Take the Hindmost: MacDonald of Keppoch and the Devil

Supernatural legends are but one genre that was (and to a certain extent still are) very popular with Gaelic storytellers, especially, it would seem, those that focus upon a well-known personality or protagonist such as a clan chief. For instance, the following tale was recorded from the recitation of John MacDonald of Highbridge, Brae Lochaber, and was shortly afterwards transcribed by Calum Maclean on the 2nd of February 1951, which involves MacDonald of Keppoch (usually but not exclusively ascribed to Alasdair nan Cleas) as the main character:

FEAR NA CEAPAICH AGUS AN DONAS

Bha Fear na Ceapaich agus caraide dha a’ cumail comann ris an Donas, mar tha an naidheachd a’ dol. Agus ’s e ’n co-dhùnadh a bh’ ann gum faigheadh an Donas am fear mu dheireadh dhiubh a’ dol a-mach air an dorast. Bha iad a’ faotainn air adhart leis na cumhnantan a bha seo glè mhath. Agus bha am fear a bha seo [...] chaidh e a-mach agus e a’ tarrainn uisge agus cha stadadh e. Smaointich e gun robh cuideigin a’ gabhail beachd air agus choimhead e gu h-àrd. Bha Fear na Ceapaich agus a cheann a-mach air an uinneig. Dh’fhalbh am fear a bha a’ tarraing uisge agus chuir e cròcan fèidh air an fhear a bha gu h-àrd aig an uinneag is chan fhaigheadh e a cheann a-staigh. Bha iad mar sinn ann an nàthan le chèile. Thuirt am fear a bha gu h-ìosal ris an fhear eile:

“’S fheàrra dhut mise a leigeal às an seo, feuch am faigh mi caoidhte ’s a bhith a’ dèanamh m’ uisge.”

“Cha leig gus an toir thu dhìom na cròcan.”

“Is tu fhèi’ a thug orm-sa tòiseachdainn an tòiseach air an ealaidh a tha seo agus thoir orm stad. Agus bheir mise na cròcan dhìot.”

’S ann mar seo a bha. Nuair a fhuair e cuidhte ’s bhith a’ dèanadh uisge, thug e na cròcan don fhear a bha gu h-àrd. Nuair a bha iad cuidhte ’s an uair seo agus an sgoil dhubh aca cho fad is a ghabhadh i cur, bha iad a’ fàgail na sgoil a bh’ aig an Donas. Agus mar a thuirt mi riubh, ’s e na cumhnantan a bh’ ann: am fear a bhiodh air deireadh gur h-e bhiodh aig an Donas.

“Theirig thusa air thoiseach agus nì mise rudeigin deth,” thuirt Fear na Ceapaich.

Chuir e am fear eile air thoiseach. Bha latha grianach ann agus iad a’ dol a-mach agus:

“Is tusa an duine mu dheireadh,” thuirt an Donas, is e a’ dèanadh leum airson beireachd air.

“Chan e; shin agad e a’ tighinn na mo dheaghaidh.”

Is dè bha seo ach am faileas aige. Agus leum an Donas agus rug e air an fhaileas aige. Agus chan fhaca iad faileas aig Fear na Ceapaich riamh an deaghaidh sin. Theich an Donas leis.

And the translation may be given as follows:

MACDONALD OF KEPPOCH AND THE DEVIL

MacDonald of Keppoch and a boon companion were keeping communion with the Devil, or so the story goes. And the outcome was that the Devil would get the last of them going out the door. They were getting on with this compact very well. One of these men […] went out to draw water [to urinate] but he was unable to stop. He thought that he noticed someone watching him and so he looked up. MacDonald of Keppoch was there with his head sticking out of the window. The man who was drawing water then put deer antlers on the man at the window and so he was unable to get his head back inside. So there they were entangled together. The man below said to the other man:

“It's better for you to get me out of this, so that I’ll get relief from urinating.”

“I’ll do no such thing until you take these antlers off.”

“It was you who started this ditty so you’d better make me stop and then I’ll take the antlers off you.”

