The Rite Of The Lie
The Lewis of long ago was a wild place, a wooly place, a place without tea. It is true that in some small pockets and folds of the rumpled land, some latent need for mankind to civilise had led the villagers to make brews of dried seaweed and a very popular thistle-based infusion called Mess Cailleen – so-named for its inventor, Untidy Kathleen. By and large though, tea was not widely available and so we islanders had to devise other civilising rituals around which to organise our days.
One of these rituals was the Rite of the Lie. It took place every morning at around 11 o’clock. Improbable sandwiches were served and people stopped work for half an hour to sit in the buzzing heather, relax, and tell each other outrageous whoppers. Over on the mainland the saying went that your Lewisman was true of heart, noble in nose, and honest as the day was long (provided the day was only 23 and a half hours long).
Although the practice arose spontaneously, the civilising principle behind the Rite Of The Lie was that people should have a chance to get rid of the fantasical before fantastical pressure built up within us, and we started to believe in everything anyone told us. (Rural, isolated peoples everywhere are particularly vulnerable to this.) It would get us pondering the big questions for the remainder of the day, making our manual labours pass more quickly. Wandering ministers (known affectionately as the Roving Revs) would travel about the moors making sure people were getting the answers to these questions right of their own free will, naturally – questions about the nature of truth, the existence of God, the nature of man, and, of course, things of a more practical nature too, such as, does Kenny Tweedy’s observation that Guinness does not get rusty when you leave it out in the rain mean that in fact it is not full of strength-giving iron?
The island mind is as fertile as dungy loam and so great were some of the whoppers told, and with such boldness and conviction, that some mornings the sun would snuff itself out for a minute or two, convinced momentarily by someone swearing, with compelling arguments to back the point, that day was, in fact, night. Each person was allowed to insert 2 lies per rite; all the rest of the conversation had to be true. There were no other rules. Great lies and small slanders were given the same weight. “False lies” were commonly employed as red herrings to wrong-foot and create distrust in the listener. For example, if someone were to say that Ceardy Calum (Unattractive Malcolm) got lucky with Marina Cleeps Mor (Busty Marina) 3 times behind his peatstack before the cock crowed on Sunday morning, and also said that Uig was tipped to win the Cup), well – these two things were so improbable that, if the person went on to say that people South of Perth had webbed feet and built great cathedrals to celebrate moustaches, you would have little choice but to believe him. They are odd down South.
Peigi Morag Mackenzie of Brue was a champion at the lie-rite, an acknowledged high priestess of the art who regularly won the annual Lie Of The Land. Her best-remembered unsolved lie, although not by any means her best in terms of artistry, split the island irascibly in two and debate rages to this day as to its truth.
That day she said three things. Bracketed between the assertions that custard boils at the same temperature that sadness melts; and that clouds are the cigar-puffs of God’s nostrils and the reason we have so many clouds in Lewis compared to say, Tahiti, is because God likes to hang out and smoke with us more than anyone else in the whole world; Peigi Morag said this: Death is the mother of beauty.
What she meant, and subsequently argued for, was that divinity was to be found here, on Earth, because only here, where death threatened everything, could beauty be truly appreciated. In heaven, on the other hand, where there is no death and beauty is eternal, we just could not appreciate beauty as much – we would take it for granted. Poignancy, an important part of beauty, would be missing in heaven. We ought to look at Earth, she said, as the only paradise we will know and, as part of our duty to God, try to ensure it is indeed a paradise for all peoples.
She developed this idea, she claimed, while out roaming with her beloved sheep, looking at them in all their moods and tufty splendours; looking at the world too, and all its moods and tufty splendours. We didn’t pay proper attention to any of the nature around us, she said. The sheep were talking, we just weren’t listening (unfortunately, she got a bit earnest and weepy at this point.)
For a while, before the synod elders were called in, a good many people were persuaded by her argument. But holy men were alarmed! Outraged! Went purple! Peigi-Morag was arrested and brought to trial for heresy.
At the trial, the mainland press learned many unexpected things about Hebrideanonians. They learned we have a complicated relationship with custard, the complexity increasing as you progress from the Inner to Outer Hebrides. (And when you leave Skye for the outer isles, make no mistake, you are making progress.) They learned that happiness and sadness do indeed mingle yellowley in island bowls in proportions reflective of how much pudding is left at any given instant multiplied by Planck’s Constant. At Peigi-Morag’s trial though, her assertion that custard boils at the same temperature that sadness melts was judged as an ambiguous statement because noone had a thermometer for custard (Aonghais Gle-Mhor – Very Big Angus, is on record as saying that he had a thermometer for happiness under his sporran, adding, heh, heh, heh. But the judge deemed it inadmissable evidence. Later, his 15 children would become known as The Evidence, and his wife – behind her back – as Mrs. Admissable.)
