home alone to fend for herself. Whuppity eventually found out that he planned to kill his wife after they’d had a son because their pre-nuptial contract stated that the husband wouldn’t get any of the money she had in a family trust should she die without bairns. Since she had a son, he would inherit the trust when he came of age, and in the meantime, it’d essentially be the husbands.
Maysmile had all but died. Should I believe her? Could I? People will say anything in a desperate situation.
Whuppity pointed to the middle-aged man she’d been talking to and stated that he was the husband in the tale. After she’d saved the auld wife from his grasp, he’d trapped her in the book as revenge and made up the tale so if she ever was freed in the future no one would ever trust her.
There’s not exactly a date on the folktale, but I must say the man was looking pretty good fae someone that must’ve been a few hundred years old. Not as good as the Madams, but still impressive.
The old man snorted in derision and refuted the claims, saying that it was a folktale, a fable, weren’t they all made up?
I didn’t need Madam Anora’s cryptic warning that night to tell me that something wasn’t right. She’d said the tale wasn’t as it appeared, which fit into Whuppity’s narrative. Why Anora had interfered at all was something to think about later.
I felt the book’s weight in my hands, and the more I hesitated the heavier it became. Did Whuppity want revenge on the husband for trapping her in it?
I asked her what she’d give me in exchange for my help. She stared back blankly. After a few moments of confused silence, I told her that she’d have to give me anything I asked for, and in exchange I’d give her vengeance.
The man really should’ve left earlier. Whuppity nodded ever so slightly, if I wasn’t paying attention I would’ve missed it.
I threw the book in front of the man and the pages began to flip over with dizzying speed, skimming over the fantastical landscapes he had no doubt created himself to be Whuppity’s prison. He shouldn’t be too bothered by it then. He realised what was going on too late to run. The flipping pages created a vortex of sorts, a magnetic pull that he didn’t have the strength to resist.
When the tip of his finger disappeared into the spine, the book snapped shut and the cover changed. On top of the waterfall, overlooking the strange city, was a balding, miserable man.
I kept the book as insurance. I reminded Whuppity, more harshly than I’d intended, that should she renege on her side of our deal, I’d release him.
Should I have acted as I did? Was it my place to interfere? Couldn’t I just have destroyed the book and washed my hands of the whole situation? Perhaps that’s what a Madam Norna would’ve done. Perhaps that’s what I should’ve done. Why do I feel like I chose to be more like Madam Anora? Rather than altruistic I was self-serving. Whuppity owes me a favour. I have no idea what I’m going to ask for, if I ever will, but I get the sense that I may need it someday. Madam Norna’s can be left with nothing for their work, for their sacrificed lives, but I don’t intend to be the same.
Scots-ish version
Sometimes, all ye need is time tae yourself. A rare commodity in the shop these days. Before anyone starts thinkin’ the worst, Fionn is still in the shop. He’s taking tae spendin’ a lot ae his time in storage. He’s probably been through all ae the items in the shop a hundred times over by this point and needs new ‘hings tae look at. What better way tae waste time than by gettin’ lost in storage? Chronos and I take turns checkin’ he’s still in one piece because neither ae us know the small print on ma deal wi’ Death. Only alive was stipulated, how did that work if he was mauled tae “death” by a storage monster?
Reid, as you’ve probably guessed, is wi’ his boyfriend. No, girlfriend. No, no, definitely boyfriend…or was it a thruple this week? I’ve officially lost track, and a few bets wi’ Fionn, and now Chronos has joined in. Let’s just say the only fox I regularly see is the one on ma ring.
It does mean I’ve had a few rare days ae complete solitude in the shop, and recently somethin’s been sticking oot. The book. The one wi’ the strange landscapes and deceptive words. The one wi’ ma name in it. The one the red-haired lassie was inside, and is noo roaming aroond because I couldnae keep ma curiosity in check.
I began tae leave it lying aroond in the hopes that someone, I didnae care if it was a customer or not, would see it and give me all the answers I need. Nope. That books’ like the bloody shop, except worse. Only I can see it! I’ve almost given up, there’s no way I’m ever gonnae figure oot her name unless someone tells me.
I say that but I’ve kept ma ears open. That was how I found her the last time, a pal ae a pal, but whit’s the chances ae bein’ that lucky the next time? And whit’s the point? I still dinnae know her name tae put her back in the damned book.
I still keep it within sight, as if I’m punishin’ maself.
Thankfully I had better ‘hings tae worry aboot that day. One ae ma pals is a member ae the drama club at uni, and that night I’d been invited tae their performance at the student union. I’d already been tae a few and they were always a good laugh, although whether that was the performances or the free flowin’ booze was up fae debate. Regardless I was in fae a good night.
The stage is set, complete wi’ red velvet curtain. People sit at wee round tables wi’ their pints taking up most ae the space. The room is dark, the stage casting shadows all the way tae the bar. The theme ae the performances are Scottish folk tales. The ensemble cast comes oot dressed as kelpies, brownies, old hags, and well-known ghosts. The audience laughs and sniggers where appropriate, because whit’s a good Scottish legend withoot humour?
