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diff --git a/old/53839-0.txt b/old/53839-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 0c1a3dc..0000000 --- a/old/53839-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5865 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Tragic Romances, by Fiona Macleod - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Tragic Romances - Re-issue of the Shorter Stories of Fiona Macleod; - Rearranged, with Additional Tales - -Author: Fiona Macleod - -Release Date: December 30, 2016 [EBook #53839] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAGIC ROMANCES *** - - - - -Produced by Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - - TRAGIC ROMANCES - - [Illustration] - - RE-ISSUE OF THE SHORTER - STORIES OF FIONA MACLEOD - REARRANGED, WITH - ADDITIONAL - TALES - - - COPYRIGHTED IN THE UNITED - STATES: ALL RIGHTS RESERVED - - - - -By the Same Author. - - PHARAIS: A Romance of the Isles. - - (FRANK MURRAY, Derby.) - (STONE & KIMBALL, New York.) - - THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS: A Romance. - - (JOHN LANE, London.) - (ROBERTS BROS., Boston.) - - THE SIN-EATER: and other Tales. - - (PATRICK GEDDES & COLLEAGUES, Edinburgh.) - (STONE & KIMBALL, New York.) - - THE WASHER OF THE FORD: and other Legendary Moralities. - - (PATRICK GEDDES & COLLEAGUES, Edinburgh.) - (STONE & KIMBALL, New York.) - - GREEN FIRE: A Romance. - - (ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE & CO., London.) - (HARPERS, New York.) - - FROM THE HILLS OF DREAM: Mountain Songs and Island Runes. - - (PATRICK GEDDES & COLLEAGUES, Edinburgh.) - - - VOLUME - THREE - - TRAGIC - ROMANCES - - BY - Fiona Macleod - - PATRICK GEDDES & COLLEAGUES - THE OUTLOOK TOWER·CASTLE HILL·EDINBURGH - - - - -TRAGIC ROMANCES - - -“It is Destiny, then, that is the Protagonist in the Celtic Drama … And -it is Destiny, that sombre Demogorgon of the Gael, whose boding breath, -whose menace, whose shadow glooms so much of the remote life I know, and -hence glooms also this book of interpretations: for pages of life must -either be interpretative or merely documentary, and these following pages -have for the most part been written as by one who repeats, with curious -insistence, a haunting, familiar, yet ever wild and remote air, whose -obscure meanings he would fain reiterate, interpret.” - - (From the PROLOGUE to _The Sin-Eater_.) - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - MORAG OF THE GLEN 11 - - THE DÀN-NAN-RÒN 61 - - THE SIN-EATER 113 - - THE NINTH WAVE 167 - - THE JUDGMENT O’ GOD 185 - - GREEN BRANCHES 201 - - THE ARCHER 231 - - - - -_NOTE_ - - -In this volume all the tales, except the first and last, are re-issued -from _The Sin-Eater_. “Morag of the Glen” is reprinted from the November -issue of _The Savoy_; “The Archer” has not hitherto appeared in print. As -the other tales have not been reset, they are, except in the matter of -pagination and arrangement, necessarily unaltered. - - - - -_MORAG OF THE GLEN_ - - -MORAG OF THE GLEN - - -I - -It was a black hour for Archibald Campbell of Gorromalt in Strathglas, -and for his wife and for Morag their second daughter, when the word came -that Muireall had the sorrow of sorrows. What is pain, and is death a -thing to fear? But there is a sorrow that no man can have and yet go -free for evermore of a shadow upon his brow: and there is a sorrow that -no woman can have and keep the moonshine in her eyes. And when a woman -has this sorrow, it saves or mars her: though, for sure, none of us may -discern just what that saving may be, or from whom or what, or what may -be that bitter or sweet ruin. We are shaped as clay in the potter’s hand: -ancient wisdom, that we seldom learn till the hand is mercifully still, -and the vessel, finished for good or evil, is broken. - -It is a true saying that memory is like the sea-weed when the tide is -in--but the tide ebbs. Each frond, each thick spray, each fillicaun -or pulpy globe, lives lightly in the wave: the green water is full of -strange rumour, of sea-magic and sea-music: the hither flow and thither -surge give continuity and connection to what is fluid and dissolute. -But when the ebb is far gone, and the wrack and the weed lie sickly in -the light, there is only one confused intertangled mass. For most of -us, memory is this tide-left strand: though for each there are pools, -or shallows which even the ebb does not lick up in its thirsty way -depthward,--narrow overshadowed channels to which we have the intangible -clues. But for me there will never be any ebb-tide of memory, of one -black hour, and one black day. - -A wild lone place it was where we lived: among the wet hills, in a -country capped by slate-black mountains. To the stranger the whole -scene must have appeared grimly desolate. We, dwellers there, and those -of our clan, and the hill folk about and beyond, knew that there were -three fertile straths hidden among the wilderness of rock and bracken: -Strathmòr, Strathgorm, and Strathglas. It was in the last we lived. All -Strathglas was farmed by Archibald Campbell, and he had Strathgorm to -where the Gorromalt Water cuts it off from the head of Glen Annet. The -house we lived in was a long two-storeyed whitewashed building with -projecting flanks. There was no garden, but only a tangled potato-acre, -and a large unkempt space where the kail and the bracken flourished -side by side, with the kail perishing day by day under the spreading -strangling roots of the usurper. The rain in Strathglas fell when most -other spots were fair. It was because of the lie of the land, I have -heard. The grey or black cloud would slip over Ben-Bhreac or Melbèinn, -and would become blue-black while one was wondering if the wind would -lift it on to Maol-Dunn, whose gloomy ridge had two thin lines of -pine-trees which, from Strathglas, stood out like bristling eyebrows. -But, more likely than not, it would lean slowly earthward, then lurch -like a water-logged vessel, and spill, spill, through a rising misty -vapour, a dreary downfall. Oh! the rain--the rain--the rain! how weary -I grew of it, there; and of the melancholy _méh’ing_ of the sheep, that -used to fill the hills with a lamentation, terrible, at times, to endure. - -And yet, I know, and that well, too, that I am thinking this vision of -Teenabrae, as the house was called, and of its dismal vicinage, in the -light of tragic memory. For there were seasons when the rains suspended, -or came and went like fugitive moist shadows: days when the sunlight and -the wind made the mountains wonderful, and wrought the wild barren hills -to take on a softness and a dear familiar beauty: hours, even, when, in -the hawthorn-time, the cuckoo called joyously across the pine-girt scaurs -and corries on Melbèinn, or, in summer, the swallows filled the straths -as with the thridding of a myriad shuttles. - -Sure enough, I was too young to be there: though, indeed, Morag was no -more than a year older, being twenty; but when my mother died, and my -father went upon the seas upon one of his long whaling voyages, I was -glad to leave my lonely home in the Carse o’ Gowrie and go to Teenabrae -in Strathglas, and to be with my aunt, that was wife to Archibald mac -Alasdair Ruadh--Archibald Campbell, as he would be called in the lowland -way--or Gorromalt as he was named by courtesy, that being the name of his -sheep-farm that ran into the two straths where the Gorromalt Water surged -turbulently through a narrow wilderness of wave-scooped, eddy-hollowed -stones and ledges. - -I suppose no place could be called lifeless which had always that sound -of Gorromalt Water, that ceaseless lamentation of the sheep crying among -the hills, that hoarse croaking of the corbies who swam black in the air -betwixt us and Maol-Dunn, that mournful plaining of the lapwings as they -wheeled querulously for ever and ever and ever. But, to a young girl, the -whole of this was an unspeakable weariness. - -Beside the servant-folk--not one of whom was to me anything, save a girl -called Maisie, who had had a child and believed it had become a “pee-wit” -since its death, and that all the lapwings were the offspring of the -sorrow of joy--there were only Archibald Campbell, his wife, who was -my aunt, Muireall the elder daughter, and Morag. These were my folk: -but Morag I loved. In appearance she and I differed wholly. My cousin -Muireall and I were like each other; both tall, dark-haired, dark-browed, -with dusky dark eyes, though mine with no flame in them; and my face too, -though not uncomely, without that touch of wildness which made Muireall’s -so strangely attractive, and at times so beautiful. Morag, however, -was scarce over medium height. Her thick wavy hair always retained the -captive gold that the sunshine had spilled there; her soft, white, -delicate, wild-rose face was like none other that I have ever seen: her -eyes, of that heart-lifting blue which spring mornings have, held a -living light that was fair to see, and gave pain too, perhaps, because of -their plaintive hillside wildness. Ah, she was a fawn, Morag!… soft and -sweet, swift and dainty and exquisite as a fawn in the green fern. - -Gorromalt himself was a gaunt stern man. He was two inches or more over -six feet, but looked less, because of a stoop. It always seemed to me -as if his eyes pulled him forward: brooding, sombre, obscure eyes, of a -murky gloom. His hair was iron-grey and matted; blacker, but matted and -tangled, his thick beard; and his face was furrowed like Ben Scorain of -the Corries. I never saw him in any other garb than a grey shepherd tweed -with a plaid, though no Campbell in Argyll was prouder than he, and he -allowed no plaid or _tunag_ anywhere on his land or in his house that was -not of the tartan of MacCailin Mòr. He was what, there, they called a -black protestant; for the people in that part held to the ancient faith. -True enough, for sure, all the same: for his pity was black, and the -milk of kindness in him must have been like Gorromalt Water in spate. -Poor Aunt Elspeth! my heart often bled for her. I do not think Archibald -Campbell was unkind to his wife, but he was harsh, and his sex was like -a blank wall to her, against which her shallow waters surged or crawled -alike vainly. There was to her something at once terrible and Biblical -in this wall of cruel strength, this steadfast independence of love -or the soft ways or the faltering speech of love. There are women who -hate men with an unknowing hatred, who lie by their husband night after -night, year after year; who fear and serve him; who tend him in life -and minister to him in death; who die, before or after, with a slaying -thirst, a consuming hunger. Of these unhappy housemates, of desolate -hearts and unfrequented lips, my aunt Elspeth was one. - -It was on a dull Sunday afternoon that the dark hour came of which I have -spoken. The rain fell among the hills. There was none on the north side -of Strathglas, where Teenabrae stood solitary. The remembrance is on -me keen just now: how I sat there, on the bench in front of the house, -side by side with Morag, in the hot August damp, with the gnats pinging -overhead, and not a sound else save the loud raucous surge of Gorromalt -Water, thirty yards away. In a chair near us sat my aunt Elspeth. Beyond -her, on a milking-stool, with his chin in his hands, and his elbows on -his knees, was her husband. - -There was a gloom upon all of us. The day before, as soon as Gorromalt -had returned from Castle Avale, high up in Strathmòr, we had seen the -black east wind in his eyes. But he had said nothing. We guessed that -his visit to the Englishman at Castle Avale, who had bought the Three -Straths from Sir Ewan Campbell of Drumdoon, had proved fruitless, or at -least unsatisfactory. It was at the porridge on the Sabbath morning that -he told us. - -“And … and … must we go, Archibald?” asked his wife, her lips white and -the deep withered creases on her neck ashy grey. - -He did not answer, but the tumbler cracked in his grip, and the -splintered glass fell into his plate. The spilt milk trickled off the -table on to the end of his plaid, and so to the floor. Luath, the collie, -slipped forward, with her tongue lolling greedily: but her eye caught -the stare of the silent man, and with a whine, and a sudden sweep of her -tail, she slunk back. - -It must have been nigh an hour later, that he spoke. - -“No, Elspeth,” he said. “There will be no going away from here, for you -and me, till we go feet foremost.” - -Before the afternoon we had heard all: how he had gone to see this -English lord who had “usurped” Drumdoon: how he had not gained an -interview, and had seen no other than Mr Laing, the East Lothian factor. -He had had to accept bitter hard terms. Sir Ewan Campbell was in Madras, -with his regiment, a ruined man: he would never be home again, and, if -he were, would be a stranger in the Three Straths, where he and his -had lived, and where his kindred had been born and had died during six -centuries back. There was no hope. This Lord Greycourt wanted more rent, -and he also wanted Strathgorm for a deer-run. - -We were sitting, brooding on these things: in our ears the fierce words -that Gorromalt had said, with bitter curses, upon the selling of the -ancient land and the betrayal of the people. - -Morag was in one of her strange moods. I saw her, with her shining eyes, -looking at the birch that overhung the small foaming linn beyond us, just -as though she saw the soul of it, and the soul with strange speech to it. - -“Where is Muireall?” she said to me suddenly, in a low voice. - -“Muireall?” I repeated, “Muireall? I am not for knowing, Morag. Why do -you ask? Do you want her?” - -She did not answer, but went on: - -“Have you seen him again?” - -“Him?… Whom?” - -“Jasper Morgan, this English lord’s son.” - -“No.” - -A long silence followed. Suddenly Aunt Elspeth started. Pointing to a -figure coming from the peat-moss at the hither end of Strathmòr, she -asked who it was, as she could not see without her spectacles. Her -husband rose, staring eagerly. He gave a grunt of disappointment when he -recognised Mr Allan Stewart, the minister of Strathmòr parish. - -As the old man drew near we watched him steadfastly. I have the thought -that each one of us knew he was coming to tell us evil news; though none -guessed why or what, unless Morag mayhap. - -When he had shaken hands, and blessed the house and those within it, -Mr Stewart sat down on the bench beside Morag and me. I am thinking he -wanted not to see the eyes of Gorromalt, nor to see the white face of -Aunt Elspeth. - -I heard him whisper to my dear that he wanted her to go into the house -for a little. But she would not. The birdeen knew that sorrow was upon us -all. He saw “no” in her eyes, and forbore. - -“And what is the thing that is on your lips to tell, Mr Stewart?” said -Gorromalt at last, half-mockingly, half-sullenly. - -“And how are you for knowing that I have anything to tell, Gorromalt?” - -“Sure, man, if a kite can see the shadow of a mouse a mile away, it can -see a black cloud on a hill near by!” - -“It’s a black cloud I bring, Archibald Campbell: alas, even so. Ay, sure, -it is a black cloud it is. God melt the pain of it!” - -“Speak, man!” - -“There is no good in wading in heather. Gorromalt, and you, Mrs Campbell, -and you, my poor Morag, and you too, my dear, must just be brave. It is -God’s will.” - -“Speak, man, and don’t be winding the shroud all the time! Let us be -hearing and seeing the thing you have brought to tell us.” - -It was at this moment that Aunt Elspeth half rose, and abruptly reseated -herself, raising the while a deprecatory feeble hand. - -“Is it about Muireall?” she asked quaveringly. “She went away, to the -church at Kilbrennan, at sunrise: and the water’s in spate all down -Strathgorm. Has she been drowned? Is it death upon Muireall? Is it -Muireall? Is it Muireall?” - -“She is not drowned, Mrs Campbell.” - -At that she sat back, the staring dread subsiding from her eyes. But at -the minister’s words, Gorromalt slowly moved his face and body so that he -fronted the speaker. Looking at Morag, I saw her face white as the canna. -Her eyes swam in wet shadow. - -“It is not death, Mrs Campbell,” the old man repeated, with a strange, -uneasy, furtive look, as he put his right hand to his stiff white necktie -and flutteringly fingered it. - -“In the name o’ God, man, speak out!” - -“Ay, ay, Campbell: ay, ay, I am speaking … I am for the telling … but … -but, see you, Gorromalt, be pitiful … be …” - -Gorromalt rose. I never realised before how tall he was. There was -height to him, like unto that of a son of Anak. - -“Well, well, well, it is just for telling you I’ll be. Sit down, -Gorromalt, sit down, Mr Campbell, sit down, man, sit down!… Ah, sure -now, that is better. Well, well, God save us all from the sin that is in -us: but … ah, mothering heart, it is saving you I would be if I could, -but … but …” - -“But _what_!” thundered Gorromalt, with a voice that brought Maisie and -Kirsteen out of the byre, where they were milking the kye. - -“He has the mercy: He only! And it is this, poor people: it is this. -Muireall has come to sorrow.” - -“What sorrow is the sorrow that is on her?” - -“The sorrow of woman.” - -A terrible oath leapt from Gorromalt’s lips. His wife sat in a stony -silence, her staring eyes filming like those of a stricken bird. Morag -put her left hand to her heart. - -Suddenly Archibald Campbell turned to his daughter. - -“Morag, what is the name of that man whom Muireall came to know, when -she and you went to that Sodom, that Gomorrha, which men call London?” - -“His name was Jasper Morgan.” - -“Has she ever seen him since?” - -“I think so.” - -“You _think_? What will you be _thinking_ for, girl! _Think!_ There will -be time enough to think while the lichen grows grey on a new-fall’n rock! -Out with it! Out with it! Have they met?… Has he been here?… is _he_ the -man?” - -There was silence then. A plover wheeled by, plaining aimlessly. Maisie -the milk-lass ran forward, laughing. - -“Ah, ’tis my wee Seorsa,” she cried. “Seorsa! Seorsa! Seorsa!” - -Gorromalt took a stride forward, his face shadowy with anger, his eyes -ablaze. - -“Get back to the kye, you wanton wench!” he shouted savagely. “Get back, -or it is having my gun I’ll be and shooting that pee-wit of yours, that -lennavan-Seorsa!” - -Then, shaking still, he turned to Morag. - -“Out with it, girl! What do you know?” - -“I know nothing.” - -“It is a lie, and it is knowing it I am!” - -“It is no lie. I _know_ nothing. I _fear_ much.” - -“And what do _you_ know, old man?” And, with that, Archibald Campbell -turned like a baited bull upon Mr Stewart. - -“She was misled, Gorromalt, she was misled, poor lass! The trouble began -last May, when she went away to the south, to that evil place. And then -he came after her. And it was here he came … and … and…” - -“And who will that man be?” - -“Morag has said it: Jasper Morgan.” - -“And who will Jasper Morgan be?” - -“Are you not for knowing _that_, Archibald Campbell, and you _Gorromalt_?” - -“Why, what meaning are you at?” cried the man, bewildered. - -“Who will Jasper Morgan be but the son of Stanley Morgan!” - -“Stanley Morgan!… Stanley Morgan! I am no wiser. Do you wish to send me -mad, man! Speak out!… out with it!” - -“Why, Gorromalt, what is Drumdoon’s name?” - -“Drumdoon… Why, Sir Ewan… Ah no, for sure ’tis now that English -bread-taker, that southern land-snatcher, who calls himself Lord -Greycourt. And what then?… will it be for…” - -“Aren’t you for knowing his name?… No?… Campbell, man, it is _Morgan_ … -_Morgan_.” - -All this time Aunt Elspeth had sat silent. She now gave a low cry. Her -husband turned and looked at her. “Go into the house,” he said harshly; -“this will not be the time for whimpering; no, by God! it is not the time -for whimpering, woman.” - -She rose, and walked feebly over to Mr Stewart. - -“Tell me all,” she said. Ah, grief to see the pain in her old, old -eyes--and no tears there at all, at all. - -“When this man Jasper Morgan, that is son to Lord Greycourt, came here, -it was to track a stricken doe. And now all is over. There is this note -only. It is for Morag.” - -Gorromalt leaned forward to take it. But I had seen the wild look in -Morag’s eyes, and I snatched it from Mr Stewart, and gave it to my dear, -who slipped it beneath her kerchief. - -Sullenly her father drew up, scowled, but said nothing. - -“What else?” he asked, turning to the minister. - -“She is dying.” - -“Dying!” - -“Ay, alas, alas--the mist is on the hill--the mist is on the hill--and -she so young, too, and so fair, ay, and so sweet and----” - -“That will do, Allan Stewart! That will do!… It is dying she is, you are -for telling us! Well, well, now, and she the plaything o’ Jasper Morgan, -the son of the man there at Drumdoon, the man who wants to drive me away -from here … this _new_ man … this, this lord … he … to drive _me_ away, -who have the years and years to go upon, ay, for more than six hundred -weary long years----” - -“Muireall is dying, Archibald Campbell. Will you be coming to see her, -who is your very own?” - -“And for why is she dying?” - -“She could not wait.” - -“Wait! Wait! She could wait to shame me and mine! No, no, no, Allan -Stewart, you go back to Lord Greycourt’s son and his _leannan_, and say -that neither Gorromalt nor any o’ Gorromalt’s kith or kin will have aught -to do with that wastrel-lass. Let her death be on her! But it’s a soon -easy death it is!… she that slept here this very last night, and away -this morning across the moor like a louping doe, before sunburst and an -hour to that!” - -“She is at the ‘Argyll Arms’ in Kilbrennan. She met the man there. An -hour after he had gone, they found her, lying on the deerskin on the -hearth, and she with the death-sickness on her, and grave-white, because -of the poison there beside her. And now, Archibald Campbell, it is not -refusing you will be to come to your own daughter, and she with death -upon her, and at the edge o’ the silence!” - -But with that Gorromalt uttered wild, savage words, and thrust the old -man before him, and bade him begone, and cursed Muireall, and the child -she bore within her, and the man who had done this thing, and the father -that had brought him into the world, latest adder of an evil brood! - -Scarce, however, was the minister gone, and he muttering sore, and -frowning darkly at that, than Gorromalt reeled and fell. - -The blood had risen to his brain, and he had had a stroke. Sure, the -sudden hand of God is a terrifying thing. It was all we could do, with -the help of Maisie and Kirsteen, to lift and drag him to his bed. - -But an hour after that, when the danger was over, I went to seek Morag. I -could find her nowhere. Maisie had seen her last. I thought that she had -taken one of the horses from the stable, and ridden towards Kilbrennan: -but there was no sign of this. On the long weary moor-road that led -across Strathglas to Strathgorm, she could not have walked without being -seen by some one at Teenabrae. And everyone there was now going to and -fro, with whispers and a dreadful awe. - -So I turned and went down by the linn. From there I could see three -places where Morag loved to lie and dream: and at one of these I hoped to -descry her. - -And, sure, so it was. A glimpse I caught of her, across the spray of the -linn. She was far up the brown Gorromalt Water, and crouched under a -rowan-tree. - -When I reached her she looked up with a start. Ah, the pain of those -tear-wet May-blue eyes--deep tarns of grief to me they seemed. - -In her hand she clasped the letter that I had snatched for her. - -“Read it, dear,” she said simply. - -It was in pencil, and, strangely, was in the Gaelic: strangely, for -though, when with Mr and Mrs Campbell, Morag and I spoke the language -we all loved, and that was our own, Muireall rarely did. The letter ran -somewhat thus: - - “MORAG-À-GHRAIDH, - - “When you get this I shall not be your living sister any more, but - only a memory. I take the little one with me. You know my trouble. - Forgive me. I have only one thing to ask. The man has not only - betrayed me, he has lied to me about his love. He loves another - woman. And that woman, Morag, is you: and you know it. He loved - you first. And now, Morag, I will tell you one thing only. Do you - remember the story that old Sheen McIan told us--that about the - twin sisters of the mother of our mother--one that was a Morag too? - - “I am thinking you do: and here--where I shall soon be lying dead, - with that silence within me, where such a wild clamouring voice - has been, though inaudible to other ears than mine--_here, I am - thinking you will be remembering, and realising, that story_! - - “If, Morag, _if_ you do not remember--but ah, no, we are of the old - race of Siol Dhiarmid, _and you will remember_! - - “Tell no one of this, except F.