Twelve Great Black Cats by Sorche Nic Leodhas Page A

now?”
    â€œMurdagh,” said the March wind. “Let me go free and I will blow fame and fortune to you. The king himself will give you his favor, and you will be a great laird in a castle, with servants to wait upon you. Would it not suit you fine to be proud and great?”
    â€œProud and great!” exclaimed Murdagh scornfully, with a flash of his eyes and a lift of his chin. “Och, ye great omadhaun , do you not know, then, who I am? Murdagh MacAlister, and my family goes all the way back to Alister Mor! There is royal blood in my veins, and there’s no man in Scotland that is better than me! I’m that contented I’d not call the king my cousin. I’m very well suited the way I am. As for your castles, they are too big to please me. I’ll take my shieling instead, and when the day comes that I need servants and cannot wait upon myself it will be because I’m dead and in my grave.”
    So Murdagh took up his needles and yarn and began to knit again. After a while the March wind said softly, “Murdagh?”
    â€œOch, what now?” Murdagh said.
    â€œMurdagh,” the March wind said, “let me go free and I will blow you the bonniest lass in Scotland to be your own true love.”
    â€œOch, what sort of lass would it be that the wind would blow in?” Murdagh asked in disgust. “Why would I be needing anybody to get me a lass forbye? There are no bonnier lasses in the world than those in our own town. I can smile and crook my finger to any one of them and she’ll come running to me. When I want a lass of my own I’ll get one for myself. I’m weary of all your nattering. I’m beginning to feel like myself again, so we’ll be going along to the ben and I’ll drop you down the hole.”
    â€œIs there naught you would take at all to let me go free?” the March wind cried in despair.
    Murdagh sat turning the question over in his mind for a long time while the March wind waited anxiously.
    â€œIf you play me false,” said Murdagh at last, “I promise you that I will neither sleep nor eat until I catch you again and drop you into the hole in the ben.”
    â€œAsk what you will,” the March wind said eagerly, “I give you my word.”
    â€œA-weel, in the first place,” said Murdagh, “you must bring back my two bonnets that you stole from me.” “That I will!” said the March wind. “And then?” “Then,” said Murdagh, “never again will you come roistering down upon us, bound upon mischief as you have so often done before. From now on you will leave the moor, the glen, the wood, and the brae, and all my croft, forever untroubled and at peace.”
    â€œThat I will do indeed,” the March wind promised. “So let me go.”
    Then Murdagh got up and went to the March wind. He untied the knots in the stockings on neck and wrists and ankles, and cast them aside. Murdagh heard the March wind rise from the grass with a great sigh and stretch himself. Then there was silence on the brae. Murdagh did not hear him go, but he knew that he was gone.
    Balach the dog gathered up the three pairs of stockings and laid them in the creel, making sure that all six stockings were there. And Murdagh sat down on his stone and busied himself with his knitting again. Presently, the leaves rustled softly on the trees and there was a whispering along the grass, and into Murdagh’s lap dropped his two bonnets—his third-best and his second-best.
    One day, between spring and summer, the old shepherd came up to the brae and took the job of tending Murdagh’s sheep, with Balach the dog to watch over shepherd, sheep, and all, and make sure all went well. Murdagh dressed himself in his best and went off to town. He strode down the high street, young and gallant and gay, with a high step and a swagger to his kilt, and every lass he met turned her head to look after him and