Johnnersintheraw's Blog

May 12, 2010

The Felkyo’s Curse: a peedie faerie tale

How Peedie Willy Lost His Aimer

This is a tale off an innocent young lad and an evil auld felkyo called Owld Mither Morag NicOxter-Arroo.  Every word herein is sad, and every word is truly true.

Now, many many eons ago, long before there was a sun up in the sky or an earth on down in the mud, there lived a wee peedie ting in a bog on the western slopes of a far-off island.  T’was in the north sea, somewhere between Orkney and Norway and The Rose of Tralee (which was for a time a gently mysterious floating nest of flotsam, long before it drifted in the wild Atlantic tide downwards ever downwards tae what was tae become The Kingdom of Kerry; once there, the Rose was soon proclaimed: The Fairest of all the Jetsam, and we all know the rest of that story).

This lad’s name was peedie Willy o’The Briny Breeks and he lived alone in his little croft with his mountainy sheep and his dog and his chicken and his pet herring, Misther Maet.  Now, peedie Willy had always lived alone, ever since he had found himself wrapped up in swaddling and in a basket outside his own front door.  So, of course, being the generous-hearted peedie ting he was, he had taken himself in, washed himself off, changed his little nappy, and set him down on his potty.

Now it had never occurred tae peedie Willy that he didn’t have a mither.  For he had never had one, had never heard of such a thing, and wouldn’t have known what to do with one had he had one. In fact, it was just as well that he found his own peedie self out front of the house every morn, and not a mither.  For having lived with himself for a great many years – perhaps even two hundred or more – he knew exactly what to do with his own peedie ting.  However, had it been his mither that he had found on the stoop, he would’a have been in a steer.  God only knows what me might have done if he’d he unwrapped such an awkward and not-very-nice-looking scrag from its swaddling?  First of all, she would’na been what he was expecting; secondly, she would’na been a beautiful sight for his sore eyes (he had – as ever – stayed up all night reading without remembering to light the lamp). And, if truth be told, he might’a thought she was rookel so owld, that he’d best hurl her intae the sea. And thirdly, she would’na been the same as a he. She would’a been a she. Now, peedie Willy had heard rumours tae the effect that there was such a thing as a she, but as far as he knew, one had never been seen on the far-off isles of the greatest of northern-most seas. And had it been a she he had discovered on his doorstep instead of a peedie he, what on earth would he have done? What could he have done?  For when you are but a peedie Willy, do you even know when you are faced tae face with a she?  After all, when all is said and done, you have never ever seen such a dastardly, rookel-some baste as a she?  “What is it?” you cry.   “What is it indeed?”   For as up is up and down is over there, it is not a he as you had expected it tae be?

Unbeknownst to peedie Willie, he had had a mither after all, but he had never seen her, not even once; nor had he ever set eyes upon a creature so fair and winsome as a bonny red-haired lass fae far beyond the western seas, otherwise known as the distant isles called Hebrides.  

Not that this was what his mither actually looked like.  For although I have just described what a lovely she well might’a been, I have really described another and not his own mither. No, it was not really she.  For if truth be told, his ancient mither – called Owld Morag NicOxter-Arroo – was none other than the infamous hoyden and slapper and slag, who worked fae dusk tae dawn and all through the day on the docks far tae the south of the beautiful, far-off isles of the northern-most sea.  And while she might once have been called a sturdy young heifer of a wench – that is, when the lights were set low and two bottles of Scotch were a’fermentin’ in a punter’s puggy – she was now a heuved and withered owld scrag who could fetch but tuppence three farthings when the wind was blowing fae the west and she was facing tae the east.  Owld Morag had but a single tooth in her foetid, snirly, auld mouth, and a goitre under her throat.  She had earwigs breeding in her left eye-socket and her nose drooped down like a stoat.  Not a single hair grew on her wizened head, for her dog had chewed it all off, but she did have a fine crop of fur on her crotch, in which she grew tatties and leeks and was known to hide four dozen bottles of Scotch.

Peedie Willy knew not that he had been of a woman born, and if someone had told him such a tale of woe, he would’a been aghast.  For although he had been ‘round for a very long time, and knew about the breeding of sheep, he had taken for granted that he himself was really rather unique.

It therefore came as a great surprise, when one day there on his door there came a loud knock.  The first thing he thought was that he’d be there again, to which he’d replied to his peedie self who was a’sittin on the pot, “Pray tell, but is the world soon to be completely populated by me?”

But alas and alack, that wasn’t to be.  For afore him was not basket containing a tiny, fresh-whalped peedie Willy so fair, but something that looked – for all the world – like it had been buried in shite for a very long time, and it really did give him a scare.  The first thing out of his peedie mouth when face-to-face with this felkyo so vile (for a felkyo she did indeed turn out tae be, and not his poor owl mither who she’d knifed in a fight over a sailor from some other primitive isle), was a yelp of sheer terror, followed by a none-too-friendly, “Jeezus Howlee Mither o’God!”

But after she had slapped him upside and down and narrowed her eyes tae a glint, he took a deep breath and straightened his tie and affixed a smile tae his face “Pray tell?” he asked with a shite-eating grin, “And exactly who are you?” At which point he put on his specks and examined her through and through. “And why are you so impossibly old? For as sure as there is owld crap in your drawers, you’ll never see me a’sleep with your whores.” Tae which he added, “And keep yerself far away fae me boars!” It was then he peered intae her rheumy eye, the one that’d not fallen out, and he said with a sneeze that was just like a cold, “Feckin’ Christ, what a grand sewer of mould.”  

The fact that he’d yelped, “Jeezus!” straight into her face, did nothing to improve the owld witch’s mood.  She fell intae a swoon, and when she’d revived, she clouted him round his head with her spoon.

Now here is where the tale turns sad, so listen well my friend, for the felkyo really was the vilest felkyo in the land; she’d been whelped not on a beach in the fog, but in a filthy ditch right down in a bog.  And why had she come tae torment him this way?  Simple: she wanted to marry his hog.

Now if truth be told, and it’s truth I shall tell, mankind was not always the same as ‘tis now. 

For in the beginning, when God made a man, He’d said, “Here, please use this long detachable spout.”  For it had so many uses, just like a hose, and with a small nozzle one could turn on and off at your will.  And when you had done, and you’d had all your fun, you twisted it off and hung it up high, from a nail right over your sill.

But poor Willy, he shouldn’a said those aafil words tae the felkyo.  For her spoon was a wand, and she took her revenge, by cursing all men with a blight.

And, from that minute on, instead of a detachable, utterly manageable, spout such as God had truly designed, she’d forced man tae wear a nozzle so small, that no matter how clever or how short or how tall, it could never be aimed intae anything at all.

So remember, my lass, when your lad goes tae the loo and leaves a loch greater than Ness, it was never his plan tae splash on the wall, nor for his sweenkle tae make such a mess.

For you see, though he may have the mind of a mouldering log and not as much sense as your ten-years-dead dog, when you look back in time, in your glass you shall see, the original willy was as innocent as can be. For his detachable hose it was such a joy; and fae a distance, t’was just like the Old Man of Hoy.  But alas, alack, now life is a slog.

And it’s all the fault of the baste from the bog.

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