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Lassie-hunting In The Northern Forest

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Eulalia said:
I've smuggled a bit of Japanese wrestling in there :devil:​
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Ooooo wrestling from Japan ...you know over there it's a real sport!!!
 
Eulalia said:
I think it's time to start posting this new story I've been working on.
It's about a (sadly :devil:) wholly imaginary custom in the Forest where I live,
the annual lassie-hunt!

Now I've written the narrative in Scottish Standard English,
which is pretty much like English English outwith a few words
that are furth of the English Dictionary :D
But I don't think it will pose much problem for native or fluent English users,
and even those using auto-translate should be able to follow what's going on.

But the dialogue is in Braid Scots, aka Lallans :eek: -
I just couldn't get into the "feel" of the characters without using their natural speech.
Again, I think fluent English users will probably be able to tune in,
though Googeltranslate etc. will be completely baffled :rolleyes:.
But I'll try to ensure the narrative explains what's being said.

And there are a few technical terms I've borrowed from hunting,
and some I've more-or-less invented for this ancient country sport.
I'll make sure I explain most of them as I go along,
but there are a few that need to be made clear from the start.

Rug = 'hunt', so also rugger, ruggin, rugged etc.
Burd = 'woman', same as 'bird' in English which is a variant from Old English bryd . 'bride',
(in origin a different word from the feathered kind ;))
The basic rule of the Rug is that, from Midsummer Day to Michaelmas (21 Jun - 29 Sep),
any marriageable burd who's not born a child, if she's seen in The Forest, is 'fair game',
so she's a game-burd :devil:
Linkie = an agile, nimble lassie, perhaps one who's a bit cunning and crafty too;
in the Rug, any game-burd who's being rugged is called a linkie.

So the story's called The Linkie-Rug
but for obvious reasons I've used a more intelligible title for the thread :D
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Sorry I am so slow to get to this!
 
Eulalia said:
The Linkie-Rug​

“Pit me doon here,” I whisper to Mum. No reason to whisper, I’m just so psyched-up already, hardly daring to speak. She pulls into the little layby, pitch dark under the overshadowing beeches. I make to open the car door. “Wait on, pet.” She lowers the car windows, turns off the engine, the lights fade, “Steady, lass, let’s mak siccar there’s naebody aboot.”

We listen intently. It was raining earlier in the night, but now a big bright moon is peering through the clouds, I shiver, this isn’t a night that’ll favour us game-burds, it’s better when there’s a new moon, moonlight shows up girlskin in the dark like it’s luminous, and the warm wetness in the woods will make our scent linger for hours for the hounds to nose.

A soft breeze rustles the leaves, distant cattle moo. My keen ears pick out a shifting of undergrowth, a bird twitters briefly, disturbed. Must be deer. Noise of vehicles, we hear them a long way off, they come closer at speed, their headlamps light us up momentarily as they dash past, and are gone. “D’ye ken who they were, Mam?” “Aye, first one was Jock McConchie’s LandRover. Didna see the ither.” “D’ye think they vizzied us?” “Doot it, they were gaeing like bats oot o hell – dinna fash yersel, lassie, ye’ll be fine.” She pats my thigh.

Quiet again. I lean forward, untie my trainers. Mum looks like she’s about to say I’m good to go, when a distant bark freezes us both. Another bark. “Shit, linkie-hounds!” I breathe almost inaudibly. “Mm…” Bastards, I’m thinking to myself, Nyn said on the phone they’d been watching our house since sunset. I guessed they would, that’s why I stayed over with Gran and got Mum to run me out here at the dead of night.

The dogs bark again. Mum’s listening intently – she’s so cool, in every sense. I know I’m pretty good, but I’m only the daughter of the canniest linkie in the Forest! “They arena comin any closer,” she whispers, “That’s Upper Elrick, they’ll be Hamish McCulloch’s dugs. A jalouse it’s time for ye to gang.”

I wriggle out of my hoodie, kick off my trainers, give Mum a big kiss, open the car door. “Gie em a guid rin, mind!” She pats my bum as I dive out, scramble over the dyke, and scuttle down into the dense undershrubs. I hear her close the car-door quietly, she waits till she’s sure I’m well into the woods before she starts up and drives away.
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Right.... I'm saving the rest for bed.... This is wonderful!!!!!!!
 
