Tim's Tales: Hogmanay and 'a story aboot the Cailleach'

“Sounds like the Cailleach is brewing a storm the nicht tae see oot the auld year,” said the grandmother, looking up at the window.

Her grandchildren all peered at the window, which rattled with each gust of wind.

“Can ye tell us a story about the Cailleach, Nan, please?”

The grandmother poked the fire to make it burn brighter, then added more lumps of coal.

She settled into her chair and looked at the children sitting around her. Her daughter, their mother, put a hand on the old woman’s arm.

“Dinnae mak it too scary mither – it’s soon time fir them tae go tae bed.”

The children protested.

“But it’s Hogmanay, we want to stay up for the bells! We like scary stories!”

Their grandmother smiled.

“A’richt then, a story aboot the Cailleach it will be,” then looking at her daughter, “but not too scary.”

The children settled themselves as close to their grandmother as they could. The fire cast the only light in the room, and its flickering yellow glow danced on the children’s expectant faces.

“The Cailleach is the goddess of winter,” began the grandmother, “but she is nae a bonny sicht.

“Her skin is blue-pale, and a’ wrinkled wi mony years o’ winter. She covers herself with a grey shawl, and has one eye.

“But with it she sees mair than those with twa een. She is kent as the Carlin in these pairts.”

The grandmother paused for a moment, making sure her grandchildren were listening. They were hanging on her words, so she continued.

“She has a staff which has great powers. When she stamps the ground with it, the earth beneath freezes with ice and frost.

“She is a giant in stature, and when winter approaches, she washes her shawl at Corryvreckan, then lays it on the mountains.

“It’s white and the mountain tops are covered in its colour. Winter is her creation and her realm. She stalks the land, keeping it in her thrall.”

“Is she evil?” asked one of her granddaughters.

“No, she isnae evil, “the grandmother replied, “she has built the mountains and hills o’ Scotland, she raised Traprain Law with one blow of her staff, she scraped the land tae mak North Berwick Law, ye can see her footprints a’over the county.

“She has made the land we ken, but she wants to keep it in the grip of winter, because that keeps her in power. But noo that the winter solstice has passed, she kens the light will slowly return, and her power will gradually wane.”

The grandmother leaned forward, and looked her grandchildren close in the eye.

“She will not go withoot a fight, however. She will rage with wind and storms, with hail and sleet. She will batter the land with her wrath. That is why the windows shake. But her rage is ootside, so we must stay inside and keep warm and safe. We are fortunate, for we have the heat of the hearth and the warmth of family; not everyone is so lucky.”

“What if she tries to enter our house?”

“She cannot, this is not her realm. If we keep the fire burning, and stay together in the warmth of our family, her rage cannot reach us. We are in the midst of the darkest time, and I ken it can feel like the light will never return. But it will. The Cailleach’s rule won’t last forever, winter must give way to spring. The wait may feel over long but let us be happy the darkest time is now past, and the shoots of new beginnings will soon show.”

“I feel sorry for the Cailleach,” said one of the children, “she just wants to last forever, like we all do.”

The grandmother nodded and smiled.

“That’s true, but nothing lasts forever. The Cailleach’s reign is on the wane now. Endings are sad but they open the door to new beginnings.”

“What happens to the Cailleach when spring returns?” asked the children.

“She doesnae die, she sleeps, and regains her strength, and will return once again after the autumn ends. It’s the cycle o’ life.”

“That story wasn’t really scary,” the children protested.

“No, I suppose it wasnae,” said the grandmother. “But I can tell you something that will really make you scream with terror.”

“What?”

“It’s bedtime!”

“But what about the bells?”

“OK,” said their mother, “but bed immediately after the bells.”

And so, the children saw in the New Year and went straight to bed, exhausted.

“You used to tell me that tale when I was their age,” said the mother.

“Aye, and my mither tae me,” smiled the grandmother.

“I really hope the new year will bring hopeful beginnings, we need that,” sighed the mother.

“I hope so too,” said the grandmother, watching her grandchildren sleep.

“But a’ we can do is oor best, and that’s whit ye dae fir yer bairns my dear.”

“Happy new year mum, love you.”

“Happy new year my dear. Love you too.”

They too went to bed.

They all slept, except the grandmother.

She sat by the window for a while to watch the storm rage in the moonlit night. She knew that eventually wisps of sunrise would appear on the horizon, beckoning the new year. But she was too tired to stay up to witness it.

“The cycle of life,” she whispered to herself, glancing at her sleeping grandchildren and her daughter.

Then she too went to bed.