It was clear, of course, that God prefers Lewis people to any one else in the world (why else would he have put the Garden of Eden in Garyvard?) so the jury found the God’s Nostril/clouds maxim to be the Truth. As an Ambiguous – like the custard ruling – was counted as a Truth, that meant that the Beauty in Death one must, must, according to the 2-lie rule, be a lie. A lie! A lie! Poor Peigi-Morag insisted that that one was the truth, adding – in a sentence that did her cause little good – that God did like the Tahitians better than Lewisfolk. But the elders shook their magisterial wattles menacingly at the jury, terrifying them into obeisance. The forces had gathered against her. She was sunk.
Peigi-Morag MacKenzie pleaded no no no in the manner of Amy Winehouse but that only turned the jury, who were more of a Wayne Newton crowd, further against her. Ostensibly, she was not sentenced for the substance of her “lie” although everyone knew the case wouldn’t even have come to trial but for it; the question she posed was just too big for the church powers to countenance. They didn’t want the people thinking that. Instead, her conviction was for the crime of Not Telling Her Full Allotment of Lies – only one in a 30 minute period – and she was sentenced to death by boredom and booked on a passage to Middlesborough that night.
But Peigi-Morag would not accept Middlesborough as her fate. That afternoon, before the ferry came to take her away, she was allowed a compassionate visit to her sheep for the last time. Breaking from her guards suddenly, she ran to the edge of the cliff where she had warned her beloved flock never to wander. Without a look back she leapt over the stile and flung herself far out over the bay, screaming tunefully “They tried to send me to Middlesborough, but I said no no no!”
Her remains were scraped off the rocks at the foot of the cliff and buried in unconsecrated ground with no headstone. Rumour has it that the Rangers Supporters Club unwittingly built their meeting-house/bar on her remains but, as her ghost is only ever seen when the Rangers Supporters are well wellied, (any hour after 6pm) most people believe that these are more your Johnnie Walker type hauntings, and little attention is paid. It is true though that Rangers has never won a match against Middlesborough at home or away. Make of that what you will.
But that is all in the past. She is dead, locked up in the moody, greeny-blue, bipolar tomb we call Earth. It is only left for us to decide if Peigi-Morag was right or wrong about Death being the mother of beauty.
PS. Amid all the egg-hunting and egg-rolling and egg-painting and worrying about what they did to the chickens to up their production so dramatically; and amid all the chocolate-scoffing and then smeary-faced chocolate-rueing this weekend, we saw Notes On A Scandal. Flippin’ fab, it was. Highly recommended. Look, if you want a decent movie review, you’re at the wrong blog, mister. “Flippin’ fab” says all it needs to. Leave me alone!
April 10th, 2007 at 2:53 am
Sheer brilliance. I bow before you.
Lies are, of course, revered in Britain more than in any other kingdom in the world. We are great liars, proud liars. Liars can be found propping up any given bar on any given day. You meet them at the bus station, in the chippy and in the dole queue. Without liars, the world would be black and white. They add colour to our grayscale existence.
I was taking a piss next to that Chris Quintin once, the bloke who played Brian Tilsley in Coronation St. I caught him looking at my dick so I panelled him…..You know that Cilla Black? She used to be a man she did. Used to have a fish stall in the market hall…….
April 10th, 2007 at 5:30 am
It’s amazing what a lack of decent Earl Grey will do to a society. It’s the backbone of civilisation, tea is. Well-made and in a pot though, mind, none of that bag stuff!
Eddie, I’m dreadfully sorry about my lingo-ignorance, but what does one do to someone when one “panels” them? Considering the circumstances, it could have been either a happy or a sad ending…
April 10th, 2007 at 6:43 am
There’s a difference between lies as in harmless story-telling and lies as in deceiving people for your own ends. I expect the Lewis people, being God-fearing, did the first to avoid doing the second. Was Peigi Morag the first woman to be convicted on a technicality?
April 10th, 2007 at 7:14 am
I don’t believe a word of this … which probably makes you champion, Sam.
April 10th, 2007 at 12:02 pm
There’s nowt wrong with a spot of lying.
‘Does this lilac organza outfit look nice?’
‘Yes.’
See.
The biggest country lie involves distance.
‘Is it far?”
‘Och, sure its only over the road.’
