Another piece for the writing challenge. Given that most of my readers on Facebook and Twitter aren’t Manx, I’m enjoying bringing in Manx personal and place names, and Manx creatures. Today we meet the Buggane.

Now it so happened that in those days there was a Buggane living on top of South Barrule. And this Buggane wasn’t a bad feller, for all his size and his huge teeth like gravestones and his eyes as big as the roundabout at Tynwald Fair and spinning twice as fast. He kept to himself, by and large, and only took the odd sheep when he was really hungry, which wasn’t often for he was getting on in years as even Bugganes do in the end.

But he had a terrible thirst at him for the drink, and he was no more careful than you’d expect once he’d drunk a barrel or two of whisky.

And this mightily displeased his nearest neighbour, an old widow woman who lived in the hollow just there where the Ronague Road runs over the Round Table and across down to Dalby. Widow Mylchreest she was called – for though she must have had another name once she’d long since forgot it. She’d been married to Ned Mylchreest who for many years was a fisherman out of Port Erin. But when the sea took him one stormy January night, she vowed never to live within hearing of the water again, and so she moved herself and all her possessions right up there on the hills where the only things she could hear, she’d say to anyone who’d listen, were “the sheep, the wind and the Lord himself”.

But for all that she was a praying woman she tolerated the old Buggane most of the time. Two old folks together, they were, and many’s the time you’d pass before her front gate and see the pair of them sat up against the wall of her cottage, sunning themselves or having a chat or enjoying a good thick slab of bonnag with white Manx butter on it.

As well as her baking, the Widow Mylchreest devoted her time to her little garden. All hedged about with neat stone walls, it was, and as full of flowers and pleasant smelling herbs as any apothecary could wish.

So you can imagine her dismay when one night there was a terrible crashing and shrieking all around the house, and when she emerged from under the bed where she’d taken refuge in fright she found her little garden all smashed up with giant footprints everywhere.

It was pretty clear what had happened. Two days before there’d been a wedding down under the sea off Bradda, and the music and singing had carried on all the while since. The Buggane must have been invited – or at least invited himself, for there’s not many brave enough to tell a Buggane that he may not do something. And on his way back he’d got himself all tangled up with her garden wall and thrashed about until he’d found his way out again.

“Indeed and me garden’ll never be the same again”, she said sadly, beginning to clear up the wreckage and see which of the plants could be saved and which there was no hope for. She wasn’t angry, for she knew that anger at what you can’t help just eats away at you from the inside like a worm in an apple. But she did regret not picking her raspberries the day before when she could have enjoyed them with cream instead of them being squashed flat by the Buggane’s huge hairy feet.

While she was working, she heard a familiar thumping noise coming down the hill behind, and soon the Buggane himself was looking over the garden wall with a very woebegone expression.

“Did I do all that?” he asked, and his whirling saucer eyes span even faster than normal in his shame.

“Aye, me dear, you did, and I’m thinking you must have had a fair party to have been in such a state.”

“I’m terribly sorry Mistress Mylchreest, indeed I am. And your poor flowers trampled and everything.” And he looked about to weep.

“Nothing that won’t grow again”, she said briskly, even though many of her plants had taken a long time to raise.

“I’ll put it to rights”, said the Buggane. “You see if I don’t.”

“I’m sure you will”, said the Widow Mylchreest, though she didn’t really believe it, for a Buggane’s hands are not made for repairing a flower garden, any more than they are for knitting a shawl.

But the old woman had forgot how a Buggane lives a good long time and makes many acquaintances – both friends and enemies – during those long years. And this Buggane had been an amiable sort, on the whole, and had a good many favours owed.

And sure enough, the Buggane let it be known that he needed a hand – or rather many small hands. And the next day when the Widow Mylchreest got up and opened her front door she saw such a scurrying and rushing and a flurriting that she had to rub her eyes to make sure she hadn’t imagined it.

There was new plants everywhere, fine flowering beauties and the biggest vegetables with the glossiest leaves you ever did see, and herbs of all types too and even a rosebush of the special type called “Governor’s Lady” which she knew for a fact only grew in the Bishop’s garden.

And all about them were crowds of lil’ people, pushing and pulling and digging and directing with such boundless energy that it made her feel tired just to watch it.

So she went back into her cottage and shut the door and sat by the fire quietly singing sea shanties to herself until the rustling and bustling outside had stopped. She’d have rather sing psalms, but Them Ones tend not to be too keen on that, and she did want her garden back.

Finally, there was a big sigh, then a ripple of fairy applause, and then a rushing noise as of hundreds of tiny feet skipping away. Then silence.

And then the sound of the Buggane’s heavy tread and his careful knock on the door.

“’Tis all done, Mistress Mylchrees’”, he said, when she opened the door. And indeed it was, as pretty as a picture with hollyhocks and peonies and delphiniums and all the things you’d want in a cottage garden, and even some you’d never think of, like a young palm tree and a walnut and a fig.

“Well they’ll never take”, she said looking at these intruders with her hands on her hips. “And if they do I’ll be long gone before they fruit. And what’s this?” And she pointed to a candle standing in a little lantern, fixed atop the wall. As she turned she could see there were others of the candles, all around her garden wall.

“They’re to light me way”, said the Buggane proudly. “When I’m off out I’ll light them for ye, and then I shan’t be crashing through your garden again.”

“Hmm”, said the Widow Mylchreest, though secretly she thought it a good idea, and like to make her garden a magical place after dark.

And indeed it was – and not just after dark, either, for those three trees all grew tall and bore fruit the very next year. And the Widow Mylchreest’s coconut, fig and walnut loaf was eaten and talked of in those parts for many a year to come.

Just because you’re free writing doesn’t mean you can’t cross bits out.

3 thoughts on “Candles

  1. Merci beaucoup pour cette belle histoire, Jane, j’ai eu l’impression de regarder un film en la lisant… votre écriture est très rythmée, suggestive, quasi-musicale, bravo !


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