Many, many years ago, in the Scottish village of Kilkenning, there lived a lad by the name of Markus McAllum who was the village idiot (for in those days they had such people and did not think it unkind to call them that). Markus was a dear sweet lad, and well-loved by everyone in the village — especially his dear old mother, who lived with him in a wee cozy cottage not far from the edge of a forest.
One late Autumn, with the coming of the cold winds, Markus McAllum’s mother asked him to go out and find some logs and kindling for the fire.
“Now Markus,” said his mother with great patience (for she was a good and loving mother), “Ye know well what firewood looks like, ye can carry a good weight, and you’ve good eyes. So, I want you to go out into the edge of the woods and pick up what wood ye c’n find. Pick up some sticks, aye, but also tote home some logs about so big around.” She held up her hands for him to see.
“But mother, what if I canna find a stick?”
“Then Markus, you must break it from the branches of the trees.”
“But mother, what if I canna find a log?”
“Then, Markus, you must cut down a tree that is about as big ‘round, and cut it up.” His mother handed him an axe, and covered the blade of it so that he could not hurt himself.
“But mother, how can I cut it with that cloth on the axe?”
“When you have a need for cutting a tree down, you must take the cloth off the axe. And when you’ve done, put it back on a’gin.”
So Markus McAllum, being the good and loyal son that he was, set off into the edge of the forest. After many hours of searching, he could find no sticks, so he broke a small branch off of a nearby tree. As he plucked the twig from the tree, he pulled down upon the branch, so that when the twig broke off, the tree pulled back.
“Poor tree!” cried Markus, “I’ve harmed ye, poor creature! For though I am simple, tis plain to see twas pain that caused you to pull away!”
With a tear in each eye, Markus broke off a piece of string from his shirt, and ever-so-gently tied the wee twig back onto the branch and kissed it where it was tied.
“There now, poor creature, I hope this makes amends between us.”
And off he went to search upon the ground some more. As he went deeper into the forest, he found more twigs and brackle upon the ground, and put it all neatly into the bag upon his back.
Soon his bag was full of brackle and the sun was getting low in the sky. Now Markus McAllum was not a’feared of missing his step and tripping on a stone in the dark, for his mother had taught him well that the Bible speaks of angels guarding a Christian boy’s steps. But even Markus McAllum knew that it was nay safe to be in the woods in the dark, what with the Wee Folk who came out under the moon to torment poor travelers. He knew he needed to be on his way home, and he had nay found a single log fer the fireplace.
He looked about and found a tall, thin tree that looked quite dead.
“Surely,” thought Markus to himself, “I canna harm a dead thing.”
So, he took the cloth off of the axe and threw the blade into the bottom of the tree. The tree, as trees are wont to do when hit with an axe, shook as he hit it.
“Poor tree!” cried Markus, “I’ve harmed ye, poor creature! For though I am simple, tis plain to see twas pain that caused you to shiver that way!”
With a tear in each eye, Markus tore off a piece of his shirt and ever-so-gently tied it around the piece of the tree where his axe had left a mark. He kissed the tree just above his piece of shirt.
“There now, poor creature, I hope this makes amends between us.”
With head hung low, Markus McAllum headed home. He had found no logs for his mother, and even he knew she would sleep colder because of it.
Now Markus, being a simple fellow, could keep no more than one thought in his head at a time, and so he had quite forgotten to put the cloth back onto his axe blade, as his mother had told him he should. As he walked, the axe fell from his grip and landed on the very wee tip of a field mouse’s tail. The mouse, as mice are wont to do when their tails are cut, squeeked in pain.
“Poor Mousie!” cried Markus, “I’ve harmed ye, poor creature! For though I am simple, tis plain to see twas pain that caused you to squeek that way!”
With a tear in each eye, Markus tore off a tiny piece of his shirt and ever-so-gently tied it around the end of the mouse’s tail.
“There now, poor creature, I hope this makes amends between us.”
Quite suddenly, one of the Wee Folk sprang out from behind a tree and stood right before Markus McAllum.
“I have been watching you,” said the Wee Man, “and I have seen your kind and gentle soul as ye have dealt with all those of this wood. What’s your name, lad?”
“My name is Markus McAllum.”
“And why, Markus McAllum, do you carry all those wee twigs upon your back?”
“My mother has told me to gather wood for the fire.”
“And this, you think, will keep her warm?” Before Markus could answer, the Wee Man laughed so hard that he fell over on his back. When he finally stopped laughing, Markus ever-so-gently helped him to his feet. “Go home, Markus McAllum, and do nae worry about wood for yer fire tonight nor any night. I shall get it fer ye.”
Now, even Markus McAllum knew better than to refuse a gift from one of the Wee Folk, and even Markus McAllum knew to be polite at all times. “Thank you so much,” said he and hurried home, where he found a large pile of firewood outside the window of the wee cozy cottage that he shared with his mother.
Into the house he ran. He told his mother about the branch, and the thin tree that shook, and the mousie, and the Wee Man, and the pile of firewood outside their window.
“Markus, dear heart,” said his mother patiently, “that canna be. For I have been sitting here these many hours looking out of that same window, and I have neither heard nor seen a thing.”
“But, mother, ‘tis there! Come see!”
She, being the good and loving mother that she was, went with Markus McAllum to see outside their door. And what was there for her to see but a pile of firewood as tall as the house, piled so that all the side of the wee cozy cottage was nearly covered by it, but the window’s view was quite clear.
That night, they burned one log in their fire, and that log lasted throughout that night and well into the next day. And it was so with every piece of wood they took from that pile from that day forth. Each time the pile was low, it was raised again with the same silence and stealth as it was the first time.
After a time of this, Markus McAllum began to leave out food and drink when the pile was low. “Because,” he said, “the Wee Folk are probably worked quite out of breath after such a thing.”
And each time he leaves it out, the food is ett, and the dishes are neatly placed on the windowsill, cleaned and polished.
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Anne Fisher-Ahlert 