Scotland's supernatural stories: The Witch of Fife

A popular and well-known tale amongst Scottish storytellers, this is a story I have known forever. It is based on a comic narrative poem written, in Scots, by Scottish poet James Hogg (1770-1835), sometimes known as the Ettrick Shepherd since as a young man he worked as a shepherd and farmhand. Largely self-taught, he was a friend of many of the great writers of his day such as Walter Scott and William Wordsworth.

ONCE, a long time ago in the Kingdom of Fife, there lived a gudeman and his wife. The old man was a quiet and hardworking soul but his wife was so skeerie and flighty that the neighbours used to nudge each other and whisper that they feared she might be a witch.

And her husband was afraid that it might be true, because she had a curious habit of disappearing in the evening and staying out all night, and when she did come back in the morning she looked quite white and tired, as if she had travelled far or worked hard.

Try as he might to watch her carefully and find out where she went and what she did, he never managed to do so because she always slipped out of the door while he wasn’t looking, and before he had reached it to follow her she had vanished completely.

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Eventually, one day, the husband decided it was time he knew, so he asked her right out if she was a witch. But his blood ran cold when, without hesitation, she answered that she was, and if he promised not to let anyone know, the next time she went out on one of her adventures she would tell him all about it.

Well, the old man agreed, because he thought it was only right that a husband should know all about what his wife got up to.

He didn’t have long to wait because the very next week it was a new moon and the time when witches like to venture out. That very night his wife vanished and didn’t return until daybreak.

When he asked her where she had been, it was with great excitement and pleasure that she told her story. She had met four other companions in the old kirkyard where they had mounted branches of the green bay tree and stalks of hemlock, which had immediately turned into horses carrying them, swift as the wind, over the country, hunting the foxes, the weasels and the owls. Then they had swum the loch and come to the top of the Lomond Hills, where they had dismounted and drunk beer made in no earthly brewery from little horn cups made by no mortal hand.

Then a wee man had appeared from under a great mossy stone with a tiny set of bagpipes under his arm and played such wonderful music that, at the sound of it, the very fish jumped out of the loch below, and the stoats crept out of their holes, and the crows and herons came and sat on the trees in the darkness just to listen.

The witches danced until they were so tired that they could hardly hang on to their horses on the way home.

The gudeman listened to this long story in silence, shaking his head from time to time, and when it was finished all that he said was, “And what good has all that dancing done you? Would you not have been better at home in bed with your dear little bairns and me?”

The next new moon saw the wife disappearing again. When she returned this time she told of how she and her friends had taken cockleshells from the beach and turned them into boats and had sailed over the stormy sea to Norway. There they had mounted invisible horses of wind and had ridden over mountains, glens and glaciers until they reached the frozen lands of the Lapps, lying under a cloak of snow.

Here all the elves, fairies and mermaids of the North were holding a festival with warlocks, broonies, pixies and even the Phantom Hunters themselves, who are never seen by mortal eyes. The Witches of Fife joined in with the dancing, feasting and singing. She told how the warlock men and weird women had washed them with witch-water, distilled from the moorland dew, till their beauty bloomed like the Lapland rose that grows wild in the forest.

Then, soft in the arms of the warlock men, they had lain down to sleep. But more importantly, they were taught certain magical words which, when spoken, would carry them through the air and undo all bolts and bars and gain them entry to any place they wanted to be. They had returned home, delighted with the knowledge they had been given.

“You’re lying,” cried out the old man, “you’re lying. The ugliest wife on the shores of Fife is bonnier than you! Why would the warlock men lie with you? And what took you to such a cauld land? Would you no’ have been warmer at home in bed wi’ me?”

But the next time he took a wee bit more notice of what she said, because she told of how they had met in the cottage of one of her friends and how, having heard that the Lord Bishop of Carlisle had a very fine wine cellar, they had each placed a foot on the pan hook over the fire and had spoken the magic words they had learned from the Elves of Lapland. As soon as the words were out of their mouths they disappeared up the chimney like whiffs of smoke and sailed through the air like little clouds to land at the bishop’s palace in Carlisle.

There the doors flew open and they went down into the bishop’s wine cellar, where they sampled the fine wines, returning to Fife, fine sober old women, by daybreak.

When he heard this the old man took notice. He liked a fine wine himself, but it seldom came his way.

“You are a wife to be proud of,” he cried. “Maybe you could tell me these words? I would like to go and sample the bishop’s wine myself.”

“Na, na,” she replied. “I couldn’t do that because you might tell it over again and the whole world would be turned upside down with folk going into each other’s houses whenever they pleased.”

And although he tried to persuade her with all the soft words he could think of, she wouldn’t give up her secret.

BUT he had a sly side and the thought of the bishop’s wine stayed with him, so night after night he visited the other cottages in the hope that he would catch his wife and her friends meeting there. It took a long time but at last his trouble was rewarded. One night they assembled and in low tones, amid chuckles of laughter as they reminded each other of their adventures in Lapland, one by one they climbed on to the sooty hook, repeated the magic words, and disappeared up the lum.

“I can do that too,” he thought, crawling out of his hiding place and running to the fire, where he put his foot on the hook and repeated the magic words he had heard. He too flew up the lum and out into the night air after his wife and her companions. And, as witches never look over their shoulders, he wasn’t noticed until they reached the bishop’s cellar. They weren’t pleased when they discovered he was amongst them, but what could they do?

They got on with enjoying themselves, sampling the wines as before. But while they just took a little here and a little there, the husband was not so cautious. He drank so much that he was fast asleep on the floor when the time came to leave.

Thinking to teach him a lesson, they left him there to be discovered the next morning by the bishop’s servants.

Much surprised to find him in a locked cellar, he was dragged before the bishop himself, who asked for an explanation. The poor old man was so confused that all he could say was that he came from Fife “on the midnight wind”.

Hearing that, the bishop declared he must be a warlock and ordered him to be burnt alive.

Well, the poor man now wished he had minded his own business and stayed at home. But it was too late. He was dragged outside and chained to a great iron stake. Piles of wood were placed around his feet and set alight. As the flames crept up he thought his last hour had come.

Just then there was a swish and a flutter of wings and a bird appeared in the sky, swooping down to perch for a moment on the old man’s shoulder to whisper in his ear.

The old man’s heart jumped for joy as he realised this was his wife with her magic words. He called them out and immediately the chains fell away and the old man sailed off into the air, much to the amazement of the crowd.

And when he found himself safely at home once more he vowed to leave his wife to her own devices.

Sheila Kinninmonth has been a professional storyteller for more than 10 years. Being born and brought up with the stories and traditions of the Kingdom of Fife gave her a passion for folklore and folk tales. During a career in education, she was able indulge this passion and share stories at every opportunity, honing her skills and expanding her knowledge with the help of the Scottish Storytelling Centre and the storytellers she met there. She now spends her time sharing tales with audiences of all ages. She is actively involved with two storytelling clubs, Blether Tay-gither based in Dundee and Lang Spoon Tales based in south Fife.

This story is taken from The Anthology Of Scottish Folk Tales, published by The History Press. Sunday National readers can buy the book at the special price of £10 with free P&P to all UK addresses. Order via Macmillan by calling 01256302699 and quoting the discount code “RZ6”. Offer valid September 22-29​