96 miles later Finn and I hit Glendalough.
Bah.
Poor Peigi.
April 10th, 2007 at 1:40 pm
A lovely post, and what a tradition you’re following. But rangers, an islander under them, an’ female at that. That was the whopper tooooo far. She would have arose an lay waste to them. Wisps of them, floating down the Clyde on a breeze, only to sink ‘em well off the Ailsa Craig. They might disturb the Curling Stones otherwise.
April 10th, 2007 at 4:04 pm
Sam with a brain like yours there are no limits. I’ll bet you understand all about those demmed elusive ‘cookies’ which I find so flummoxing.
All I want for Christmas is some dungy loam. My little plants are crying out for it.
Could we not organise a petition to give Morag the recognition she deserves? If only a headstone?
Finally re custard if you wet some grease proof paper and lie – or is it lay – it on the custard you will never get that revolting dark yellow skin.
Snifter time! Bottoms up!
April 10th, 2007 at 4:17 pm
Eddie, I can’t handle the truth. I need to wrap it up in tissues of lies and guess at the truth within before I tease it open. A world of bright white truths would be blindingly boring. There’d be no fiction and no way to get at deeper, less flashy, glarey truths.
Carolyn, the Empire was built by tea-drinkers! It was also lost by tea-drinkers, mind you. Coffee’s been pretty good for the American Empire so far. I wonder if any countries made massive strides on the back of its cocoa or Bovril consumption? I’d move there.
Nanas, there is a story of a murderess way back in the annals of Hebrideanionian history who got off on a technicality. She was found in a court of law to have murdered her husband with malice aforethought and an enormous knitting needle. The arresting officer described her standing over the husband slavering inappropriately, dripping with blood and clutching a gore-strung size 7 knitting needle. In fact it had been a brutal size 5 knitting needle she’d used – a fact that made all he male jurors audibly groan and even the defending counsel (a man) whimper. The judge declared a mistrial but said in his remarks that technically, the husband had been a right arse and any other human being would have murdered him a long time ago. She got off on two technicalities then and was given a medal for fortitude in the face of a feckless husband She married the judge the following year and spent a rather more feckful couple of years until he got a crochet hook in his heart. This time she was hung.
Sneezy, it’s all true! Every word, I swear! This is the bona fide history of my people I’m laying out here. O Doubting Sneezy! Do you need to see the wounds for yourself? Do you need to visit the Rangers Social Club in Stornoway? 10 minutes in there and they’ll be serving you improbable sandwiches, thistle-based mescaline and having you believe the circa 1990 tractor parked outside is just what you need for a little town runabout. You will leave several thousand quid poorer, in a highly suggestible state, and with bluebirds flying round and round your head.
April 10th, 2007 at 4:49 pm
fmc, I’m sure your mammy is a very vision in lilac organza! My mother-in-law had a lilac-haired phase but switched to blue when she realised she could no longer wear green. Apricot followed the blue for a while and then a disastrous way too dark auburn experiment so it was back to the blue in spring and summer alternated with pearl in autumn and winter. Seriously. It was like watching the garden year tracking her hair-colour sometimes. Does your mammy also wear sea-foam shoes and accessories with the lilac? Hmm. It’s a bad case then. I’m so sorry, hun. Is there anything that can be done at this point?
Vince, hello, thanks for visiting. “She would have arose an lay waste to them. Wisps of them, floating down the Clyde on a breeze, only to sink ?em well off the Ailsa Craig” This is a Tuesday night out in Stornoway Rangers Club except it’s the Minch they’re floating on. The wives have to go out in rowing-boats the next morning gathering bits of husband-wisp and even then they’re not really “all there” at work. But I’m not following any tradition here. This is all true people! I swear!
Pat, the trouble with the headstone idea is that recent geowhatsit readings by archaeology students from Sweden have located the hapless Peigi-Morags grave under the second urinal form the left in the gents loo. A headstone was considered but it was thought the acid might erode the letters away in a matter of months. Instead they’ve made a biro sign in a clear plastic sleeve (protection from splashes) and tacked it to the wall above urinal #2. It’s really quite a thoughtful gesture, especially for Rangers supporters, and many men will even take their flat-caps off while relieving themselves, as a mark of respect.
I love the custard skin! Chewy – mmmm! and all I understand about cookies is that they make the world go round. Willing your little plants to grow, as I type! Haul grass, little plants!
April 10th, 2007 at 7:56 pm
Sometimes I lie.
April 10th, 2007 at 8:02 pm
Kara, me too.
No, I don’t.
Yes, yes, sometimes I do!
