I do hope they allow bows...
Tree
Tree
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Lassie-hunting In The Northern Forest
- Thread starter Eulalia
- Start date
worse than that, Tree 
lovely pic though - I don't suppose many cruxers looking at it will have been checking like me
what kind of scabious flower she's fingering,
I'm very strange...
A bit more:
6
We creep out, running low, pick our way through the muddy stretch, then dive into the bushes. As we run, I sense activity in the Forest lower down, yes, yirders hacking back overgrowth, smashing cubbie-dens, they’re pretty ruthless in making it as hard as they can for us game-burds!
As we approach the ridge above the Back Burn, we hear dogs barking. They’re far off, but we freeze, look at one another. “Aye, they’s ruggin-dugs, nae jist pooches oot fer a wauk – an they’re giein tongue!”[1] The lassies look worried. “Must be rats, it canna be past six the noo, twa oor afore the Bailllie-Rug begins.” “So they’re onto Mollie and Una?”[2] asks Anna. I nod, “Guess sae, bit a’m gaein up tae the chissies at tap o the hill, a’ll sclimmer up an ettle ta see whits gaein on. Ye gang on doon ta the watter, a’ll be back soon.”[3]
I run swiftly through prickly whin-bushes[4] up the sandy ground to the hilltop, where the stand of old chestnuts makes a good viewpoint. I pick the right one, shin up pretty quick, though a startled squirrel darts ahead of me and peers down, chattering, from the top branch. I reckon I’m a pretty good sclimmer, but he’s highly amused!
Straddling a high branch with my bare thighs, feeling the roughness on my girl-parts, I spy out through the big chestnut fronds. It’s a bright, clear day now, the sea in the bay’s catching the early rays of the sun, the tide’s out, a fresh south-westerly breeze. Over in the burgh, there’s traffic moving, I hear cars coming down from the main road, the Baillie-Rug’s gathering. And I can see yirders chopping away, there’s three of them breaking down a den some cubs probably made in the Easter holidays.
And I hear the dogs again, they’re further off – good! I skin my eyes, scanning over the park, towards the bay. Can’t see any movement. But – yes – there they are, two pale specks dart out of the woods and onto the saltings[5] by the estuary, they’re running like the Devil’s after them, dodging and weaving around the grassy tussocks, soon they’re far enough in among the tall rushes to be hidden from sight.
I start to clamber down the trunk, the deeply ridged bark holds me okay, provides good footholds as I lower myself from branch to branch. But a very distant sound on the breeze stops me dead. The dogs cry again.
[1] They’re hunting-dogs, not just pet ones out for a walk, and they’re barking to say they’ve found a scent.
[2] Must be independent hunters, it’s two hours before the official hunt begins. So they’re chasing M and U?
[3] I’m going up to the chestnut trees at the top of the hill, I’l climb one and try to see what’s going on. You go on down to the stream…
[4] Whin = gorse.
[5] Saltings = salt-marsh.
lovely pic though - I don't suppose many cruxers looking at it will have been checking like me
what kind of scabious flower she's fingering,
I'm very strange...
A bit more:
6
We creep out, running low, pick our way through the muddy stretch, then dive into the bushes. As we run, I sense activity in the Forest lower down, yes, yirders hacking back overgrowth, smashing cubbie-dens, they’re pretty ruthless in making it as hard as they can for us game-burds!
As we approach the ridge above the Back Burn, we hear dogs barking. They’re far off, but we freeze, look at one another. “Aye, they’s ruggin-dugs, nae jist pooches oot fer a wauk – an they’re giein tongue!”[1] The lassies look worried. “Must be rats, it canna be past six the noo, twa oor afore the Bailllie-Rug begins.” “So they’re onto Mollie and Una?”[2] asks Anna. I nod, “Guess sae, bit a’m gaein up tae the chissies at tap o the hill, a’ll sclimmer up an ettle ta see whits gaein on. Ye gang on doon ta the watter, a’ll be back soon.”[3]
I run swiftly through prickly whin-bushes[4] up the sandy ground to the hilltop, where the stand of old chestnuts makes a good viewpoint. I pick the right one, shin up pretty quick, though a startled squirrel darts ahead of me and peers down, chattering, from the top branch. I reckon I’m a pretty good sclimmer, but he’s highly amused!
Straddling a high branch with my bare thighs, feeling the roughness on my girl-parts, I spy out through the big chestnut fronds. It’s a bright, clear day now, the sea in the bay’s catching the early rays of the sun, the tide’s out, a fresh south-westerly breeze. Over in the burgh, there’s traffic moving, I hear cars coming down from the main road, the Baillie-Rug’s gathering. And I can see yirders chopping away, there’s three of them breaking down a den some cubs probably made in the Easter holidays.
And I hear the dogs again, they’re further off – good! I skin my eyes, scanning over the park, towards the bay. Can’t see any movement. But – yes – there they are, two pale specks dart out of the woods and onto the saltings[5] by the estuary, they’re running like the Devil’s after them, dodging and weaving around the grassy tussocks, soon they’re far enough in among the tall rushes to be hidden from sight.
I start to clamber down the trunk, the deeply ridged bark holds me okay, provides good footholds as I lower myself from branch to branch. But a very distant sound on the breeze stops me dead. The dogs cry again.
[1] They’re hunting-dogs, not just pet ones out for a walk, and they’re barking to say they’ve found a scent.
[2] Must be independent hunters, it’s two hours before the official hunt begins. So they’re chasing M and U?
[3] I’m going up to the chestnut trees at the top of the hill, I’l climb one and try to see what’s going on. You go on down to the stream…
[4] Whin = gorse.
[5] Saltings = salt-marsh.
Tree's finding some luscious pics that are certainly in the spirit of the lassie-hunt
(even if they're not in regulation dress
)
This one goes nicely with episode 7:
Quite a lot of dialogue in this one,
important for the progress of the hunt,
and the underlying theme,
so I've translated most of it in the footnotes.
7(even if they're not in regulation dress
)This one goes nicely with episode 7:
Quite a lot of dialogue in this one,
important for the progress of the hunt,
and the underlying theme,
so I've translated most of it in the footnotes.
I carry on down, hurry to the burn where Anna and Sheila are dabbling their feet in the water. They look up at me anxiously, catching my concern. “Hae ye seen aught?” asks Anna. “Aye,” I reply still catching my breath, “A’ve seen em, Mollie an Una. They’re oot on the sautings…” “The sautings! Whit wey are they there fur?” “The rat-ruggers’ dugs must hae picked up their drag, an they’ve got heided right oot o the Forest, on tae the sautins..” “Hae they bin vizzied?” asks Sheila, “Aye, a think sae, a’m pretty sure a heerd vizzie-hoo!” The girls shudder. ”Weel,” I continue, “if they’re oot on the sautins, the dugs won’t be able to keep their line, the burds jist hae to keep oot o vizzie – they’ll gie em a guid rin. An it’s guid fer us, they’ve drawn the rats richt away from oor line.”[1]
“Aye,” says Anna, “guid fer us, bit it’s nae sonsie tae be rat-rugged on yer first rin oot as a game-burd.” “An git fucked an hae a linkie-brat, faither unkent,” adds Sheila. “Och weel,” I say, “They’re burgh-lassies, they’ve opted tae rin, they didna have tae.” Anna looks down at her linkie-sett kiltie. “A cudna haud ma heid up in the toun gin a weren’t rinnin the day!” “Me naither,” says Sheila. “Weel, ye’re an honorary forest-lassie, wearin yon kiltie,” I tell Anna, “An a think ye deserve ane tae!” Sheila smiles at this compliment, she’s wearing her Dad’s MacQuarrie sett, bright red and green. “Aye,” she says, “I feel at hame in The Forest almost as much as you dae, Lulie. Dad’s allus been keen fer me to linkie-run, Mam’s prood o me too. Bit Nan, Mam’s mam, she’s frae Embra an a door Presbie, she jalouses linkie-ruggin’s a pagan custom, the wark o the Deil!” We chuckle. “Weel, it jist feels richt tae me,” says Anna. “Aye,” I say, “A ken there’s naething aboot linkie-ruggin in the Bible, bit we’re jist baists, like the deer – we lassies are naething bit daes, born tae be rugged and takken and fucked by the bucks.”[2]
We reflect quietly on our fate as lassies, and what’s happening to Mollie and Una, watching the burn-water leap and bubble around our legs. Suddenly I hear something, pull myself up the bank, where I can listen better – yes, on the wind, only a fragment, but unmistakable, the skirl of pipes. I slide back down, tell my friends, “It’s eight o’clock, the Rug’s moving off – I jist heard the pipes.” “Ye’ve got amazing ears, Lulie,” says Anna, “A didna hear a thing.” “Nor did I” adds Sheila. “Weel, it’s time fer us to git gaeing.”