Eulalia said:
4

I’ve got to the place where I’m going to lie low. It’s the old den, one we made years back as cubs, one the lads never found. It’s under the huge roots of a long-tumbled oak. I creep in to the dark cave within the woody tangle, startle as a bat flies out swishing over my hair. Ferns and fungus brush my skin, there’s a pungent smell of slowly rotting wood, toadstools, bat-droppings. But our secret survival stash is safe in plastic sandwich boxes. Over the last few weeks, I’ve filled them with wee cartons of fruit juice, cheese that’ll keep, savoury biscuits and sweet ones, dried fruit and nuts, crisps, chocolate, tablet, lots of sweeties. Not a bad food-hoard for a parcel of she-squirrels!

The idea is for five of us to meet here. Anna and me, and this year’s three other new game-burds, Sheila, Mollie and Una. They’re all burgh-lassies,[1] but they’ve been keen cubs, their Dads and brothers are all in the Baillie-Rug. When Sheila was cubbie-rugged last year, she gave them a brilliant run, nearly three hours before she was caught. It’s best to run as a parcel,[2] we’ve a plan of action that involves running like that for some way, then suddenly scrambling, splitting off in different directions, then criss-crossing our paths, that’s the way to confuse the dogs – the ruggers too – with luck!

It’s still only about half-three (we game-burds aren’t allowed watches, or any such artificial aids) , still as dark as a Midsummer night ever gets. Still all quiet. I know there are rat-ruggers[3] about, the lads make no secret of their plans to stay up all night before the Rug so they’ll know where we’re hiding, their dogs’ll have our scent! But they’re all mouth, if any of them are in the Forest, they’re probably just skulking around my home, like Nyn said, hoping to spot me coming out at dawn – well, with Grannie and Mum’s help, I’ve jinked them!

What we will need is water, I’ve stashed some plastic bottles in the den, I’ll go on down to the Collie[4] Water and fill them. It’s a steep scramble through beechwood, where the understorey isn’t as jungly as it is in the Top Wood, though there’s blaeberry[5] and heather in light patches. I’ve got the bottles in a couple of supermarket bags. In the distance, I hear a bark, freeze, crouch down instinctively. There’s another. Doesn’t sound like linkie-hounds, in fact I doubt its dogs at all, more like foxes. But best be careful. I’ve reached the Collie Water now, good. I check around, all senses alert, then slither softly down the bank, feel the cool freshness round my feet – this is a good water for burnie-rinnin,[6] the best way to foil the dogs – I kneel down and cup myself a few good mouthfuls, splash my face, breasts and legs with the coolness, then set about filling the bottles.

Getting back up to the den with the heavy water bottles is more of a task. The sky’s just turning lighter now, that deep greeny glow that stays all night at Midsummer is turning to an opaque glassy tinge, birds are beginning to cheep and squawk.


[1] Bugh-lassies = girls from the burgh (the town or the bailliwick), but not born in the Forest. A ‘burgh’ incidentally is historically a town with a charter giving it certain rights – to hold a market and a court, levy some tolls, charges and fines, and be exempt from others, etc.

[2] Paircel = a hunting term, for more than one of the hunted animals running together. ‘Scrammling’ = such animals splitting and running different ways. I’ve standardised these words in the narrative, but use the Scots forms in the dialogues.

[3] Rat-ruggers = unofficial hunters, not hunting with the Baillie-Rug. They are either local men acting independently, or licensed ‘strangers’, as we shall see.

[4] Gaelic coille, ‘woodland’.

[5] In England, bilberry, same family as blueberries, cranberries etc..

[6] Burnie-rinnin = running along a stream, to throw the hounds off scent (= ‘foil’ them).
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Burgh is an interesting word - clearly related to burh, burg, bury etc as word-endings all meaning "fortified place/settlement/town/city" in England, Germany and the Nordic countries, but also "pyrgos/Pyrgamos" in Greek and - this is the really fun one - the ending "buri" บุรี in Thai, which means city - Kanchanaburi, Thonburi etc - and probably the root is from Sanskrit Puri meaning fortified city or town.
 
pkindenhaag said:
Burgh is an interesting word - clearly related to burh, burg, bury etc as word-endings all meaning "fortified place/settlement/town/city" in England, Germany and the Nordic countries, but also "pyrgos/Pyrgamos" in Greek and - this is the really fun one - the ending "buri" บุรี in Thai, which means city - Kanchanaburi, Thonburi etc - and probably the root is from Sanskrit Puri meaning fortified city or town.
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I love it when you talk dirty, PK :D
Don't get me started on the relative meanings of ceastre, burh, geweorc and faesten in 9th century England :)

(I have an interest in early medieval history, Anglo Saxon burhs are close to my heart)
 
I love all of this, Eul, it is just fantastic. And writing in Scots, for me, adds so much atmosphere and sense of place and character. But I did work in Scotland for a couple of years some while ago, so perhaps I'm more familiar with it than some.