--_at the end_. - - “Morag, dear sister, till we meet---- - - “MUIREALL.” - -“I do not understand, Morag-my-heart,” I said. Even now, my hand shook -because of these words: “_and that woman, Morag, is you: and you know -it_.” - -“Not now,” she answered, wearily. “I will tell you to-night: but not now.” - -And so we went back together; she, too tired and stricken for tears, and -I with so many in my heart that there were none for my hot eyes. - -As we passed the byre we heard Kirsteen finishing a milking song, but -we stopped when Maisie suddenly broke in, with her strange, wild, -haunting-sweet voice. - -I felt Morag’s fingers tighten in their grasp on my arm as we stood -silent, with averted eyes, listening to an old Gaelic ballad of “Morag of -the Glen.” - - When Morag of the Glen was fëy - They took her where the Green Folk stray: - And there they left her, night and day, - A day and night they left her, fëy. - - And when they brought her home again, - Aye of the Green Folk was she fain: - They brought her _leannan_, Roy McLean, - She looked at him with proud disdain. - - “For I have killed a man,” she said, - “A better man than you to wed: - I slew him when he claspt my head, - And now he sleepeth with the dead. - - “And did you see that little wren? - My sister dear it was, flew then! - That skull her home, that eye her den, - Her song is, _Morag o’ the Glen_! - - “For when she went I did not go, - But washed my hands in blood-red woe: - O wren, trill out your sweet song’s flow, - _Morag is white as the driven snow_!” - - -II - -That night the wind had a dreadful soughing in its voice--a lamentable -voice that came along the rain-wet face of the hills, with a prolonged -moaning and sobbing. - -Down in the big room, that was kitchen and sitting-room in one, where -Gorromalt sat--for he had risen from his bed, for all that he was so weak -and giddy--there was darkness. His wife had pleaded for the oil-lamp, -because the shadows within and the wild wind without--though, I am -thinking, most the shadows within her brain--filled her with dread; but -he would not have it, no, not a candle even. The peats glowed, red-hot; -above them the small narrow pine-logs crackled in a scarlet and yellow -blaze. - -Hour after hour went by in silence. There were but the three of us. -Morag? Ah, did Gorromalt think she would stay at Teenabrae, and Muireall -near by, and in the clutch of the death-frost, and she, her sister dear, -not go to her? He had put the ban upon us, soon as the blood was out of -his brain, and he could half rise from his pillow. No one was to go to -see her, no one was to send word to her, no one was to speak of her. - -At that, Aunt Elspeth had fallen on her knees beside the bed, and prayed -to him to show pity. The tears rained upon the relentless heavy hand she -held and kissed. “At the least,” she moaned, “at the least, let some one -go to her, Archibald; at least a word, only one word!” - -“Not a word, woman, not a word. She has sinned, but that’s the way o’ -women o’ that kind. Let her be. The wind’ll blow her soul against God’s -heavy hand, this very night o’ the nights. It’s not for you nor for me. -But I’m saying this, I am: curse her, ay, curse her again and again, for -that she let the son of the stranger, the son of our enemy, who would -drive us out of the home we have, the home of our fathers, ay, back to -the time when no English foot ever trod the heather of Argyll, that she -would let him do her this shame and disgrace, her and me, an’ you too, -ay, and all of our blood, and the Strath too, for that--ay, by God, and -the clan, the whole clan!” - -But though Gorromalt’s word was law there, there was one who had the tide -coming in at one ear and going out at the other. As soon as the rainy -gloom deepened into dark, she slipped from the house; I wanted to go with -her, but she whispered to me to stay. It was well I did. I was able to -keep back from him, all night, the story of Morag’s going. He thought -she was in her bed. So bitter on the man was his wrath, that, ill as he -was, he would have risen, and ridden or driven over to Kilbrennan, had he -known Morag was gone there. - -Angus Macallum, Gorromalt’s chief man, was with the horses in the stable. -He tried to prevent Morag taking out Gealcas, the mare, she that went -faster and surer than any there. He even put hand upon the lass, and said -a rough word. But she laughed, I am told; and I am thinking that whoever -heard Morag laugh, when she was “strange,” for all that she was so white -and soft, she with her hair o’ sunlight, and the blue, blue eyes o’ -her!--whoever heard _that_ would not be for standing in her way. - -So Angus had stood back, sullenly giving no help, but no longer daring to -interfere. She mounted Gealcas, and rode away into the dark rainy night -where the wind went louping to and fro among the crags on the braes as -though it were mad with fear or pain, and complaining wild, wild--the -lamentable cry of the hills. - -Hour after hour we sat there. We could hear the roaring sound of -Gorromalt Water as it whirled itself over the linn. The stream was in -spate, and would be boiling black, with livid clots of foam flung here -and there on the dripping heather overhanging the torrent. The wind’s -endless sough came into the house, and wailed in the keyholes and the -chinks. Rory, the blind collie, lay on a mat near the door, and the -long hair of his felt was blown upward, and this way and that, by the -ground-draught. - -Once or twice Aunt Elspeth rose, and stirred the porridge that seethed -and bubbled in the pot. Her husband took no notice. He was in a daze, -and sat in his flanked leathern arm-chair, with his arms laid along the -sides, and his down-clasping hands catching the red gleam of the peats, -and his face, white and set, like that of a dead man looking out of a -grated prison. - -Once or twice, an hour or so before, when she had begun to croon some -hymn, he had harshly checked her. But now when she hummed, and at last -openly sang the Gaelic version of “The Lord’s my Shepherd,” he paid no -heed. He was not hearing that, or anything she did. I could make nothing -of the cold bitterness that was on his face. He brooded, I doubt not, -upon doom for the man, and the son of the man, who had wrought him this -evil. - -His wife saw this, and so had her will at last. She took down the great -Gaelic Bible, and read Christ’s words about little children. The rain -slashed against the window-panes. Beyond, the wind moaned, and soughed, -and moaned. From the kennel behind the byre a mournful howling rose and -fell; but Gorromalt did not stir. - -Aunt Elspeth looked at me despairingly. Poor old woman; ah, the misery -and pain of it, the weariness and long pain of starved hearts and barren -hopes. Suddenly an idea came to her. She rose again, and went over to the -fire. Twice she passed in front of her husband. He made no sign. - -“He hates those things,” she muttered to me, her eyes wet with pain, -and with something of shame, too, for admitting that she believed in -incantations. And why not, poor old woman? Sure there are stranger things -than _sian_ or _rosad_, charm or spell; and who can say that the secret -old wisdom is mere foam o’ thought. “He hates those things, but I am for -saving my poor lass if I can. I will be saying that old ancient _eolas_, -that is called the _Eolas an t-Snaithnean_.” - -“What is that, Aunt Elspeth? What are the three threads?” - -“That _eolas_ killed the mother of my mother, dearie; she that was a -woman out of the isle of Benbecula.” - -“Killed her!” I repeated, awe-struck. - -“Ay; ’tis a charm for the doing away of bewitchment, and sure it is my -poor Muireall who has been bewitched. But my mother’s mother used the -_eolas_ for the taking away of a curse upon a cow that would not give -milk. She was saying the incantation for the third time, and winding the -triple thread round the beast’s tail, when in a moment all the ill that -was in the cow came forth and settled upon her, so that she went back -to her house quaking and sick with the blight, and died of it next day, -because there was no one to take it from her in turn by that or any other -_eolas_.” - -I listened in silence. The thing seemed terrible to me then; no, no, not -then only, but now, too, whenever I think of it. - -“Say it then, Aunt Elspeth,” I whispered; “say it, in the name of the -Holy Three.” - -With that she went on her knees, and leaned against her chair, though -with her face towards her husband, because of the fear that was ever in -her. Then in a low voice, choked with sobs, she said this old _eolas_, -after she had first uttered the holy words of the “Pater Noster”: - - _“Chi suil thu,_ - _Labhraidh bial thu;_ - _Smuainichidh cridhe thu._ - _Tha Fear an righthighe_ - _Gad’ choisreagadh,_ - _An t-Athair, am Mac, ’s an Spiorad Naomh._ - - _“Ceathrar a rinn do chron--_ - _Fear agus bean,_ - _Gille agus nighean._ - _Co tha gu sin a thilleadh?_ - _Tri Pearsannan na Trianaid ro-naomh,_ - _An t-Athair, am Mac, ’s an Spioraid Naomh._ - - _“Tha mi ’cur fianuis gu Moire, agus gu Brighde,_ - _Ma ’s e duine rinn do chron,_ - _Le droch run,_ - _No le droch shuil,_ - _No le droch chridhe,_ - _Gu’m bi thusa, Muireall gu math,_ - _Ri linn so a chur mu’n cuairt ort._ - _An ainm an Athar, a’ Mhic, ’s an Spioraid Naomh!”_ - - (“An eye will see you, - Tongue will speak of you, - Heart will think of you, - The Man of Heaven - Blesses you-- - The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. - - “Four caused your hurt-- - Man and Wife, - Young man, and maiden. - Who is to frustrate that? - The three Persons of the most Holy Trinity, - The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. - - “I call the Virgin Mary and St Bridget to witness - That if your hurt was caused by man, - Through ill-will, - Or the evil eye, - Or a wicked heart, - That you, Muireall, my daughter, may be whole-- - And this in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!”) - -Just as she finished, and as she was lingering on the line, “_Gu’m bi -thusa, Muireall gu math_” Rory, the blind collie, rose, whimpered, and -stood with snarling jaws. - -Strangely enough, Gorromalt heard this, though his ears had been deaf to -all else, or so it seemed, at least. - -“Down, Rory! down, beast!” he exclaimed, in a voice strangely shrill and -weak. - -But the dog would not be still. His sullen fear grew worse. Suddenly he -sidled and lay on his belly, now snarling, now howling, his blind eyes -distended, his nostrils quivering, his flanks quaking. My uncle rose and -stared at the dog. - -“What ails the beast?” he asked angrily, looking now at Rory, now at us. -“Has any one come in? Has any one been at the door?” - -“No one, Archibald.” - -“What have you been doing, Elspeth?” - -“Nothing.” - -“Woman, I heard your voice droning at your prayers. Ah, I see--you have -been at some of your _sians_ and _eolais_ again. Sure, now, one would be -thinking you would have less foolishness, and you with the greyness upon -your years. What _eolas_ did she say, lass?” - -I told him. “Aw, silly woman that she is, the _eolas an t-Snaithnean_! -madness and folly!… Where is Morag?” - -“In bed.” I said this with truth in my eyes. God’s forgiveness for that -good lie! - -“And it’s time you were there also, and you too, Elspeth. Come now, no -more of this foolishness. We have nothing to wait for. Why are we waiting -here?” - -At that moment Rory became worse than ever. I thought the poor blind -beast would take some dreadful fit. Foam was on his jaws; his hair -bristled. He had sidled forward, and crouched low. We saw him look again -and again towards the blank space to his right, as if, blind though he -was, he saw some one there, some one that gave him fear, but no longer a -fierce terror. Nay, more than once we saw him swish his tail, and sniff -as though recognisingly. But when he turned his head towards the door -his sullen fury grew, and terror shook upon every limb. It was now that -Gorromalt was speaking. - -Suddenly the dog made a leap forward--a terrible bristling wolf he seemed -to me, though no wolf had I ever seen, or imagined any more fearsome, -than Rory, now. - -He dashed himself against the door, snarling and mouthing, with his snout -nosing the narrow slip at the bottom. - -Aunt Elspeth and I shook with fear. My uncle was death-white, but stood -strangely brooding. He had his right elbow upon his breast, and supported -it with his left arm, while with his right hand he plucked at his beard. - -“For sure,” he said at last, with an effort to seem at ease; “for sure -the dog is fëy with his age and his blindness.” Then, more slowly still, -“And if that were not so, it might look as though he had the fear on him, -because of some one who strove to come in.” - -“It is Muireall,” I whispered, scarce above my breath. - -“No,” said Aunt Elspeth, and the voice of her now was as though it -had come out of the granite all about us, cold and hard as that. “No! -Muireall is already in the room.” - -We both turned and looked at her. She sat quite still, on the chair -betwixt the fire and the table. Her face was rigid, ghastly, but her eyes -were large and wild. - -A look first of fear, then almost of tenderness, came into her husband’s -face. - -“Hush, Elspeth,” he said, “that is foolishness.” - -“It is not foolishness, Archibald,” she resumed in the same hard, -unemotional voice, but with a terrible intensity. “Man, man, because ye -are blind, is there no sight for those who can see?” - -“There is no one here but ourselves.” - -But now Aunt Elspeth half rose, with supplicating arms: - -“Muireall! Muireall! Muireall! O muirnean, muirnean!” - -I saw Archibald Campbell shaking as though he were a child and no strong -man. “Will you be telling us this, Elspeth,” he began in a hoarse -voice--“will you be telling me this: if Muireall is in the room, beyond -Rory there, who will be at the door? Who is trying to come in at the -door?” - -“It’s a man. I do not know the man. It is a man. It is Death, maybe. I do -not know the man. O muirnean, mo muirnean!” - -But now the great gaunt black dog--terrible in his seeing blindness he -was to me--began again his savage snarling, his bristling insensate fury. -He had ceased a moment while our voices filled the room, and had sidled -a little way towards the place where Aunt Elspeth saw Muireall, whining -low as he did so, and swishing his tail furtively along the whitewashed -flagstones. - -I know not what awful thing would have happened. It seemed to me that -Death was coming to all of us. - -But at that moment we all heard the sound of a galloping horse. There -was a lull in the wind, and the rain lashed no more like a streaming -whistling whip. Even Rory crouched silent, his nostrils quivering, his -curled snout showing his fangs. - -Gorromalt stood, listening intently. - -“By the living God,” he exclaimed suddenly, his eyes like a goaded -bull’s--“I know that horse. Only one horse runs like that at the -gallop. ’Tis the grey stallion I sold three months ago to the man at -Drumdoon--ay, ay, for the son of the man at Drumdoon! A horse to ride -for the shooting--a good horse for the hills--that was what he wanted! -Ay, ay, by God, a horse for the son of the man at Drumdoon! It’s the -grey stallion: no other horse in the Straths runs like that--d’ye -hear? d’ye hear? Elspeth, woman, is there hearing upon you for _that_? -Hey, _tlot-a-tlot, tlot-a-tlot, tlot-tlot-tlot-tlot, tlot-a-tlot, -tlot-tlot-tlot_! I tell you, woman, it’s the grey stallion I sold to -Drumdoon: it’s that and no other! Ay, by the Sorrow, it’s Drumdoon’s son -that will be riding here!” - -By this time the horse was close by. We heard his hoofs clang above the -flagstones round the well at the side of the house. Then there was a -noise as of scattered stones, and a long scraping sound: then silence. - -Gorromalt turned and put his hand to the door. There was murder in his -eyes, for all the smile, a grim terrible smile, that had come to his lips. - -Aunt Elspeth rose and ran to him, holding him back. The door shook. Rory -the hound tore at the splinters at the base of the door, his fell again -bristling, his snarling savagery horrible to hear. The pine-logs had -fallen into a smouldering ash. The room was full of gloom, though the red -sullen eye of the peat-glow stared through the obscurity. - -“Don’t be opening the door! Don’t be opening the door!” she cried, in a -thin screaming voice. - -“What for no, woman? Let me go! Hell upon this dog--out o’ the way, -Rory--get back! Down wi’ ye!” - -“No, no, Archibald! Wait! Wait!” - -Then a strange thing happened. - -Rory ceased, sullenly listened, and then retreated, but no longer -snarling and bristling. - -Gorromalt suddenly staggered. - -“Who touched me just now?” he asked in a hoarse whisper. - -No one answered. - -“Who touched me just now? Who passed? Who slid past me?” His voice rose -almost to a scream. - -Then, shaking off his wife, he swung the door open. - -There was no one there. Outside could be heard a strange sniffling and -whinnying. It was the grey stallion. - -Gorromalt strode across the threshold. Scarcely had I time to prevent -Aunt Elspeth from falling against the lintel in a corner, yet in a -moment’s interval I saw that the stallion was riderless. - -“Archibald!” wailed his wife faintly out of her weakness. “Archibald, -come back! Come back!” - -But there was no need to call. Archibald Campbell was not the man to fly -in the face of God. He knew that no mortal rider rode that horse to its -death that night. Even before he closed the door we heard the rapid, -sliding, catching gallop. The horse had gone: rider or riderless I know -not. - -He was ashy-grey. Suddenly he had grown quite still. He lifted his wife, -and helped her to her own big leathern arm-chair at the other side of the -ingle. - -“Light the lamp, lass,” he said to me, in a hushed strange voice. Then -he stooped and threw some small pine-logs on the peats, and stirred the -blaze till it caught the dry splintered edges. - -Rory, poor blind beast, came wearily and with a low whine to his side, -and then lay down before the warm blaze. - -“Bring the Book,” he said to me. - -I brought the great leather-bound Gaelic Bible, and laid it on his knees. - -He placed his hand in it, and opened at random. - -“With Himself be the word,” he said. - -“Is it Peace?” asked Aunt Elspeth in a tremulous whisper. - -“It is Peace,” he answered, his voice gentle, his face stern as a graven -rock. And what he read was this, where his eye chanced upon as he opened -at the place where is the Book of the Vision of Nahum the Elkoshite: - -“_What do ye imagine against the Lord? He will make a full end._” - -After that there was a silence. Then he rose, and told me to go and lie -down and sleep; for, on the morrow, after dawn, I was to go with him to -where Muireall was. - -I saw Aunt Elspeth rise and put her arms about him. They had peace. I -went to my room, but after a brief while returned, and sat, in the -quietness there, by the glowing peats, till dawn. - - * * * * * - -The greyness came at last; with it, the rain ceased. The wind still -soughed and wailed among the corries and upon the rocky braes; with low -moans sighing along the flanks of the near hills, and above the stony -watercourse where the Gorromalt surged with swirling foam and loud and -louder tumult. - -My eyes had closed in my weariness, when I heard Rory give a low growl, -followed by a contented whimper. Almost at the same moment the door -opened. I looked up, startled. - -It was Morag. - -She was so white, it is scarce to be wondered at that I took her at first -for a wraith. Then I saw how drenched she was, chilled to the bone too. -She did not speak as I led her in, and made her stand before the fire, -while I took off her soaked dress and shoes. In silence she made all the -necessary changes, and in silence drank the tea I brewed for her. - -“Come to my room with me,” she whispered, as with quiet feet we crossed -the stone flags and went up the wooden stair that led to her room. - -When she was in bed she bade me put out the light and lie down beside -her. Still silent, we lay there in the darkness, for at that side of the -house the hill-gloom prevailed, and moreover the blind was down-drawn. I -thought the weary moaning of the wind would make my very heart sob. - -Then, suddenly, Morag put her arms about me, and the tears streamed warm -about my neck. - -“Hush, Morag-aghray, hush, mo-rùn,” I whispered in her ear. “Tell me what -it is, dear! Tell me what it is!” - -“Oh, and I loved him so! I loved him!” - -“I know it, dear; I knew it all along.” - -I thought her sobs would never cease till her heart was broken, so I -questioned her again. - -“Yes,” she said, gaspingly, “yes, I loved him when Muireall and I were in -the South together. I met him a month or more before ever she saw him. He -loved me, and I promised to marry him: but I would not go away with him -as he wished: for he said his father would never agree. And then he was -angry, and we quarrelled. And I--Oh! I was glad too, for I did not wish -to marry an Englishman--or to live in a dreary city; but … but … and then -he and Muireall met, and he gave all his thought to her; and she her love -to him.” - -“And now?” - -“Now?… _Now_ Muireall is dead.” - -“Dead? O Morag, _dead_? Oh, poor Muireall that we loved so! But did you -see her? was she alive when you reached her?” - -“No; but she was alone. And now, listen. Here is a thing I have to tell -you. When Ealasaid Cameron, that was my mother’s mother, was a girl, -she had a cruel sorrow. She had two sisters whom she loved with all her -heart. They were twins, Silis and Morag. One day an English officer at -Fort William took Silis away with him as his wife; but when her child -was heavy within her she discovered that she was no wife, for the man -was already wedded to a woman in the South. She left him that night. -It was bitter weather, and midwinter. She reached home through a wild -snowdrift. It killed her; but before she died she said to Morag, ‘He has -killed me and the child.’ And Morag understood. So it was that before any -wind of spring blew upon that snow, the man was dead.” - -When Morag stopped here, and said no more, I did not at first realise -what she meant to tell me. Then it flashed upon me. - -“O Morag, Morag!” I exclaimed, terrified. “But, Morag, you do not … you -will not …” - -“_Will_ not?” she repeated, with a catch in her voice. - -“Listen,” she resumed suddenly after a long, strained silence. “While I -lay beside my darling Muireall, weeping and moaning over her, and she so -fair, with such silence where the laughter had always been, I heard the -door open. I looked up: it was Jasper Morgan. - -“‘You are too late,’ I said. I stared at the man who had brought her, and -me, this sorrow. There was no light about him at all, as I had always -thought. He was only a man as other men are, but with a cold selfish -heart and loveless eyes. - -“‘She sent for me to come back to her,’ he answered, though I saw his -face grow ashy-grey as he looked at Muireall and saw that she was dead. - -“‘She is dead, Jasper Morgan.’ - -“‘_Dead … Dead?_’ - -“‘Ay, dead. It is upon you, her death. Her you have slain, as though with -your sword that you carry: her, and the child she bore within her, and -that was yours.’ - -“At that he bit his lip till the blood came. - -“‘It is a lie,’ he cried. ‘It is a lie, Morag. If she said that thing, -she lied.’ - -“I laughed. - -“‘Why do you laugh, Morag?’ he asked, in a swift anger. - -“Once more I laughed. - -“‘Why do you laugh like that, girl?’ - -“But I did not answer. ‘Come,’ I said, ‘come with me. I have something to -say to you. You can do no good here now. She has taken poison, because of -the shame and the sorrow.’ - -“‘Poison!’ he cried, in horror; and also, I could see in the poor -cowardly mind of him, in a sudden sick fear. - -“But when I rose to leave the room he made ready to follow me. I kissed -Muireall for the last time. The man approached, as though to do likewise. -I lifted my riding-whip. He bowed his head, with a deep flush on his -face, and came out behind me. - -“I told the inn-folk that my father would be over in the morning. Then I -rode slowly away. Jasper Morgan followed on his horse, a grey stallion -that Muireall and I had often ridden, for he was from Teenabrae farm. - -“When we left the village it was into a deep darkness. The rain and the -wind made the way almost impassable at times. But at last we came to the -ford. The water was in spate, and the rushing sound terrified my horse. I -dismounted, and fastened Gealcas to a tree. The man did the same. - -“‘What is it, Morag?’ he asked in a quiet steady voice--‘Death?’ - -“‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Death.’ - -“Then he suddenly fell forward, and snatched my hand, and begged me to -forgive him, swearing that he had loved me and me only, and imploring me -to believe him, to love him, to … Ah, the _hound_! - -“But all I said was this: - -“‘Jasper Morgan, soon or late I would kill you, because of this cruel -wrong you did to her. But there is one way: best for _her_ … best for -_me_ … best for _you_.’ - -“‘What is that?’ he said hoarsely, though I think he knew now. The roar -of the Gorromalt Water filled the night. - -“‘There is one way. It is the only way … Go!’ - -“He gave a deep quavering sigh. Then without word he turned, and walked -straight into the darkness.” - -Morag paused here. Then, in answer to my frightened whisper, she added -simply: - -“They will find his body in the shallows, down by Drumdoon. The spate -will carry it there.” - - * * * * * - -After that we lay in silence. The rain had begun to fall again, and -slid with a soft stealthy sound athwart the window. A dull light grew -indiscernibly into the room. Then we heard someone move downstairs. In -the yard, Angus, the stableman, began to pump water. A cow lowed, and -the cluttering of hens was audible. - -I moved gently from Morag’s side. As I rose, Maisie passed beneath the -window on her way to the byre. As her wont was, poor wild wildered lass, -she was singing fitfully. It was the same ballad again. But we heard a -single verse only. - - “For I have killed a man,” she said, - “A better man than you to wed: - I slew him when he clasped my head, - And now he sleepeth with the dead.” - -Then the voice was lost in the byre, and in the sweet familiar lowing of -the kine. The new day was come. - - - - -_THE DAN-NAN-RON_ - - -_NOTE_ - -This story is founded upon a superstition familiar throughout the -Hebrides. The legend exists in Ireland, too; for Mr Yeats tells me that -last summer he met an old Connaught fisherman, who claimed to be of the -Sliochd-nan-Ron--an ancestry, indeed, indicated in the man’s name: Rooney. - -As to my use of the forename ‘Gloom’ (in this story, in its sequel -“Green Branches,” and in “The Anointed Man”), I should explain that the -designation is, of course, not a real name. At the same time, I have -actual warrant for its use; for I knew a Uist man who, in the bitterness -of his sorrow, after his wife’s death in childbirth, named his son -_Mulad_ (_i.e._ the gloom of sorrow: grief). - - -THE DAN-NAN-RON - -When Anne Gillespie, that was my friend in Eilanmore, left the island -after the death of her uncle, the old man Robert Achanna, it was to go -far west. - -Among the men of the outer isles who for three summers past had been at -the fishing off Eilanmore, there was one named Mànus MacCodrum. He was -a fine lad to see, but though most of the fisher-folk of the Lewis and -North Uist are fair, either with reddish hair and grey eyes or blue-eyed -and yellow-haired, he was of a brown skin with dark hair and dusky brown -eyes. He was, however, as unlike to the dark Celts of Arran and the -Inner Hebrides as to the Northmen. He came of his people, sure enough. -All the MacCodrums of North Uist had been brown-skinned and brown-haired -and brown-eyed; and herein may have lain the reason why, in bygone days, -this small clan of Uist was known throughout the Western Isles as the -_Sliochd nan Ròn_, the offspring of the Seals. - -Not so tall as most of the North Uist and Long Island men, Mànus -MacCodrum was of a fair height and supple and strong. No man was a better -fisherman than he, and he was well-liked of his fellows, for all the -morose gloom that was upon him at times. He had a voice as sweet as a -woman’s when he sang, and he sang often, and knew all the old runes of -the islands, from the Obb of Harris to the Head of Mingulay. Often, too, -he chanted the beautiful _orain spioradail_ of the Catholic priests and -Christian Brothers of South Uist and Barra, though where he lived in -North Uist he was the sole man who adhered to the ancient faith. - -It may have been because Anne was a Catholic too, though, sure, the -Achannas were so also, notwithstanding that their forebears and kindred -in Galloway were Protestant (and this because of old Robert Achanna’s -love for his wife, who was of the old Faith, so it is said)--it may have -been for this reason, though I think her lover’s admiring eyes and soft -speech and sweet singing had more to do with it, that she pledged her -troth to Mànus. It was a south wind for him, as the saying is; for with -her rippling brown hair and soft grey eyes and cream-white skin, there -was no comelier lass in the Isles. - -So when Achanna was laid to his long rest, and there was none left -upon Eilanmore save only his three youngest sons, Mànus MacCodrum -sailed north-eastward across the Minch to take home his bride. Of the -four eldest sons, Alison had left Eilanmore some months before his -father died, and sailed westward, though no one knew whither, or for -what end, or for how long, and no word had been brought from him, nor -was he ever seen again in the island, which had come to be called -Eilan-nan-Allmharachain, the Isle of the Strangers. Allan and William -had been drowned in a wild gale in the Minch; and Robert had died of -the white fever, that deadly wasting disease which is the scourge of -the Isles. Marcus was now “Eilanmore,” and lived there with Gloom -and Sheumais, all three unmarried, though it was rumoured among the -neighbouring islanders that each loved Marsail nic Ailpean,[1] in -Eilean-Rona of the Summer Isles, hard by the coast of Sutherland. - - [1] Marsail nic Ailpean is the Gaelic of which an English - translation would be Marjory MacAlpine. _Nic_ is a contraction for - _nighean mhic_, “daughter of the line of.” - -When Mànus asked Anne to go with him she agreed. The three brothers were -ill-pleased at this, for apart from their not wishing their cousin to go -so far away, they did not want to lose her, as she not only cooked for -them and did all that a woman does, including spinning and weaving, but -was most sweet and fair to see, and in the long winter nights sang by the -hour together, while Gloom played strange wild airs upon his _feadan_, a -kind of oaten-pipe or flute. - -She loved him, I know; but there was this reason also for her going, that -she was afraid of Gloom. Often upon the moor or on the hill she turned -and hastened home, because she heard the lilt and fall of that _feadan_. -It was an eerie thing to her, to be going through the twilight when she -thought the three men were in the house smoking after their supper, and -suddenly to hear beyond and coming towards her the shrill song of that -oaten flute playing “The Dance of the Dead,” or “The Flow and Ebb,” or -“The Shadow-Reel.” - -That, sometimes at least, he knew she was there was clear to her, because -as she stole rapidly through the tangled fern and gale she would hear a -mocking laugh follow her like a leaping thing. - -Mànus was not there on the night when she told Marcus and his brothers -that she was going. He was in the haven on board the _Luath_, with his -two mates, he singing in the moonshine as all three sat mending their -fishing gear. - -After the supper was done, the three brothers sat smoking and talking -over an offer that had been made about some Shetland sheep. For a -time Anne watched them in silence. They were not like brothers, she -thought. Marcus, tall, broad-shouldered, with yellow hair and strangely -dark blue-black eyes and black eyebrows; stern, with a weary look on -his sun-brown face. The light from the peats glinted upon the tawny -curve of thick hair that trailed from his upper lip, for he had the -_caisean-feusag_ of the Northmen. Gloom, slighter of build, dark of hue -and hair, but with hairless face; with thin, white, long-fingered hands, -that had ever a nervous motion as though they were tide-wrack. There -was always a frown on the centre of his forehead, even when he smiled -with his thin lips and dusky, unbetraying eyes. He looked what he was, -the brain of the Achannas. Not only did he have the English as though -native to that tongue, but could and did read strange unnecessary books. -Moreover, he was the only son of Robert Achanna to whom the old man had -imparted his store of learning; for Achanna had been a schoolmaster in -his youth in Galloway, and he had intended Gloom for the priesthood. -His voice, too, was low and clear, but cold as pale-green water running -under ice. As for Sheumais, he was more like Marcus than Gloom, though -not so fair. He had the same brown hair and shadowy hazel eyes, the -same pale and smooth face, with something of the same intent look which -characterised the long-time missing and probably dead eldest brother, -Alison. He, too, was tall and gaunt. On Sheumais’ face there was -that indescribable, as to some of course imperceptible, look which is -indicated by the phrase, “the dusk of the shadow,” though few there are -who know what they mean by that, or, knowing, are fain to say. - -Suddenly, and without any word or reason for it, Gloom turned and spoke -to her. - -“Well, Anne, and what is it?” - -“I did not speak, Gloom.” - -“True for you, _mo cailinn_. But it’s about to speak you were.” - -“Well, and that is true. Marcus, and you Gloom, and you Sheumais, I have -that to tell which you will not be altogether glad for the hearing. ’Tis -about … about … me and … and Mànus.” - -There was no reply at first. The three brothers sat looking at her, like -the kye at a stranger on the moorland. There was a deepening of the frown -on Gloom’s brow, but when Anne looked at him his eyes fell and dwelt in -the shadow at his feet. Then Marcus spoke in a low voice. - -“Is it Mànus MacCodrum you will be meaning?” - -“Ay, sure.” - -Again, silence. Gloom did not lift his eyes, and Sheumais was now staring -at the peats. Marcus shifted uneasily. - -“And what will Mànus MacCodrum be wanting?” - -“Sure, Marcus, you know well what I mean. Why do you make this thing hard -for me? There is but one thing he would come here wanting; and he has -asked me if I will go with him, and I have said yes. And if you are not -willing that he come again with the minister, or that we go across to the -kirk in Berneray of Uist in the Sound of Harris, then I will not stay -under this roof another night, but will go away from Eilanmore at sunrise -in the _Luath_, that is now in the haven. And that is for the hearing and -knowing, Marcus and Gloom and Sheumais!” - -Once more, silence followed her speaking. It was broken in a strange way. -Gloom slipped his _feadan_ into his hands, and so to his mouth. The clear -cold notes of the flute filled the flame-lit room. It was as though white -polar birds were drifting before the coming of snow. - -The notes slid into a wild remote air: cold moonlight on the dark o’ the -sea, it was. It was the _Dàn-nan-Ròn_. - -Anne flushed, trembled, and then abruptly rose. As she leaned on her -clenched right hand upon the table, the light of the peats showed that -her eyes were aflame. - -“Why do you play _that_, Gloom Achanna?” - -The man finished the bar, then blew into the oaten pipe, before, just -glancing at the girl, he replied: - -“And what harm will there be in _that_, Anna-ban?” - -“You know it is harm. That is the Dàn-nan-Ròn!” - -“Ay; and what then, Anna-ban?” - -“What then? Are you thinking I don’t know what you mean by playing the -Song of the Seal?” - -With an abrupt gesture Gloom put the _feadan_ aside. As he did so, he -rose. - -“See here, Anne,” he began roughly--when Marcus intervened. - -“That will do just now, Gloom. Ann-à-ghraidh, do you mean that you are -going to do this thing?” - -“Ay, sure.” - -“Do you know why Gloom played the Dàn-nan-Ròn?” - -“It was a cruel thing.” - -“You know what is said in the isles about … about … this or that man, -who is under _gheasan_--who is spell-bound … and … and … about the seals -and …” - -“Yes, Marcus, it is knowing it that I am: ‘_Tha iad a’ cantuinn gur h-e -daoine fo gheasan a th’ anns no roin._’” - -“‘_They say that seals_,’” he repeated slowly; “‘_they say that seals are -men under magic spells._’ And have you ever pondered that thing, Anne, my -cousin?” - -“I am knowing well what you mean.” - -“Then you will know that the MacCodrums of North Uist are called the -Sliochd-nan-ròn?” - -“I have heard.” - -“And would you be for marrying a man that is of the race of the beasts, -and that himself knows what _geas_ means, and may any day go back to his -people?” - -“Ah, now, Marcus, sure it is making a mock of me you are. Neither you -nor any here believes that foolish thing. How can a man born of a -woman be a seal, even though his _sinnsear_ were the offspring of the -sea-people,--which is not a saying I am believing either, though it may -be: and not that it matters much, whatever, about the far-back forebears.” - -Marcus frowned darkly, and at first made no response. At last he -answered, speaking sullenly. - -“You may be believing this or you may be believing that, -Anna-nic-Gilleasbuig, but two things are as well known as that the east -wind brings the blight and the west wind the rain. And one is this: that -long ago a Seal-man wedded a woman of North Uist, and that he or his son -was called Neil MacCodrum; and that the sea-fever of the seal was in the -blood of his line ever after. And this is the other: that twice within -the memory of living folk a MacCodrum has taken upon himself the form of -a seal, and has so met his death--once Neil MacCodrum of Ru’ Tormaid, and -once Anndra MacCodrum of Berneray in the Sound. There’s talk of others, -but these are known of us all. And you will not be forgetting now that -Neil-donn was the grandfather, and that Anndra was the brother of the -father of Mànus MacCodrum?” - -“I am not caring what you say, Marcus: it is all foam of the sea.” - -“There’s no foam without wind or tide, Anne. An’ it’s a dark tide that -will be bearing you away to Uist; and a black wind that will be blowing -far away behind the East, the wind that will be carrying his death-cry to -your ears.” - -The girl shuddered. The brave spirit in her, however, did not quail. - -“Well, so be it. To each his fate. But, seal or no seal, I am going to -wed Mànus MacCodrum, who is a man as good as any here, and a true man -at that, and the man I love, and that will be my man, God willing, the -praise be His!” - -Again Gloom took up the _feadan_, and sent a few cold white notes -floating through the hot room, breaking suddenly into the wild fantastic -opening air of the Dàn-nan-Ròn. - -With a low cry and passionate gesture Anne sprang forward, snatched the -oat-flute from his grasp, and would have thrown it in the fire. Marcus -held her in an iron grip, however. - -“Don’t you be minding Gloom, Anne,” he said quietly, as he took the -_feadan_ from her hand, and handed it to his brother; “sure, he’s only -telling you in _his_ way what I am telling you in mine.” - -She shook herself free, and moved to the other side of the table. On the -opposite wall hung the dirk which had belonged to old Achanna. This she -unfastened. Holding it in her right hand, she faced the three men. - -“On the cross of the dirk I swear I will be the woman of Mànus MacCodrum.” - -The brothers made no response. They looked at her fixedly. - -“And by the cross of the dirk I swear that if any man come between me and -Mànus, this dirk will be for his remembering in a certain hour of the day -of the days.” - -As she spoke, she looked meaningly at Gloom, whom she feared more than -Marcus or Sheumais. - -“And by the cross of the dirk I swear that if evil come to Mànus, this -dirk will have another sheath, and that will be my milkless breast: and -by that token I now throw the old sheath in the fire.” - -As she finished, she threw the sheath on to the burning peats. - -Gloom quietly lifted it, brushed off the sparks of flame as though they -were dust, and put it in his pocket. - -“And by the same token, Anne,” he said, “your oaths will come to nought.” - -Rising, he made a sign to his brothers to follow. When they were outside -he told Sheumais to return, and to keep Anne within, by peace if -possible--by force if not. Briefly they discussed their plans, and then -separated. While Sheumais went back, Marcus and Gloom made their way to -the haven. - -Their black figures were visible in the moonlight, but at first they were -not noticed by the men on board the _Luath_, for Mànus was singing. - -When the isleman stopped abruptly, one of his companions asked him -jokingly if his song had brought a seal alongside, and bid him beware -lest it was a woman of the sea-people. - -He gloomed morosely, but made no reply. When the others listened, they -heard the wild strain of the Dàn-nan-Ròn stealing through the moonshine. -Staring against the shore, they could discern the two brothers. - -“What will be the meaning of that?” asked one of the men uneasily. - -“When a man comes instead of a woman,” answered Mànus slowly, “the young -corbies are astir in the nest.” - -So, it meant blood. Aulay MacNeill and Donull MacDonull put down their -gear, rose, and stood waiting for what Mànus would do. - -“Ho, there!” he cried. - -“Ho-ro!” - -“What will you be wanting, Eilanmore?” - -“We are wanting a word of you, Mànus MacCodrum. Will you come ashore?” - -“If you want a word of me, you can come to me.” - -“There is no boat here.” - -“I’ll send the _bàta-beag_.” - -When he had spoken, Mànus asked Donull, the younger of his mates, a lad -of seventeen, to row to the shore. - -“And bring back no more than one man,” he added, “whether it be Eilanmore -himself or Gloom-mhic-Achanna.” - -The rope of the small boat was unfastened, and Donull rowed it swiftly -through the moonshine. The passing of a cloud dusked the shore, but they -saw him throw a rope for the guiding of the boat alongside the ledge of -the landing-place; then the sudden darkening obscured the vision. Donull -must be talking, they thought; for two or three minutes elapsed without -sign: but at last the boat put off again, and with two figures only. -Doubtless the lad had had to argue against the coming of both Marcus and -Gloom. - -This, in truth, was what Donull had done. But while he was speaking, -Marcus was staring fixedly beyond him. - -“Who is it that is there?” he asked; “there, in the stern?” - -“There is no one there.” - -“I thought I saw the shadow of a man.” - -“Then it was my shadow, Eilanmore.” - -Achanna turned to his brother. - -“I see a man’s death there in the boat.” - -Gloom quailed for a moment, then laughed low. - -“I see no death of a man sitting in the boat, Marcus; but if I did, I am -thinking it would dance to the air of the Dàn-nan-Ròn, which is more than -the wraith of you or me would do.” - -“It is not a wraith I was seeing, but the death of a man.” - -Gloom whispered, and his brother nodded sullenly. The next moment a -heavy muffler was round Donull’s mouth, and before he could resist, or -even guess what had happened, he was on his face on the shore, bound and -gagged. A minute later the oars were taken by Gloom, and the boat moved -swiftly out of the inner haven. - -As it drew near through the gloom Mànus stared at it intently. - -“That is not Donull that is rowing, Aulay!” - -“No; it will be Gloom Achanna, I’m thinking.” - -MacCodrum started. If so, that other figure at the stern was too big for -Donull. The cloud passed just as the boat came alongside. The rope was -made secure, and then Marcus and Gloom sprang on board. - -“Where is Donull MacDonull?” demanded Mànus sharply. - -Marcus made no reply, so Gloom answered for him. - -“He has gone up to the house with a message to Anna-nic-Gilleasbuig.” - -“And what will that message be?” - -“That Mànus MacCodrum has sailed away from Eilanmore, and will not see -her again.” - -MacCodrum laughed. It was a low, ugly laugh. - -“Sure, Gloom Achanna, you should be taking that _feadan_ of yours -and playing the Codhail-nan-Pairtean, for I’m thinkin’ the crabs are -gathering about the rocks down below us, an’ laughing wi’ their claws.” - -“Well, and that is a true thing,” Gloom replied, slowly and quietly. -“Yes, for sure I might, as you say, be playing the Meeting of the Crabs. -Perhaps,” he added, as by a sudden afterthought, “perhaps, though it is -a calm night, you will be hearing the _comh-thonn_. The ‘slapping of the -waves’ is a better thing to be hearing than the Meeting of the Crabs.” - -“If I hear the _comh-thonn_, it is not in the way you will be meaning, -Gloom ’ic Achanna. ’Tis not the ‘up sail and goodbye’ they will be -saying, but ‘Home wi’ the Bride.’” - -Here Marcus intervened. - -“Let us be having no more words, Mànus MacCodrum. The girl Anne is not -for you. Gloom is to be her man. So get you hence. If you will be going -quiet, it is quiet we will be. If you have your feet on this thing, then -you will be having that too which I saw in the boat.” - -“And what was it you saw in the boat, Achanna?” - -“The death of a man.” - -“So … And now” (this after a prolonged silence, wherein the four men -stood facing each other), “is it a blood-matter, if not of peace?” - -“Ay. Go, if you are wise. If not, ’tis your own death you will be making.” - -There was a flash as of summer lightning. A bluish flame seemed to leap -through the moonshine. Marcus reeled, with a gasping cry; then, leaning -back till his face blanched in the moonlight, his knees gave way. As he -fell, he turned half round. The long knife which Mànus had hurled at him -had not penetrated his breast more than two inches at most, but as he -fell on the deck it was driven into him up to the hilt. - -In the blank silence that followed, the three men could hear a sound like -the ebb-tide in sea-weed. It was the gurgling of the bloody froth in the -lungs of the dead man. - -The first to speak was his brother, and then only when thin -reddish-white foam-bubbles began to burst from the blue lips of Marcus. - -“It is murder.” - -He spoke low, but it was like the surf of breakers in the ears of those -who heard. - -“You have said one part of a true word, Gloom Achanna. It is murder … -that you and he came here for.” - -“The death of Marcus Achanna is on you, Mànus MacCodrum.” - -“So be it, as between yourself and me, or between all of your blood and -me; though Aulay MacNeill as well as you can witness that, though in -self-defence I threw the knife at Achanna, it was his own doing that -drove it into him.” - -“You can whisper that to the rope when it is round your neck.” - -“And what will _you_ be doing now, Gloom-nic-Achanna?” - -For the first time Gloom shifted uneasily. A swift glance revealed to him -the awkward fact that the boat trailed behind the _Luath_, so that he -could not leap into it; while if he turned to haul it close by the rope, -he was at the mercy of the two men. - -“I will go in peace,” he said quietly. - -“Ay,” was the answer, in an equally quiet tone: “in the white peace.” - -Upon this menace of death the two men stood facing each other. - -Achanna broke the silence at last. - -“You’ll hear the Dàn-nan-Ròn the night before you die, Mànus MacCodrum: -and, lest you doubt it, you’ll hear it again in your death-hour.” - -“_Ma tha