“Hey, says Sheila, “a’m bursting for a pee.” “Och weel, ye’d better gae quick – ‘fact, we’d all better gae, we’re gaein ta stert rinning soon, we shalna get anither kep ta pee!”[3] We cross the burn and scramble up the opposite bank, we need to deposit our urine somewhere well away from where we plan to run. I choose a spot, but it turns out Anna wants to do more than pee, she goes higher up, among some sloe-bushes at the top of the slope. Sheila and I are just pulling our kilties back up when I hear a sound that troubles me. Two vehicles in the distance, heading up the Old Military Road. What’s worrying is that they stop. I pause to think, waiting for Anna.
When she rejoins us, she’s looking anxious too. Before she can speak I say, “A think we micht hae a kinch – a heerd a cipple o biggish 4x4s or sumhin like, they’ve stopped on the Old Military.”[4] “Aye,” says Anna, a heerd em an a, an a saw em.” Did ye?” “Aye, a think ane o them wis Jock McConchie’s LandRover.” Shit, I think to myself, so he did spot Mam’s car. “Did ye see whaur they stopped?” “Aye, by the Gallows Gait.” My heart sinks. A moment’s thought, then I say, “We surely hae got a kinch then. A guess they’re gaein tae rin some o the dugs frae there. Gin they dae, they’ll likely find ma line, a cam intae the Forest that way – weel, near there. An sure as shit stinks, they’ll snoke our pee and crap, sae we’d better lift oor legs!”[5]
[1] Have you seen anything? Yes, I’ve seen M and U, they’re out on the salt-marsh. The salt-marsh! Why are they there? The ‘rat-catchers’’ hounds must have picked up their scent, an they’ve got drivn out of the Forest, on to the salt-marsh Have they been spotted? Yes, I think I heard the ‘view halloo’ (hunting term, the shout that signals the quarry’s been sighted). Well, out on the salt-marsh the dogs won’t be able to follow their track, the girls just have to keep out of sight. They’ll give them a good run, and it’s good for us, they’ve drawn the ‘rats’ well away from our track.
[2] But it’s not good luck to be ‘rat-hunted’ on your first run out as a game-burd – and get fucked and have a linkie-bastard, father unknown. Well, they’re burgh-lassies, they’ve opted to run, they didn’t have to. Anna looks at her honorary tartan, says ‘I couldn’t hold my head up in the town if I wasn’t running today!’ ‘Me neither’ says Sheila. Anna’s an honorary forest-girl in her kilt, and I think Sheila deserves to be one. Yes, says Sheila, I feel at home in the Forest almost as much as you do, Lulie. Dad’s always been keen for me to linkie-run, Mum’s proud of me too. But Nan, she’s from Edinburgh and a strict Presbyterian, she considers linkie-hunting’s a pagan custom, the work of the Devil! It feels right to Anna too, and I know there’s nothing about linkie-hunting in the Bible, but we’re just animals like the deer – we girls are nothing but does (female roe-deer), born to be chased and caught and fucked by the bucks.
[3] We’re going to start running soon, we shan’t get another chance to pee!
[4] I think we might have a problem, I heard a couple of biggish SUVs or similar, they’ve stopped on the Old Military Road (built after 1745, when wilder parts of Scotland were being brought under military control).
[5] We certainly have got a problem. I guess they’re going to set off some of the hounds from the Gallows Gate (ambiguous in Scots – an entrance to the Forest where the gallows stood, or the trackway leading up to the gallows – both apply here, and it’s close to where I set off into the Forest from Mum’s car) If they do, they’re likely to find my track, and they’ll certainly sniff out our pee and crap, so we’d better get running!
Tree could imaging the wee bit of clothing could be shed to throw off the scent!!!
Great chapter Eul...
Tree
Great chapter Eul...
Tree
8
As I say that, we all hear dogs barking, and need no more time thinking. We sprint down to the Back Burn, I lead the lassies upstream – if we go down, we get into the part of the Forest we know best, where we did most of our cubbie-rins, but that’s the part where the yirders have been hard at it clearing sightlines and wrecking dens, and the main rug will still be coming into the Forest that way – Jock and his pals are sneaky bastards, using vans to bring dogs up to another gait.
So we head on upstream, the bed gets more and more rocky, water cascading around our legs – Anna slips once, I think she hurt herself but she quickly gets up and carries on – a true linkie! As we’re scampering higher, I’m beginning to hear yelping, down where I’d expect the dogs to be, where I scrambled into the woods five hours back. “They’re gien tung the noo,” I hiss to the lassies, “The dugs hae foond ma drag.” “Sae the dug-rin’s sterted?” asks Sheila, “Aye!”[1]
We’re just below the wee waterfall that brings the Back Burn down into the woods from the marshy ground around the Curling Loch[2] when we hear much more excited hound-cries, it stops us all momentarily.
“Reet, the dugs hae foond oor pee and Anna’s shit nae doot. Sae they’ve got yer drag as weel as mine. Soon they’ll be doon by the burn. Mebbe they’ll pick up ma line on th’ither side, a hope they do, an waste their time gaein up to the den. Bit Jock McConchie’s a cannie rugger, he’ll jalouse we’re mebbe burnie-rinning, a guess he’ll kest the dugs – a reckon I heerd three couple – sae they draw a the way up and doon the burn.”[3]
“Sae whit’s the plan?” asks Anna. “Weel, oor situation isna vera guid,” I tell them straight, they need to understand, “we’re at risk o gittin driven oot o cover like Mollie and Una were. But fer noo we’ll keep alang the top edge o the wuid, gin we hear them closin up on us, we’ll hae to break and rin. As there’s anely three o us the noo, we canna ettle ocht tae sleekit, bit we can scrammle whin we see oor chaunce.”[4]
There’s more barking, a man shouts – he’s only rating the dogs for babbering about,[5] but they’re getting too close for comfort, we nip up the rocky side of the little gorge and hurtle through the blaeberries down into deeper, ferny cover.
We make good progress through some of the toughest terrain in the wooded part of The Forest, scrambling through deep and aggressive patches of bramble, holly, haws and sloes, our bare legs ignoring the thorny tendrils that try to trap us, twining like garters, tearing as we tug free. I hear dogs below us, giving voice. They think they’re on our trail, good, they’re mistaken!
We reach a tough, craggy ridge, though one still well-covered in tangled growth and overhanging trees. Gripping and hauling ourselves from foothold to foothold, we make the summit and lie on our tums, panting for breath and listening acutely.
“The Baillie-Rug’s still weel doon, I think they’re wurkin up the Collie Watter, probably follain ane o youse twa drags. An four o the dugs that cam in by Gallows Gait are doon below us here at oor den – okay, they’ve foond that, we can say by-by tae oor fuid-huird, but leastways they’ve mistakken oor line, they’ll likely gang on doon follain oor drags and meet the main rug on the Collie.” Anna and Sheila agree. “Better stay high, whaur we kin scrammle if they vizzie us?” asks Anna, “Aye,” I confirm.[6]
They move to clamber down the far side of the crag, but I stop them. “Wheesht!” They pause, I raise my head, listening anxiously.”There’s ane couple o’dugs a’mna siccar aboot, the anes we heerd bein rated a while back. A havena heerd them since…”[7]
I’m thinking they may be Jock McConchie’s linkie-hunds, or else Hamish McCulloch’s from Elrick. Either way, they’re well-trained, quiet dogs, I’ve competed with their drawing skills in cubbin, and they’ve given me a nasty wee surprise, coming after me through the cover without making a sound.