I can't help feeling that you really enjoyed writing this. Something about the energy just suggests that.
 
thanks for all those great comments! It's most intriguing, this correlation between our philological tastes and our crux-fetishes,
scope for a PhD thesis there I reckon, perhaps an international conference.... :D

You're right Paul, I am enjoying it - well, I enjoy all my writing, but this one has certainly carried me along at a cantie pace -
not least this next bit -

14

Sandy’s standing, pulling his kilt back on. “Are ye gane ta share her” asks Wullie, gruffly. Sandy pauses, then continues dressing, “Weel?” ask the two McRaes, father and son. Sandy turns and gives them a determined look. “Gin she draps a linkie-brat, a want tae ken it’s mine.”[1] There’s a look of surprise on all three men’s faces, Sandy’s dad chips in, “Ye dinna hae ta…” “Aye, Dad,” he turns to his father, “A ken yon weel, bit that’s hoo a want it.”[2]

He turns back to the McRaes, they’re scowling. “Gin ye want tae dae ocht else tae her, she’s a yours, bit nae regular fuckin, got it?”[3] They shrug, I shudder instinctively at the thought of what “ocht else” might be in the minds of Wullie and his jailbird dad.

I soon learn. “Sae, are ye gane tae bugger the bitch?” asks the elder, “Aye, the set-up gilpie[4] desairves it!” Wullie’s still got it in for me, that I outwitted them in the cubbin four years ago – even though I’ve been cubbie-rugged three times since, he’s been waiting for today to get his revenge. Now it’s coming.

He strides over and grabs me by my hair, swings me up and chucks me face-down, kicking my groin as I fall. In a few moments his kilt’s off and he’s on top of me, smacking my cheeks as he starts to push his stiff tool into my arse, chanting “Wha’s the braw cubbie then? Whaur’s the braw cub the noo?”

He’s hurting, I grunt at the pain as my sphincters are forced, this is nothing like Sandy’s conquest of my body, more a brute forcing with no purpose but to hurt and humiliate. He bounces on my buttocks, squeezing my loins between his hard knees. As he works away at me, he grabs my hair and bangs my face onto the hard ground, again and again, still jeering at the “braw cubbie.”

At last I feel sperm fountain inside me, as he pulls himself out, it gushes down my groin, I can feel a warm, oozing cascade. He gives my face a final kick, “Are ye nae gane tae thenk me?” “Aye… thankyou, Wullie,” I pant, blood’s dribbling from my lip.

“A’ll teach the brat some mainers!” his father snarls, pushing Wullie aside. He grabs my hair and jerks me up so I’m kneelng, pulled back by the shackles. He pulls his kilt off and presents his big, proud cock in front of my face. “Noo, cunt, ye’re gane tae taste this, richt inside ye, richt doon yer gullet – d’ye onerstaund?” “Aye, Sir -” I don’t know why I call him that, but in my humiliated posture, it just feels like I have to. “An ye’d better dae it cannily, nae jinks min, or ye’ll lairn whit this is fer!”[5] He pulls a vicious-looking slender-bladed dagger from the sheath in his sock that’s supposed to hold just a decorative sgian dubh.[6]

I open my mouth wide, flick my tongue out as the creature approaches. Again, it’s instinct, never done this before, hope I shan’t have to do it again, leastways not with this thug. I lick the tip, feel it jerk still tighter in response. Now my lips are pursed, ready to kiss, then to suck and gently usher it in. He’s gripping my hair as he thrusts with his knees, pumping it in and out between my lips. I keep sucking, and flicking the underside with my tongue, the tip’s against the roof of my mouth, gradually growing harder, gradually pushing deeper.

Cautiously, I press my teeth against the skin, he glares down at me, I know my sharp little teeth could hurt him, but I’m not going to – it’s not even that I’m frightened of him, though I know he’s psychopathic enough to use that knife, but I just don’t want to hurt him. Strange and degrading as this ordeal is, I’m feeling it’s something I as a linkie must learn to do, and I want to do it well.

So I roll my teeth gently against his flesh, still sucking hard, he’s grunting, his pumping slower but more determined. The glans is against the back of my throat now, my tongue cushioning the underside, my lips near to the hair-encircled root. His grunting is getting stronger, turning to gasps, I’m feeling a rush of warm wetness in my sex-parts, my breasts feel electrified as they press against his labouring knees.