sìn an Dàn_--if that be ordained.” Mànus spoke gravely. His very -quietude, however, boded ill. There was no hope of clemency. Gloom knew -that. - -Suddenly he laughed scornfully. Then, pointing with his right hand as if -to someone behind his two adversaries, he cried out: “Put the death-hand -on them, Marcus! Give them the Grave!” - -Both men sprang aside, the heart of each nigh upon bursting. The -death-touch of the newly slain is an awful thing to incur, for it means -that the wraith can transfer all its evil to the person touched. - -The next moment there was a heavy splash. In a second Mànus realised that -it was no more than a ruse, and that Gloom had escaped. With feverish -haste he hauled in the small boat, leaped into it, and began at once to -row so as to intercept his enemy. - -Achanna rose once, between him and the _Luath_. MacCodrum crossed the -oars in the thole-pins, and seized the boat-hook. - -The swimmer kept straight for him. Suddenly he dived. In a flash, Mànus -realised that Gloom was going to rise under the boat, seize the keel, and -upset him, and thus probably be able to grip him from above. There was -time and no more to leap: and, indeed, scarce had he plunged into the sea -ere the boat swung right over, Achanna clambering over it the next moment. - -At first Gloom could not see where his foe was. He crouched on the -upturned craft, and peered eagerly into the moonlit water. All at once a -black mass shot out of the shadow between him and the smack. This black -mass laughed: the same low, ugly laugh that had preceded the death of -Marcus. - -He who was in turn the swimmer was now close. When a fathom away he -leaned back and began to tread water steadily. In his right hand he -grasped the boat-hook. The man in the boat knew that to stay where he was -meant certain death. He gathered himself together like a crouching cat. -Mànus kept treading the water slowly, but with the hook ready so that the -sharp iron spike at the end of it should transfix his foe if he came at -him with a leap. Now and again he laughed. Then in his low sweet voice, -but brokenly at times, between his deep breathings, he began to sing: - - The tide was dark an’ heavy with the burden that it bore, - I heard it talkin’, whisperin’, upon the weedy shore: - Each wave that stirred the sea-weed was like a closing door, - ’Tis closing doors they hear at last who hear no more, no more, - My Grief, - No more! - - The tide was in the salt sea-weed, and like a knife it tore; - The wild sea-wind went moaning, sooing, moaning o’er and o’er; - The deep sea-heart was brooding deep upon its ancient lore, - I heard the sob, the sooing sob, the dying sob at its core, - My Grief, - Its core! - - The white sea-waves were wan and grey, its ashy lips before, - The yeast within its ravening mouth was red with streaming gore-- - O red sea-weed, O red sea-waves, O hollow baffled roar, - Since one thou hast, O dark, dim sea, why callest thou for more, - My Grief, - For more! - -In the quiet moonlight the chant, with its long slow cadences, sung as -no other man in the Isles could sing it, sounded sweet and remote beyond -words to tell. The glittering shine was upon the water of the haven, -and moved in waving lines of fire along the stone ledges. Sometimes a -fish rose, and spilt a ripple of pale gold; or a sea-nettle swam to the -surface, and turned its blue or greenish globe of living jelly to the -moon dazzle. - -The man in the water made a sudden stop in his treading, and listened -intently. Then once more the phosphorescent light gleamed about his -slow-moving shoulders. In a louder chanting voice came once again, - - Each wave that stirs the sea-weed is like a closing door, - ’Tis closing doors they hear at last who hear no more, no more, - My Grief, - No more! - - -Yes, his quick ears had caught the inland strain of a voice he knew. Soft -and white as the moonshine came Anne’s singing, as she passed along the -corrie leading to the haven. In vain his travelling gaze sought her: she -was still in the shadow, and, besides, a slow drifting cloud obscured -the moonlight. When he looked back again, a stifled exclamation came -from his lips. There was not a sign of Gloom Achanna. He had slipped -noiselessly from the boat, and was now either behind it, or had dived -beneath it, or was swimming under water this way or that. If only the -cloud would sail by, muttered Mànus, as he held himself in readiness for -an attack from beneath or behind. As the dusk lightened, he swam slowly -towards the boat, and then swiftly round it. There was no one there. He -climbed on to the keel, and stood, leaning forward as a salmon-leisterer -by torchlight, with his spear-pointed boat-hook raised. Neither below nor -beyond could he discern any shape. A whispered call to Aulay MacNeill -showed that he, too, saw nothing. Gloom must have swooned, and sank deep -as he slipped through the water. Perhaps the dogfish were already darting -about him. - -Going behind the boat, Mànus guided it back to the smack. It was not long -before, with MacNeill’s help, he righted the punt. One oar had drifted -out of sight, but as there was a sculling hole in the stern, that did not -matter. - -“What shall we do with it?” he muttered, as he stood at last by the -corpse of Marcus. “This is a bad night for us, Aulay!” - -“Bad it is; but let us be seeing it is not worse. I’m thinking we should -have left the boat.” - -“And for why that?” - -“We could say that Marcus Achanna and Gloom Achanna left us again, and -that we saw no more of them nor of our boat.” - -MacCodrum pondered a while. The sound of voices, borne faintly across -the water, decided him. Probably Anne and the lad Donull were talking. -He slipped into the boat, and with a sail-knife soon ripped it here -and there. It filled, and then, heavy with the weight of a great -ballast-stone which Aulay had first handed to his companion, and surging -with a foot-thrust from the latter, it sank. - -“We’ll hide the … the man there … behind the windlass, below the spare -sail, till we’re out at sea, Aulay. Quick, give me a hand!” - -It did not take the two men long to lift the corpse and do as Mànus -had suggested. They had scarce accomplished this when Anne’s voice came -hailing silver-sweet across the water. - -With death-white face and shaking limbs MacCodrum stood holding the mast, -while with a loud voice so firm and strong that Aulay MacNeill smiled -below his fear, he asked if the Achannas were back yet, and, if so, for -Donull to row out at once, and she with him if she would come. - -It was nearly half-an-hour thereafter that Anne rowed out towards the -_Luath_. She had gone at last along the shore to a creek where one of -Marcus’ boats was moored, and returned with it. Having taken Donull on -board, she made way with all speed, fearful lest Gloom or Marcus should -intercept her. - -It did not take long to explain how she had laughed at Sheumais’ vain -efforts to detain her, and had come down to the haven. As she approached, -she heard Mànus singing, and so had herself broken into a song she knew -he loved. Then, by the water-edge, she had come upon Donull lying upon -his back, bound and gagged. After she had released him, they waited to -see what would happen, but as in the moonlight they could not see any -small boat come in--bound to or from the smack--she had hailed to know if -Mànus were there. - -On his side, he said briefly that the two Achannas had come to persuade -him to leave without her. On his refusal, they had departed again, -uttering threats against her as well as himself. He heard their -quarrelling voices as they rowed into the gloom, but could not see them -at last because of the obscured moonlight. - -“And now, Ann-mochree,” he added, “is it coming with me you are, and just -as you are? Sure, you’ll never repent it, and you’ll have all you want -that I can give. Dear of my heart, say that you will be coming away this -night of the nights! By the Black Stone on Icolmkill I swear it, and by -the Sun, and by the Moon, and by Himself!” - -“I am trusting you, Mànus dear. Sure, it is not for me to be going back -to that house after what has been done and said. I go with you, now and -always, God save us.” - -“Well, dear lass o’ my heart, it’s farewell to Eilanmore it is, for by -the Blood on the Cross I’ll never land on it again!” - -“And that will be no sorrow to me, Mànus my home!” - - * * * * * - -And this was the way that my friend Anne Gillespie left Eilanmore to go -to the isles of the west. - -It was a fair sailing in the white moonshine with a whispering breeze -astern. Anne leaned against Mànus, dreaming her dream. The lad Donull sat -drowsing at the helm. Forward, Aulay MacNeill, with his face set against -the moonshine to the west, brooded dark. - -Though no longer was land in sight, and there was peace among the deeps -of the quiet stars and upon the sea, the shadow of fear was upon the face -of Mànus MacCodrum. - -This might well have been because of the as yet unburied dead that lay -beneath the spare sail by the windlass. The dead man, however, did not -affright him. What went moaning in his heart, and sighing and calling in -his brain, was a faint falling echo he had heard as the _Luath_ glided -slow out of the haven. Whether from the water or from the shore he could -not tell, but he heard the wild fantastic air of the Dàn-nan-Ròn, as he -had heard it that very night upon the _feadan_ of Gloom Achanna. - -It was his hope that his ears had played him false. When he glanced about -him and saw the sombre flame in the eyes of Aulay MacNeill, staring at -him out of the dusk, he knew that which Oisìn, the son of Fionn, cried in -his pain: “his soul swam in mist.” - - -II - -For all the evil omens, the marriage of Anne and Mànus MacCodrum went -well. He was more silent than of yore, and men avoided rather than sought -him; but he was happy with Anne, and content with his two mates, who were -now Callum MacCodrum and Ranald MacRanald. The youth Donull had bettered -himself by joining a Skye skipper, who was a kinsman; and Aulay MacNeill -had surprised everyone except Mànus by going away as a seaman on board -one of the _Loch_ line of ships which sail for Australia from the Clyde. - -Anne never knew what had happened, though it is possible she suspected -somewhat. All that was known to her was that Marcus and Gloom Achanna had -disappeared, and were supposed to have been drowned. There was now no -Achanna upon Eilanmore, for Sheumais had taken a horror of the place and -his loneliness. As soon as it was commonly admitted that his two brothers -must have drifted out to sea, and been drowned, or at best picked up by -some ocean-going ship, he disposed of the island-farm, and left Eilanmore -for ever. All this confirmed the thing said among the islanders of the -West--that old Robert Achanna had brought a curse with him. Blight and -disaster had visited Eilanmore over and over in the many years he had -held it, and death, sometimes tragic or mysterious, had overtaken six -of his seven sons, while the youngest bore upon his brows the “dusk of -the shadow.” True, none knew for certain that three out of the six were -dead, but few for a moment believed in the possibility that Alison and -Marcus and Gloom were alive. On the night when Anne had left the island -with Mànus MacCodrum he, Sheumais, had heard nothing to alarm him. Even -when, an hour after she had gone down to the haven, neither she nor his -brothers had returned, and the _Luath_ had put out to sea, he was not in -fear of any ill. Clearly, Marcus and Gloom had gone away in the smack, -perhaps determined to see that the girl was duly married by priest or -minister. He would have perturbed himself little for days to come, but -for a strange thing that happened that night. He had returned to the -house because of a chill that was upon him, and convinced, too, that all -had sailed in the _Luath_. He was sitting brooding by the peat-fire, when -he was startled by a sound at the window at the back of the room. A few -bars of a familiar air struck painfully upon his ear, though played so -low that they were just audible. What could it be but the Dàn-nan-Ròn; -and who would be playing that but Gloom? What did it mean? Perhaps, after -all, it was fantasy only, and there was no _feadan_ out there in the -dark. He was pondering this when, still low, but louder and sharper than -before, there rose and fell the strain which he hated, and Gloom never -played before him, that of the Davsa-na-mairv, the Dance of the Dead. -Swiftly and silently he rose and crossed the room. In the dark shadows -cast by the byre he could see nothing; but the music ceased. He went out, -and searched everywhere, but found no one. So he returned, took down the -Holy Book, and with awed heart read slowly, till peace came upon him, -soft and sweet as the warmth of the peat-glow. - -But as for Anne, she had never even this hint that one of the supposed -dead might be alive; or that, being dead, Gloom might yet touch a shadowy -_feadan_ into a wild, remote air of the Grave. - -When month after month went by, and no hint of ill came to break upon -their peace, Mànus grew light-hearted again. Once more his songs were -heard as he came back from the fishing or loitered ashore mending his -nets. A new happiness was nigh to them, for Anne was with child. True, -there was fear also, for the girl was not well at the time when her -labour was near, and grew weaker daily. There came a day when Mànus had -to go to Loch Boisdale in South Uist; and it was with pain, and something -of foreboding, that he sailed away from Berneray in the Sound of Harris, -where he lived. It was on the third night that he returned. He was met -by Katreen MacRanald, the wife of his mate, with the news that, on the -morrow after his going, Anne had sent for the priest, who was staying -at Loch Maddy, for she had felt the coming of death. It was that very -evening she died, and took the child with her. - -Mànus heard as one in a dream. It seemed to him that the tide was ebbing -in his heart, and a cold sleety rain falling, falling through a mist in -his brain. - -Sorrow lay heavily upon him. After the earthing of her whom he loved he -went to and fro solitary; often crossing the Narrows and going to the old -Pictish Tower under the shadow of Ben Breac. He would not go upon the -sea, but let his kinsman Callum do as he liked with the _Luath_. - -Now and again Father Allan MacNeill sailed northward to see him. Each -time he departed sadder. “The man is going mad, I fear,” he said to -Callum, the last time he saw Mànus. - -The long summer nights brought peace and beauty to the isles. It was a -great herring-year, and the moon-fishing was unusually good. All the Uist -men who lived by the sea-harvest were in their boats whenever they could. -The pollack, the dogfish, the otters, and the seals, with flocks of -sea-fowl beyond number, shared in the common joy. Mànus MacCodrum alone -paid no need to herring or mackerel. He was often seen striding along the -shore, and more than once had been heard laughing. Sometimes, too, he was -come upon at low tide by the great Reef of Berneray, singing wild strange -runes and songs, or crouching upon a rock and brooding dark. - -The midsummer moon found no man on Berneray except MacCodrum, the -Reverend Mr Black, the minister of the Free Kirk, and an old man named -Anndra McIan. On the night before the last day of the middle month, -Anndra was reproved by the minister for saying that he had seen a man -rise out of one of the graves in the kirkyard, and steal down by the -stone-dykes towards Balnahunnur-sa-mona,[2] where Mànus MacCodrum lived. - - [2] _Baille-’na-aonar’sa mhonadh_, “the solitary farm on the - hill-slope.” - -“The dead do not rise and walk, Anndra.” - -“That may be, maighstir; but it may have been the Watcher of the Dead. -Sure, it is not three weeks since Padruic McAlistair was laid beneath the -green mound. He’ll be wearying for another to take his place.” - -“Hoots, man, that is an old superstition. The dead do not rise and walk, -I tell you.” - -“It is right you may be, maighstir; but I heard of this from my father, -that was old before you were young, and from his father before him. When -the last buried is weary with being the Watcher of the Dead he goes -about from place to place till he sees man, woman, or child with the -death-shadow in the eyes, and then he goes back to his grave and lies -down in peace, for his vigil it will be over now.” - -The minister laughed at the folly, and went into his house to make ready -for the Sacrament that was to be on the morrow. Old Anndra, however, -was uneasy. After the porridge he went down through the gloaming to -Balnahunnur-sa-mona. He meant to go in and warn Mànus MacCodrum. But when -he got to the west wall, and stood near the open window, he heard Mànus -speaking in a loud voice, though he was alone in the room. - -“_B’ionganntach do ghràdh dhomhsa, a’ toirt barrachd air gràdh nam -ban!…_”[3] - - [3] “Thy love to me was wonderful, surpassing the love of women.” - -This Mànus cried in a voice quivering with pain. Anndra stopped still, -fearful to intrude, fearful also, perhaps, to see someone there beside -MacCodrum whom eyes should not see. Then the voice rose into a cry of -agony. - -“_Aoram dhuit, ay an déigh dhomh fàs aosda!_”[4] - - [4] “I shall worship thee, ay even after I have become old.” - -With that Anndra feared to stay. As he passed the byre he started, for he -thought he saw the shadow of a man. When he looked closer he could see -nought, so went his way trembling and sore troubled. - -It was dusk when Mànus came out. He saw that it was to be a cloudy night, -and perhaps it was this that, after a brief while, made him turn in his -aimless walk and go back to the house. He was sitting before the flaming -heart of the peats, brooding in his pain, when, suddenly, he sprang to -his feet. - -Loud and clear, and close as though played under the very window of the -room, came the cold white notes of an oaten flute. Ah, too well he knew -that wild fantastic air. Who could it be but Gloom Achanna, playing upon -his _feadan_; and what air of all airs could that be but the Dàn-nan-Ròn? - -Was it the dead man, standing there unseen in the shadow of the grave? -Was Marcus beside him--Marcus with the knife still thrust up to the hilt, -and the lung-foam upon his lips? Can the sea give up its dead? Can there -be strain of any _feadan_ that ever was made of man--there in the Silence? - -In vain Mànus MacCodrum tortured himself thus. Too well he knew that he -had heard the Dàn-nan-Ròn, and that no other than Gloom Achanna was the -player. - -Suddenly an access of fury wrought him to madness. With an abrupt lilt -the tune swung into the Davsa-na-mairv, and thence, after a few seconds, -and in a moment, into that mysterious and horrible _Codhail-nan-Pairtean_ -which none but Gloom played. - -There could be no mistake now, nor as to what was meant by the muttering, -jerking air of the “Gathering of the Crabs.” - -With a savage cry Mànus snatched up a long dirk from its place by the -chimney, and rushed out. - -There was not the shadow of a sea-gull even in front: so he sped round by -the byre. Neither was anything unusual discoverable there. - -“Sorrow upon me,” he cried; “man or wraith, I will be putting it to the -dirk!” - -But there was no one; nothing; not a sound. - -Then, at last, with a listless droop of his arms, MacCodrum turned and -went into the house again. He remembered what Gloom Achanna had said: -“_You’ll hear the Dàn-nan-Ròn the night before you die, Mànus MacCodrum, -and lest you doubt it, you’ll hear it in your death-hour._” - -He did not stir from the fire for three hours; then he rose, and went -over to his bed and lay down without undressing. - -He did not sleep, but lay listening and watching. The peats burned low, -and at last there was scarce a flicker along the floor. Outside he could -hear the wind moaning upon the sea. By a strange rustling sound he -knew that the tide was ebbing across the great reef that runs out from -Berneray. By midnight the clouds had gone. The moon shone clear and full. -When he heard the clock strike in its worm-eaten, rickety case, he sat -up, and listened intently. He could hear nothing. No shadow stirred. -Surely if the wraith of Gloom Achanna were waiting for him it would make -some sign, now, in the dead of night. - -An hour passed. Mànus rose, crossed the room on tip-toe, and soundlessly -opened the door. The salt-wind blew fresh against his face. The smell -of the shore, of wet sea-wrack and pungent gale, of foam and moving -water, came sweet to his nostrils. He heard a skua calling from the rocky -promontory. From the slopes behind, the wail of a moon-restless lapwing -rose and fell mournfully. - -Crouching, and with slow, stealthy step, he stole round by the seaward -wall. At the dyke he stopped, and scrutinised it on each side. He could -see for several hundred yards, and there was not even a sheltering sheep. -Then, soundlessly as ever, he crept close to the byre. He put his ear to -chink after chink; but not a stir of a shadow even. As a shadow, himself, -he drifted lightly to the front, past the hay-rick: then, with swift -glances to right and left, opened the door and entered. As he did so, -he stood as though frozen. Surely, he thought, that was a sound as of a -step, out there by the hay-rick. A terror was at his heart. In front, -the darkness of the byre, with God knows what dread thing awaiting him: -behind, a mysterious walker in the night, swift to take him unawares. -The trembling that came upon him was nigh overmastering. At last, with -a great effort, he moved towards the ledge, where he kept a candle. -With shaking hand he struck a light. The empty byre looked ghostly and -fearsome in the flickering gloom. But there was no one, nothing. He was -about to turn, when a rat ran along a loose hanging beam, and stared -at him, or at the yellow shine. He saw its black eyes shining like -peat-water in moonlight. - -The creature was curious at first, then indifferent. At least, it began -to squeak, and then make a swift scratching with its forepaws. Once or -twice came an answering squeak: a faint rustling was audible here and -there among the straw. - -With a sudden spring Mànus seized the beast. Even in the second in -which he raised it to his mouth, and scrunched its back with his strong -teeth, it bit him severely. He let his hands drop, and grope furtively -in the darkness. With stooping head he shook the last breath out of -the rat, holding it with his front teeth, with back-curled lips. The -next moment he dropped the dead thing, trampled upon it, and burst out -laughing. There was a scurrying of pattering feet, a rustling of straw. -Then silence again. A draught from the door had caught the flame and -extinguished it. In the silence and darkness MacCodrum stood, intent -but no longer afraid. He laughed again, because it was so easy to kill -with the teeth. The noise of his laughter seemed to him to leap hither -and thither like a shadowy ape. He could see it: a blackness within the -darkness. Once more he laughed. It amused him to see the _thing_ leaping -about like that. - -Suddenly he turned, and walked out into the moonlight. The lapwing was -still circling and wailing. He mocked it, with loud, shrill _pēē-wēēty, -pēē-wēēty, pēē-wēēt_. The bird swung waywardly, alarmed: its abrupt -cry, and dancing flight, aroused its fellows. The air was full of the -lamentable crying of plovers. - -A sough of the sea came inland. Mànus inhaled its breath with a sigh -of delight. A passion for the running wave was upon him. He yearned to -feel green water break against his breast. Thirst and hunger, too, he -felt at last, though he had known neither all day. How cool and sweet, -he thought, would be a silver haddock, or even a brown-backed liath, -alive and gleaming wet with the sea-water still bubbling in its gills. -It would writhe, just like the rat; but then how he would throw his head -back, and toss the glittering thing up into the moonlight, catch it on -the downwhirl just as it neared the wave on whose crest he was, and then -devour it with swift voracious gulps! - -With quick jerky steps he made his way past the landward