I crawl back along the crest of the ridge to where it overlooks the moss between the wood-edge and the Curling Loch, peer cautiously over the dyke. Can’t see any sign of movement in the woods, birds all quiet – then suddenly I spot a tractor parked on the track from the road across to the Loch …
[1] The hounds are yelping, signalling they’ve found a scent – my track. So the ‘dog-run’ has started, we’re being chased by the hounds, though the men haven’t seen us yet.
[2] Pond used for the sport of curling when it’s frozen in winter.
[3] The dogs have found our pee and Anna’s shit, so they’ve picked her scent and Sheila’s as well as mine. Soon they’ll be down by the stream. Maybe they’ll pick up my track on the other side, I hope they do, and waste their time going up to the den. But Jock McConchie’s a skilled hunter, he’ll guess we may be running in the stream, so I expect he’ll send the dogs off in different directions (I reckon I heard three pairs) – so they’ll be sniffing all the way up and down the water.
[4] We’re at risk of getting driven out of cover like Mollie and Una were. But for now we’ll keep along the top edge of the wood. If we hear them closing up on us, we’ll have to break out of cover and run. As there’s only three of us now, we can’t try anything too clever, but we can split up when we see our chance.
[5] Only telling the hounds off for wandering off the trail, yelping and barking at odd scents or no scent at all.
[6] The official Hunt is still well down in the woods, I think they’re working their way up the Collie Water, probably following Anna’s or Sheila’s trail. And four of the dogs that came in by Gallows Gate are down below us, at our den – okay, they’ve found that, we can say goodbye to our food-hoard, but at least they’ve mistaken our trail, they’ll probably carry on down, following our scents, and meet the main hunt on the Collie Water. Anna asks “Better stay high up, where we can split up if they spot us?”
[7] Ssh! There’s one pair of dogs I’m not sure about, the ones we heard being told off a while back. I haven’t heard them since.
As I say that, we all hear dogs barking, and need no more time thinking. We sprint down to the Back Burn, I lead the lassies upstream – if we go down, we get into the part of the Forest we know best, where we did most of our cubbie-rins, but that’s the part where the yirders have been hard at it clearing sightlines and wrecking dens, and the main rug will still be coming into the Forest that way – Jock and his pals are sneaky bastards, using vans to bring dogs up to another gait.
So we head on upstream, the bed gets more and more rocky, water cascading around our legs – Anna slips once, I think she hurt herself but she quickly gets up and carries on – a true linkie! As we’re scampering higher, I’m beginning to hear yelping, down where I’d expect the dogs to be, where I scrambled into the woods five hours back. “They’re gien tung the noo,” I hiss to the lassies, “The dugs hae foond ma drag.” “Sae the dug-rin’s sterted?” asks Sheila, “Aye!”[1]
We’re just below the wee waterfall that brings the Back Burn down into the woods from the marshy ground around the Curling Loch[2] when we hear much more excited hound-cries, it stops us all momentarily.
“Reet, the dugs hae foond oor pee and Anna’s shit nae doot. Sae they’ve got yer drag as weel as mine. Soon they’ll be doon by the burn. Mebbe they’ll pick up ma line on th’ither side, a hope they do, an waste their time gaein up to the den. Bit Jock McConchie’s a cannie rugger, he’ll jalouse we’re mebbe burnie-rinning, a guess he’ll kest the dugs – a reckon I heerd three couple – sae they draw a the way up and doon the burn.”[3]
“Sae whit’s the plan?” asks Anna. “Weel, oor situation isna vera guid,” I tell them straight, they need to understand, “we’re at risk o gittin driven oot o cover like Mollie and Una were. But fer noo we’ll keep alang the top edge o the wuid, gin we hear them closin up on us, we’ll hae to break and rin. As there’s anely three o us the noo, we canna ettle ocht tae sleekit, bit we can scrammle whin we see oor chaunce.”[4]
There’s more barking, a man shouts – he’s only rating the dogs for babbering about,[5] but they’re getting too close for comfort, we nip up the rocky side of the little gorge and hurtle through the blaeberries down into deeper, ferny cover.
We make good progress through some of the toughest terrain in the wooded part of The Forest, scrambling through deep and aggressive patches of bramble, holly, haws and sloes, our bare legs ignoring the thorny tendrils that try to trap us, twining like garters, tearing as we tug free. I hear dogs below us, giving voice. They think they’re on our trail, good, they’re mistaken!
We reach a tough, craggy ridge, though one still well-covered in tangled growth and overhanging trees. Gripping and hauling ourselves from foothold to foothold, we make the summit and lie on our tums, panting for breath and listening acutely.
“The Baillie-Rug’s still weel doon, I think they’re wurkin up the Collie Watter, probably follain ane o youse twa drags. An four o the dugs that cam in by Gallows Gait are doon below us here at oor den – okay, they’ve foond that, we can say by-by tae oor fuid-huird, but leastways they’ve mistakken oor line, they’ll likely gang on doon follain oor drags and meet the main rug on the Collie.” Anna and Sheila agree. “Better stay high, whaur we kin scrammle if they vizzie us?” asks Anna, “Aye,” I confirm.[6]
They move to clamber down the far side of the crag, but I stop them. “Wheesht!” They pause, I raise my head, listening anxiously.”There’s ane couple o’dugs a’mna siccar aboot, the anes we heerd bein rated a while back. A havena heerd them since…”[7]
I’m thinking they may be Jock McConchie’s linkie-hunds, or else Hamish McCulloch’s from Elrick. Either way, they’re well-trained, quiet dogs, I’ve competed with their drawing skills in cubbin, and they’ve given me a nasty wee surprise, coming after me through the cover without making a sound.
I crawl back along the crest of the ridge to where it overlooks the moss between the wood-edge and the Curling Loch, peer cautiously over the dyke. Can’t see any sign of movement in the woods, birds all quiet – then suddenly I spot a tractor parked on the track from the road across to the Loch …
[1] The hounds are yelping, signalling they’ve found a scent – my track. So the ‘dog-run’ has started, we’re being chased by the hounds, though the men haven’t seen us yet.
[2] Pond used for the sport of curling when it’s frozen in winter.
[3] The dogs have found our pee and Anna’s shit, so they’ve picked her scent and Sheila’s as well as mine. Soon they’ll be down by the stream. Maybe they’ll pick up my track on the other side, I hope they do, and waste their time going up to the den. But Jock McConchie’s a skilled hunter, he’ll guess we may be running in the stream, so I expect he’ll send the dogs off in different directions (I reckon I heard three pairs) – so they’ll be sniffing all the way up and down the water.
[4] We’re at risk of getting driven out of cover like Mollie and Una were. But for now we’ll keep along the top edge of the wood. If we hear them closing up on us, we’ll have to break out of cover and run. As there’s only three of us now, we can’t try anything too clever, but we can split up when we see our chance.
[5] Only telling the hounds off for wandering off the trail, yelping and barking at odd scents or no scent at all.
[6] The official Hunt is still well down in the woods, I think they’re working their way up the Collie Water, probably following Anna’s or Sheila’s trail. And four of the dogs that came in by Gallows Gate are down below us, at our den – okay, they’ve found that, we can say goodbye to our food-hoard, but at least they’ve mistaken our trail, they’ll probably carry on down, following our scents, and meet the main hunt on the Collie Water. Anna asks “Better stay high up, where we can split up if they spot us?”
[7] Ssh! There’s one pair of dogs I’m not sure about, the ones we heard being told off a while back. I haven’t heard them since.
quite exciting Eul!!!!
T
T
9
“Vizzie-hoo!” The cry booms across the moss, echoing around the surrounding high crags. As a rugger down in the valley responds by doubling the horn,[1] I yell, “Rin! We’re linkies noo!” We scramble down the steep far side of the ridge, with a clatter of tumbling scree, no point in worrying about the noise now. Shit, I’m thinking as we slither and sprint, they’ve posted a pointer[2] there, some guy with high-powered binocs an God knows what else military equipment, a loudspeaker and all! It’s us near-naked linkies, denied even minimal protection or equipment, against ruggers who are allowed to use whatever tricks they want – though linkie-hunds are still their most powerful weapon, now it’s really just our legs and wits against their dogs’!