With a roar he releases his volcano of sperm, my mouth fills, it slithers down my gullet, as he withdraws the shrinking organ, he punches my face, “Keep yer moo shut, swalla it a!” I obey, bowing my head. As he puts back his kilt, after gulping the salty slime, I say softly, “Thankyou, Sir.”

[1] If she has a baby, I want to know it’s mine.
[2] You don’t have to… I know very well, but that’s how I want it.
[3] If you want to do anything else to her, she’s all yours, but no regular fucking, got it?
[4] Swanky, conceited teenage girl.
[5] You’d better do it carefully, no tricks mind, or you’ll learn what this is for!.
[6] “Skeen doo”, ornamental dagger worn with Highland dress.
 
15

I’m still kneeling awkwardly, leaning back and supporting myself with my hands on my ankles, cross-manacled together I look across to Sandy’s dad, Jock McConchie, he’s still holding the dogs. He shakes his head, “Nae Sandy, she’s yer linkie, a’ve takken mair nor ma rug ower the yeers, noo ye’re the callant. Onieway, we should be gangin the noo, it’s a guid straik doon tae the toun.”[1]

Sandy unlocks my shackles, I stand up, he hands me my kiltie – soggy with Wullie’s sperm – and my precious belt. When I’ve put my scanty covering back on, I put my wrists behind me, knowing he has to manacle them again for the ceremonial ‘Walk’.

Indeed as Jock said, it’s quite a long way down the entire length of the Collie Burn, nearly five miles, all through woodland I know and love and could run through whole days long, but my legs are tired now – and so are those of my captors, though the dogs never weary. I’m bruised as well, with a nasty cut across my left forehead and my lower lip still dripping blood mixed with McRae spunk. And my nether parts are feeling well-worked-on too!

Sandy has the job of leading me, not that I need leading, I know the way better than he does, but it’s nice having him holding my arm. When I know the McRaes are out of earshot, I whisper, “A’m blithe ye rugged me, Sandy.” He grins a bit sheepishly, “Aye, weel, a’m sickerly gled a rugged ye, Lulie!”[2] He glances round, then adds softly, “A’m sorry we were reuch wi ye … ye ken, it’s, sort of, expectid…” “A ken pairfitly weel, Sandy, Mam taught me a that kin happen tae a linkie whan she’s takken, a was rife fer it a - an what the McRae’s hae done tae me’ll wash off or flush oot.”[3]

We’re at the bushy part where those purple rhodies the keepers planted years ago for cover have gone haywire.[4] The other three are ahead of us now, keeping up with the dogs. I look up at my captor with a smile, “Dinna forget, Sandy, a’mna jist a Forest-lassie, a’m a linkie-brat masel. Ma Dad wanted tae ken Mam’s brat was his whan he rugged her, an a’m gey prood ye said if a drap a brat masel, ye want tae ken it’s yours.”[5] “Aye weel…” he’s blushing like a schoolgirl! I purse my lips, he wraps my bare torso in his tree-feller’s arms, we kiss fiercely, his tongue’s a much nicer taste than the last thing my mouth had in it!

We hear Jock calling, he’s cannie enough, knows what his son’s up to, “Hey, come on ye twa, the Baillie wull be biding fer us!”[6] We scamper on down the burnside, join up with the dogs and the McRaes.

At last we get down to Bottom Park, and out into Queen’s Square. There’s a good crowd, cheers and applause as Jock brings the dogs in, followed by the McRaes, then Sandy proudly leading his linkie – some of his friends give a mighty whoop, fists in the air, I’m evidently considered a prize catch!

The men are all handed drams by the Aussie barmaid from the Galloway Arms, cute and sexy in her waitress mini. There’s water in the old horse-trough that the hounds lap up, and we linkies have to share it with them. I see Anna’s already there, kneeling, the press guys are making her “hold it” for photos, even regional STV’s filing her. She’s lost her bra, her bubbies dangle bouncily as she bends with her tongue out.

I ask Sandy’s permission, he lets me cross over and kneel beside her, more flashing of cameras. Once I’ve gulped a much-needed draught, then plunged my face right into the water and shaken my dripping hair to get a little fresher, rinsing off the first coat of grime, blood and spunk, I turn and greet my best friend.