side of the -small thatchroofed cottage. He was about to enter, when he noticed that -the door, which he had left ajar, was closed. He stole to the window and -glanced in. - -A single thin, wavering moonbeam flickered in the room. But the flame at -the heart of the peats had worked its way through the ash, and there was -now a dull glow, though that was within the “smooring,” and threw scarce -more than a glimmer into the room. - -There was enough light, however, for Mànus MacCodrum to see that a man -sat on the three-legged stool before the fire. His head was bent, as -though he were listening. The face was away from the window. It was his -own wraith, of course--of that Mànus felt convinced. What was it doing -there? Perhaps it had eaten the Holy Book, so that it was beyond his -putting a _rosad_ on it! At the thought, he laughed loud. The shadow-man -leaped to his feet. - -The next moment MacCodrum swung himself on to the thatched roof, and -clambered from rope to rope, where these held down the big stones which -acted as dead-weight for the thatch against the fury of tempests. Stone -after stone he tore from its fastenings, and hurled to the ground over -and beyond the door. Then, with tearing hands, he began to burrow an -opening in the thatch. All the time he whined like a beast. - -He was glad the moon shone full upon him. When he had made a big enough -hole, he would see the evil thing out of the grave that sat in his room, -and would stone it to death. - -Suddenly he became still. A cold sweat broke out upon him. The _thing_, -whether his own wraith, or the spirit of his dead foe, or Gloom Achanna -himself, had begun to play, low and slow, a wild air. No piercing cold -music like that of the _feadan_! Too well he knew it, and those cool -white notes that moved here and there in the darkness like snowflakes. As -for the air, though he slept till Judgment Day and heard but a note of it -amidst all the clamour of heaven and hell, sure he would scream because -of the Dàn-nan-Ròn! - -The Dàn-nan-Ròn: the _Roin_! the Seals! Ah, what was he doing there, on -the bitter-weary land! Out there was the sea. Safe would he be in the -green waves. - -With a leap he was on the ground. Seizing a huge stone he hurled it -through the window. Then, laughing and screaming, he fled towards the -Great Reef, along whose sides the ebb-tide gurgled and sobbed, with -glistering white foam. - -He ceased screaming or laughing as he heard the Dàn-nan-Ròn behind him, -faint, but following; sure, following. Bending low, he raced towards the -rock-ledges from which ran the reef. - -When at last he reached the extreme ledge, he stopped abruptly. Out on -the reef he saw from ten to twenty seals, some swimming to and fro, -others clinging to the reef, one or two making a curious barking sound, -with round heads lifted against the moon. In one place there was a surge -and lashing of water. Two bulls were fighting to the death. - -With swift stealthy movements Mànus unclothed himself. The damp had -clotted the leathern thongs of his boots, and he snarled with curled lip -as he tore at them. He shone white in the moonshine, but was sheltered -from the sea by the ledge behind which he crouched. “What did Gloom -Achanna mean by that,” he muttered savagely, as he heard the nearing air -change into the “Dance of the Dead.” For a moment Mànus was a man again. -He was nigh upon turning to face his foe, corpse or wraith or living -body, to spring at this thing which followed him, and tear it with hands -and teeth. Then, once more, the hated Song of the Seal stole mockingly -through the night. - -With a shiver he slipped into the dark water. Then, with quick, powerful -strokes, he was in the moon-flood, and swimming hard against it out by -the leeside of the reef. - -So intent were the seals upon the fight of the two great bulls that they -did not see the swimmer, or, if they did, took him for one of their own -people. A savage snarling and barking and half-human crying came from -them. Mànus was almost within reach of the nearest, when one of the -combatants sank dead, with torn throat. The victor clambered on to the -reef, and leaned high, swaying its great head and shoulders to and fro. -In the moonlight its white fangs were like red coral. Its blinded eyes -ran with gore. - -There was a rush, a rapid leaping and swirling, as Mànus surged in among -the seals, which were swimming round the place where the slain bull had -sunk. - -The laughter of this long white seal terrified them. - -When his knee struck against a rock, MacCodrum groped with his arms and -hauled himself out of the water. - -From rock to rock and ledge to ledge he went, with a fantastic dancing -motion, his body gleaming foam-white in the moonshine. - -As he pranced and trampled along the weedy ledges, he sang snatches of an -old rune--the lost rune of the MacCodrums of Uist. The seals on the rocks -crouched spell-bound: those slow-swimming in the water stared with brown -unwinking eyes, with their small ears strained against the sound:-- - - It is I, Mànus MacCodrum, - I am telling you that, you, Anndra of my blood, - And you, Neil my grandfather, and you, and you, and you! - Ay, ay, Mànus my name is, Mànus MacMànus! - It is I myself, and no other, - Your brother, O Seals of the Sea! - Give me blood of the red fish, - And a bite of the flying sgadan; - The green wave on my belly, - And the foam in my eyes! - I am your bull-brother, O Bulls of the Sea, - Bull-better than any of you, snarling bulls! - Come to me, mate, seal of the soft furry womb, - White am I still, though red shall I be, - Red with the streaming red blood if any dispute me! - Aoh, aoh, aoh, arò, arò, ho-rò! - A man was I, a seal am I, - My fangs churn the yellow foam from my lips: - Give way to me, give way to me, Seals of the Sea; - Give way, for I am fëy of the sea - And the sea-maiden I see there, - And my name, true, is Mànus MacCodrum, - The bull-seal that was a man, Arà! Arà! - -By this time he was close upon the great black seal, which was still -monotonously swaying its gory head, with its sightless eyes rolling this -way and that. The sea-folk seemed fascinated. None moved, even when the -dancer in the moonshine trampled upon them. - -When he came within arm-reach he stopped. - -“Are you the Ceann-Cinnidh?” he cried. “Are you the head of this clan of -the sea-folk?” - -The huge beast ceased its swaying. Its curled lips moved from its fangs. - -“Speak, Seal, if there’s no curse upon you! Maybe, now, you’ll be Anndra -himself, the brother of my father! Speak! _H’st--are you hearing that -music on the shore!_ ’Tis the Dàn-nan-Ròn! Death o’ my soul, it’s the -Dàn-nan-Ròn! Aha, ’tis Gloom Achanna out of the Grave. Back, beast, and -let me move on!” - -With that, seeing the great bull did not move, he struck it full in the -face with clenched fist. There was a hoarse strangling roar, and the seal -champion was upon him with lacerating fangs. - -Mànus swayed this way and that. All he could hear now was the snarling -and growling and choking cries of the maddened seals. As he fell, they -closed in upon him. His screams wheeled through the night like mad -birds. With desperate fury he struggled to free himself. The great bull -pinned him to the rock; a dozen others tore at his white flesh, till his -spouting blood made the rocks scarlet in the white shine of the moon. - -For a few seconds he still fought savagely, tearing with teeth and hands. -Once, only, a wild cry burst from his lips: when from the shore end of -the reef came loud and clear the lilt of the rune of his fate. - -The next moment he was dragged down and swept from the reef into the -sea. As the torn and mangled body disappeared from sight, it was amid -a seething crowd of leaping and struggling seals, their eyes wild with -affright and fury, their fangs red with human gore. - -And Gloom Achanna, turning upon the reef, moved swiftly inland, playing -low on his _feadan_ as he went. - - - - -_THE SIN-EATER_ - - -_NOTE_ - -It should be explained that the sin-relinquishing superstition--a -superstition probably pre-Celtic, perhaps of the remotest -antiquity--hardly exists to-day, or, if at all, in its crudest guise. -The last time I heard of it, even in a modified form, was not in the -west, but in a remote part of the Aberdeenshire highlands. Then, it was -salt, not bread, that was put on the breast of the dead: and the salt -was thrown away, nor was any wayfarer called upon to perform this or any -other function. - - -THE SIN-EATER - - SIN. - - _Taste this bread, this substance: tell me_ - _Is it bread or flesh?_ - - [_The Senses approach._] - - THE SMELL. - - _Its smell_ - _Is the smell of bread._ - - SIN. - - _Touch, come. Why tremble?_ - _Say what’s this thou touchest?_ - - THE TOUCH. - - _Bread._ - - SIN. - - _Sight, declare what thou discernest_ - _In this object._ - - THE SIGHT. - - _Bread alone._ - - CALDERON, - _Los Encantos de la Culpa._ - - -A wet wind out of the south mazed and mooned through the sea-mist that -hung over the Ross. In all the bays and creeks was a continuous weary -lapping of water. There was no other sound anywhere. - -Thus was it at daybreak: it was thus at noon: thus was it now in the -darkening of the day. A confused thrusting and falling of sounds through -the silence betokened the hour of the setting. Curlews wailed in the -mist: on the seething limpet-covered rocks the skuas and terns screamed, -or uttered hoarse, rasping cries. Ever and again the prolonged note of -the oyster-catcher shrilled against the air, as an echo flying blindly -along a blank wall of cliff. Out of weedy places, wherein the tide sobbed -with long, gurgling moans, came at intervals the barking of a seal. - -Inland, by the hamlet of Contullich, there is a reedy tarn called the -Loch-a-chaoruinn.[5] By the shores of this mournful water a man moved. -It was a slow, weary walk that of the man Neil Ross. He had come from -Duninch, thirty miles to the eastward, and had not rested foot, nor -eaten, nor had word of man or woman, since his going west an hour after -dawn. - - [5] _Contullich_: _i.e._ Ceann-nan-tulaich, “the end of the - hillocks.” _Loch-a-chaoruinn_ means the loch of the rowan-trees. - -At the bend of the loch nearest the clachan he came upon an old woman -carrying peat. To his reiterated question as to where he was, and if the -tarn were Feur-Lochan above Fionnaphort that is on the strait of Iona on -the west side of the Ross of Mull, she did not at first make any answer. -The rain trickled down her withered brown face, over which the thin grey -locks hung limply. It was only in the deep-set eyes that the flame of -life still glimmered, though that dimly. - -The man had used the English when first he spoke, but as though -mechanically. Supposing that he had not been understood, he repeated his -question in the Gaelic. - -After a minute’s silence the old woman answered him in the native tongue, -but only to put a question in return. - -“I am thinking it is a long time since you have been in Iona?” - -The man stirred uneasily. - -“And why is that, mother?” he asked, in a weak voice hoarse with damp and -fatigue; “how is it you will be knowing that I have been in Iona at all?” - -“Because I knew your kith and kin there, Neil Ross.” - -“I have not been hearing that name, mother, for many a long year. And as -for the old face o’ you, it is unbeknown to me.” - -“I was at the naming of you, for all that. Well do I remember the day -that Silis Macallum gave you birth; and I was at the house on the croft -of Ballyrona when Murtagh Ross--that was your father--laughed. It was an -ill laughing that.” - -“I am knowing it. The curse of God on him!” - -“’Tis not the first, nor the last, though the grass is on his head three -years agone now.” - -“You that know who I am will be knowing that I have no kith or kin now on -Iona?” - -“Ay; they are all under grey stone or running wave. Donald your brother, -and Murtagh your next brother, and little Silis, and your mother Silis -herself, and your two brothers of your father, Angus and Ian Macallum, -and your father Murtagh Ross, and his lawful childless wife, Dionaid, and -his sister Anna--one and all, they lie beneath the green wave or in the -brown mould. It is said there is a curse upon all who live at Ballyrona. -The owl builds now in the rafters, and it is the big sea-rat that runs -across the fireless hearth.” - -“It is there I am going.” - -“The foolishness is on you, Neil Ross.” - -“Now it is that I am knowing who you are. It is old Sheen Macarthur I am -speaking to.” - -“_Tha mise_ … it is I.” - -“And you will be alone now, too, I am thinking, Sheen?” - -“I am alone. God took my three boys at the one fishing ten years ago; and -before there was moonrise in the blackness of my heart my man went. It -was after the drowning of Anndra that my croft was taken from me. Then I -crossed the Sound, and shared with my widow sister Elsie McVurie: till -_she_ went: and then the two cows had to go: and I had no rent: and was -old.” - -In the silence that followed, the rain dribbled from the sodden bracken -and dripping loneroid. Big tears rolled slowly down the deep lines on -the face of Sheen. Once there was a sob in her throat, but she put her -shaking hand to it, and it was still. - -Neil Ross shifted from foot to foot. The ooze in that marshy place -squelched with each restless movement he made. Beyond them a plover -wheeled, a blurred splatch in the mist, crying its mournful cry over and -over and over. - -It was a pitiful thing to hear: ah, bitter loneliness, bitter patience of -poor old women. That he knew well. But he was too weary, and his heart -was nigh full of its own burthen. The words could not come to his lips. -But at last he spoke. - -“Tha mo chridhe goirt,” he said, with tears in his voice, as he put his -hand on her bent shoulder; “my heart is sore.” - -She put up her old face against his. - -“’S tha e ruidhinn mo chridhe,” she whispered; “it is touching my heart -you are.” - -After that they walked on slowly through the dripping mist, each dumb and -brooding deep. - -“Where will you be staying this night?” asked Sheen suddenly, when -they had traversed a wide boggy stretch of land; adding, as by an -afterthought--“Ah, it is asking you were if the tarn there were -Feur-Lochan. No; it is Loch-a-chaoruinn, and the clachan that is near is -Contullich.” - -“Which way?” - -“Yonder: to the right.” - -“And you are not going there?” - -“No. I am going to the steading of Andrew Blair. Maybe you are for -knowing it? It is called the Baile-na-Chlais-nambuidheag.”[6] - - [6] The farm in the hollow of the yellow flowers. - -“I do not remember. But it is remembering a Blair I am. He was Adam, the -son of Adam, the son of Robert. He and my father did many an ill deed -together.” - -“Ay, to the stones be it said. Sure, now, there was, even till this weary -day, no man or woman who had a good word for Adam Blair.” - -“And why that … why till this day?” - -“It is not yet the third hour since he went into the silence.” - -Neil Ross uttered a sound like a stifled curse. For a time he trudged -wearily on. - -“Then I am too late,” he said at last, but as though speaking to himself. -“I had hoped to see him face to face again, and curse him between the -eyes. It was he who made Murtagh Ross break his troth to my mother, and -marry that other woman, barren at that, God be praised! And they say ill -of him, do they?” - -“Ay, it is evil that is upon him. This crime and that, God knows; and the -shadow of murder on his brow and in his eyes. Well, well, ’tis ill to be -speaking of a man in corpse, and that near by. ’Tis Himself only that -knows, Neil Ross.” - -“Maybe ay and maybe no. But where is it that I can be sleeping this -night, Sheen Macarthur?” - -“They will not be taking a stranger at the farm this night of the nights, -I am thinking. There is no place else for seven miles yet, when there is -the clachan, before you will be coming to Fionnaphort. There is the warm -byre, Neil, my man; or, if you can bide by my peats, you may rest, and -welcome, though there is no bed for you, and no food either save some of -the porridge that is over.” - -“And that will do well enough for me, Sheen; and Himself bless you for -it.” - -And so it was. - - * * * * * - -After old Sheen Macarthur had given the wayfarer food--poor food at that, -but welcome to one nigh starved, and for the heartsome way it was given, -and because of the thanks to God that was upon it before even spoon was -lifted--she told him a lie. It was the good lie of tender love. - -“Sure now, after all, Neil, my man,” she said, “it is sleeping at the -farm I ought to be, for Maisie Macdonald, the wise woman, will be sitting -by the corpse, and there will be none to keep her company. It is there I -must be going; and if I am weary, there is a good bed for me just beyond -the dead-board, which I am not minding at all. So, if it is tired you are -sitting by the peats, lie down on my bed there, and have the sleep; and -God be with you.” - -With that she went, and soundlessly, for Neil Ross was already asleep, -where he sat on an upturned _claar_, with his elbows on his knees, and -his flame-lit face in his hands. - -The rain had ceased; but the mist still hung over the land, though in -thin veils now, and these slowly drifting seaward. Sheen stepped wearily -along the stony path that led from her bothy to the farm-house. She -stood still once, the fear upon her, for she saw three or four blurred -yellow gleams moving beyond her, eastward, along the dyke. She knew what -they were--the corpse-lights that on the night of death go between the -bier and the place of burial. More than once she had seen them before the -last hour, and by that token had known the end to be near. - -Good Catholic that she was, she crossed herself, and took heart. Then, -muttering - - _Crois nan naoi aingeal leam_ - _’O mhullach mo chinn_ - _Gu craican mo bhonn_ - - (The cross of the nine angels be about me, - From the top of my head - To the soles of my feet), - -she went on her way fearlessly. - -When she came to the White House, she entered by the milk-shed that was -between the byre and the kitchen. At the end of it was a paved place, -with washing-tubs. At one of these stood a girl that served in the -house,--an ignorant lass called Jessie McFall, out of Oban. She was -ignorant, indeed, not to know that to wash clothes with a newly dead -body near by was an ill thing to do. Was it not a matter for the knowing -that the corpse could hear, and might rise up in the night and clothe -itself in a clean white shroud? - -She was still speaking to the lassie when Maisie Macdonald, the -deid-watcher, opened the door of the room behind the kitchen to see who -it was that was come. The two old women nodded silently. It was not till -Sheen was in the closed room, midway in which something covered with a -sheet lay on a board, that any word was spoken. - -“Duit sìth mòr, Beann Macdonald.” - -“And deep peace to you, too, Sheen; and to him that is there.” - -“Och, ochone, mise ’n diugh; ’tis a dark hour this.” - -“Ay; it is bad. Will you have been hearing or seeing anything?” - -“Well, as for that, I am thinking I saw lights moving betwixt here and -the green place over there.” - -“The corpse-lights?” - -“Well, it is calling them that they are.” - -“I _thought_ they would be out. And I have been hearing the noise of the -planks--the cracking of the boards, you know, that will be used for the -coffin to-morrow.” - -A long silence followed. The old women had seated themselves by the -corpse, their cloaks over their heads. The room was fireless, and was lit -only by a tall wax death-candle, kept against the hour of the going. - -At last Sheen began swaying slowly to and fro, crooning low the while. “I -would not be for doing that, Sheen Macarthur,” said the deid-watcher in a -low voice, but meaningly; adding, after a moment’s pause, “_The mice have -all left the house._” - -Sheen sat upright, a look half of terror half of awe in her eyes. - -“God save the sinful soul that is hiding,” she whispered. - -Well she knew what Maisie meant. If the soul of the dead be a lost soul -it knows its doom. The house of death is the house of sanctuary; but -before the dawn that follows the death-night the soul must go forth, -whosoever or whatsoever wait for it in the homeless, shelterless plains -of air around and beyond. If it be well with the soul, it need have no -fear: if it be not ill with the soul, it may fare forth with surety; but -if it be ill with the soul, ill will the going be. Thus is it that the -spirit of an evil man cannot stay, and yet dare not go; and so it strives -to hide itself in secret places anywhere, in dark channels and blind -walls; and the wise creatures that live near man smell the terror, and -flee. Maisie repeated the saying of Sheen; then, after a silence, added-- - -“Adam Blair will not lie in his grave for a year and a day because of the -sins that are upon him; and it is knowing that, they are, here. He will -be the Watcher of the Dead for a year and a day.” - -“Ay, sure, there will be dark prints in the dawn-dew over yonder.” - -Once more the old women relapsed into silence. Through the night there -was a sighing sound. It was not the sea, which was too far off to be -heard save in a day of storm. The wind it was, that was dragging itself -across the sodden moors like a wounded thing, moaning and sighing. - -Out of sheer weariness, Sheen twice rocked forward from her stool, heavy -with sleep. At last Maisie led her over to the niche-bed opposite, and -laid her down there, and waited till the deep furrows in the face relaxed -somewhat, and the thin breath laboured slow across the fallen jaw. - -“Poor old woman,” she muttered, heedless of her own grey hairs and greyer -years; “a bitter, bad thing it is to be old, old and weary. ’Tis the -sorrow, that. God keep the pain of it!” - -As for herself, she did not sleep at all that night, but sat between -the living and the dead, with her plaid shrouding her. Once, when Sheen -gave a low, terrified scream in her sleep, she rose, and in a loud voice -cried, “_Sheeach-ad! Away with you!