The Two Sisters And The Curse

"Two sisters were living in the same township on the south side of Mull. One of them who was known as Lovely _Mairearad_[24] had a fairy sweetheart, who came where she was, unknown to anyone, until one day she confided the secret to her sister, who was called Ailsa[25] (_Ealasaid_), and told her how she dearly loved her fairy sweetheart. “And now, sister,” she said, “you will not tell any one.” “No,” her sister answered, “I will not tell any one; that story will as soon pass from my lips as it will from my knee (_o’m ghlùn_)”; but she did not keep her promise; she told the secret of the fairy sweetheart to others, and when he came again, he found that he was observed, and he went away and never returned, nor was he seen or heard of ever after by any one in the place. When the lovely sister came to know this, she left her home and became a wanderer among the hills and hollows, and never afterwards came inside of a house door, to stand or sit down, while she lived. Those who herded cattle (_ag uallach threud_) tried frequently to get near her and persuade her to return home, but they never succeeded further than to hear her crooning a melancholy song in which she told how her sister had been false to her, and that the wrong done to her would be avenged on the sister or her descendants, if a fairy (_neach sìth_) has power. On hearing that Ailsa was married, she repeated, “Dun Ailsa is married and has a son Torquil, and the evil will be avenged on her or on him (_phòs, phòs Ealasaid Odhar,[26] &c._).” What she hummed in her mournful song was:--

My mother’s place is deserted, empty and cold,
My father, who loved me, is asleep in the tomb,
Friendless and solitary I wander through the fields,
Since there is none in the world of my kindred
But a sister without pity.
She asked, and I told, out of the fulness of my joy;
There was none nearer of kin to know my secret;
But I felt, and this brought the tears to my eyes,
(_lit._, raindrip on my sight),
That a story comes sooner from the lip than from the knee.

She was then heard to utter these wishes--

May nothing on which you have set your expectations ever grow,
Nor dew ever fall on your ground.
May no smoke rise from your dwelling,
In the depth of the hardest winter,[27]
May the worm be in your store,
And the moth under the lid of your chests.
If a fay-being has power,
Revenge will be taken though it may be on your descendants.

Tha suidheag mo mhàthar gu fàs, falamh, fuar,
Tha m’ athair ’thug luaidh dhomh ’n a shuain fo ’n lic.
Gun daoine gun duine na raoin tha mi ’siubhal,
's gun ’s an t-saoghal do ’m chuideachd
Ach piuthar gun iochd.
Dh’ iarr ise ’s thug mise do mheud mo thoil-inntinn;
's mi gun neach ’bu disle g’ an innsinn mo rùn;
Ach dh’ fhairich mi sid ’s thug e snidh’ air mo léirsinn
Gur luaithe ’thig sgeul o ’n bheul na o ’n ghlùn.

An sin thuirt i na guidheachan so:--

“Na-na-chinn ’s na-na-chuir thu t-ùidh,
's na-na-shil an driùchd ad shlios,
's na-na-rug ad bhothan smùid
Ann an dùlachd crùth an crios;
Gu ’n robh a’ chnuimheag ann ad stòr
's an leòmann fo bhòrd do chist’;
Ma tha cumhachd aig neach sìth,
Dìolar ge b’ ann air do shliochd.”

Ailsa (_Ealasaid_) married, and had one son. In some way her afflicted sister heard of this, and she then added to her song--

Dun Ailsa has married,
And she has a son Torquil.
Brown-haired Torquil who can climb the headland
And bring the seal off the waves,
The sickle in your hand is sharp,
You will in two swaths reap a sheaf.

Phòs, phòs Ealasaid Odhar,
's tha mac aice--Torcuil.
Torcuil donn ’dhìreadh sròin,
's a bheireadh ròn bhàrr nan stuadh,
Bu sgaiteach do chorran ’n ad dhòrn
's dheanadh tu dhà dhlòth an sguab.

Whatever gifts the brown-haired only child of her sister was favoured with, besides others, he was a noted reaper, but this gift proved fatal to him (_dh’ fhòghainn e dha_). When he grew up to manhood, he could reap as much as seven men, and none among them could compete with him. He was then told that a strange woman was seen coming to the harvest fields in autumn, after the reapers had left, and that she would reap a field before daylight next morning, or any part of the ripe corn that the reapers could not finish that day, and in whatever field she began, she left the work of seven reapers, finished, after her. She was known as the Maiden of the Cairn (_Gruagach[28] a’ chùirn_), from being seen to come out of a cairn over opposite. One evening then, brown-haired Torquil, who desired to see her at work, being later than usual of returning home, on looking back saw her beginning in his own field. He returned, and finding his sickle where he had put it away, he took it with him, and after her he went. He resolved to overtake her and began to reap the next furrow, saying, “You are a good reaper or I will overtake you;” but the harder he worked, the more he saw that instead of getting nearer to her, she was drawing further away from him, and he then called out to her,

“Maiden of the cairn, wait for me, wait for me.” (_’Ghruagach a’ chùirn, fuirich rium, fuirich rium._)

She said, answering him,

“Handsome brown-haired youth, overtake me, overtake me.” (_’Fhleasgaich a’ chuil-duinn, beir orm, beir orm._)

He was confident that he would overtake her, and went on after her till the moon was darkened by a cloud; he then called to her,

“The moon is clouded (_lit._ smothered by a cloud), delay, delay.” (_Tha ’ghealach air a mùchadh fo neòil, fuirich rium, fuirich rium._)

“I have no other light but her, overtake me, overtake me,” she said.

He did not, nor could he, overtake her, and on seeing again how far she was in advance of him, he said, “I am weary with yesterday’s reaping, wait for me, wait for me.” She answered, “I ascended the round hill of steep summits (_màm cas nan leac_), overtake me, overtake me;” but he could not. He then said, “My sickle would be the better of being sharpened (_air a bhleath_), wait for me, wait for me.” She answered, “My sickle will not cut garlic, overtake me, overtake me.” At this she reached the head of the furrow, finished reaping, and stood still where she was, waiting for him. When he reached the head of his own furrow, he caught the last handful of corn,[29] to keep it, as was the custom, it being the “Harvest Maiden” (_a’ mhaighdean-bhuana_), and stood with it in one hand and the sickle in the other. Looking at her steadily in the face, he said,

“You have put the old woman far from me, and it is not my displeasure you deserve.” (_Chuir thu a’ chailleach fada uam ’s cha b’ e mo ghruaim a thoill thu._)[30]

She said,

“It is an evil thing early on Monday to reap the harvest maiden.” (_'s dona ’n ni_ (var., _mì-shealbhach_) _moch Di-luain dol a bhuain maighdein._)

On her saying this, he fell dead on the field and never more drew breath. The Maiden of the Cairn was never afterwards seen, nor heard of; and that was how the sister’s wishes ended."