Tales from the Tent Read Free

boy into the hands of the startled elderly woman. ‘I canna keep it,’ she cried, ‘I dinna ken how tae.’ Those words were the
youngster’s parting call before she planted a soft kiss on the infant’s brow and was gone into the dark night. The old woman had seen many bairns into the world, so she knew how to
twine-tie the cord and wash its tiny frame. What worried her more was her awareness that it had not long left the womb, because it takes no longer for a new human to die than it does for a
featherless chick deserted in the nest. Without a minute wasted, she wrapped the bairn in a shawl and huddled off into the night toward the tent of Marion Macdonald. She had a few wee ones. The
widow had heard them playing in the birch woods and knew they lived less than a mile away up toward Tulimet. The tents were in darkness as she arrived by the moonlight’s guidance.
    Without waiting for permission, she forced her old frame in through the door of the Macdonalds’ tent. ‘A stupid wee lassie has had herself a baby, Mrs Macdonald—have ye the
breast milk for it? Look, the poor wee thing hasn’t even tasted a drop yet, I fear death is in the waiting for it if it doesn’t see any sustenance.’
    ‘Oh dear, I’m fair sorry for the mite, but my youngest is over the year and doesn’t need milk. Mine dried up last month. But the lassie Macpherson might be able to help, did
she not bury a stiff-born infant just the other day?’
    The old woman, saddled with her precious burden, said she’d heard of the sad case, but were the Macphersons not over seven miles away? ‘The baby would never survive that
distance,’ she said, biting into her knuckles in desperation.
    ‘Not if my Jamie runs with him’, answered Marion. Her Jamie was thirteen and ‘could run with the Monarch’, she proudly told the old woman. Marion speedily ripped out
sheep’s wool she’d sown into her children’s mattress and began covering the wee boy’s head and vulnerable back. Then she tied pieces of muslin all round his tiny frame,
leaving a small hole for air at his mouth. As if packing a very valuable piece of china she placed the baby into a hessian sack and tied it to Jamie’s back. To emphasise the importance of his
task she placed two strong hands onto his young shoulders and said, ‘for God’s sake, laddie, go like the wind, for this wee bundle hasn’t an hour of life left in him.’
    Jamie took off into the night as sure-footed as the deer, and in no time was holding out the tiny parcel to the young mother in the throes of bereavement.
    Soon the wee baby boy was suckling like mad, a life saved by the expertise of the travelling people. Sad to say, though, his adopted mother fell ill with fever, and in his eleventh month her
life was cut short. Her sad husband, unable to cope, begged a farmer and his wife to take the bonny healthy boy. Which they did and brought him up as their own.
    ‘And here I am, lassie, lying here on the grass beside you this very afternoon.’ Mac finished his tale, turned onto his stomach and went to sleep.
    I was intrigued, what a marvellous story. I had to hear more about my new friend.
    ‘You still haven’t told me why you’re called Mac.’ I awakened him with a prod into his ribs.
    ‘Then you haven’t been listening, lassie,’ he said, rolling onto his side.
    ‘I heard every word you said, it was fascinating.’
    He then reminded me: the first old woman’s name was Macgregor, the second was Macdonald, the third... Macpherson.
    ‘Oh, I can see it now, their names all began with “Mac”.’
    ‘You’ve got it!’
    ‘But why didn’t you take the farm-folks’ name—surely they gave you theirs?’
    ‘I did! They were called—Macmillan!’
    I laughed, so did he, then we shared another cup of tea and scone.
    I liked this man, I felt a kindred spirit, and wanted to know more about his fascinating life. But soon the family would be home from the berries. I had a fire to kindle, tatties to