_” And with that she lifted the shroud -from the dead man, and took the pennies off the eyelids, and lifted -each lid; then, staring into these filmed wells, muttered an ancient -incantation that would compel the soul of Adam Blair to leave the spirit -of Sheen alone, and return to the cold corpse that was its coffin till -the wood was ready. - -The dawn came at last. Sheen slept, and Adam Blair slept a deeper sleep, -and Maisie stared out of her wan, weary eyes against the red and stormy -flares of light that came into the sky. - -When, an hour after sunrise, Sheen Macarthur reached her bothy, she found -Neil Ross, heavy with slumber, upon her bed. The fire was not out, though -no flame or spark was visible; but she stooped and blew at the heart -of the peats till the redness came, and once it came it grew. Having -done this, she kneeled and said a rune of the morning, and after that a -prayer, and then a prayer for the poor man Neil. She could pray no more -because of the tears. She rose and put the meal and water into the pot -for the porridge to be ready against his awaking. One of the hens that -was there came and pecked at her ragged skirt. “Poor beastie,” she said. -“Sure, that will just be the way I am pulling at the white robe of the -Mother o’ God. ’Tis a bit meal for you, cluckie, and for me a healing -hand upon my tears. O, och, ochone, the tears, the tears!” - -It was not till the third hour after sunrise of that bleak day in that -winter of the winters, that Neil Ross stirred and arose. He ate in -silence. Once he said that he smelt the snow coming out of the north. -Sheen said no word at all. - -After the porridge, he took his pipe, but there was no tobacco. All that -Sheen had was the pipeful she kept against the gloom of the Sabbath. It -was her one solace in the long weary week. She gave him this, and held a -burning peat to his mouth, and hungered over the thin, rank smoke that -curled upward. - -It was within half-an-hour of noon that, after an absence, she returned. - -“Not between you and me, Neil Ross,” she began abruptly, “but just for -the asking, and what is beyond. Is it any money you are having upon you?” - -“No.” - -“Nothing?” - -“Nothing.” - -“Then how will you be getting across to Iona? It is seven long miles to -Fionnaphort, and bitter cold at that, and you will be needing food, and -then the ferry, the ferry across the Sound, you know.” - -“Ay, I know.” - -“What would you do for a silver piece, Neil, my man?” - -“You have none to give me, Sheen Macarthur; and, if you had, it would not -be taking it I would.” - -“Would you kiss a dead man for a crown-piece--a crown-piece of five good -shillings?” - -Neil Ross stared. Then he sprang to his feet. - -“It is Adam Blair you are meaning, woman! God curse him in death now that -he is no longer in life!” - -Then, shaking and trembling, he sat down again, and brooded against the -dull red glow of the peats. - -But, when he rose, in the last quarter before noon, his face was white. - -“The dead are dead, Sheen Macarthur. They can know or do nothing. I will -do it. It is willed. Yes, I am going up to the house there. And now I am -going from here. God Himself has my thanks to you, and my blessing too. -They will come back to you. It is not forgetting you I will be. Good-bye.” - -“Good-bye, Neil, son of the woman that was my friend. A south wind to -you! Go up by the farm. In the front of the house you will see what you -will be seeing. Maisie Macdonald will be there. She will tell you what’s -for the telling. There is no harm in it, sure: sure, the dead are dead. -It is praying for you I will be, Neil Ross. Peace to you!” - -“And to you, Sheen.” - -And with that the man went. - - * * * * * - -When Neil Ross reached the byres of the farm in the wide hollow, he saw -two figures standing as though awaiting him, but separate, and unseen of -the other. In front of the house was a man he knew to be Andrew Blair; -behind the milk-shed was a woman he guessed to be Maisie Macdonald. - -It was the woman he came upon first. - -“Are you the friend of Sheen Macarthur?” she asked in a whisper, as she -beckoned him to the doorway. - -“I am.” - -“I am knowing no names or anything. And no one here will know you, I am -thinking. So do the thing and begone.” - -“There is no harm to it?” - -“None.” - -“It will be a thing often done, is it not?” - -“Ay, sure.” - -“And the evil does not abide?” - -“No. The … the … person … the person takes them away, and …” - -“_Them?_” - -“For sure, man! Them … the sins of the corpse. He takes them away; and -are you for thinking God would let the innocent suffer for the guilty? No -… the person … the Sin-Eater, you know … takes them away on himself, and -one by one the air of heaven washes them away till he, the Sin-Eater, is -clean and whole as before.” - -“But if it is a man you hate … if it is a corpse that is the corpse of -one who has been a curse and a foe … if …” - -“_Sst!_ Be still now with your foolishness. It is only an idle saying, -I am thinking. Do it, and take the money and go. It will be hell enough -for Adam Blair, miser as he was, if he is for knowing that five good -shillings of his money are to go to a passing tramp because of an old, -ancient silly tale.” - -Neil Ross laughed low at that. It was for pleasure to him. - -“Hush wi’ ye! Andrew Blair is waiting round there. Say that I have sent -you round, as I have neither bite nor bit to give.” - -Turning on his heel, Neil walked slowly round to the front of the house. -A tall man was there, gaunt and brown, with hairless face and lank brown -hair, but with eyes cold and grey as the sea. - -“Good day to you, an’ good faring. Will you be passing this way to -anywhere?” - -“Health to you. I am a stranger here. It is on my way to Iona I am. But I -have the hunger upon me. There is not a brown bit in my pocket. I asked -at the door there, near the byres. The woman told me she could give me -nothing--not a penny even, worse luck,--nor, for that, a drink of warm -milk. ’Tis a sore land this.” - -“You have the Gaelic of the Isles. Is it from Iona you are?” - -“It is from the Isles of the West I come.” - -“From Tiree? … from Coll?” - -“No.” - -“From the Long Island … or from Uist … or maybe from Benbecula?” - -“No.” - -“Oh well, sure it is no matter to me. But may I be asking your name?” - -“Macallum.” - -“Do you know there is a death here, Macallum?” - -“If I didn’t, I would know it now, because of what lies yonder.” - -Mechanically Andrew Blair looked round. As he knew, a rough bier was -there, that was made of a dead-board laid upon three milking-stools. -Beside it was a _claar_, a small tub to hold potatoes. On the bier was a -corpse, covered with a canvas sheeting that looked like a sail. - -“He was a worthy man, my father,” began the son of the dead man, slowly; -“but he had his faults, like all of us. I might even be saying that he -had his sins, to the Stones be it said. You will be knowing, Macallum, -what is thought among the folk … that a stranger, passing by, may take -away the sins of the dead, and that, too, without any hurt whatever … any -hurt whatever.” - -“Ay, sure.” - -“And you will be knowing what is done?” - -“Ay.” - -“With the bread … and the water…?” - -“Ay.” - -“It is a small thing to do. It is a Christian thing. I would be doing it -myself, and that gladly, but the … the … passer-by who …” - -“It is talking of the Sin-Eater you are?” - -“Yes, yes, for sure. The Sin-Eater as he is called--and a good Christian -act it is, for all that the ministers and the priests make a frowning at -it--the Sin-Eater must be a stranger. He must be a stranger, and should -know nothing of the dead man--above all, bear him no grudge.” - -At that Neil Ross’s eyes lightened for a moment. - -“And why that?” - -“Who knows? I have heard this, and I have heard that. If the Sin-Eater -was hating the dead man he could take the sins and fling them into the -sea, and they would be changed into demons of the air that would harry -the flying soul till Judgment-Day.” - -“And how would that thing be done?” - -The man spoke with flashing eyes and parted lips, the breath coming -swift. Andrew Blair looked at him suspiciously; and hesitated, before, in -a cold voice, he spoke again. - -“That is all folly, I am thinking, Macallum. Maybe it is all folly, the -whole of it. But, see here, I have no time to be talking with you. If you -will take the bread and the water you shall have a good meal if you want -it, and … and … yes, look you, my man, I will be giving you a shilling -too, for luck.” - -“I will have no meal in this house, Anndra-mhic-Adam; nor will I do this -thing unless you will be giving me two silver half-crowns. That is the -sum I must have, or no other.” - -“Two half-crowns! Why, man, for one half-crown …” - -“Then be eating the sins o’ your father yourself, Andrew Blair! It is -going I am.” - -“Stop, man! Stop, Macallum. See here: I will be giving you what you ask.” - -“So be it. Is the … Are you ready?” - -“Ay, come this way.” - -With that the two men turned and moved slowly towards the bier. - -In the doorway of the house stood a man and two women; farther in, a -woman; and at the window to the left, the serving-wench, Jessie McFall, -and two men of the farm. Of those in the doorway, the man was Peter, the -half-witted youngest brother of Andrew Blair; the taller and older woman -was Catreen, the widow of Adam, the second brother; and the thin, slight -woman, with staring eyes and drooping mouth, was Muireall, the wife of -Andrew. The old woman behind these was Maisie Macdonald. - -Andrew Blair stooped and took a saucer out of the _claar_. This he put -upon the covered breast of the corpse. He stooped again, and brought -forth a thick square piece of new-made bread. That also he placed upon -the breast of the corpse. Then he stooped again, and with that he emptied -a spoonful of salt alongside the bread. - -“I must see the corpse,” said Neil Ross simply. - -“It is not needful, Macallum.” - -“I must be seeing the corpse, I tell you--and for that, too, the bread -and the water should be on the naked breast.” - -“No, no, man; it …” - -But here a voice, that of Maisie the wise woman, came upon them, saying -that the man was right, and that the eating of the sins should be done in -that way and no other. - -With an ill grace the son of the dead man drew back the sheeting. -Beneath it, the corpse was in a clean white shirt, a death-gown long ago -prepared, that covered him from his neck to his feet, and left only the -dusky yellowish face exposed. - -While Andrew Blair unfastened the shirt and placed the saucer and the -bread and the salt on the breast, the man beside him stood staring -fixedly on the frozen features of the corpse. The new laird had to speak -to him twice before he heard. - -“I am ready. And you, now? What is it you are muttering over against the -lips of the dead?” - -“It is giving him a message I am. There is no harm in that, sure?” - -“Keep to your own folk, Macallum. You are from the West you say, and we -are from the North. There can be no messages between you and a Blair of -Strathmore, no messages for _you_ to be giving.” - -“He that lies here knows well the man to whom I am sending a -message”--and at this response Andrew Blair scowled darkly. He would fain -have sent the man about his business, but he feared he might get no other. - -“It is thinking I am that you are not a Macallum at all. I know all of -that name in Mull, Iona, Skye, and the near isles. What will the name of -your naming be, and of your father, and of his place?” - -Whether he really wanted an answer, or whether he sought only to divert -the man from his procrastination, his question had a satisfactory result. - -“Well, now, it’s ready I am, Anndra-mhic-Adam.” - -With that, Andrew Blair stooped once more and from the _claar_ brought a -small jug of water. From this he filled the saucer. - -“You know what to say and what to do, Macallum.” - -There was not one there who did not have a shortened breath because -of the mystery that was now before them, and the fearfulness of it. -Neil Ross drew himself up, erect, stiff, with white, drawn face. All -who waited, save Andrew Blair, thought that the moving of his lips was -because of the prayer that was slipping upon them, like the last lapsing -of the ebb-tide. But Blair was watching him closely, and knew that it was -no prayer which stole out against the blank air that was around the dead. - -Slowly Neil Ross extended his right arm. He took a pinch of the salt and -put it in the saucer, then took another pinch and sprinkled it upon the -bread. His hand shook for a moment as he touched the saucer. But there -was no shaking as he raised it towards his lips, or when he held it -before him when he spoke. - -“With this water that has salt in it, and has lain on thy corpse, O Adam -mhic Anndra mhic Adam Mòr, I drink away all the evil that is upon thee …” - -There was throbbing silence while he paused. - -“… And may it be upon me and not upon thee, if with this water it cannot -flow away.” - -Thereupon, he raised the saucer and passed it thrice round the head of -the corpse sun-ways; and, having done this, lifted it to his lips and -drank as much as his mouth would hold. Thereafter he poured the remnant -over his left hand, and let it trickle to the ground. Then he took the -piece of bread. Thrice, too, he passed it round the head of the corpse -sun-ways. - -He turned and looked at the man by his side, then at the others, who -watched him with beating hearts. - -With a loud clear voice he took the sins. - -“_Thoir dhomh do ciontachd, O Adam mhic Anndra mhic Adam Mòr!_ Give me -thy sins to take away from thee! Lo, now, as I stand here, I break this -bread that has lain on thee in corpse, and I am eating it, I am, and in -that eating I take upon me the sins of thee, O man that was alive and is -now white with the stillness!” - -Thereupon Neil Ross broke the bread and ate of it, and took upon himself -the sins of Adam Blair that was dead. It was a bitter swallowing, that. -The remainder of the bread he crumbled in his hand, and threw it on the -ground, and trod upon it. Andrew Blair gave a sigh of relief. His cold -eyes lightened with malice. - -“Be off with you, now, Macallum. We are wanting no tramps at the farm -here, and perhaps you had better not be trying to get work this side -Iona; for it is known as the Sin-Eater you will be, and that won’t be for -the helping, I am thinking! There: there are the two half-crowns for you -… and may they bring you no harm, you that are _Scapegoat_ now!” - -The Sin-Eater turned at that, and stared like a hill-bull. _Scapegoat!_ -Ay, that’s what he was. Sin-Eater, Scapegoat! Was he not, too, another -Judas, to have sold for silver that which was not for the selling? No, -no, for sure Maisie Macdonald could tell him the rune that would serve -for the easing of this burden. He would soon be quit of it. - -Slowly he took the money, turned it over, and put it in his pocket. - -“I am going, Andrew Blair,” he said quietly, “I am going now. I will not -say to him that is there in the silence, _A chuid do Pharas da!_--nor -will I say to you, _Gu’n gleidheadh Dia thu_,--nor will I say to this -dwelling that is the home of thee and thine, _Gu’n beannaicheadh Dia an -tigh!_”[7] - - [7] (1) _A chuid do Pharas da!_ “His share of heaven be his.” - (2) _Gu’n gleidheadh Dia thu_, “May God preserve you.” (3) _Gu’n - beannaicheadh Dia an tigh!_ “God’s blessing on this house.” - -Here there was a pause. All listened. Andrew Blair shifted uneasily, the -furtive eyes of him going this way and that, like a ferret in the grass. - -“But, Andrew Blair, I will say this: when you fare abroad, _Droch caoidh -ort!_ and when you go upon the water, _Gaoth gun direadh ort!_ Ay, ay, -Anndra-mhic-Adam, _Dia ad aghaidh ’s ad aodann … agus bas dunach ort! -Dhonas ’s dholas ort, agus leat-sa!_”[8] - - [8] (1) _Droch caoidh ort!_ “May a fatal accident happen to you” - (_lit._ “bad moan on you”). (2) _Gaoth gun direadh ort!_ “May you - drift to your drowning” (_lit._ “wind without direction on you”). - (3) _Dia ad aghaidh_, etc., “God against thee and in thy face … and - may a death of woe be yours … Evil and sorrow to thee and thine!” - -The bitterness of these words was like snow in June upon all there. They -stood amazed. None spoke. No one moved. - -Neil Ross turned upon his heel, and, with a bright light in his eyes, -walked away from the dead and the living. He went by the byres, whence he -had come. Andrew Blair remained where he was, now glooming at the corpse, -now biting his nails and staring at the damp sods at his feet. - -When Neil reached the end of the milk-shed he saw Maisie Macdonald there, -waiting. - -“These were ill sayings of yours, Neil Ross,” she said in a low voice, so -that she might not be overheard from the house. - -“So, it is knowing me you are.” - -“Sheen Macarthur told me.” - -“I have good cause.” - -“That is a true word. I know it.” - -“Tell me this thing. What is the rune that is said for the throwing into -the sea of the sins of the dead? See here, Maisie Macdonald. There is no -money of that man that I would carry a mile with me. Here it is. It is -yours, if you will tell me that rune.” - -Maisie took the money hesitatingly. Then, stooping, she said slowly the -few lines of the old, old rune. - -“Will you be remembering that?” - -“It is not forgetting it I will be, Maisie.” - -“Wait a moment. There is some warm milk here.” - -With that she went, and then, from within, beckoned to him to enter. - -“There is no one here, Neil Ross. Drink the milk.” - -He drank; and while he did so she drew a leather pouch from some hidden -place in her dress. - -“And now I have this to give you.” - -She counted out ten pennies and two farthings. - -“It is all the coppers I have. You are welcome to them. Take them, friend -of my friend. They will give you the food you need, and the ferry across -the Sound.” - -“I will do that, Maisie Macdonald, and thanks to you. It is not -forgetting it I will be, nor you, good woman. And now, tell me, is it -safe that I am? He called me a ‘scapegoat’; he, Andrew Blair! Can evil -touch me between this and the sea?” - -“You must go to the place where the evil was done to you and yours--and -that, I know, is on the west side of Iona. Go, and God preserve you. But -here, too, is a sian that will be for the safety.” - -Thereupon, with swift mutterings she said this charm: an old, familiar -Sian against Sudden Harm:-- - - “Sian a chuir Moire air Mac ort, - Sian ro’ marbhadh, sian ro’ lot ort, - Sian eadar a’ chlioch ’s a’ ghlun, - Sian nan Tri ann an aon ort, - O mhullach do chinn gu bonn do chois ort: - Sian seachd eadar a h-aon ort, - Sian seachd eadar a dha ort, - Sian seachd eadar a tri ort, - Sian seachd eadar a ceithir ort, - Sian seachd eadar a coig ort, - Sian seachd eadar a sia ort, - Sian seachd paidir nan seach paidir dol deiseil ri diugh - narach ort, ga do ghleidheadh bho bheud ’s bho mhi-thapadh!” - -Scarcely had she finished before she heard heavy steps approaching. - -“Away with you,” she whispered, repeating in a loud, angry tone, “Away -with you! _Seachad!_ _Seachad!_” - -And with that Neil Ross slipped from the milk-shed and crossed the yard, -and was behind the byres before Andrew Blair, with sullen mien and swift, -wild eyes, strode from the house. - -It was with a grim smile on his face that Neil tramped down the wet -heather till he reached the high road, and fared thence as through a -marsh because of the rains there had been. - -For the first mile he thought of the angry mind of the dead man, bitter -at paying of the silver. For the second mile he thought of the evil that -had been wrought for him and his. For the third mile he pondered over all -that he had heard and done and taken upon him that day. - -Then he sat down upon a broken granite heap by the way, and brooded deep -till one hour went, and then another, and the third was upon him. - -A man driving two calves came towards him out of the west. He did not -hear or see. The man stopped: spoke again. Neil gave no answer. The -drover shrugged his shoulders, hesitated, and walked slowly on, often -looking back. - -An hour later a shepherd came by the way he himself had tramped. He was a -tall, gaunt man with a squint. The small, pale-blue eyes glittered out of -a mass of red hair that almost covered his face. He stood still, opposite -Neil, and leaned on his _cromak_. - -“_Latha math leat_,” he said at last: “I wish you good day.” - -Neil glanced at him, but did not speak. - -“What is your name, for I seem to know you?” - -But Neil had already forgotten him. The shepherd took out his snuff-mull, -helped himself, and handed the mull to the lonely wayfarer. Neil -mechanically helped himself. - -“_Am bheil thu ’dol do Fhionphort?_” tried the shepherd again: “Are you -going to Fionnaphort?” - -“_Tha mise ’dol a dh’ I-challum-chille_,” Neil answered, in a low, weary -voice, and as a man adream: “I am on my way to Iona.” - -“I am thinking I know now who you are. You are the man Macallum.” - -Neil looked, but did not speak. His eyes dreamed against what the other -could not see or know. The shepherd called angrily to his dogs to keep -the sheep from straying; then, with a resentful air, turned to his victim. - -“You are a silent man for sure, you are. I’m hoping it is not the curse -upon you already.” - -“What curse?” - -“Ah, _that_ has brought the wind against the mist! I was thinking so!” - -“What curse?” - -“You are the man that was the Sin-Eater over there?” - -“Ay.” - -“The man Macallum?” - -“Ay.” - -“Strange it is, but three days ago I saw you in Tobermory, and heard you -give your name as Neil Ross to an Iona man that was there.” - -“Well?” - -“Oh, sure, it is nothing to me. But they say the Sin-Eater should not be -a man with a hidden lump in his pack.”[9] - - [9] _i.e._ With a criminal secret, or an undiscovered crime. - -“Why?” - -“For the dead know, and are content. There is no shaking off any sins, -then--for that man.” - -“It is a lie.” - -“Maybe ay and maybe no.” - -“Well, have you more to be saying to me? I am obliged to you for your -company, but it is not needing it I am, though no offence.” - -“Och, man, there’s no offence between you and me. Sure, there’s Iona -in me, too; for the father of my father married a woman that was the -granddaughter of Tomais Macdonald, who was a fisherman there. No, no; it -is rather warning you I would be.” - -“And for what?” - -“Well, well, just because of that laugh I heard about.” - -“What laugh?” - -“The laugh of Adam Blair that is dead.” - -Neil Ross stared, his eyes large and wild. He leaned a little forward. No -word came from him. The look that was on his face was the question. - -“Yes: it was this way. Sure, the telling of it is just as I heard it. -After you ate the sins of Adam Blair, the people there brought out the -coffin. When they were putting him into it, he was as stiff as a sheep -dead in the snow--and just like that, too, with his eyes wide open. Well, -someone saw you trampling the heather down the slope that is in front -of the house, and said, ‘It is the Sin-Eater!’ With that, Andrew Blair -sneered, and said--‘Ay, ’tis the scapegoat he is!’ Then, after a while, -he went on: ‘The Sin-Eater they call him: ay, just so: and a bitter good -bargain it is, too, if all’s true that’s thought true!’ And with that he -laughed, and then his wife that was behind him laughed, and then …” - -“Well, what then?” - -“Well, ’tis Himself that hears and knows if it is true! But this is the -thing I was told:--After that laughing there was a stillness and a dread. -For all there saw that the corpse had turned its head and was looking -after you as you went down the heather. Then, Neil Ross, if that be your -true name, Adam Blair that was dead put up his white face against the -sky, and laughed.” - -At this, Ross sprang to his feet with a gasping sob. - -“It is a lie, that thing!” he cried, shaking his fist at the shepherd. -“It is a lie!” - -“It is no lie. And by the same token, Andrew Blair shrank back white -and shaking, and his woman had the swoon upon her, and who knows but -the corpse might have come to life again had it not been for Maisie -Macdonald, the deid-watcher, who clapped a handful of salt on his eyes, -and tilted the coffin so that the bottom of it slid forward, and so let -the whole fall flat on the ground, with Adam Blair in it sideways, and as -likely as not cursing and groaning, as his wont was, for the hurt both to -his old bones and his old ancient dignity.” - -Ross glared at the man as though the madness was upon him. Fear and -horror and fierce rage swung him now this way and now that. - -“What will the name of you be, shepherd?” he stuttered huskily. - -“It is Eachainn Gilleasbuig I am to ourselves; and the English of that -for those who have no Gaelic is Hector Gillespie; and I am Eachainn mac -Ian mac Alasdair of Strathsheean that is where Sutherland lies against -Ross.” - -“Then take this thing--and that is, the curse of the Sin-Eater! And a -bitter bad thing may it be upon you and yours.” - -And with that Neil the Sin-Eater flung his hand up into the air, and then -leaped past the shepherd, and a minute later was running through the -frightened sheep, with his head low, and a white foam on his lips, and -his eyes red with blood as a seal’s that has the death-wound on it. - - * * * * * - -On the third day of the seventh month from that day, Aulay Macneill, -coming into Balliemore of Iona from the west side of the island, said to -old Ronald MacCormick, that was the father of his wife, that he had seen -Neil Ross again, and that he was “absent”--for though he had spoken to -him, Neil would not answer, but only gloomed at him from the wet weedy -rock where he sat. - -The going back of the man had loosed every tongue that was in Iona. -When, too, it was known that he was wrought in some terrible way, if not -actually mad, the islanders whispered that it was because of the sins of -Adam Blair. Seldom or never now did they speak of him by his name, but -simply as “The Sin-Eater.” The thing was not so rare as to cause this -strangeness, nor did many (and perhaps none did) think that the sins of -the dead ever might or could abide with the living who had merely done a -good Christian charitable thing. But there was a reason. - -Not long after Neil Ross had come again to Iona, and had settled down -in the ruined roofless house on the croft of Ballyrona, just like a fox -or a wild-cat, as the saying was, he was given fishing-work to do by -Aulay Macneill, who lived at Ard-an-teine, at the rocky north end of the -_machar_ or plain that is on the west Atlantic coast of the island. - -One moonlit night, either the seventh or the ninth after the earthing of -Adam Blair at his own place in the Ross, Aulay Macneill saw Neil Ross -steal out of the shadow of Ballyrona and make for the sea. Macneill was -there by the rocks, mending a lobster-creel. He had gone there because of -the sadness. Well, when he saw the Sin-Eater, he watched. - -Neil crept from rock to rock till he reached the last fang that churns -the sea into yeast when the tide sucks the land just opposite. - -Then he called out something that Aulay Macneill could not catch. With -that he springs up, and throws his arms above him. - -“Then,” says Aulay when he tells the tale, “it was like a ghost he was. -The moonshine was on his face like the curl o’ a wave. White! there is no -whiteness like that of the human face. It was whiter than the foam about -the skerry it was; whiter than the moon shining; whiter than … well, as -white as the painted letters on the black boards of the fishing-cobles. -There he stood, for all that the sea was about him, the slip-slop waves -leapin’ wild, and the tide making, too, at that. He was shaking like -a sail two points off the wind. It was then that, all of a sudden, he -called in a womany, screamin’ voice-- - -“‘I am throwing the sins of Adam Blair into the midst of ye, white dogs -o’ the sea! Drown them, tear them, drag them away out into the black -deeps! Ay, ay, ay, ye dancin’ wild waves, this is the third time I am -doing it, and now there is none left; no, not a sin, not a sin! - - “‘O-hi, O-ri, dark tide o’ the sea, - I am giving the sins of a dead man to thee! - By the Stones, by the Wind, by the Fire, by the Tree, - From the dead man’s sins set me free, set me free! - Adam mhic Anndra mhic Adam and me, - Set us free! Set us free!’ - -“Ay, sure, the Sin-Eater sang that over and over; and after the third -singing he swung his arms and screamed-- - - “‘And listen to me, black waters an’ running tide, - That rune is the good rune told me by Maisie the wise, - And I am Neil the son of Silis Macallum - By the black-hearted evil man Murtagh Ross, - That was the friend of Adam mac Anndra, God against him!’ - -“And with that he scrambled and fell into the sea. But, as I am Aulay mac -Luais and no other, he was up in a moment, an’ swimmin’ like a seal, and -then over the rocks again, an’ away back to that lonely roofless place -once more, laughing wild at times, an’ muttering an’ whispering.” - -It was this tale of Aulay Macneill’s that stood between Neil Ross and the -isle-folk. There was something behind all that, they whispered one to -another. - -So it was always the Sin-Eater he was called at last. None sought him. -The few children who came upon him now and again fled at his approach, or -at the very sight of him. Only Aulay Macneill saw him at times, and had -word of him. - -After a month had gone by, all knew that the Sin-Eater was wrought to -madness because of this awful thing: the burden of Adam Blair’s sins -would not go from him! Night and day he could hear them laughing low, it -was said. - -But it was the quiet madness. He went to and fro like a shadow in the -grass, and almost as soundless as that, and as voiceless. More and more -the name of him grew as a terror. There were few folk on that wild west -coast of Iona, and these few avoided him when the word ran that he had -knowledge of strange things, and converse, too, with the secrets of the -sea. - -One day Aulay Macneill, in his boat, but dumb with amaze and terror for -him, saw him at high tide swimming on a long rolling wave right into -the hollow of the Spouting Cave. In the memory of man, no one had done -this and escaped one of three things: a snatching away into oblivion, a -strangled death, or madness. The islanders know that there swims into the -cave, at full tide, a Mar-Tarbh, a dreadful creature of the sea that some -call a kelpie; only it is not a kelpie, which is like a woman, but rather -is a sea-bull, offspring of the cattle that are never seen. Ill indeed -for any sheep or goat, ay, or even dog or child, if any happens to be -leaning over the edge of the Spouting Cave when the Mar-tarbh roars: for, -of a surety, it will fall in and straightway be devoured. - -With awe and trembling Aulay listened for the screaming of the doomed -man. It was full tide, and the sea-beast would be there. - -The minutes passed, and no sign. Only the hollow booming of the sea, as -it moved like a baffled blind giant round the cavern-bases: only the rush -and spray of the water flung up the narrow shaft high into the windy air -above the cliff it penetrates. - -At last he saw what looked like a mass of sea-weed swirled out on the -surge. It was the Sin-Eater. With a leap, Aulay was at his oars. The boat -swung through the sea. Just before Neil Ross was about to sink for the -second time, he caught him and dragged him into the boat. - -But then, as ever after, nothing was to be got out of the Sin-Eater save -a single saying: _Tha e lamhan fuar: Tha e lamhan fuar!_--“It has a -cold, cold hand!” - -The telling of this and other tales left none free upon the island to -look upon the “scapegoat” save as one accursed. - -It was in the third month that a new phase of his madness came upon Neil -Ross. - -The horror of the sea and the passion for the sea came over him at the -same happening. Oftentimes he would race along the shore, screaming wild -names to it, now hot with hate and loathing, now as the pleading of a man -with the woman of his love. And strange chants to it, too, were upon his -lips. Old, old lines of forgotten runes were overheard by Aulay Macneill, -and not Aulay only: lines wherein the ancient sea-name of the island, -_Ioua_, that was given to it long before it was called Iona, or any other -of the nine names that are said to belong to it, occurred again and again. - -The flowing tide it was that wrought him thus. At the ebb he would wander -across the weedy slabs or among the rocks: silent, and more like a lost -duinshee than a man. - -Then again after three months a change in his madness came. None knew -what it was, though Aulay said that the man moaned and moaned because of -the awful burden he bore. No drowning seas for the sins that could not be -washed away, no grave for the live sins that would be quick till the day -of the Judgment! - -For weeks thereafter he disappeared. As to where he was, it is not for -the knowing. - -Then at last came that third day of the seventh month when, as I have -said, Aulay Macneill told old Ronald MacCormick that he had seen the -Sin-Eater again. - -It was only a half-truth that he told, though. For, after he had seen -Neil Ross upon the rock, he had followed him when he rose, and wandered -back to the roofless place which he haunted now as of yore. Less -wretched a shelter now it was, because of the summer that was come, -though a cold, wet summer at that. - -“Is that you, Neil Ross?” he had asked, as he peered into the shadows -among the ruins of the house. - -“That’s not my name,” said the Sin-Eater; and he seemed as strange then -and there, as though he were a castaway from a foreign ship. - -“And what will it be, then, you that are my friend, and sure knowing me -as Aulay mac Luais--Aulay Macneill that never grudges you bit or sup?” - -“_I am Judas._” - - * * * * * - -“And at that word,” says Aulay Macneill, when he tells the tale, “at that -word the pulse in my heart was like a bat in a shut room. But after a bit -I took up the talk. - -“‘Indeed,’ I said; ‘and I was not for knowing that. May I be so bold as -to ask whose son, and of what place?’ - -“But all he said to me was, ‘_I am Judas._’ - -“Well, I said, to comfort him, ‘Sure, it’s not such a bad name in -itself, though I am knowing some which have a more home-like sound.’ But -no, it was no good. - -“‘I am Judas. And because I sold the Son of God for five pieces of -silver …’ - -“But here I interrupted him and said,--‘Sure, now, Neil--I mean, -Judas--it was eight times five.’ Yet the simpleness of his sorrow -prevailed, and I listened with the wet in my eyes. - -“‘I am Judas. And because I sold the Son of God for five silver -shillings, He laid upon me all the nameless black sins of the world. And -that is why I am bearing them till the Day of Days.’” - - * * * * * - -And this was the end of the Sin-Eater; for I will not tell the long story -of Aulay Macneill, that gets longer and longer every winter: but only the -unchanging close of it. - -I will tell it in the words of Aulay. - - * * * * * - -“A bitter, wild day it was, that day I saw him to see him no more. It -was late. The sea was red with the flamin’ light that burned up the air -betwixt Iona and all that is west of West. I was on the shore, looking -at the sea. The big green waves came in like the chariots in the Holy -Book. Well, it was on the black shoulder of one of them, just short of -the ton o’ foam that swept above it, that I saw a spar surgin’ by. - -“‘What is that?’ I said to myself. And the reason of my wondering was -this: I saw that a smaller spar was swung across it. And while I was -watching that thing another great billow came in with a roar, and hurled -the double spar back, and not so far from me but I might have gripped it. -But who would have gripped that thing if he were for seeing what I saw? - -“It is Himself knows that what I say is a true thing. - -“On that spar was Neil Ross, the Sin-Eater. Naked he was as the day he -was born. And he was lashed, too--ay, sure, he was lashed to it by ropes -round and round his legs and his waist and his left arm. It was the Cross -he was on. I saw that thing with the fear upon me. Ah, poor drifting -wreck that he was! _Judas on the Cross_: It was his _eric_! - -“But even as I watched, shaking in my limbs, I saw that there was life -in him still. The lips were moving, and his right arm was ever for -swinging this way and that. ’Twas like an oar, working him off a lee -shore: ay, that was what I thought. - -“Then, all at once, he caught sight of me. Well he knew me, poor man, -that has his share of heaven now, I am thinking! - -“He waved, and called, but the hearing could not be, because of a big -surge o’ water that came tumbling down upon him. In the stroke of an -oar he was swept close by the rocks where I was standing. In that -flounderin’, seethin’ whirlpool I saw the white face of him for a moment, -an’ as he went out on the re-surge like a hauled net, I heard these words -fallin’ against my ears,-- - -“‘_An eirig m’anama_ … In ransom for my soul!’ - -“And with that I saw the double-spar turn over and slide down the -back-sweep of a drowning big wave. Ay, sure, it went out to the deep sea -swift enough then. It was in the big eddy that rushes between Skerry-Mòr -and Skerry-Beag. I did not see it again--no, not for the quarter of an -hour, I am thinking. Then I saw just the whirling top of it rising out -of the flying yeast of a great, black-blustering wave, that was rushing -northward before the current that is called the Black-Eddy. - -“With that you have the end of Neil Ross: ay, sure, him that was called -the Sin-Eater. And that is a true thing; and may God save us the sorrow -of sorrows. - -“And that is all.” - - - - -_THE NINTH WAVE_ - - -THE NINTH WAVE - -The wind fell as we crossed the Sound. There was only one oar in the -boat, and we lay idly adrift. The tide was still on the ebb, and so we -made way for Soa; though, well before the island could be reached, the -tide would turn, and the sea-wind would stir, and we be up the Sound and -at Balliemore again almost as quick as the laying of a net. - -As we--and by “us” I am meaning Phadric Macrae and Ivor McLean, fishermen -of Iona, and myself beside Ivor at the helm--as we slid slowly past the -ragged islet known as Eilean-na-h’ Aon-Chaorach, torn and rent by the -tides and surges of a thousand years, I saw a school of seals basking in -the sun. One by one slithered into the water, and I could note the dark -forms, like moving patches of sea-weed, drifting in the green underglooms. - -Then, after a time, we bore down upon Sgeir-na-Oir, a barren rock. Three -great cormorants stood watching us. Their necks shone in the sunlight -like snakes mailed in blue and green. On the upper ledges were eight or -ten northern-divers. They did not seem to see us, though I knew that -their fierce light-blue eyes noted every motion we made. The small -sea-ducks bobbed up and down, first one flirt of a little black-feathered -rump, then another, then a third, till a score or so were under water, -and half-a-hundred more were ready at a moment’s notice to follow suit. -A skua hopped among the sputtering weed, and screamed disconsolately at -intervals. Among the myriad colonies of close-set mussels, which gave -a blue bloom like that of the sloe to the weed-covered boulders, a few -kittiwakes and dotterels flitted to and fro. High overhead, white against -the blue as a cloudlet, a gannet hung motionless, seemingly frozen to the -sky. - -Below the lapse of the boat the water was pale green. I could see the -liath and saith fanning their fins in slow flight, and sometimes a little -scurrying cloud of tiny flukies and inch-long codling. For two or three -fathoms beyond the boat the waters were blue. If blueness can be alive -and have its own life and movement, it must be happy on these western -seas, where it dreams into shadowy Lethes of amethyst and deep, dark -oblivions of violet. - -Suddenly a streak of silver ran for a moment along the sea to starboard. -It was like an arrow of moonlight shot along the surface of the blue and -gold. Almost immediately afterward, a stertorous sigh was audible. A -black knife cut the flow of the water: the shoulder of a pollack. - -“The mackerel are coming in from the sea,” said Macrae. He leaned -forward, wet the palm of his hand, and held it seaward. “Ay, the tide has -turned----” - - _“Ohrone--achree--an--Srùth-màra!_ - _Ohrone--achree--an--Lionadh!”_ - -he droned monotonously, over and over, with few variations. - - “An’ it’s Oh an’ Oh for the tides o’ the sea, - An’ it’s Oh for the flowing tide,” - -I sang at last in mockery. - -“Come, Phadric,” I cried, “you are as bad as Peter McAlpin’s lassie, -Fiona, with the pipes!” - -Both men laughed lightly. On the last Sabbath, old McAlpin had held a -prayer-meeting in his little house in the “street,” in Balliemore of -Iona. At the end of his discourse he told his hearers that the voice of -God was terrible only to the evil-doer, but beautiful to the righteous -man, and that this voice was even now among them, speaking in a thousand -ways, and yet in one way. And at this moment, that elfin granddaughter -of his, who was in the byre close by, let go upon the pipes with so long -and weary a whine that the collies by the fire whimpered, and would have -howled outright but for the Word of God that still lay open on the big -stool in front of old Peter. For it was in this way that the dogs knew -when the Sabbath readings were over, and there was not one that would -dare to bark or howl, much less rise and go out, till the Book was closed -with a loud, solemn bang. Well, again and again that weary quavering moan -went up and down the room, till even old McAlpin smiled, though he was -fair angry with Fiona. But he made the sign of silence, and began: “My -brethren, even in this trial it may be the Almighty has a message for -us----,” when at that moment Fiona was kicked by a cow, and fell against -the board with the pipes, and squeezed out so wild a wail that McAlpin -started up and cried, in the Lowland way that he had won out of his wife, -“_Hoots, havers, an’ a’! come oot o’ that, ye deil’s spunkie!_” - -So it was this memory that made Phadric and Ivor smile. Suddenly Ivor -began, with a long rising and falling cadence, an old Gaelic rune of the -Faring of the Tide: - - _“Athair, A mhic, A Spioraid Naoimh,_ - _Biodh an Tri-aon leinn, a la’s a dh’ oidhche;_ - _S’ air chul nan tonn, no air thaobh nam beann!”_ - - “O Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, - Be the Three-in-One with us day and night, - On the crested wave, when waves run high!” - - And out of the place in the West - Where Tir-nan-Òg, the Land of Youth - Is, the Land of Youth everlasting, - Send the great tide that carries the sea-weed - And brings the birds, out of the North: - And bid it wind as a snake through the bracken, - As a great snake through the heather of the sea, - The fair blooming heather of the sunlit sea. - And may it bring the fish to our nets, - And the great fish to our lines: - And may it sweep away the sea-hounds - That devour the herring: - And may it drown the heavy pollack - That respect not our nets - But fall into and tear them and ruin them wholly. - - And may I, or any that is of my blood, - Behold not the Wave-Haunter who comes in with the Tide; - Or the Maighdeann-màra who broods in the shallows, - Where the sea-caves are, in the ebb: - And fair may my fishing be, and the fishing of those near to me, - And good may this Tide be, and good may it bring: - And may there be no calling in the Flow, this Srùth-màra, - And may there be no burden in the Ebb! _ochone!_ - - _An ainm an Athar, s’ an Mhic, s’ an Spioraid Naoimh,_ - _Biodh an Tri-aon leinn, a la’s a dh’ oidhche,_ - _S’ air chul nan tonn, no air thaobh nam beann!_ - _Ochone! arone!_ - -Both men sang the closing lines, with loudly swelling voices, and with a -wailing fervour which no words of mine could convey. - -Runes of this kind prevail all over the isles, from the Butt of Lewis to -the Rhinns of Islay: identical in spirit, though varying in lines and -phrases, according to the mood and temperament of the _rannaiche_ or -singer, the local or peculiar physiognomy of nature, the instinctive -yielding to hereditary wonder-words, and other compelling circumstances -of the outer and inner life. Almost needless to say, the sea-maid or -sea-witch and the Wave-Haunter occur in many of those wild runes, -particularly in those that are impromptu. In the Outer Hebrides, the -runes are wild natural hymns rather than Pagan chants: though marked -distinctions prevail there also,--for in Harris and the Lews the folk are -Protestant almost to a man, while in Benbecula and the Southern Hebrides -the Catholics are in a like ascendancy. But all are at one in the common -Brotherhood of Sorrow. - -The only lines in Ivor McLean’s wailing song which puzzled me were the -two last which came before “the good words,” “in the name of the Father, -the Son, and the Spirit,” etc. - -“Tell me, in English, Ivor,” I said, after a silence, wherein I pondered -the Gaelic words, “what is the meaning of - - “‘And may there be no calling in the Flow, this Srùth-màra, - And may there be no burden in the Ebb’?” - -“Yes, I will be telling you what is the meaning of that. When the great -tide that wells out of the hollow of the sea, and sweeps towards all -the coasts of the world, first stirs, when she will be knowing that the -Ebb is not any more moving at all, she sends out nine long waves. And -I will be forgetting what these waves are: but one will be to shepherd -the sea-weed that is for the blessing of man; and another is for to wake -the fish that sleep in the deeps; and another is for this, and another -will be for that; and the seventh is to rouse the Wave-Haunter and all -the creatures of the water that fear and hate man; and the eighth no man -knows, though the priests say it is to carry the Whisper of Mary; and the -ninth----” - -“And the ninth, Ivor?” - -“May it be far from us, from you and from me, and from those of us. An’ I -will be sayin’ nothing against it, not I; nor against anything that is in -the sea. An’ you will be noting that! - -“Well, this ninth wave goes through the water on the forehead of the -tide. An’ wherever it will be going it _calls_. An’ the call of it -is--‘_Come away, come away, the sea waits! Follow!… Come away, come away, -the sea waits! Follow!_’[10] An’ whoever hears that must arise and go, -whether he be fish or pollack, or seal or otter, or great skua or small -tern, or bird or beast of the shore, or bird or beast of the sea, or -whether it be man or woman or child, or any of the others.” - - [10] Ivor, of course, gave these words in the Gaelic, the sound of - which has the sweet wail of the sea in it. - -“_Any of the others_, Ivor?” - -“I will not be saying anything about that,” replied McLean gravely; “you -will be knowing well what I mean, and if you do not it is not for me to -talk of that which is not to be talked about. - -“Well, as I was for saying, that calling of the ninth wave of the Tide -is what Ian Mòr of the hills speaks of as ‘the whisper of the snow that -falls on the hair, the whisper of the frost that lies on the cold face of -him that will never be waking again.’” - -“_Death?_” - -“It is _you_ that will be saying it.” - -“Well,” he resumed, after a moment’s hush, “a man may live by the sea for -five-score years and never hear that ninth wave call in any _Srùth-màra_; -but soon or late he will hear it. An’ many is the Flood that will be -silent for all of us; but there will be one Flood for each of us that -will be a dreadful Voice, a voice of terror and of dreadfulness. And -whoever hears that voice, he for sure will be the burden in the Ebb.” - -“Has any heard that Voice, and lived?” - -McLean looked at me, but said nothing. Phadric Macrae rose, tautened a -rope, and made a sign to me to put the helm a-lee. Then, looking into -the green water slipping by--for the tide was feeling our keel, and a -stronger breath from the sea lay against the hollow that was growing in -the sail--he said to Ivor: - -“You should be telling her of Ivor MacIvor Mhic Niall.” - -“Who was Ivor MacNeill?” I said. - -“He was the father of my mother,” answered McLean, “and was known -throughout the north isles as Ivor Carminish: for he had a farm on the -eastern lands of Carminish which lie between the hills called Strondeval -and Rondeval, that are in the far south of the Northern Hebrides, and -near what will be known to you as the Obb of Harris. - -“And I will now be telling you about him in the Gaelic, for it is more -easy to me, and more pleasant for us all. - -“When Ivor MacEachainn Carminish, that was Ivor’s father, died, he left -the farm to his elder son, and to his second son Sheumais. By this time -Ivor was married, and had the daughter who is my mother. But he was a -lonely man, and an islesman to the heart’s core. So … but you will be -knowing the isles that lie off the Obb of Harris: the Saghay, and Ensay, -and Killegray, and, farther west, Berneray; and north-west, Pabaidh; and, -beyond that again, Shillaidh?” - -For the moment I was confused, for these names are so common: and I was -thinking of the big isle of Berneray that lies in huge Loch Roag that has -swallowed so great a mouthful of Western Lewis, to the seaward of which -also are the two Pabbays, Pabaidh Mòr and Pabaidh Beag. But when McLean -added, “and other isles of the Caolas Harrish (the Sound of Harris),” I -remembered aright; and indeed I knew both, though the nor’ isles better, -for I had lived near Callernish on the inner waters of Roag. - -“Well, Carminish had sheep-runs upon some of these. One summer the gloom -came upon him, and he left Sheumais to take care of the farm, and of -Morag his wife, and of Sheen their daughter; and he went to live upon -Pabbay, near the old castle that is by the Rua Dune on the south-east -of the isle. There he stayed for three months. But on the last night of -each month he heard the sea calling in his sleep; and what he heard was -like ‘_Come away, come away, the sea waits! Follow!_… _Come away, come -away, the sea waits! Follow!_’ And he knew the voice of the ninth wave; -and that it would not be there in the darkness of sleep if it were not -already moving towards him through the dark ways of _An Dàn_ (Destiny). -So, thinking to pass away from a place doomed for him, and that he might -be safe elsewhere, he sailed north to a kinsman’s croft on Aird-Vanish -in the island of Taransay. But at the end of that month he heard in his -sleep the noise of tidal waters, and at the gathering of the ebb he heard -‘_Come away, come away, the sea waits! Follow!