Butter

Ha! Despite the paucity of interesting words in the prompt today I managed not to make it about apples or an oven (though both things make an appearance in this little story).


There was once a man called Ewan Kerruish, and he lived up near the top of the Sulby Valley, not far from where the Tholt-y-Will is now, if you know the place.

Ewan wasn’t old, nor yet was he in the first flush of youth, but he was still as strong and limber as he’d ever been. He’d had a wife, but she’d died some years before, and he didn’t much miss her for she’d a tongue at her as sharp as the thorns of a sloe.

So Ewan lived very peacefully there in the shelter of the valley with his goats and his spuds and his apple trees. But one summer he found he’d got visitors, and not the welcome kind either.

No, he was being favoured by the lil’ people, and a particularly playful bunch too, for it seemed like every time he turned his back while the butter dish was out on the table, when he looked again there were tiny footprints all along the length of the butter.

Ewan was a tidy man and this vexed him sorely. So he got in the habit of putting the lid back on the butter dish the instant he’d taken some on his knife. And that put a stop to the footprints for a few days, but then one day he came in from milking the goat to find the lid of the butter dish smashed on the flagstones and that many footprints in the butter it looked like someone had been having a ceilidh.

So he thought for a bit, as he scraped off the top of the butter and fed it to the dog, then he spread what was left on the good fresh bread he’d made that morning, and ate it, still thinking. And then he put on his cap and his best coat and called the dog and took his stick and set off down the valley to Quayle’s Store.

Once there, he bought himself some more butter – which surprised Mrs Quayle greatly, as she’d only sold him a whole new pat the day previous – and a fine new butter dish with a pattern of primroses on, for he’d always liked their cheerful faces. He also purchased another item, all wrapped in a damp cloth to keep it moist.

And after smoking a pipe and exchanging a bit of skeet with them sat on the bench outside the shop, he set off back up the valley.

In his cottage, he laid out the butter dish and placed the new butter carefully in it. Then he unwrapped the big damp lump of clay he’d carried back from Quayle’s and broke a bit off, kneading it between his hands until it was soft and smooth. And he laid it out in the old butter dish, for all the world like a grey slab of butter next to the white one.

Then he cleared his throat and said, “Indeed, yer welcome to skip about on this bit of clay, for it mus’ feel good on yer feet, but I’d rather you didn’t step in me butter any more, thank you kindly”. And just in case this wasn’t enough, he added, “And there’ll be a dish of bread and goats milk on the step every evening for ye to sup on”.

He listened for a reply but heard nothing, not even a whisper.

But from that day to this Ewan Kerruish has had no more problems with his butter, and every week he takes the trampled bits of clay down the valley to Quayle’s Store, and they’re taken to Douglas on a cart and fired in an oven and painted bright colours and sold to the tourists as authentic souvenirs of the Manx fairy folk.

Writing by hand is still the easiest way!

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