And so it was. When he was relieved from urinating, he then took the antlers off the man above. They were both released then and as they had taken the black art as far as they possibly could they were ready to leave the Devil’s school. And, as I told you, they had this compact: the Devil would get the hindmost man.

“You go first and I will do something,” said MacDonald of Keppoch.

He sent the other man out first. It was a sunny day and as they were going out:

“You’re the hindmost man,” said the Devil as he leapt to catch hold of him.

“No, I’m not: there’s one coming behind me.”

And what was this but his shadow. The Devil leapt and caught hold of his shadow. After that MacDonald of Keppoch didn’t have a shadow. The Devil ran off with it.

The very same story has a wide distribution not only in Scotland but in Norway as well as Iceland where it is attributed to a certain Saemund Sigfusson, who, was born around 1056 and is “credited with having written a Latin History of the Kings of Norway, which has since been lost.” In Gaelic tradition it is attributed to Donald Duival [Diabhal] MacKay, the Wizard of the Reay Country. Miss Dempster presented the Sutherland tradition as follows: “Donald-Duival learned the black art in Italy. The devil sat in the professor’s chair of that school, and at the end of each term he claimed as his own the last scholar. One day as they broke up there was a regular scramble, for none wished to be last. Donald-Duival really was so; but just as Satan snatched at him, Donald Duival, pointing to his shadow, which fell behind him, cried, “Take the hindmost!” and his shadow being seized, he himself escaped. When he returned to Scotland he was never seen to have a shadow.”

Another version of this supernatural legend makes its appearance in the Rev. Somerled MacMillan’s Bygone Lochaber (1971):

Alexander (Alasdair nan Cleas), 10th of Keppoch, who was better known as “Alexander of the Tricks”, because, according to some, while studying in Italy, he became a master at playing tricks with cards. He is said to have studies the “Black Art”, of which he was reckoned to be the greatest exponent ever known in the Highlands. Tradition has it that while in Rome he studies the Black Art under Satan himself, and so proficient did he become that he ultimately outwitted his teacher. At the story goes, Satan’s reward was that at the end of the days’ teaching he carried off the last student who remained in the room. Alasdair usually managed to be bout among the foremost, but the other students being jealous of him formed a plot to block his way and keep him back. In this they proved successful, and just as he was going out last Satan caught hold of him and claimed him as his lawful fee. Alexander of the Tricks was equal to the occasion however, and said in Gaelic―“Tha fear ’nam dhéidh” (“There is another man after me”), at the same time pointing to his shadow, which the bright sunshine threw on the wall. Satan instantly let him go and grabbed at the shadow, so Alasdair escaped “that time” and at once returned to Lochaber, but no matter how bright the sun, his shadow was not to be seen as Satan had gone off with it.

As has already been hinted at this tale is identified as not only an international tale (ATU 810, The Snares of the Evil One) but also a migratory legend (ML 3000, Escape from the Black School). Such were their allure, that such legends knew no boundaries and would seem to have spread in a similar type of viral fashion as popular trends tend to do on the internet.

References:

Campbell, John G., Gaelic Otherworld, ed. by Ronald Black (Edinburgh: Birlinn, 2005) p. 157

Dempster, Miss, ‘The Folk-lore of Sutherlandshire’, The Folk-Lore Journal, vol. VI (1888), pp. 149–89

Hanford, Mark, ‘Demonic Magic in the Icelandic Wizard Legends’, Northern Studies: The Journal of the Scottish Society of Northern Studies, vol. 29 (1992), pp. 24–31

MacMillan, Somerled, Bygone Lochaber: Historical and Traditional (Glasgow: Privately printed, 1971), pp. 147–48

SSS NB 3, pp. 212–13

Image:

Shadow Man

Dance Till You Drop

Quite a few traditional tales, usually spiced with a hint of the supernatural, were once told about Alasdair nan Cleas, one of the most famous chiefs of the MacDonalds of Keppoch, Brae Lochaber. He reputedly possessed magical powers or at least was extremely adept at legerdemain. He was educated in Italy, a country which in Gaelic tradition seems to have been the place where anyone wishing to learn the secret arts of magic would go. In Gaelic tradition it is known as “an sgoil d(h)ubh,’ literally the black school, or simply black magic/art and such was the Keppoch chief’s reputation that he earned himself the moniker Alasdair nan Cleas (Alexander of the Tricks). An example of such a story was recorded by Calum Maclean from the recitation of John MacDonald of Highbridge, Brae Lochaber, and transcribed shortly afterwards on the 21st of January 1951:

