The Silver Whistle of the MacCrimmons

Ean Og MacCrimmon sat on a hill near his home in Borreraig, on the western side of the Isle of Skye. He sat and sat, then sighed so deeply that the grass at his feet lay flat. The day had already been set for the pipers' competition at Dunvegan Castle, where the best of the best would be chosen to be declared the hereditary piper of MacLeod of the MacLeods.

Ean also played the bagpipes, though not very well, and he could not even dream of participating in the competition. That was why he sighed. His sigh was heard by a fairy, who took pity on Ean Og MacCrimmon.

She flew up to him and asked why he was so sad. When he told her, she said:

— I’ve heard you play, and I think you’re not bad at all. Besides, you’re handsome, and I like you. I want to help you.

Ean knew full well that fairies could easily turn the clear water of a spring into the finest wine, weave a fluffy Scottish plaid from spiderwebs, or make a simple reed pipe play a tender lullaby.

In short, Ean realized that this was the decisive moment of his life.

He thanked the fairy with feeling; all that remained was to wait and see what would happen next. The fairy handed him a silver pipe with round finger holes.

— Here, take this, — she said to Ean. — Insert it into your bagpipes, and as soon as you touch it with your fingers, it will obediently play the sweetest music. It will obey your sons as it does you, and your sons’ sons, and their sons, and so on for all the descendants of the MacCrimmons. But remember: you must treat this silver pipe with care and love, for it is no ordinary pipe—it is magical. If any MacCrimmon offends or insults it in any way, your family will forever lose its musical gift.

Ean Og took the magical pipe and hurried to Dunvegan.

There, all the famous pipers of the Scottish Highlands had already gathered. One after another, they played on their bagpipes the same tunes their fathers and grandfathers had played. And each new piper seemed to play with even greater skill than the last.

When it was Ean Og’s turn, he inserted the magical pipe into his bagpipes and began to play.

Everyone listened, holding their breath. Never before had they heard such a piper.

The bagpipes were magical, and the music that flowed from them was magical.

There was no doubt—this was the one worthy of being the hereditary piper of MacLeod of the MacLeods.

So it was decided, and so it came to pass.

The judges unanimously declared that they had never before heard such a magical musician.

From that day on, the MacCrimmons of the Isle of Skye, generation after generation, remained famous pipers and composers. They founded a piping school in their native Borreraig, which attracted students from all over Scotland and Ireland.

The course of study at this school was no small matter: seven years to become a mere piper. To be considered a good piper, one had to come from a family with seven generations of pipers.

Centuries passed, and the MacCrimmons remained the pipers of the MacLeods, until the day that proved fateful in their glorious history.

The head of the MacLeod clan was returning home from the neighboring island of Raasay. The piper’s place was at the bow of his galley, and it was occupied by one of the MacCrimmons.

The day was windy, and the sea was rough. The light vessel was tossed up and down, up and down on the foamy waves.

— Play for us, MacCrimmon, to lift our spirits, — MacLeod requested.

MacCrimmon touched the silver pipe with his fingers. However, the heavy rocking made it difficult for him to play; his fingers kept slipping as the galley was tossed to and fro.

The storm grew fiercer. A wave crashed over MacCrimmon from head to toe, the spray clouded his eyes, and he inadvertently played a few wrong notes.

Never before had a piper from the MacCrimmon family played a wrong note on the magical bagpipes!

In his frustration, the unfortunate man threw down his bagpipes, completely forgetting the warning of the kind fairy who had given the silver pipe to Ean Og, though his father had told him the story many times.

— Ah, this wretched pipe! — he exclaimed in a moment of anger. — How can one get a single correct note out of it!

No sooner had he said this than he regretted his words. Deep down, he knew they were unfair.

But it was too late.

The silver pipe slipped from his hands and fell overboard into the raging green sea.

The magical spell was broken.

Neither MacCrimmon himself, nor his son, nor his son’s son could ever play the bagpipes so well again. And the fame of the renowned MacCrimmon school soon faded, and the school itself fell into decline.

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