I take a sip ae ma drink and wait fae the next tale tae come on. A man dressed as a pig, complete wi’ curly tail, a woman wi’ mob cap and apron, and a 6 foot tall lad in clothes that were a few hundred sizes too wee fae him entered; the narrator an ever present guide at the side ae the stage.
The pig-boy laid on the ground, belly up, his four trotter-feet pointin’ up as if he’d been knocked over by a quadbike on the farm. The woman and 6-foot tall lad, who we were told was her “wee laddie” or her son, fretted over the swine.
The narrator tells us that this is an auld wife whose husband went away fae market day and never came back, leavin’ her wi only her wee laddie and a single pig. The pig, by the looks ae it, was on its last legs, which wouldae been bad enough if it werenae pregnant. If it died, her entire source ae income fae all the pigs would be gone. She fretted and fretted until she saw a mysterious figure walk doon the road.
Enter stage left ma pal, adorned wi’ green velvet dress, flamin’ ginger hair, and a strange misshapen staff. She approached the auld wife, her wee laddie, and the sickly pig and announced that she knew all aboot whit was happenin and how terrible it was. But the auld wife didnae need tae fret because she had just the solution.
The auld wife in disbelief asked her if she could really help fix the pig.
The red-haired lassie nodded vigorously, but inquired whit she’d get in return fae savin’ the swine.
The next words will haunt ma nightmares tae the end ae time.
“I’ll give ye anythin’!” the auld wife cries.
Aye, that always ends well. Satisfied wi’ the answer the red-haired lassie steps towards the pig, produces a small glass bottle wi’ black liquid in and puts three drops intae the creature’s ear, or the flap ae fabric that was supposed tae be its ear. Immediately the man-pig jumped up on all four trotters and started makin’ oinkin’ noises tae show it’d fully recovered.
The auld wife was ecstatic and thanked the red-haired lassie, askin’ whit it was that she wanted. Food, clothes, drink?
The answer was a shake ae the heid and a pointed stare at the wee laddie. She’d take him.
The auld wife’s face fell in dismay as she protested. A deal is a deal, a promise is a promise, the red-haired lassie reminded. The auld wife began tae cry. The lassie relented a wee bit, and said that if the auld wife could come up wi’ her real name in three days, then her wee laddie would be returned tae her.
If this is ringin’ bells in anyone’s mind then they’re no alone.
Fae two days the auld wife greeted and fretted and knew there was nothin’ she could do. On the third day she rose and went on a walk through the woods where she used tae bring her wee laddie. She followed the sounds ae water, ae a stream, and began tae hear singin’. The voice belonged tae the red-haired lassie, who sat beside the stream spinnin’ wool on her wheel. The song, conveniently, had her name in it.
The auld wife snuck away and bided her time until the lassie returned. On her third guess, the auld wife told the red-haired creature her name and the wee laddie was returned tae his mother. Thwarted, the lassie retreated and was never seen again.
Except I knew differently. Somehow she’d ended up trapped in a book in the shop. And that red-haired bitch’s name was Whuppity Stoorie. I’ll admit, I’d never heard ae this folktale, one ae many no doubt. It’s more or less the Scottish version ae Rumpelstiltskin.
I barely sat through the rest ae the performances, burnin’ tae leave and track Whuppity doon and finally get her back in that damned book. But I had tae wait tae the next day when I could go and get the book fae the shop.
After the performances were over and I was a few glasses deep in drink, I helped ma pal get oot ae her various costumes and makeup. As everyone was sayin’ goodbye at the end ae the night I was standin’ a wee bit away fae the entrance, wonderin’ if I was gonnae make it home withoot fallin’ over. I felt a presence but the drink prevented me fae getting’ startled. I knew who it was, the woman has a presence. Madam Anora stood a few feet away, lookin at me bemusedly, no doubt also wonderin if I was gonnae fall doon.
I slurred out words demandin’ tae know why she was here. She complimented ma pals’ performance, but mused that the story we’d been told aboot the Whuppity Stoorie wasnae all there was tae it. Like most things in this world, there was more than there appeared.
Lookin’ back on this interaction I’m no sure it was even real, or a hallucination. Ma pal called me over so we could get a taxi, but when I turned back aroond tae tell Madam Anora where tae go there was nothin’ but shadows. I stumbled back over tae ma pal, hopin’ I’d be too drunk tae remember the encounter. Which obviously, I wasnae.
The next evening, wi’ a wee bit ae a hangover, I nip intae the shop tae get the book and head tae the last place I’d heard mention ae her. Another pub, different tae the last one, barely within the city bounds. I open the door, assumin’ I’m gonnae have a long wait on ma hands tae confirm if she’s still hauntin’ this place, when I see a flash ae red-hair and the shimmer ae a green velvet dress headin’ oot the opposite side ae the pub tae where the toilets are.
I quickly squeeze in between the already formin’ crowd, there’s a big football match on and everyone’s clamourin’ tae get a better look at the screen. I finally get tae the back where she’s disappeared only tae hear the clink ae the fire escape door close. The alarm hasnae gone aff, so I follow. It doesn’t occur tae me that she might ae silenced the alarm, but I’m relieved when I push the bar and open the door tae silence.