We’re into the small canyon where the Corrie Water rushes through, there’s a narrow gap called Linkie’s Loup’, and that’s what we’re going to have to do. Sheila, school long-jump champion, runs down the water-worn flagstones and leaps superbly, I’m about to follow when Anna hesitates. “A’mna riskin thon,” she says, “A’ll scrammle the noo,”[3] and without waiting for an answer she turns and heads down the water. Okay, I think, best for her not to take a risk, we lassies know well that ‘no linkie can have any claim in law for any skaith or mishanter[4] she might sustain.’ It’s a harsh rule, but, as Dad says, it’s the Law of the Forest. And it’s a good point to scramble, splitting our scent-lines might confuse the dogs at least briefly. She can run in the water for a bit lower down, then get into cover on the far side and head down towards the by-pass, through the culvert, where the dogs can follow, but it’ll slow the men, and then on to the Tower and the Policies.[5] It’ll be risky, the main hunt is heading towards her up the Collie Water, but she’s a good linkie, with luck she’ll dodge them.
I follow Sheila’s jump across the Linkie’s Loup, I make it just though it’s a slippery landing, the roar of the water’s like one of those Ùruisg[6] beasties in Grannie MacAlister’s stories, the ones that catch lassies and drag them down into the dark waters and gobble them up! As I run, leaping like a hurdler over rocky outcrops, plunging through deep scratchy thistles and sword-grass, I hear a shout behind me, “Vizzie-holloo! Twa linkies gane awa!”[7] I recognise the voice, it’s Malcolm McCulloch, Hamish’s son, so it is the High Elrick dogs nearest to us, as I thought. They’ve seen Sheila and me break cover, Anna’s safe for now. And even if they’ve seen us, they’ve got to negotiate Linkie’s Loup, so we’ve still got some start on them.
I catch up with Sheila, “Hoo’re we daein?” she pants, “Nae sae bad, jist the twa McCulloch dugs ahint us noo, though there’ll be mair suin.”[8] We’re into mossy ground now, muddy water splashing up around our calves, alder and willow scrub ahead, fair cover and good ground for losing our scent in.But a startled heron flaps off its nest in the alders, betraying our whereabouts. We press on, ducking and weaving across tussocky wet ground, deliberately running different, zig-zag courses so our lines keep crossing, that’ll make it more difficult for the dogs. We’re near the head of the Curling Loch now, McCulloch’s dogs are coming after us in full cry, gaining on us rapidly, though the two men are making heavy weather of the mossy ground. “A’m gaein tae scrammle noo,” I tell Sheila, “ye keep joukin on roond by the Curlin Loch, mebbe ye’ll git tae fauld back intae cover – guid rin!”[9] “Aye, guid rin!” she waves and darts off, her slim athletic legs shimmering through the reeds. She’s a great linkie, lots o smeddum![10]
[1] A hunter blows a repeated blast on his horn, to signal the main Hunt has heard the cry signalling the girls have been sighted. Now they’re linkies (quarry), the hunt is really on!
[2] Hunter posted to watch for the quarry.
[3] I’m not risking that, I’ll split away now.
[4] Skaith or mishanter = injury or accident.
[5] Policies = private plantations, mainly broadleaf trees planted by ‘improving’ landowners in 18th – 19th centuries.
[6] “Oor-ishk”, Gaelic water-demons. Grannie MacAlister’s from the Highlands.
[7] ‘View-halloo’, hunting cry when the quarry has ‘gone away’ = broken cover.
[8] We’re not doing too badly, just the two McCulloch dogs behind us now, though there’ll be more soon.
[9] I’m going to split off now. You keep dodging round by the Curling Loch, maybe you’ll get to double back into cover – have a good run!
[10] Smeddum – guts, spunk, spirit.
“Vizzie-hoo!” The cry booms across the moss, echoing around the surrounding high crags. As a rugger down in the valley responds by doubling the horn,[1] I yell, “Rin! We’re linkies noo!” We scramble down the steep far side of the ridge, with a clatter of tumbling scree, no point in worrying about the noise now. Shit, I’m thinking as we slither and sprint, they’ve posted a pointer[2] there, some guy with high-powered binocs an God knows what else military equipment, a loudspeaker and all! It’s us near-naked linkies, denied even minimal protection or equipment, against ruggers who are allowed to use whatever tricks they want – though linkie-hunds are still their most powerful weapon, now it’s really just our legs and wits against their dogs’!
We’re into the small canyon where the Corrie Water rushes through, there’s a narrow gap called Linkie’s Loup’, and that’s what we’re going to have to do. Sheila, school long-jump champion, runs down the water-worn flagstones and leaps superbly, I’m about to follow when Anna hesitates. “A’mna riskin thon,” she says, “A’ll scrammle the noo,”[3] and without waiting for an answer she turns and heads down the water. Okay, I think, best for her not to take a risk, we lassies know well that ‘no linkie can have any claim in law for any skaith or mishanter[4] she might sustain.’ It’s a harsh rule, but, as Dad says, it’s the Law of the Forest. And it’s a good point to scramble, splitting our scent-lines might confuse the dogs at least briefly. She can run in the water for a bit lower down, then get into cover on the far side and head down towards the by-pass, through the culvert, where the dogs can follow, but it’ll slow the men, and then on to the Tower and the Policies.[5] It’ll be risky, the main hunt is heading towards her up the Collie Water, but she’s a good linkie, with luck she’ll dodge them.
I follow Sheila’s jump across the Linkie’s Loup, I make it just though it’s a slippery landing, the roar of the water’s like one of those Ùruisg[6] beasties in Grannie MacAlister’s stories, the ones that catch lassies and drag them down into the dark waters and gobble them up! As I run, leaping like a hurdler over rocky outcrops, plunging through deep scratchy thistles and sword-grass, I hear a shout behind me, “Vizzie-holloo! Twa linkies gane awa!”[7] I recognise the voice, it’s Malcolm McCulloch, Hamish’s son, so it is the High Elrick dogs nearest to us, as I thought. They’ve seen Sheila and me break cover, Anna’s safe for now. And even if they’ve seen us, they’ve got to negotiate Linkie’s Loup, so we’ve still got some start on them.
I catch up with Sheila, “Hoo’re we daein?” she pants, “Nae sae bad, jist the twa McCulloch dugs ahint us noo, though there’ll be mair suin.”[8] We’re into mossy ground now, muddy water splashing up around our calves, alder and willow scrub ahead, fair cover and good ground for losing our scent in.But a startled heron flaps off its nest in the alders, betraying our whereabouts. We press on, ducking and weaving across tussocky wet ground, deliberately running different, zig-zag courses so our lines keep crossing, that’ll make it more difficult for the dogs. We’re near the head of the Curling Loch now, McCulloch’s dogs are coming after us in full cry, gaining on us rapidly, though the two men are making heavy weather of the mossy ground. “A’m gaein tae scrammle noo,” I tell Sheila, “ye keep joukin on roond by the Curlin Loch, mebbe ye’ll git tae fauld back intae cover – guid rin!”[9] “Aye, guid rin!” she waves and darts off, her slim athletic legs shimmering through the reeds. She’s a great linkie, lots o smeddum![10]
[1] A hunter blows a repeated blast on his horn, to signal the main Hunt has heard the cry signalling the girls have been sighted. Now they’re linkies (quarry), the hunt is really on!
[2] Hunter posted to watch for the quarry.
[3] I’m not risking that, I’ll split away now.
[4] Skaith or mishanter = injury or accident.
[5] Policies = private plantations, mainly broadleaf trees planted by ‘improving’ landowners in 18th – 19th centuries.
[6] “Oor-ishk”, Gaelic water-demons. Grannie MacAlister’s from the Highlands.
[7] ‘View-halloo’, hunting cry when the quarry has ‘gone away’ = broken cover.
[8] We’re not doing too badly, just the two McCulloch dogs behind us now, though there’ll be more soon.
[9] I’m going to split off now. You keep dodging round by the Curling Loch, maybe you’ll get to double back into cover – have a good run!
[10] Smeddum – guts, spunk, spirit.
more a cross-biker in training.9
10
I veer right and head across more open, heathy ground towards the high crags of the Rig o Collie. As I jump more than run across the tussocky terrain, the loud clatter of a helicopter’s rotors grows increasingly loud, I see it ahead, gaining height over the Rig, roaring off to the north-east – it’s air-sea rescue, someone had an accident, or been taken poorly on a ship in the bay, I think, but I’ve got more urgent matters on my mind.
