The following was recounted by Angus Dumpling, Laird of Clan Dumple, the smallest of the old clans. Their tartan is a camouflaged pattern of mottled browns and gray and the clan motto is “Just one hill more,” first uttered during the great retreat after the Rout of Loch Craven in 1547. The clan is now ensconced in a tiny, remote glen in the far northwest Highlands.
The story has been translated into standard English with special permission from the Scots Gaelic Academy.
What I’m about to tell has been handed down from mother to lap for generations and I’ll pass it along without revision or straining at truth.
In a time so distant no man living can remember, even after three straight days of drinking naught but branch water, there lived in a hidden highland valley a simple thistle farmer by the name of Stewart Dumpling. His wants were simple. His tools were simple. His sentences were simple. Till all the folk around remarked on how simple he was.
He was maybe not bright enough to sin, and it could be that a whiff of such clean spirit is what drew Split Hoof. Or Auld Cluttie as others call him, when they dare. Whatever the bait, Stewart was sitting on the porch of his small croft, polishing his spoon one fair Spring day, when up the path strutted a fellow in a scarlet cloak, a vest agleam with copper buttons, and soft leather boots on his delicate feet.
Stewart pegged him right away as a stranger, seeing as how he knew every soul in the county, and was cousin to most. And when the newcomer gave a Halloo from the gate, there was no doubt from his peculiar accent that this was a Lowland type, worthy of an extra cup of caution.
Stewart having been raised in the tradition of hospitality in this remote region, drew his pig knife and pretended to strop it on his belt, just to reassure his guest that robbery would not be part of their dealings. The other stopped, cocked his head in amusement and let out a low belly laugh.
“Have you got a morsel for a wandering pilgrim?” asked the visitor.
To which young Stewart replied, “Aye. One. So, half a morsel each will have to do us.” There was something about the stranger, with his slick, too-black hair, his forked beard and thin mustache that would have set any cautious man on his guard.
With good manners out of the way, Stewart felt free to ask, “What’s your name then?”
“I’ve got several, depending on the situation and the company. I think Cluttie will do for now.”
This was before his moniker was widely known, so it rang no bells with our lad.
“Well then, Cluttie it is and come in,” he replied. Whereupon the two ducked under the low lintel and found themselves in the croft’s one room. A rough table took up most of the center, with a rude stool on either side. The table itself was empty of any food or plates. This all became apparent only after a full minute’s time as the interior was dim to the point of darkness, regardless that the sun still sat above the peaks.
“And where are you headed, if I may ask?” said Stewart.
“About and beyond,” said his guest. “Looking for opportunity that Fortune might strew in my path. And looking to see what it is people might need, those I meet on the way.
“I think I might have something that you’d find useful,” and the guest rummaged in a big leather sack that he had dropped heavily by the door.
After a few moments he withdrew a bundle the size of a sleeping cat, wrapped in velvet, and set it gingerly on the table. With a flourish, he whipped off the covering to reveal an ancient stone lamp which flashed with a brilliant flame, one that chased all shadows from the room and made even the spiders (and there were many) scurry up their silk into the deepest corners.
It was a wonder to behold and Stewart was honest enough to say as much.
“Ah, there’s more.” said the dandy. “The light you see needs no oil or any other substance to fuel it.”
Stewart was not so simple as to take that on faith and challenged him, “What does it feed on then?”
Cluttie smiled a thin smile. “It burns on human frailty. As long as there’s sin in the world, this light will never go out.”
Stewart felt his hackles rise and his blood turned to icy rivulets. He’d heard stories about dark wonders and the nooses that always accompanied them. His caution ratcheted tighter still, and his guest confirmed the need for wariness with his next words.
“It can be yours for a simple trade. Nothing you’re using. Nothing you’d miss. And light perpetual to gain.”
Sure now that his soul was teetering in the balance, Stewart decided to stall for time. He would need a cleverness that had thus far eluded him in life, and prayed for help from outside himself.