I’m spat intae a side alley wi uneven cobbles waitin’ tae trip up the unsuspecting, and industrial sized bins pushed intae bare brick walls so bin lorries can squeeze past once a week. Over the slammin ae taxi doors and clip ae high heels on pavements, I can hear two people hissin’ at each other. I immediately think it’s Whuppity up tae her old tricks, tryin’ tae manipulate someone intae givin’ her somethin’ ae worth. I’m hidden by a large bin, and when I emerge ontae the cobbles I indeed find Whuppity talkin’ tae someone, a middle-aged man whose baldin’ head caught the amber light trickling doon the alley fae the main street.
I proudly announced that she could stop noo, that it was all over, that I knew her name. Whuppity whipped roond tae me, a storm ae emotions runnin’ across her delicate features before she landed on pleading. I smirked. I’d won, finally, after all ae these months. I wasnae such a fuck-up after all.
I told the older man that he could go, and that whitever she’d offered him wasnae worth what she’d take fae him. He looks at me blankly when Whuppity begins tae beg me no tae put her back in the book and that I dinnae understand whit I’ve walked intae. By this stage I’m fishin the book oot ae ma bag, unable tae stop smilin’. The more desperate she sounds the happier I become. I anticipate the great burden bein lifted aff ma shoulders, no more book, no more thinkin’ aboot her red hair and green velvet dress, no more frustration at no bein’ able tae talk aboot it or get help. No more feelin’ like an absolute roaster, at least concernin’ this.
Whuppity eventually surmises that I mustae heard the story, the folktale that she’s in, and she tells me that it’s no true. She didnae trick the auld wife and steal her laddie, that was all a lie that was made up tae discredit her. This caught ma attention and ma smirk began tae falter.
Whit did she mean?
The older man, still standin’ in the background, mutters under his breath that she would say that. It’s no so much that he’s said anything that bothers me, it’s that he’s still here. Why hasn’t he left? I could feel ma elation dampen as I began tae really look at the situation before me.
Whuppity says that the tale about her isnae true, that it was all a lie made up by the auld wife’s absent husband. In reality she and Whuppity were pals. Yes, she helped her wi’ things like the pig but it was never in exchange fae anythin’ as extreme as her bairn. The husband had only married the auld wife fae her money, and regularly left her home alone tae fend fae herself. Whuppity eventually found oot that he planned tae kill his wife after they’d had a son because their pre-nuptial contract stated that the husband wouldnae get any ae the money she had in a family trust should she die withoot bairns. Since she had a son, he would inherit the trust when he came ae age, in the meantime it’d essentially be the husband’s.
Ma smile had all but died. Should I believe her? Could I? People will say anythin’ in a desperate situation.
Whuppity pointed tae the middle-aged man she’d been talkin’ tae and stated that he was the husband in the tale. After she’d saved the auld wife fae his grasp he’d trapped her in the book as revenge and made up the tale so if she ever was freed in the future no one would ever trust her.
There’s no exactly a date on the folktale, but I must say the man was lookin’ pretty good fae someone that mustae been a few hundred years old. No as good as the Madams, but still impressive.
The old man snorted in derision and refuted the claims, sayin’ that it was a folktale, a fable, werenae they all made up?
I didae need Madam Anora’s cryptic warnin’ that night tae tell me that somethin’ wasnae right. She’d said the tale wasnae as it appeared, which fit intae Whuppity’s narrative. Why Anora had interfered at all was somethin’ tae think aboot later.
I felt the book’s weight in ma hands, and the more I hesitated the heavier it became. Did Whuppity want revenge on the husband fae trapping her in it?
I asked her whit she’d give me in exchange fae ma help. She stared back blankly. After a few moments ae confused silence I told her that she’d have tae give me anythin’ I asked for, and in exchange I’d give her vengeance.
The man really shouldae left earlier. Whuppity nodded ever so slightly, if I wasne payin’ attention I wouldae missed it.
I threw the book in front ae the man and the pages began tae flip over wi’ dizzying speed, skimmin’ over the fantastical landscapes he had no doubt created himself tae be Whuppity’s prison. He shouldnae be too bothered by it then. he realised whit was goin’ on too late tae run. The flippin’ pages created a vortex ae sorts, a magnetic pull that he didnae have the strength tae resist.
When the tip ae his finger disappeared intae the spine, the book snapped shut and the cover changed. On top ae the waterfall, overlookin’ the strange city, was a baldin’, miserable man.
I kept the book as insurance. I reminded Whuppity, more harshly than I’d intended, that should she renege on her side ae our deal, I’d release him.
Should I have acted as I did? Was it ma place tae interfere? Couldnae I just have destroyed the book and washed ma hands ae the whole situation? Perhaps that what a Madam Norna wouldae done. Perhaps that’s what I shouldae done. Why do I feel like I chose tae be more like Madam Anora? Rather than altruistic I was self-serving? Whuppity owes me a favour. I have no idea whit I’m gonnae ask fae, if I ever will, but I get the sense that I may need it someday. Madam Norna’s can be left wi’ nothin’ fae their work, fae their sacrificed lives, but I dinnae intend tae be the same.