Approaching the heid dyke,[1] I glance back, Hamish and Malcolm are still struggling across to the alder-carr, I can’t see the dogs, they’re probably in the scrub now, trying to keep track of Sheila’s scent and mine. I leap the heid-dyke, then skulk down behind it to check what’s going on. Sharp hearing and a peep over the top of the dyke tell me that McCulloch’s dogs are following Sheila’s line, around the head of the loch. If she runs in the water when she can, she might throw them off-scent briefly, but they know the Loch well, she doesn’t stand much chance.
But what matters to me now is that four more dogs are away from cover and heading towards me. No doubt the men with them – looks like there’s four of them – are in touch with Hamish by phone, they’ll know the two of us have split our runs now.
No time to waste, I set straight off up the steep gully that’s the only route up the Rig o Collie. Not much cover here, no chance of throwing off the dogs, it’s my legs that have to do the work. It’s hard running, sometimes scrambling on all fours over jutting rocks, sometimes leaping over boggy hollows, up the goat-track – indeed, some wild goats are on the headland above, looking down at me with disdain. A pair of ravens inspect me too, rasping their disapproval.
I make it to the top, glance back, the dogs are at the heid-dyke now, I can get out of sight of them while they’re climbing the gully, though I can’t hide my scent. I leap from one heather-tussock to another, it’s heavy going across this plateau, foresters have dug drains across it at some time, it’s all to easy to miss your footing and plunge your into one, risking a broken ankle or worse. But I’m an agile linkie, I keep my feet, and jouk back and forth like a hunted hare to lay a zig-zag trail. I hear the dogs behind me giving cry, the leader’s reached the top of the gully.
There’s a forestry plantation on the far side of the plateau, I hurtle down towards it, if I can plunge in there I’ll stand a small chance. A goshawk flies out along the edge of the conifers, weaving in and out, it’s chasing some wee bird, I know how its prey must feel!
I approach the edge of the plantation, but get a nasty surprise – though I ought to have anticipated it – barbed wire, and not just an ordinary field-fence, it’s high enough to stop deer leaping, and tightly woven with criss-crossing strands. I look around urgently, my mind fighting to control the instinct to panic.
The dogs are barking excitedly, I see them racing towards me down the heathy slope. There’s no escape now, I turn and run up from the ditch alongside the plantation fence, off at an angle, checking them momentarily as they switch their radar from scent to sight. I make it to an exposed bluff where the men will be able to see me clearly, drop on my knees, lift my arms and cross my wrists, the required ‘hunkering’ posture, the linkie’s signal of surrender.
[1] Heid dyke = the wall below the common hill-grazings.
I veer right and head across more open, heathy ground towards the high crags of the Rig o Collie. As I jump more than run across the tussocky terrain, the loud clatter of a helicopter’s rotors grows increasingly loud, I see it ahead, gaining height over the Rig, roaring off to the north-east – it’s air-sea rescue, someone had an accident, or been taken poorly on a ship in the bay, I think, but I’ve got more urgent matters on my mind.
Approaching the heid dyke,[1] I glance back, Hamish and Malcolm are still struggling across to the alder-carr, I can’t see the dogs, they’re probably in the scrub now, trying to keep track of Sheila’s scent and mine. I leap the heid-dyke, then skulk down behind it to check what’s going on. Sharp hearing and a peep over the top of the dyke tell me that McCulloch’s dogs are following Sheila’s line, around the head of the loch. If she runs in the water when she can, she might throw them off-scent briefly, but they know the Loch well, she doesn’t stand much chance.
But what matters to me now is that four more dogs are away from cover and heading towards me. No doubt the men with them – looks like there’s four of them – are in touch with Hamish by phone, they’ll know the two of us have split our runs now.
No time to waste, I set straight off up the steep gully that’s the only route up the Rig o Collie. Not much cover here, no chance of throwing off the dogs, it’s my legs that have to do the work. It’s hard running, sometimes scrambling on all fours over jutting rocks, sometimes leaping over boggy hollows, up the goat-track – indeed, some wild goats are on the headland above, looking down at me with disdain. A pair of ravens inspect me too, rasping their disapproval.
I make it to the top, glance back, the dogs are at the heid-dyke now, I can get out of sight of them while they’re climbing the gully, though I can’t hide my scent. I leap from one heather-tussock to another, it’s heavy going across this plateau, foresters have dug drains across it at some time, it’s all to easy to miss your footing and plunge your into one, risking a broken ankle or worse. But I’m an agile linkie, I keep my feet, and jouk back and forth like a hunted hare to lay a zig-zag trail. I hear the dogs behind me giving cry, the leader’s reached the top of the gully.
There’s a forestry plantation on the far side of the plateau, I hurtle down towards it, if I can plunge in there I’ll stand a small chance. A goshawk flies out along the edge of the conifers, weaving in and out, it’s chasing some wee bird, I know how its prey must feel!
I approach the edge of the plantation, but get a nasty surprise – though I ought to have anticipated it – barbed wire, and not just an ordinary field-fence, it’s high enough to stop deer leaping, and tightly woven with criss-crossing strands. I look around urgently, my mind fighting to control the instinct to panic.
The dogs are barking excitedly, I see them racing towards me down the heathy slope. There’s no escape now, I turn and run up from the ditch alongside the plantation fence, off at an angle, checking them momentarily as they switch their radar from scent to sight. I make it to an exposed bluff where the men will be able to see me clearly, drop on my knees, lift my arms and cross my wrists, the required ‘hunkering’ posture, the linkie’s signal of surrender.
[1] Heid dyke = the wall below the common hill-grazings.
"I make it to an exposed bluff where the men will be able to see me clearly, drop on my knees, lift my arms and cross my wrists, the required ‘hunkering’ posture, the linkie’s signal of surrender."
OK.....everything should be fine, then
Guid moment to mention that this thread is pure barry, Eul!
OK.....everything should be fine, then
Guid moment to mention that this thread is pure barry, Eul!
This has been excellent Eul... I don't even mind having to drink some store brand coffee until this story is over and you can be locked in the coffee shop sub-basement and grind some more beans...
Tree
Tree
cxslave
Chain Slave
NOOO!!!
She was doing so well!!!
I was rooting for her to make it all the way!
Stupid fences....
Lovely writing Eul! I've been loving this! And learning so many new words and phrases!
11
Within seconds, a dog’s weight hits me like a bomb, throws me face down in the heather, I feel its teeth gripping my neck, moments later another’s biting into my thigh – not viciously, they’re pure-bred, well-trained linkie-hounds, but I know it’s fruitless to struggle against them. I just lie still. The other two stay close to me, barking to summon their masters.
I lie there, panting as loud as the hounds, for several minutes. The dogs get increasingly excited as men’s footsteps approach, “Aff!” I hear a young man shout, the dogs obey instantly, I get up quickly on my haunches, resume the hunkering posture, glance round to see Sandy McConchie, Jock’s son, a braw laddie, I’m not unhappy to see him, but – oh hell - that Wullie Macrae’s with him.
“Hey, we’ve got her – the fawmous braw cubbie!”[1] Sandy calls back gleefully to two older men who are hurrying up to join them, Jock and an ugly-looking bruiser, guess he must be Wullie’s father, lately out of Barlinnie![2]
“Dinna coont yer chuckies, Sandy McConchie,” I jeer, “Ye haena takken me yit!” It’s all part of the game, us linkies winding up the lads, I carry on, “An as fer ye, Wullie MacRae, a ken ye’re a dab han at nippin girls’ knickers, bit a doot ye’ve gat the smeddum tae tak a linkie!”[3] “Yer takkin’ll come suin eneuch, Lulie MacAlister” laughs Sandy, “Nae heeze!”[4] He pulls a nice pair of shiny handcuffs out of his sporran, spins them like a drummer spinnning his drumsticks, right in front of my face, then tosses them on the ground behind me.
He and Wullie start strolling around me, making rude remarks, their Dads stand watching, contributing even more unflattering observations on my freckled face, tousled hair, scratched, muddy legs, and – especially – my less than magnificent udders, I’m blushing red, not that I’m ashamed of my bubbies, they’re just rousing me, that’s why they’re doing it.