Of course, I don’t, don’t be so silly.
I do, you know. I find lying to myself is the most fun of all.
April 10th, 2007 at 9:53 pm
Peig? bocht. Mo bhr?n.
Sc?al iontach, a chail?n. Maith th?!
April 11th, 2007 at 10:11 am
So in keeping with the tradition I assume there are only two lies in your story? If we guess which two do we win a prize?
April 11th, 2007 at 11:25 am
Lies! Does it count if you swear blind that you have no idea what has happened to your husbands ancient garments when you have hidden them in the attic prior to ditching them? I do cross my fingers.
April 11th, 2007 at 2:13 pm
Gaelic (or Gallic) was surely invented for magical realism and sci-fi. Bock the Robber might look like a geriatric Shane McGowan for all I know, but when he starts that Oirish funny talk my knees turn to Guinness-flavoured jelly. Such diphthongs! Such accents! I swoon at the sight of this mythical tongue, God knows what might happen if it were being stuck in my shell-like by an 11th century Jimmy Nesbitt lookalike draped in wolf fur.
Sam (or Saimh), you have found your calling, as the Chronicleress of the Ages of Lewis. All hail, true born queen of Celt-Lit. A fellow exiled princess of Hiberdonia salutes you and looks forward to the forthcoming movie, mini-series, graphic novel and board game.
Miadh! or Meas! (depending on which internet translator you’re using)
April 11th, 2007 at 5:35 pm
Bocks, go raibh maith agut, a’ghraidh
See! See how I learn! Just last week I’d have said tapadh leat, and not be ordering Spanish bar nibbles.
Hi Caro, welcome! There aren’t enough lies in my story. Even in a story about lying it is only the shining golden truth that is spaketh here. I will track down anyone who disagrees and send them rudely-shaped potatoes incessantly. Thanks for stopping by and commenting. I loves it when people do.
Pat, in the trenches of marriage, I don’t think that would be considered a black-hearted lie. To me, what you describe is much more of a strategic manoeuvre, necessary to the forward movement of the unit – the chopping back of old growth to make room for newer shoots and suits. Madame, you are a fine general!
Lady D, I have it on good authority that our Bock looks mighty fine in his dipthongs. If you tell him your knees are Guinnessy though, he might not progress much further, if you know what I mean.
Mercy bowcups, m’darling!
A prototype Peigi-Morag bobble-head is in the works as we speak.
April 11th, 2007 at 7:15 pm
I have no time for liars as they say things that are not true, see how I summed them up? I will not sensationalise my blog by making stuff up, oh theres a picture of Alan Rickman from that porno he made in the 80’s up on my blog right now, hey that fella works out.
April 11th, 2007 at 8:04 pm
The Irish (with whom I share some ancestry and this trait) regard it as their duty to embroider dull reality. My maternal grandfather saw himself not so much as mendacious, but as “an author who has never had my books published”. The lies you speak of are not politicians’ lies, but are more real than the truth. Anyone who knows how to read good fiction knows it’s all much truer than it would be if some poetical soul hadn’t made it up.
The only exception is of course Mr Knudsen (see above), who finds poetry in reality and has never once been known to bear false witness ‘pon his blog.
April 11th, 2007 at 9:37 pm
Knuds, My pulse quickened and it took only as long as the speed of the human motor-neuron to click over to yours, where not only do I not find Mr Alan Splendid Rickman, I find you to be a most cruel fibber. I won’t forget this, Knudsen!
DC Warmington, in Lewis, we not only embroider dull reality, we knit, weave and crochet it, holding together our fabrications with a running tacking stitch, for easy dissembly (Pun! A poor one, it’s true, but puntheless, a none!). I love what your grandfather said. He must have been a great grandpa.
April 11th, 2007 at 10:46 pm
The eggs are up. I think you know what I mean.
Now enough with the pressure!
April 11th, 2007 at 11:15 pm
Kara, word.
April 12th, 2007 at 12:03 am
“Death is the mother of beauty.”
I thought death is the mother of religion?
April 12th, 2007 at 12:24 am
Sparra’, she’s the granny of Religion.
April 12th, 2007 at 1:16 am
Wow!!!
I popped over here to say Thank You for your intelligent thoughts and words over at Bocks place but then lo I find this. What a great read!!!
I’ll be back more often.
Thanks again.
April 12th, 2007 at 5:39 am
Aw shucks, Brianf, you’ve gone and made me go all blushy. I’ve been and dribbled in your comment box. I’m sure a bit of Oxyclean will get the stain out. Thanks for stopping by!