He said, “Before we strike a bargain, it’s our custom here to break bread together. And I have a local dish I think you’ll find memorable.”
Reaching into the small cupboard, Stewart withdrew a plate covered by a thin cloth. He set the dish on the table and unwrapped it with respectful care. In the center sat what appeared to be a round glistening stone or an unbaked loaf.
When the visitor did not recognize it, Steward explained. “It’s haggis. Best in the county, I’m told. I have it as a gift. A gift to share.”
Cluttie was so lulled by the dullness of his host and assurance of the easy capture of his mothlike soul that he postponed the formalities of damnation and accepted the slice he was offered, gobbling it absently in two bites.
“And how do you like it? Does it settle well?” asked Stewart.
Cluttie had a quizzical look on his face that was not lost on our boy.
“That’s no ordinary haggis,” (if there be such a thing) said Stewart, leaning forward eagerly and raising his voice.
“It was cooked by the Good Sisters of Mercy, with oats planted on St. Coran’s Day and the stomach and fat of an Easter lamb, swirled all through with Holy Water! And given to me with the love of charity!”
At that, Cluttie’s eyes started like hard boiled eggs and his face turned mottled as the moor in summer. He hacked and cawed like a crow in a snare. On his livid face was a powerful mix of hate and terror.
“I don’t have much, but I guard what’s mine,” said Stewart with a force that surprised them both. Seeing he had the upper hand and struck by inspiration from a source unknown, he added, “There is one antidote.”
Cluttie’s eyes pleaded in the midst of his writhing.
“I’ll tell you, but there’s a price.”
Cluttie strained like a mad dog at the leash but he was helpless.
“I get to keep this lamp, and you’ll have nothing in return.”
Cluttie nodded quickly. Too quickly to Stewart’s mind.
“But you have to swear, by your own forked beard and your left hind hoof.” (The unbreakable oath by which even the Trickster must abide.)
Cluttie stomped and raged. “Curse you to Hell!” he screeched.
“Bless you to Heaven,” shot back Stewart.
But the demon’s force was dwindling under the onslaught of Good and the blessed haggis in him stuck like fish bones in his throat. He finally grudged out a squeal of assent.
“Well then. You’ll need to take a pint of brimstone from under the Devil’s throne. Mind you drink it all off in one draught, too.”
As soon as the last word escaped, so did the fiendish guest in a small crack like distant thunder, leaving only the stench of a sickroom and burning hair. And the wonderful lamp.
With the horror gone, Stewart could feel his courage standing down, so he sat, plop, onto the stool and gave himself over to the trembles.
When he came fully to himself, he saw it was gloaming outside. But within the croft, all was bright as summer noon. Using his other shirt as a glove, he gingerly lifted the lamp and set it onto the windowsill. From there its light streamed through the valley, and the birds, confused no doubt, began to sing again.
Word of the visit and its wonderful legacy spread through the county. Stewart rose considerably in folks’ esteem, though they did keep a distance until they were sure no deal had actually been struck.
Stewart for his part changed his name so as to erase the path to his soul, should the Devil figure some devious way to revenge. With a pluck few would have expected, young Stewart chose to hide right behind Satan’s shoulder by calling himself Clootie. As he was not a complete fool, he changed the spelling. No need to speak of the Devil, after all.
The light in his window became Clootie’s Light, a welcome beacon for the clan and for all honest visitors such as yourself. Since it is fueled by sin, it has neither dimmed nor flickered in all this time. The local folk feel honor bound to do their part in keeping it lit. They say only Gabriel’s trump will snuff it.
And that’s as close to the truth as we’re likely to get in this life; take from it what you will.
All that talking of Sulphur and the dusty past dries a man’s tongue. But the good doctor in these parts owns the Kilt and Gryphon, so I think it’s there we’ll find the cure.
Image: GaborfromHungary in Morguefile
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