I have to hold still, keeping my arms raised, wrists crossed, until one of them touches me. As soon as he does, I’m allowed – expected – to resist, to put up a fight. Which one will it be? I’m praying it will be Sandy, but linkies can’t be choosers, they’ll have decided in advance who’ll be the callant,[5] the one who taks the linkie, they’ve probably tossed for it….
[1] Thee famous ‘cub’ who outwitted the Hunt.
[2] Barlinnie Prison, outside Glasgow, Scotland’s largest and toughest.
[3] Don’t count your chickens, S! And as for you, W, I know you’re a dab hand at nicking girls’ knickers, but I doubt if you’ve got the spunk to ‘tak’ a linkie!
[4] Your ‘takkin’ will come soon enough, L, no problem!
[5] Callant just = a young man, but in local traditions, ‘the Callant’ is one who plays a leading role.
Within seconds, a dog’s weight hits me like a bomb, throws me face down in the heather, I feel its teeth gripping my neck, moments later another’s biting into my thigh – not viciously, they’re pure-bred, well-trained linkie-hounds, but I know it’s fruitless to struggle against them. I just lie still. The other two stay close to me, barking to summon their masters.
I lie there, panting as loud as the hounds, for several minutes. The dogs get increasingly excited as men’s footsteps approach, “Aff!” I hear a young man shout, the dogs obey instantly, I get up quickly on my haunches, resume the hunkering posture, glance round to see Sandy McConchie, Jock’s son, a braw laddie, I’m not unhappy to see him, but – oh hell - that Wullie Macrae’s with him.
“Hey, we’ve got her – the fawmous braw cubbie!”[1] Sandy calls back gleefully to two older men who are hurrying up to join them, Jock and an ugly-looking bruiser, guess he must be Wullie’s father, lately out of Barlinnie![2]
“Dinna coont yer chuckies, Sandy McConchie,” I jeer, “Ye haena takken me yit!” It’s all part of the game, us linkies winding up the lads, I carry on, “An as fer ye, Wullie MacRae, a ken ye’re a dab han at nippin girls’ knickers, bit a doot ye’ve gat the smeddum tae tak a linkie!”[3] “Yer takkin’ll come suin eneuch, Lulie MacAlister” laughs Sandy, “Nae heeze!”[4] He pulls a nice pair of shiny handcuffs out of his sporran, spins them like a drummer spinnning his drumsticks, right in front of my face, then tosses them on the ground behind me.
He and Wullie start strolling around me, making rude remarks, their Dads stand watching, contributing even more unflattering observations on my freckled face, tousled hair, scratched, muddy legs, and – especially – my less than magnificent udders, I’m blushing red, not that I’m ashamed of my bubbies, they’re just rousing me, that’s why they’re doing it.
I have to hold still, keeping my arms raised, wrists crossed, until one of them touches me. As soon as he does, I’m allowed – expected – to resist, to put up a fight. Which one will it be? I’m praying it will be Sandy, but linkies can’t be choosers, they’ll have decided in advance who’ll be the callant,[5] the one who taks the linkie, they’ve probably tossed for it….
[1] Thee famous ‘cub’ who outwitted the Hunt.
[2] Barlinnie Prison, outside Glasgow, Scotland’s largest and toughest.
[3] Don’t count your chickens, S! And as for you, W, I know you’re a dab hand at nicking girls’ knickers, but I doubt if you’ve got the spunk to ‘tak’ a linkie!
[4] Your ‘takkin’ will come soon enough, L, no problem!
[5] Callant just = a young man, but in local traditions, ‘the Callant’ is one who plays a leading role.
Excellent!!!
Tree
12
They circle me increasingly close, increasingly threateningly, I’m glancing around, trying to catch either of them making the first move, but suddenly my arms are grabbed from behind and forced wide apart. Immediately I throw myself forward, but a knee jabs into my back and I’m tugged back again. Shaking my hair off my eyes I look up and see with relief that I’ve been takken by Sandy.
Still, I mustn’t give in, surrendering too easily counts as ‘snuilin’, cowardice, and that’s the worst shame a linkie can bring on herself and her family. So I’m squirming and tugging as he twists my arms and jerks them up behind my back. To try to keep me under control, he throws me forward, face-down on the heathy ground, my forehead catches a stone, my nose starts to bleed.
Now he’s kneeling on me, still gripping my wrists with both his hands, jerking and twisting them to torture me into submission. “Brak her airms, Sandy,” yells Wullie’s dad, “She’ll hae nae claim agin ye!” He’s right of course, it’s a cruel rule, but it’s the Law of the Forest.
But I’m still kicking and trying to twist my trunk under Sandy’s weight. Wullie’s picked up the handcuffs and is holding them ready for Sandy. “Nae helpin,” I gasp, my mouth full of heather-brash, “Sae lang’s a dinna touch ye, a kin dae whit a fuckin weel like,”[1] Wullie snarls, yes, that’s right too.
Sandy’s got both my wrists now clamped in his right fist, I’m still fighting to jerk them free, but it’s hurting and his grip’s iron-strong. He takes the cuffs from Wullie, I feel the metal round my left arm, hear the click as the manacle locks.
Now he pulls my shackled arm across, he’s about to cuff my right one, but I suddenly push my left knee down onto the rock, and roll over onto my side, throwing Sandy so he topples sideways. I spring clear, he’s still grasping the handcuffs, but I manage to swing round and jump to my feet while he’s still on his knees. I kick up my right leg and plant my bare foot in his face, that surprises him enough for me to pull my arm free.
He gets to his feet, he’s looking red-faced and furious under his ginger hair, I’m grinning at him, enjoying what I know will be a brief moment of triumph, but one that will get gossiped about in the town to my glory and poor Sandy’s embarrassment.
We circle, I’m keeping legs wide, head down, ready to dodge whenever he springs. The manacles on my left wrist jingle as I skip sideways. He lunges to grab at it, I dart aside, he stumbles. He makes another grab at me, I swing my right arm and land a punch on his cheek, hardly a knockout, but my little fist can hurt.
The three watching men are grim-faced, especially Sandy’s dad Jock – his son’s a fine young man, it’s not like a McConchie to be worsted by a scrap of a linkie! Sandy gets himself back into position, he’s obviously roused, trying to keep himself calm and focused enough to outwit this pest of a linkie who’s literally dancing circles round him.
“Gie me the whup!” Wullie's dad tosses him a smart-looking riding-crop, I eye it anxiously. Sandy flicks it a couple of times, it’s got a lash on the tip that cracks, he sees me cringe instinctively and smiles. “Aye ma linkie, gin ye want fer tae daunce, ye kin skip tae this bonnie beauty!”[2]
He slashes it at my legs, I skip nimbly, but feel the sting, he swings it again, it wraps me round the hips, again and again, I try to dodge but he’s canny, aiming at whatever bit of me I can’t help exposing – breasts, thighs, buttocks, all get a sharp slicing, though I’m leaping and diving, dodging and weaving, managing to absorb the pain and even getting a thrill of excitement as the men urge him on with eager yells.
He’s mastering me, but I’m still not takken. He throws the whip back to Wullie, resumes his wrestler’s stance. We circle cautiously for several seconds, then he dives, I lift my foot and catch him under his sporran, right on the balls, his own momentum provides most of the impact, I stagger back a couple of steps but he doubles up and falls on his knees. He hears me laugh.
That really fires him, from his knees he hurls himself forward and grabs the leg that’s just offended him, tugs me forward, suddenly he’s on his feet, and I’m being whirled round by my one leg, my body, head and hair sweeping across the heather, bouncing painfully against rocks, my arms and loose leg flailing helplessly.
When he’s got me dazed and giddy, he suddenly pulls my captured leg over his shoulder, seizes my manacled arm, and tugs me over his back, face up. I’m stretched taut across his broad shoulders now, and by sharply tugging at my wrist and ankle and jerking his back, he tortures me like I’m on the rack. My face upside-down, hair trailing, mouth yelling, I see the men are enjoying the spectacle better now.
Only when I’m really feeling my back will break does he suddenly fling me over his head and down onto the rocky scrub, I roll over the edge of the bluff, fall face-down, at once Sandy’s towering over me, he stamps his booted foot on my face, then bends and seizes my right ankle, jerks it up and back, and clicks the loose manacle around it.