“Hi, sae were takken?” “Aye, by the Maister o’the Whup hisself!” she replies, with ironic reverence. “Blimey! The dirty aul bodach!”[7] She shrugs, with a rueful grin, “An ye Lulie?” “Sandy McConchie took me, a’m jist gey relieved it wasna yon Wullie McRae – thof he an his dad gied me stuff a lassie kin dae withoot!” “Sandy shared you?” “Ach weel, it’s anely his spunk up ma spoot.” Anna nods, “Ye’re the lucky ane, a’ve nae noorie wha’s a’ve gat in me - aifter the Maister there were that many fucked me a soon lost coont. Gin a drop a linkie-brat, it cud be hauf the burgh’s fer a’a ken!”[8]

The pipers are tuning up, we jump up and scuttle back to our callants, poor Anna in the unsteady grip of red-faced Major Morton, Elder of the Kirk and Maister o’the Whup, who’s taken more than the traditional wee dram already. Sheila’s there, firmly held by Malcolm McCulloch, as I expected, we exchange grins – yes, as Anna says, we two have come off best. I see poor Mollie looking downcast, she doesn’t even look up when I call to her. She’ll have to walk in front of the rest of us girls, shackled but unescorted - whoever the rat was who took her must have buggered off. But where’s Una?

[1] No S, she’s your linkie, I’ve taken more than my share over the years, you’re the one who’s won her. Anyway, we should be going now, it’s a long walk to the town.
[2] I’m happy you got me, S. Well, I’m truly glad I got you, L.
[3] I’m sorry we were rough with you – I know perfectly well, Mum taught me all that can happen to a linkie, I was ready for it, and what the McRs have done will wash off or flush out.
[4] A hybrid of Rhododendron ponticum, which was planted by Victorian keepers as game-cover, has become a pest of a weed in woodland throughout much of Britain.
[5] Don’t forget I’m not just a Forest-lassie, I’m a linkie-brat myself. My Dad wanted to know Mum’s brat was his when he caught her, and I’m very proud that you said if I have a baby you want to know it’s yours.
[6] The Baillie will be waiting for us.
[7] So you were takken? Yes, by the Master himself. The dirty old man! Bodach, from Gaelic, ‘old man’, literally ‘one with the prick’!
[8] Oh well, it’s only his (Sandy’s) spunk up my spout. You’re the lucky one, I’ve no idea who’s I’ve got in me – after the Master there were that many fucked me I soon lost count. If I have a brat, it could be half the burgh’s for all I know.
 
I just checked - I can't find 'buggered off' in my Scottish translator :eek:
 
It's in the Scottish National Dictionary

BOUGAR, Booger, Boggar, Buggar, Bugger, n. A house-rafter. Gen. in pl. and used to indicate the couples, the wood under the slates or thatch and (in Rxb.) the joists. Once Gen.Sc., now obs. or obsol. [ˈbugɑr, ˈbɔgɑr, ˈbʌgɑr; also with ending -ər]
*Sc.1808Jam.:
Bougars, cross spars, forming part of the roof of a cottage, used instead of laths, on which wattling or twigs are placed, and above these divots, and then straw or thatch.
*Sc.1832A. HendersonSc. Proverbs 161:
I’ll tak a rung frae the bougars o’ the house, and rizle your riggin wi’t.
*Sc.1873Notes and Queries 4th Ser. XII. 306:
Said of a well-filled church: I hae heard the boogers [beams] cracking at 6 o’clock o’ the mornin’.

So the expression means 'he departed, taking his cross-bar with him' :p
 
Eulalia said:
It's in the Scottish National Dictionary

BOUGAR, Booger, Boggar, Buggar, Bugger, n. A house-rafter. Gen. in pl. and used to indicate the couples, the wood under the slates or thatch and (in Rxb.) the joists. Once Gen.Sc., now obs. or obsol. [ˈbugɑr, ˈbɔgɑr, ˈbʌgɑr; also with ending -ər]
*Sc.1808Jam.:
Bougars, cross spars, forming part of the roof of a cottage, used instead of laths, on which wattling or twigs are placed, and above these divots, and then straw or thatch.
*Sc.1832A. HendersonSc. Proverbs 161:
I’ll tak a rung frae the bougars o’ the house, and rizle your riggin wi’t.
*Sc.1873Notes and Queries 4th Ser. XII. 306:
Said of a well-filled church: I hae heard the boogers [beams] cracking at 6 o’clock o’ the mornin’.

So the expression means 'he departed, taking his cross-bar with him' :p
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There was me thinking you'd lapsed into Anglo-Saxon :doh:

:D
 
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