ALASDAIR NAN CLEAS AGUS AM BOIREANNACH A CHUIR E A DHANNSA

Bha fear de Chloinn ’ic Raghnaill na Ceapaich ris an abradh iad Alasdair nan Cleas. Tha ceudan de bhliadhnaichean o bha e ann. Bha e a’ gabhail ron dùthaich. ’S e latha trom blàth a bh’ ann – rud ris an abradh iad o shean ‘latha maol dubh’. Bhuail am pàthadh e. Thadhail e aig a’ bhoireannach a bha seo. Dh’iarr e deoch de bhainne oirre:

“Cha toir. Tha mi nam chabhaig tuillidh is a’ chòir airson feitheamh ort.”

“Tha thu gam dhiùltadh – a bheil?” thuirt esan.

“Tha mi gad dhiùltadh.”

“Bheir mise ort gum bi thu an còrr cabhaig na tha thu am barail.”

An uair sin dh’fhalbh e. Thòisich i air dannsa, dannsa nach tigeadh gu cheann. Thàinig an duine dhachaigh. Bha i a’ dannsa dar a thàinig an duine: “Gum beannaich e mise, a bhoireannaich, an deach thu far do rian?”

Dh’innis i dhà mu dheidhinn Alasdair nan Cleas: “’S fheàrra dhut fios a chur air. Dèan fuarag agus cuir beagan de mhìn-choire na measg. Thoirt dhà sin dar a thig e. Innis dha gum bheil thu duilich nach d’fhuair e am bainne.”

Thàinig Alasdair nan Cleas. Fhuair e an fhuarag. Dar a bha leth na fuaraig air a gabhail aige, dh’airich e cho math i. Bha an dannsa a’ fàs mall. An uair a bha an fhuarag air a gabhail aig Alasdair thug fear an taighe sùil air a bhean. Bha i an deaghaidh sgur den dannsa. Bha an dannsa thairis.

And the translation goes something like the following:

ALEXANDER OF THE TRICKS AND HOW HE MADE A WOMAN DANCE

There was one of the MacDonalds of Keppoch whom they called Alasdair nan Cleas (‘Alasdair of the Tricks’). This happened many hundreds of years ago. He was travelling through the district and it was a humid, sultry day – a thing they called from a long time ago the dogs days. He was struck by thirst. He visited this woman and he asked for a drink of milk:

“I’ll not give it to you as I’m in far to much of a rush to be waiting on you.”

“You’re refusing me – are you?” he said.

“I’m refusing you.”

“I’ll make you even busier than you could ever image.”

The he set off. She started to dance, a dance that would never finish. Her husband came home. She was dancing when her husband came in: “Bless me, oh woman, have you gone out of your mind?”

She told him about Alasdair nan Cleas: “You’d better send word to him. Make barley brose and mix in a little oatmeal. Give that to him when he arrives and tell him that you are sorry that he didn’t get a drink of milk.”

Alasdair nan Cleas arrived and he got the barley brose. When he taken half of the barely brose, he felt far the better for it. The dance began to slow down. When Alasdair has completely finished the goodman of the house looked at his wife and she had stopped dancing. The dance was finished.

A version of the tale which takes on a more literary rendering was published by Calum Iain M. MacLeòid and later reprinted in his collection Sgial agus Eachdraidh (1977) but which originally appeared some years before in a Canadian newspaper entitled the Eastern Chronicle:

Mac Mhic Raghnaill

Bha Mac Mhic Raghnaill air turus is chaidh e a steach do thigh a bhi ri oir an rathaid, a dh’iarraidh dibhe. ’N uair a chaidh e steach chunnaic e bean-an-tighe a bha an sàs anns a’ mhaistreadh. Dh’iarr e deoch oirre, ach thuirt i ris nach robh deoch aice dha.