[1] So long as I don’t touch you, I can do what I f- well like.
[2] If you want to dance, you can skip to this pretty beauty!
They circle me increasingly close, increasingly threateningly, I’m glancing around, trying to catch either of them making the first move, but suddenly my arms are grabbed from behind and forced wide apart. Immediately I throw myself forward, but a knee jabs into my back and I’m tugged back again. Shaking my hair off my eyes I look up and see with relief that I’ve been takken by Sandy.
Still, I mustn’t give in, surrendering too easily counts as ‘snuilin’, cowardice, and that’s the worst shame a linkie can bring on herself and her family. So I’m squirming and tugging as he twists my arms and jerks them up behind my back. To try to keep me under control, he throws me forward, face-down on the heathy ground, my forehead catches a stone, my nose starts to bleed.
Now he’s kneeling on me, still gripping my wrists with both his hands, jerking and twisting them to torture me into submission. “Brak her airms, Sandy,” yells Wullie’s dad, “She’ll hae nae claim agin ye!” He’s right of course, it’s a cruel rule, but it’s the Law of the Forest.
But I’m still kicking and trying to twist my trunk under Sandy’s weight. Wullie’s picked up the handcuffs and is holding them ready for Sandy. “Nae helpin,” I gasp, my mouth full of heather-brash, “Sae lang’s a dinna touch ye, a kin dae whit a fuckin weel like,”[1] Wullie snarls, yes, that’s right too.
Sandy’s got both my wrists now clamped in his right fist, I’m still fighting to jerk them free, but it’s hurting and his grip’s iron-strong. He takes the cuffs from Wullie, I feel the metal round my left arm, hear the click as the manacle locks.
Now he pulls my shackled arm across, he’s about to cuff my right one, but I suddenly push my left knee down onto the rock, and roll over onto my side, throwing Sandy so he topples sideways. I spring clear, he’s still grasping the handcuffs, but I manage to swing round and jump to my feet while he’s still on his knees. I kick up my right leg and plant my bare foot in his face, that surprises him enough for me to pull my arm free.
He gets to his feet, he’s looking red-faced and furious under his ginger hair, I’m grinning at him, enjoying what I know will be a brief moment of triumph, but one that will get gossiped about in the town to my glory and poor Sandy’s embarrassment.
We circle, I’m keeping legs wide, head down, ready to dodge whenever he springs. The manacles on my left wrist jingle as I skip sideways. He lunges to grab at it, I dart aside, he stumbles. He makes another grab at me, I swing my right arm and land a punch on his cheek, hardly a knockout, but my little fist can hurt.
The three watching men are grim-faced, especially Sandy’s dad Jock – his son’s a fine young man, it’s not like a McConchie to be worsted by a scrap of a linkie! Sandy gets himself back into position, he’s obviously roused, trying to keep himself calm and focused enough to outwit this pest of a linkie who’s literally dancing circles round him.
“Gie me the whup!” Wullie's dad tosses him a smart-looking riding-crop, I eye it anxiously. Sandy flicks it a couple of times, it’s got a lash on the tip that cracks, he sees me cringe instinctively and smiles. “Aye ma linkie, gin ye want fer tae daunce, ye kin skip tae this bonnie beauty!”[2]
He slashes it at my legs, I skip nimbly, but feel the sting, he swings it again, it wraps me round the hips, again and again, I try to dodge but he’s canny, aiming at whatever bit of me I can’t help exposing – breasts, thighs, buttocks, all get a sharp slicing, though I’m leaping and diving, dodging and weaving, managing to absorb the pain and even getting a thrill of excitement as the men urge him on with eager yells.
He’s mastering me, but I’m still not takken. He throws the whip back to Wullie, resumes his wrestler’s stance. We circle cautiously for several seconds, then he dives, I lift my foot and catch him under his sporran, right on the balls, his own momentum provides most of the impact, I stagger back a couple of steps but he doubles up and falls on his knees. He hears me laugh.
That really fires him, from his knees he hurls himself forward and grabs the leg that’s just offended him, tugs me forward, suddenly he’s on his feet, and I’m being whirled round by my one leg, my body, head and hair sweeping across the heather, bouncing painfully against rocks, my arms and loose leg flailing helplessly.
When he’s got me dazed and giddy, he suddenly pulls my captured leg over his shoulder, seizes my manacled arm, and tugs me over his back, face up. I’m stretched taut across his broad shoulders now, and by sharply tugging at my wrist and ankle and jerking his back, he tortures me like I’m on the rack. My face upside-down, hair trailing, mouth yelling, I see the men are enjoying the spectacle better now.
Only when I’m really feeling my back will break does he suddenly fling me over his head and down onto the rocky scrub, I roll over the edge of the bluff, fall face-down, at once Sandy’s towering over me, he stamps his booted foot on my face, then bends and seizes my right ankle, jerks it up and back, and clicks the loose manacle around it.
[1] So long as I don’t touch you, I can do what I f- well like.
[2] If you want to dance, you can skip to this pretty beauty!
13
I’m takken. Wrist to ankle’s a bit irregular, but no doubt it counts. “Hae ye anither set?” he calls, “Aye!” Wullie’s dad produces a second pair of cuffs, I offer no resistance as he locks my right wrist to my left ankle, then stands up and rolls me over to face up with a sharp kick in my flank.
I’m looking up at Sandy, silhouetted against the bright sky, a braw-looking callant in his McConchie sett,[1] a bright red kilt with bold red and blue lines, he’s just as breathless as I am from our fight, still red in the face, I think he’s furious that I jinked away from him and led him such a dance – good, that’ll get his pecker up!
He crouches down, unbuckles my belt, ready to strip my kiltie off. I sigh, close my eyes, feel my thighs quiver as he tugs out the belt, unclips the kilt-pin and whips away the cloth. I open my eyes as the four men whoop with triumphant glee, Sandy’s waving my kiltie like a captured flag, swinging my belt in his right hand.
He tosses my kiltie to Wullie, who shamelessly tucks it under his kilt and starts pleasuring himself with it. “Hey,” calls Sandy, “that’s eneuch o yon, furst we’ve got tae skive the linkie’s bruss. Ye twa haud her so’s a kin get at her fud.”[2] Wullie and his dad crouch down either side of me, holding my shoulders and thighs, forcing the latter wide apart. “Hae ye got the malkie?” Sandy asks his dad, Jock hands him a beautiful cut-throat razor in an elegant ivory-covered clasp, doubtless another family heirloom, but the blade’s gleaming in the sunlight as Sandy waves it above my apprehensive eyes, it could be newly-forged. To make sure of it’s sharp, he strops it on his own broad leather belt.
He scrapes away carefully around my pubic zone, collecting my curls in his left hand and placing them in a little linen bag he’s pulled from his sporran. They’ll be lovingly preserved, glued and mounted on a wooden shield, to hang on the McConchie’s best-room wall as a treasured trophy – his linkie’s bruss!
My head rolls from side to side, I’m frightened he’s going to cut me, but otherwise I keep tensely still, the McRae’s rough grip’s quite unnecessary, I’m scared to even let my body twitch. Gradually the blade brushes closer and closer to my skin, laying bare my most sensitive, most vulnerable, parts. It hurts as he scrapes away the last traces of stubble, I’m moaning softly, feeling tears in my eyes.
At last he stops, shakes down his little trophy bag and tucks it in his sporran. I open my eyes, gaze up at him expectantly. Is he going to tak me now? But he’s stood up now, so have the McRaes, and he’s stroking my belt – yes, it’s a beauty, really old and lovingly cared-for, Mam wore it, and gran before her, the leather’s black with age, gleaming with oil and linkie-sweat.
He lifts his arm, swings the thong so it sings in the summer air, I brace myself, knowing what’s coming. A thrash across my bare breasts, another round my ribs, a third over my venus-mound – I’m squealing like a fox-cub – more, more, he finishes with a stroke between my thighs, catching my girl part, my scream echoes from the high crags.
He hands the belt to Wullie, he’s even more vicious, though less skillful in his aim, still my thighs, pussy, bubbies and even my face get sharp burning weals. And now Wullie’s dad, he’s ruthless, aiming again and again between my legs, my newly-shaved pussy’s red raw after half-a-dozen of his cuts.
