Legend of the mactavish witch
Sean Mactavish was an eighteenth century farmer, proprietor of Knocksheen. His farm lay on the north bank of the Garroch Burn, a tributary of the Ken, four miles into the hills to the west of Dalry. One evening he had been in the township drinking at Lucky Hair's, a notorious inn at Midtown Dalry. He often went there for the merry company, and more particularly because he had a fancy for the lively owner and barmaid, Lucky Hair herself. He liked to tease her that she had sold herself to the Devil to keep her youth, because in his eyes at least she looked bonnier with every year that passed.
On this night, though he had managed to wind an arm about her waist early on, his hopes of a stolen goodnight kiss were dashed, for without saying a word to anyone Lucky Hair had slipped away. Leaving the bar in charge of a serving-man and pot-room drab. It was drawing towards midnight when Sean Mactavish called his farewells and mounting on his white horse, set off down the long hill towards the ford across the Ken.
The rough road led between the kirkyard and Dalry Mote a little above the river. Though the night was moonless the sky was clear and sparkling with stars and soon his eyes became accustomed to the dark. As he approached the kirk he was surprised to hear the dancing notes of a fiddle. Then, as he passed from behind some bushes and the building came into view, he was still more surprised to see that lights were burning within, illuminating the little windows and sending rays out into the night. He was filled with curiosity.
Without dismounting he turned his horse in through the kirkyard gate and crossed between the gravestones to the east window. Then he climbed down, and holding the reins in his hand, crept close and peered through the slit in the heavy stone wall into the interior, where lanterns and flickering candles mingled brilliance and darkness and fleeting shadows. He was astonished to see that the kirk was a scene of revelry. Up in the pulpit, the first person he saw, was an old man from the town, bedridden for twenty years and crooked like a gnome, playing the fiddle and jigging like one possessed, his face brilliant with toothless laughter. Beneath him - for the kirk had no pews in those days - the floor was thronged with whirling dancers, all going at it like twenty-year-olds at a harvest festival. But it was a long time since most of them had seen twenty.
They were old folk, many of them the cripples and bedridden from miles around. And, there too were the respectable good-living people that no-one would have suspected, figures from the manse and sober elders who read the Word and sat before the congregation every Sabbath with holy faces and clasped hands. But now their jackets were off, the women's skirts kilted high for the galloping reels. Their faces glistened with sweat and animal high spirits. MacTavish knew most of them well, though sometimes it was hard to make out who they were in the swirl and dancing shadows.
One of the revellers was Old Nick himself, horns and black curls shining, having a wonderful time. He knew how to pick his partner, for of all the figures in the church he had got the only beauty. And how she danced, her waist and bosom turning, hair and ankles flying high. Sean MacTavish could not take his eyes off her, but for a long time he could not get a glimpse of her face, for they were always in the thick of the dancing. When he did however, he was stunned, and then delighted, for it was none other than his own favourite, Lucky Hair Herself.
Wide-eyed and amazed he watched, until at length, half-drunk, he could contain himself no longer. Lifting his whip he rapped loudly on the window, calling out: "Aye, are ye there, Lucky Hair? Ye'll no deny this the morn!"
Instantly the company broke up in wild confusion, with the most awesome swearing and cursing that ever dimmed the sober grey walls of a church. Then the lights were extinguished and the kirk was plunged into darkness. Above the yells and fearful hubbub the cries rang out:
"Catch him! Kill him! Drag him off to hell!"
The kirk door flew open and the shrieking women and old men scrambled out into the night after him. Swiftly Sean MacTavish sprang on to his horse's back, and kicking his heels in drove it through the gravestones, leaped the kirkyard wall, and galloped away down the road towards the ford by the Craiggubble Inn, hanging on drunkenly, his mind in a whirl. Down the rough road they flew in pursuit, filling the air with their cries. Across the wide splashing ford he went, and up the bridle path on hillside opposite.
The river did not check them for an instant: across they poured, some flying, some on the stepping stones, some wading and swimming - crooked limbs going like frogs, hair and clothes streaming in the water. Long before he reached the summit of the hill Sean Mactavish was being overtaken. Springing from his horse in a little meadow, he pulled the beast shuddering beside him, and drawing his sword described a circle in the turf around them, crying aloud:
"I draw this circle in the name of God Almighty: let no evil thing cross over it!"
The witches flew at him with yell so of triumph, then reached the line and suddenly started back in fear and alarm. With terrible threats and shining eyes they gathered around, but none, dared cross the mark. And through the dark hours they remained, stretching out their arms and cursing him, gathering into huddles, trying every wile in their power to get at him.
The horse was terrified and restless, showing the whites of its eyes. For an instant its white tail flew beyond the circle. In a flash one of the witches seized it and pulled the tail right off. Lucky Hair managed to get her hand on the horse's rump, leaving a black, spread-fingered print, which it bore for life.
The night seemed an eternity, but at long last the dawn showed in the east and the cock of The Cairnford crowed. With the cockcrow the power of the witches departed. Slowly with many last threats, they turned from Sean MacTavish's circle and made their way back down the hill. As they went their bones and joints stiffened, and by the time they passed from view they were hobbling and leaning on one another's shoulder for support. All around the circle, to a distance of three or four yards, the grass was blackened and scorched to the very earn beneath.
Sean Mactavish, long sober, waited until the morning sun had lifted itself above the hills. Then, with a fervent prayer and still some apprehension, he ventured out of the circle and made his way slowly home to Knocksheen.The mark of his sword - 'Sean Mactavish's Circle' - remained in the turf of Waterside Hill for generations, and was visited by many thousands of sightseers. When in the course of years it grew faint, it was renewed annually by his descendants.