Aig an ám sin bha móran bhuanaichean a muigh air an achadh-bhuana, is bha iad ag gabhail fadachd nach robhas ag cur ’g an iarraidh chum an tràth-nóin’. Mu dheireadh thall chuir fear-an-tighe fear de’n sgiobaidh dhachaidh a dh’fhoighneachd do bhean-an-tighe dé a bha ’g a cumail.

’N uair a ràinig e an tigh, gu dé bha ise a’ deanamh ach a’ dannsadh, is cho luath ’s a sheas an gille-mirein fhéin a stigh, shìn e ri dannsadh cuideachd.

An ceann greiseig eile chuir fear-an-tighe buanaiche eile dhachaidh, is thachair an leithid eile dhà-san. Mar sin dh’fhalbh fear an déidh fir, gus an robh a h-uile duine a bh’ aige a’ buain, ’s am fallus ’g an dalladh a’ dannsadh, ’s e so am port a bha iad a’ gabhail:―

“Chunnaic mise Mac Mhic Raghnaill,

’S dhiùlt e deoch dhomh, dhiùlt e deoch dhomh”

Dh’aithnich fear-an-tighe gur e Mac Mhic Raghnaill a rinn a’ bhuidseachd orra. Fhuair e each, is thog e air far an robh e. “’N uair a théid thu dhachaidh,” arsa Mac Mhic Raghnaill, “gheibh thu sgolb calltuinn air a stobadh os cionn an doruis, ’s nuair a bheir thu ás e, bidh iad cho socair ’s a bha iad riamh.”

Rinn e so, is sguir iad, ach cha b’urrainn daibh car tuilleadh a dheanamh leis an sgìos.

The above though was first published in J. G. McKay’s Gille a’ Bhuidseir / The Wizard's Gillie and other Tales (1914; and later editions). And the translation given in that publication was given as follows:

MACDONALD OF KEPPOCH

KEPPOCH, while once on a journey went into a house on the road to ask for a drink, and it happened that there was a woman in the house who was churning. He asked a drink of her. She told him she had none for him.

Now she had a great many reapers at work, and these reapers were getting weary and wondering that no one had been sent to fetch them to dinner, and so at last the goodman himself sent one of them home to enquire whatever it could be that was keeping her, and why she did not send for them to come to their dinner. But when the messenger arrived at the house, what was the woman doing but dancing, and the instant the messenger himself entered, he began to dance too. [The goodman sent another reaper home, but the  same thing happened to him.]

Thus it went on from man to man, until every one of her reapers were dancing, and this was the tune they were all singing—

I’ve seen the Son of the Son of Ronald,

And a drink he refused me, a drink he refused me,

I've seen the Son of the Son of Ronald, etc.

The goodman realized that it was Keppoch who had brought all this about. So he procured a horse, and away he went after him. Keppoch told him what he had done, and that his intention had been to open her eyes, and make her understand that she was not to refuse a drink to a wayfarer in future.

“When thou goest home, thou wilt find a slip of hazel fixed above the door, and when thou takest it down, they will become as quiet as ever they had been.” He did so, and they ceased dancing, but were unable to do another hand’s turn that day for weariness.

The story hangs upon the crucial peg of refusing someone hospitality, possibly one of the greatest taboos to commit at that time in the Highlands. Possibly credulity is stretched too far as surely the woman would have known to whom she was addressing when she made her refusal. Unless, of course, the Keppoch chief was dressed up as a gaberlunzie or a beggar man just as King James V allegedly would do to garner information or opinions from the people he ruled without fear of prejudice. Either way, the Keppoch chief had his revenge and she made her dance till she dropped so that she would learn a lesson not be so mean in the future to wayfarers like himself.

References:

Calum Iain M. MacLeòid, Sgial agus Eachdraidh (Glaschu: Gairm, 1977), pp. 54–55
J. G. McKay, Gille a’ Bhuidseir / The Wizard's Gillie and other Tales (Glasgow: Alex. MacLaren & Sons, 2nd ed., 1946), pp. 80–83

SSS NB 5, pp. 389–90

Image:

Jean Reynolds, Edinburgh, a noted Highland dancer during the 1950s