He offers the belt to Jock, Sandys dad, who’s been holding the dogs – they’re getting excited by all this whipping and yelling! But he shakes his head, “Nae, it’s time for Sandy tae dae his stuff!” Indeed, Sandy’s got his kilt off, he’s been stroking himself, enjoying the sight of me squrming under the belt-blows, he’s very visibly ready!
He kneels down, squeezes my bruised breasts – “Noo, linkie Lulie, yer time’s come. Ye led me a merry daunce, noo ye’re gane tae pay!” He throws himself down on me, I feel his hard tool thrust in, give out a wee squeak as he forces me open.
It’s rough, lying on coarse rock and scratchy heather, my woman-parts sore from their scraping and lashing, the manacles digging into my kidneys, as his weight heaves to and fro on me, but despite the pain that makes me cry out, I’m feeling a wonderful sense of rightness, this is what I’ve been eighteen years a-growing for, this is my fate as a forest-girl. In time to his pumping, I murmur to myself the words grannie sang to me before I could even toddle,
“As the mearie’s tae the staig,
The dae’s tae the buck,
The vixin’s tae the tod,
Sae’s the linkie tae the lad!”[3]
He roars like a red stag as his warmth erupts in me, just as I’m exploding in a flash-flood of female juices, panting, gasping, I open my eyes, “Thankyou, Sandy,” I say softly, then lay my head back and gaze up into the glassy blue, feeling as much a part of the Forest – my Forest – as the heather and the rocks, the peewits and the whaups.[4] High above, almost lost in the haze, a broad-winged, long-pinioned shadow soars – the golden eagle from the eyrie on the Clints!
[1] A fine-looking young man in his McC tartan.
[2] That’s enough of that, first we’ve got to shave the linkie’s brush (= bush). You two hold her so I can get at her pussy.
[3] As the mare’s to the stallion, the doe’s to the buck, the vixen to the dog-fox, so’s the linkie to the lad.
[4] Lapwings and curlews (moorland birds).
I’m takken. Wrist to ankle’s a bit irregular, but no doubt it counts. “Hae ye anither set?” he calls, “Aye!” Wullie’s dad produces a second pair of cuffs, I offer no resistance as he locks my right wrist to my left ankle, then stands up and rolls me over to face up with a sharp kick in my flank.
I’m looking up at Sandy, silhouetted against the bright sky, a braw-looking callant in his McConchie sett,[1] a bright red kilt with bold red and blue lines, he’s just as breathless as I am from our fight, still red in the face, I think he’s furious that I jinked away from him and led him such a dance – good, that’ll get his pecker up!
He crouches down, unbuckles my belt, ready to strip my kiltie off. I sigh, close my eyes, feel my thighs quiver as he tugs out the belt, unclips the kilt-pin and whips away the cloth. I open my eyes as the four men whoop with triumphant glee, Sandy’s waving my kiltie like a captured flag, swinging my belt in his right hand.
He tosses my kiltie to Wullie, who shamelessly tucks it under his kilt and starts pleasuring himself with it. “Hey,” calls Sandy, “that’s eneuch o yon, furst we’ve got tae skive the linkie’s bruss. Ye twa haud her so’s a kin get at her fud.”[2] Wullie and his dad crouch down either side of me, holding my shoulders and thighs, forcing the latter wide apart. “Hae ye got the malkie?” Sandy asks his dad, Jock hands him a beautiful cut-throat razor in an elegant ivory-covered clasp, doubtless another family heirloom, but the blade’s gleaming in the sunlight as Sandy waves it above my apprehensive eyes, it could be newly-forged. To make sure of it’s sharp, he strops it on his own broad leather belt.
He scrapes away carefully around my pubic zone, collecting my curls in his left hand and placing them in a little linen bag he’s pulled from his sporran. They’ll be lovingly preserved, glued and mounted on a wooden shield, to hang on the McConchie’s best-room wall as a treasured trophy – his linkie’s bruss!
My head rolls from side to side, I’m frightened he’s going to cut me, but otherwise I keep tensely still, the McRae’s rough grip’s quite unnecessary, I’m scared to even let my body twitch. Gradually the blade brushes closer and closer to my skin, laying bare my most sensitive, most vulnerable, parts. It hurts as he scrapes away the last traces of stubble, I’m moaning softly, feeling tears in my eyes.
At last he stops, shakes down his little trophy bag and tucks it in his sporran. I open my eyes, gaze up at him expectantly. Is he going to tak me now? But he’s stood up now, so have the McRaes, and he’s stroking my belt – yes, it’s a beauty, really old and lovingly cared-for, Mam wore it, and gran before her, the leather’s black with age, gleaming with oil and linkie-sweat.
He lifts his arm, swings the thong so it sings in the summer air, I brace myself, knowing what’s coming. A thrash across my bare breasts, another round my ribs, a third over my venus-mound – I’m squealing like a fox-cub – more, more, he finishes with a stroke between my thighs, catching my girl part, my scream echoes from the high crags.
He hands the belt to Wullie, he’s even more vicious, though less skillful in his aim, still my thighs, pussy, bubbies and even my face get sharp burning weals. And now Wullie’s dad, he’s ruthless, aiming again and again between my legs, my newly-shaved pussy’s red raw after half-a-dozen of his cuts.
He offers the belt to Jock, Sandys dad, who’s been holding the dogs – they’re getting excited by all this whipping and yelling! But he shakes his head, “Nae, it’s time for Sandy tae dae his stuff!” Indeed, Sandy’s got his kilt off, he’s been stroking himself, enjoying the sight of me squrming under the belt-blows, he’s very visibly ready!
He kneels down, squeezes my bruised breasts – “Noo, linkie Lulie, yer time’s come. Ye led me a merry daunce, noo ye’re gane tae pay!” He throws himself down on me, I feel his hard tool thrust in, give out a wee squeak as he forces me open.
It’s rough, lying on coarse rock and scratchy heather, my woman-parts sore from their scraping and lashing, the manacles digging into my kidneys, as his weight heaves to and fro on me, but despite the pain that makes me cry out, I’m feeling a wonderful sense of rightness, this is what I’ve been eighteen years a-growing for, this is my fate as a forest-girl. In time to his pumping, I murmur to myself the words grannie sang to me before I could even toddle,
“As the mearie’s tae the staig,
The dae’s tae the buck,
The vixin’s tae the tod,
Sae’s the linkie tae the lad!”[3]
He roars like a red stag as his warmth erupts in me, just as I’m exploding in a flash-flood of female juices, panting, gasping, I open my eyes, “Thankyou, Sandy,” I say softly, then lay my head back and gaze up into the glassy blue, feeling as much a part of the Forest – my Forest – as the heather and the rocks, the peewits and the whaups.[4] High above, almost lost in the haze, a broad-winged, long-pinioned shadow soars – the golden eagle from the eyrie on the Clints!
[1] A fine-looking young man in his McC tartan.
[2] That’s enough of that, first we’ve got to shave the linkie’s brush (= bush). You two hold her so I can get at her pussy.
[3] As the mare’s to the stallion, the doe’s to the buck, the vixen to the dog-fox, so’s the linkie to the lad.
[4] Lapwings and curlews (moorland birds).
oh, my...
wonder Eul...
wonder Eul...
Love this one...
"When he’s got me dazed and giddy, he suddenly pulls my captured leg over his shoulder, seizes my manacled arm, and tugs me over his back, face up. I’m stretched taut across his broad shoulders now, and by sharply tugging at my wrist and ankle and jerking his back, he tortures me like I’m on the rack. My face upside-down, hair trailing, mouth yelling, I see the men are enjoying the spectacle better now."
"When he’s got me dazed and giddy, he suddenly pulls my captured leg over his shoulder, seizes my manacled arm, and tugs me over his back, face up. I’m stretched taut across his broad shoulders now, and by sharply tugging at my wrist and ankle and jerking his back, he tortures me like I’m on the rack. My face upside-down, hair trailing, mouth yelling, I see the men are enjoying the spectacle better now."
Oh, and the taking of the little trophy and the trophy bag are such a great touch...loving this Eul
I've smuggled a bit of Japanese wrestling in there