air. Her long-suffering husband and son were kept back-weary working to feed and
clothe that awful brute of a woman. She was not born with her huge bulk—oh no, it was sheer unadulterated greediness alone that was responsible. Folks said, as they were wont to do in wild
and isolated places of Scotland, that she was the offspring of a witch’s womb. They further said her husband had been put under a spell and enslaved to do her bidding. And adding to this
household, the result of a single passionate night when the hypnotised husband was robbed of his reason, came the son.
When rising in the morning Peggy ate her way through pound upon pound of thick milky porridge and loaves of crusty bread. Mid-morning, she’d thump the bare earth outside her canvas home
screaming for more food, and this, sad to say, was provided by her deathly-pale and emaciated kin.
‘Get me meat, ye useless objects,’ she’d howl at them, ‘work and work until I have my fill.’
And this the sad pair did. Cutting trees and selling firewood from early morn until sundown, they chopped and sawed until exhaustion took over. Then, before falling onto their small, narrow,
straw-filled mattresses, they handed over every penny they had earned.
This Mistress Moore was not just a greedy bisom—oh no, she also had cunning in her bones, so she did. Because some of the hard-earned money went into a purse she hid under a horse-hair
bed, to be saved for the beef market. And on the day our tale unfolds, farmers were congregating over by Castle Urquhart to sell the best cuts of prime meat.
With a thump and a kick she sent her menfolk off earlier than usual that morning, followed by a sharp warning not to come home until the stars were sparkling in the sky above.
Keeking from her tent door, she watched until the men were gone into the forest before counting her money. ‘Oh man, ye look fair braw, ma bonny bawbees, I’ll git maself a rare bag
o’ the best juicy meat today, oh a grand day, tis this.’
No sooner had she lifted her massive frame—which, it may be said, weighed half a ton—onto two swollen feet, and pushed open her tent door, when two shepherds came coyly by.
‘Hello tae ye, Mistress Moore,’ they said, pulling cloth toories from their heads and making sure there was enough space between them and her tent. It was usual for the said woman to
throw a punch and ask questions later. Not this day, however. Hardly glancing in their direction, she covered her shoulders with a shawl of grey wool, bigger than any normal family blanket, and
began to waddle off down the road.
‘Mistress, we have been having terrible times wi’ a giant cat-like creature,’ one said, still clutching his headgear and keeping a safe distance behind. The other made up to
her and tried to get her attention by overtaking. Not one bit did she tolerate such intrusion, and lashed out at the poor fellow with an elbow to his chest. Several feet in the air went the poor
man, landing hard on the rough shale shore.
The other shepherd stopped to assist his friend, shouting after Peggy Moore, ‘it can rip a calf from its mother and crunch through a sheep’s skull with one close of its jaw. We canna
find it, so you had better mind yer back, tinker woman.’
The earth stopped shuddering as she halted her footsteps. Only her head did she turn to dart evil glances at the men, who stood there with plaidies covering their shoulders and cromachs to hand.
One look in her direction, and the three accompanying sheepdogs curled around their masters’ feet like earthworms.
‘I hiv nae fear o’ ony livin’ creature.’ She lifted a fist into the air.
‘But Mistress Moore, this is a demon cat wi’ the power of a lion, the jaw o’ a tiger and the stealth o’ a panther. Tak’ care an’ keep a fire burning in the
darkest pairt o’ the nicht.’
‘Let it dae its worst. If it has the courage tae come within a hundred feet o’ me, then little does it ken Peggy