_’ Then once more, when -the November heat-spell had come he sailed farther northward still. -He stopped awhile at Eilean Mhealastaidh, which is under the morning -shadow of high Griomabhal on the mainland, and at other places; till he -settled, in the third week, at his cousin Eachainn MacEachainn’s bothy, -near Callernish, where the Great Stones of old stand by the sea, and hear -nothing for ever but the noise of the waves of the North Sea and the cry -of the sea-wind. - -“And when the last night of November had come and gone, and he had heard -in his sleep no calling of the ninth wave of the Flowing Tide, he took -heart of grace. All through that next day he went in peace. Eachainn -wondered often with slant eyes when he saw the morose man smile, and -heard his silence give way now and again to a short, mirthless laugh. - -“The two were at the porridge, and Eachainn was muttering his _Bui’cheas -dha’n Ti_, the Thanks to the Being, when Carminish suddenly leaped to his -feet, and, with white face, stood shaking like a rope in the wind. - -“‘In the name of the Son, what is it, Ivor Mhic Ivor? What is it, -Carminish?’ cried Eachainn. - -“But the stricken man could scarce speak. At last, with a long sigh, -he turned and looked at his kinsman, and that look went down into the -shivering heart like the polar wind into a crofter’s hut. - -“‘_What will be that?_’ said Carminish, in a hoarse whisper. - -“Eachainn listened, but he could hear no wailing _beann-sith_, no -unwonted sound. - -“‘Sure, I hear nothing but the wind moaning through the Great Stones, an’ -beyond them the noise of the Flowin’ Tide.’ - -“‘The Flowing Tide! the Flowing Tide!’ cried Carminish, and no longer -with the hush in the voice. ‘An’ what is it you hear in the Flowing Tide?’ - -“Eachainn looked in silence. What was the thing he could say? For now he -knew. - -“‘Ah, och, och, ochone, you may well sigh, Eachainn Mhic Eachainn! For -the ninth wave o’ the Flowing Tide is coming out o’ the North Sea upon -this shore, an’ already I can hear it calling ‘_Come away, come away, the -sea waits! Follow!_… _Come away, come away, the sea waits! Follow!_’ - -“And with that Carminish dashed out the light that was upon the table, -and leaped upon Eachainn, and dinged him to the floor, and would have -killed him, but for the growing noise of the sea beyond the Stannin’ -Stones o’ Callernish, and the woe-weary sough o’ the wind, an’ the -calling, calling, ‘_Come, come away!_ _Come, come away!_’ - -“And so he rose and staggered to the door, and flung himself out into the -night: while Eachainn lay upon the floor and gasped for breath, and then -crawled to his knees, an’ took the Book from the shelf by his fern-straw -mattress, an’ put his cheek against it, an’ moaned to God, an’ cried like -a child for the doom that was upon Ivor McIvor Mhic Niall, who was of his -own blood, and his own _dall_ at that. - -“And while he moaned, Carminish was stalking through the great, gaunt, -looming Stones of the Druids that were here before St Colum and his -_Shona_ came, and laughing wild. And all the time the tide was coming in, -and the tide and the deep sea and the waves of the shore, and the wind in -the salt grass and the weary reeds and the black-pool gale, made a noise -of a dreadful hymn, that was the death-hymn, the going-rune of Ivor the -son of Ivor of the kindred of Niall. - -“And it was there that they found his body in the grey dawn, wet and -stiff with the salt ooze. For the soul that was in him had heard the call -of the ninth wave that was for him. So, and may the Being keep back that -hour for us, there was a burden upon that ebb on the morning of that day. - -“Also, there is this thing for the hearing. In the dim dark before the -curlew cried at dawn, Eachainn heard a voice about the house, a voice -going like a thing blind and baffled, - - _“‘Cha till, cha till, cha till mi tuille!’”_ - (I return, I return, I return never more!) - - - - -_THE JUDGMENT O’ GOD_ - - -THE JUDGMENT O’ GOD - -The wind that blows on the feet of the dead came calling loud across the -Ross as we put about the boat off the Rudhe Callachain. The ebb sucked -at the keel, while, like a cork, we were swung lightly by the swell. For -we were in the strait between Eilean Dubh and the Isle of the Swine; and -that is where the current has a bad pull--the current that is made of the -inflow and the outflow. I have heard that a weary woman of the olden days -broods down there in a cave, and that day and night she weaves a web of -water, which a fierce spirit in the sea tears this way and that as soon -as woven. - -So we put about, and went before the east wind: and below the dip of the -sail a-lee I watched Soa grow bigger and gaunter and blacker against the -white wave. As we came so near that it was as though the wash of the sea -among the hollows bubbled in our ears, I saw a large bull-seal lying -half-in half-out of the water, and staring at us with an angry, fearless -look. - -Phadric and Ivor caught sight of it almost at the same moment. - -To my surprise Macrae suddenly rose and put a rosad upon it. I could hear -the wind through his clothes as he stood by the mast. - -The rosad or spell was, of course, in the Gaelic; but its meaning was -something like this-- - - _Ho, ro, O Ron dubh, O Ron dubh!_ - _An ainm an Athar, O Ron!_ - _’S an mhic, O Ron!_ - _’S an Spioraid Naoimh._ - _O Ron-à-mhàra, O Ron dubh!_ - - Ho, ro, O black Seal, O black Seal! - In the name of the Father, - And of the Son, - And of the Holy Ghost, - O Seal of the deep sea, O black Seal! - - Hearken the thing that I say to thee, - I, Phadric MacAlastair MhicCrae, - Who dwell in a house on the Island - That you look on night and day from Soa! - For I put _rosad_ upon thee, - And upon the woman-seal that won thee, - And the women-seal that are thine, - And the young that thou hast; - Ay, upon thee and all thy kin - I put _rosad_, O Ron dubh, O Ron-à-mhàra! - - And may no harm come to me or mine, - Or to any fishing or snaring that is of me; - Or to any sailing by storm or dusk, - Or when the moonshine fills the blind eyes of the dead, - No harm to me or mine - From thee or thine! - -With a slow swinging motion of his head Phadric broke out again into the -first words of the incantation, and now Ivor joined him; and with the -call of the wind and the leaping and the splashing of the waves was blent -the chant of the two fishermen-- - - _Ho, ro, O Ron dubh, O Ron dubh!_ - _An ainm an Athar, ’s an Mhic, ’s an Spioriad Naoimh,_ - _O Ron-à-mhàra, O Ron dubh!_ - -Then the men sat back, with that dazed look in the eyes I have so often -seen in those of men or women of the Isles who are wrought. No word was -spoken till we came almost straight upon Eilean-na-h’ Aon-Chaorach. Then -at the rocks we tacked, and went splashing up the Sound like a pollack on -a Sabbath noon.[11] - - [11] The Iona fishermen, and, indeed, the Gaelic and Scottish - fishermen generally, believe that the pollack (porpoise) knows when - it is the Sabbath, and on that day will come closer to the land, - and be more wanton in its gambols on the sun-warmed surface of the - sea, than on the days when the herring-boats are abroad. - -“What was wrong with the old man of the sea?” I asked Macrae. - -At first he would say nothing. He looked vaguely at a coiled rope; then, -with hand-shaded gaze, across to the red rocks at Fionnaphort. I repeated -my question. He took refuge in English. - -“It wass ferry likely the _Clansman_ would be pringing ta new -minister-body. Did you pe knowing him, or his people, or where he came -from?” - -But I was not to be put off thus; and at last, while Ivor stared down the -green-shelving lawns of the sea below us, Phadric told me this thing. -His reluctance was partly due to the shyness which, with the Gael, -almost invariably follows strong emotion, and partly to that strange, -obscure, secretive instinct which is also so characteristically Celtic, -and often prevents Gaels of far apart isles, or of different clans, from -communicating to each other stories or legends of a peculiarly intimate -kind. - -“I will tell you what my father told me, and what, if you like, you may -hear again from the sister of my father, who is the wife of Ian Finlay, -who has the farm on the north side of Dûn-I. - -“You will have heard of old James Achanna of Eilanmore, off the Ord o’ -Sutherland? To be sure, for have you not stayed there. Well, I need not -tell you how he came there out of the south, but it will be news to you -to learn that my elder brother Murdoch was had by him as a shepherd, and -to help on the farm. And the way of that thing was this. Murdoch had gone -to the fishing north of Skye, with Angus and William Macdonald, and in -the great gale that broke up their boat, among so many others, he found -himself stranded on Eilanmore. Achanna told him that, as he was ruined, -and so far from home, he would give him employment; and though Murdoch -had never thought to serve under a Galloway man, he agreed. - -“For a year he worked on the upper farm, Ardoch-beag as it was called. -There the gloom came upon him. Turn which way he would, the beauty that -is in the day was no more. In vain, when he came out into the air in the -morning did he cry _Deasiul_! and keep by the sun-way. At night he heard -the sea calling in his sleep. So, when the lambing was over, he told -Achanna that he must go, for he hungered for the sea. True, the wave ran -all around Eilanmore, but the farm was between bare hills and among high -moors, and the house was in a hollow place. But it was needful for him to -go. Even then, though he did not know it, the madness of the sea was upon -him. - -“But the Galloway man did not wish to lose my brother, who was a quiet -man, and worked for a small wage. Murdoch was a silent lad, but he had -often the light in his eyes, and none knew of what he was thinking: maybe -it was of a lass, or a friend, or of the ingle-neuk where his old mother -sang o’ nights, or of the sight and sound of Iona that was his own land; -but I’m considerin’ it was the sea he was dreamin’ of, how the waves ran -laughin’ an’ dancin’ against the tide, like lambkins comin’ to meet the -shepherd, or how the big green billows went sweepin’ white an’ ghostly -through the moonless nights. - -“So the troth that was come to between them was this: that Murdoch should -abide for a year longer, that is till Lammastide; then that he should no -longer live at Ardoch-beag, but, instead, should go and keep the sheep on -Bac-Mòr.” - - * * * * * - -“On Bac-Mòr, Phadric,” I interrupted, “for sure, you do not mean _our_ -Bac-Mòr?” - -“For sure, I mean no other: Bac-Mòr, of the Treshnish Isles, that is -eleven miles north of Iona, and a long four north-west of Staffa: an’ -just Bac-Mòr, an’ no other.” - -“Murdoch would be near home, there.” - -“Ay, near, an’ farther away: for ’tis to be farther off to be near that -which your heart loves but ye can’t get.” - - * * * * * - -“Well, Murdoch agreed to this, but he did not know there was no boat -on the island. It was all very well in the summer. The herrin’ smacks -lay off Bac-Mòr or Bac-beag many a time; and he could see them mornin’, -noon, an’ night; an’ nigh every day he could watch the big steamer comin’ -southward down the Mornish and Treshnish coasts of Mull, and stand by -for an hour off Staffa, or else come northward out of the Sound of Iona -round the Eilean Rabach; and once or twice a week he saw the _Clansman_ -coming or going from Bunessan in the Ross to Scarnish in the Isle of -Tiree. Maybe, too, now and again, a foreign sloop or a coasting schooner -would sail by; and twice, at least, a yacht lay off the wild shore, and -put a boat in at the landing-place, and let some laughing folk loose upon -that quiet place. The first time it was a steam yacht, owned by a rich -foreigner, either an Englishman or an American,--I misremember now,--an’ -he spoke to Murdoch as though he were a savage, and he and his gay folk -laughed when my brother spoke in the only English he had (an’ sober, good -English it was), an’ then he shoves some money into his hand, as though -both were evil-doers and were ashamed to be seen doing what they did. - -“‘An’ what is this for?’ said my brother. - -“‘Oh, it’s for yourself, my man, to drink our health with,’ answered the -English lord, or whatever he was, rudely. Then Murdoch looked at him and -his quietly, an’ he said, ‘God has your health an’ my health in the -hollow of His hands. But I wish you well. Only, I am not being your man, -any more than I am for calling _you_, _my_ man; an’ I will ask you to -take back this money to drink with; nor have I any need for money, but -only for that which is free to all, but that only God can give,’ And with -that the foreign people went away, and laughed less. But when the second -yacht came, though it was a yawl and owned by a Glasgow man who had folk -in the west, Murdoch would not come down to the shore, but lay under the -shadow of a rock amid his sheep, and kept his eyes upon the sun that was -moving west out of the south. - -“Well, all through the fine months Murdoch stayed on Bac-Mòr, and -thereafter through the early winter. The last time I saw him was at the -New Year. On Hogmanay night my father was drinking hard, and nothing -would serve him but he must borrow Alec Macarthur’s boat, and that he and -our mother and myself, and Ian Finlay and his wife, my sister, should go -out before the quiet south wind that was blowing, and see Murdoch where -he lay sleeping or sat dreaming in his lonely bothy. And, truth, we went. -It was a white sailing that I remember. The moon-shinings ran in and out -of the wavelets like herrings through salmon nets. The fire-flauchts, -too, went speeding about. I was but a laddie then, an’ I noted it all; -an’ the sheet-lightning that played behind the cloudy lift in the -nor’-west. - -“But when we got to Bac-Mòr there was no sign of Murdoch at the bothy: -no, not though we called high and low. Then my father and Ian Finlay went -to look, and we stayed by the peats. When they came back, an hour later, -I saw that my father was no more in drink. He had the same look in his -eyes as Ronald McLean had that day last winter when they told him his bit -girlie had been caught by the small-pox in Glasgow. - -“I could not hear, or I could not make out, what was said; but I know -that we all got into the boat again, all except my father. And he stayed. -And next day Ian Finlay and Alec Macarthur went out to Bac-Mòr, and -brought him back. - -“And from him and from Ian I knew all there was to be known. It was a -hard New Year for all, and since that day, till a night of which I will -tell you, my father brooded and drank, drank and brooded, and my mother -wept through the winter gloamings and spent the nights starin’ into the -peats, wi’ her knittin’ lyin’ on her lap. - -“For when they had gone to seek Murdoch that Hogmanay night, they came -upon him away from his sheep. But this was what they saw. There was a -black rock that stood out in the moonshine, with the water all about it; -and on this rock Murdoch lay naked, and laughing wild. An’ every now and -then he would lean forward and stretch his arms out, an’ call to his -dearie. An’ at last, just as the watchers, shiverin’ wi’ fear an’ awe, -were going to close in upon him, they saw a--a--thing--come out o’ the -water. It was long an’ dark, an’ Ian said its eyes were like clots o’ -blood; but as to that no man can say yea or nay, for Ian himself admits -it was a seal. - -“An’ this thing is true, _an ainm an Athar_! they saw the dark beast o’ -the sea creep on to the rock beside Murdoch, an’ lie down beside him, -and let him clasp an’ kiss it. An’ then he stood up, and laughed till the -skin crept on those who heard, and cried out on his dearie and on a’ the -dumb things o’ the sea, an’ the Wave-Haunter an’ the Grey Shadow; an’ -he raised his hands, an’ cursed the world o’ men, and cried out to God, -‘_Turn your face to your own airidh, O God, an’ may rain an’ storm an’ -snow be between us!_’ - -“An’ wi’ that, Deirg, his collie, could bide no more, but loupit across -the water, and was on the rock beside him, wi’ his fell bristling like a -hedge-rat. For both the naked man an’ the wet, gleamin’ beast, a great -she-seal out o’ the north, turned upon Deirg, an’ he fought for his -life. But what could the puir thing do? The seal buried her fangs in his -shoulder at last, an’ pinned him to the ground. Then Murdoch stooped, -an’ dragged her off, an’ bent down an’ tore at the throat o’ Deirg wi’ -his own teeth. Ay, God’s truth it is! An’ when the collie was stark, he -took him up by the hind legs an’ the tail, an’ swung him round an’ round -his head, an’ whirled him into the sea, where he fell black in a white -splatch o’ the moon. - -“An’ wi’ that, Murdoch slipped, and reeled backward into the sea, his -hands gripping at the whirling stars. An’ the thing beside him louped -after him, an’ my father an’ Ian heard a cry an’ a cryin’ that made their -hearts sob. But when they got down to the rock they saw nothing, except -the floating body o’ Deirg. - -“Sure it was a weary night for the old man, there on Bac-Mòr by himself, -with that awful thing that had happened. He stayed there to see and hear -what might be seen and heard. But nothing he heard--nothing saw. It was -afterwards that he heard how Donncha MacDonald was on Bac-Mòr three -days before this, and how Murdoch had told him he was in love wi’ a -_maighdeann-mhara_, a sea-maid. - -“But this thing has to be known. It was a month later, on the night o’ -the full moon, that Ian Finlay and Ian Macarthur and Sheumais Macallum -were upset in the calm water inside the Sound, just off Port-na-Frang, -and were nigh drowned, but that they called upon God and the Son, and so -escaped, and heard no more the laughter of Murdoch from the sea. - -“And at midnight my father heard the voice of his eldest son at the door; -but he would not let him in. And in the morning he found his boat broken -and shred in splinters, and his one net all torn. An’ that day was the -Sabbath; so, being a holy day, he took the Scripture with him, an’ he and -Neil Morrison the minister, having had the Bread an’ Wine, went along -the Sound in a boat, following a shadow in the water, till they came to -Soa. An’ there Neil Morrison read the Word o’ God to the seals that lay -baskin’ in the sun; and one, a female, snarled and showed her fangs; and -another, a black one, lifted its head and made a noise that was not like -the barking of any seal, but was as the laughter of Murdoch when he swung -the dead body of Deirg. - -“And that is all that is to be said. And silence is best now between you -and any other. And no man knows the judgments o’ God. - -“And that is all.” - - - - -_GREEN BRANCHES_ - - -_NOTE_ - -This story is one of the Achanna series, of which “The Anointed Man” is -in _Spiritual Tales_, and “The Dàn-nan-Ròn” is in the present volume--to -which, indeed, “Green Branches” is properly a sequel. (See the note to -“The Dàn-nan-Ròn” about the name ‘Gloom.’ I may add here that the surname -Achanna is that familiar in the South as Hannay.) - - -GREEN BRANCHES - -In the year that followed the death of Mànus MacCodrum, James Achanna saw -nothing of his brother Gloom. He might have thought himself alone in the -world, of all his people, but for a letter that came to him out of the -west. True, he had never accepted the common opinion that his brothers -had both been drowned on that night when Anne Gillespie left Eilanmore -with Mànus. In the first place, he had nothing of that inner conviction -concerning the fate of Gloom which he had concerning that of Marcus; in -the next, had he not heard the sound of the _feadan_, which no one that -he knew played, except Gloom; and, for further token, was not the tune -that which he hated above all others--the Dance of the Dead--for who but -Gloom would be playing that, he hating it so, and the hour being late, -and no one else on Eilanmore? It was no sure thing that the dead had not -come back; but the more he thought of it the more Achanna believed that -his sixth brother was still alive. Of this, however, he said nothing to -anyone. - -It was as a man set free that, at last, after long waiting and patient -trouble with the disposal of all that was left of the Achanna heritage, -he left the island. It was a grey memory for him. The bleak moorland -of it, the blight that had lain so long and so often upon the crops, -the rains that had swept the isle for grey days and grey weeks and grey -months, the sobbing of the sea by day and its dark moan by night, its dim -relinquishing sigh in the calm of dreary ebbs, its hollow baffling roar -when the storm-shadow swept up out of the sea, one and all oppressed him, -even in memory. He had never loved the island, even when it lay green and -fragrant in the green and white seas under white and blue skies, fresh -and sweet as an Eden of the sea. He had ever been lonely and weary, tired -of the mysterious shadow that lay upon his folk, caring little for any -of his brothers except the eldest--long since mysteriously gone out of -the ken of man--and almost hating Gloom, who had ever borne him a grudge -because of his beauty, and because of his likeness to and reverent heed -for Alison. Moreover, ever since he had come to love Katreen Macarthur, -the daughter of Donald Macarthur who lived in Sleat of Skye, he had been -eager to live near her; the more eager as he knew that Gloom loved the -girl also, and wished for success not only for his own sake, but so as to -put a slight upon his younger brother. - -So, when at last he left the island, he sailed southward gladly. He was -leaving Eilanmore; he was bound to a new home in Skye, and perhaps he -was going to his long-delayed, long dreamed-of happiness. True, Katreen -was not pledged to him; he did not even know for sure if she loved him. -He thought, hoped, dreamed, almost believed that she did; but then there -was her cousin Ian, who had long wooed her, and to whom old Donald -Macarthur had given his blessing. Nevertheless, his heart would have been -lighter than it had been for long, but for two things. First, there was -the letter. Some weeks earlier he had received it, not recognising the -writing, because of the few letters he had ever seen, and, moreover, -as it was in a feigned hand. With difficulty he had deciphered the -manuscript, plain printed though it was. It ran thus:-- - - “Well, Sheumais, my brother, it is wondering if I am dead, you will - be. Maybe ay and maybe no. But I send you this writing to let you - see that I know all you do and think of. So you are going to leave - Eilanmore without an Achanna upon it? And you will be going to - Sleat in Skye? Well, let me be telling you this thing. _Do not go._ - I see blood there. And there is this, too: neither you nor any man - shall take Katreen away from me. _You_ know that; and Ian Macarthur - knows it; and Katreen knows it: and that holds whether I am alive - or dead. I say to you: do not go. It will be better for you and for - all. Ian Macarthur is away in the north-sea with the whaler-captain - who came to us at Eilanmore, and will not be back for three months - yet. It will be better for him not to come back. But if he comes - back he will have to reckon with the man who says that Katreen - Macarthur is his. I would rather not have two men to speak to, and - one my brother. It does not matter to you where I am. I want no - money just now. But put aside my portion for me. Have it ready for - me against the day I call for it. I will not be patient that day: - so have it ready for me. In the place that I am I am content. You - will be saying: why is my brother away in a remote place (I will - say this to you: that it is not farther north than St Kilda nor - farther south than the Mull of Cantyre!), and for what reason? That - is between me and silence. But perhaps you think of Anne sometimes. - Do you know that she lies under the green grass? And of Mànus - MacCodrum? They say that he swam out into the sea and was drowned; - and they whisper of the seal-blood, though the minister is wroth - with them for that. He calls it a madness. Well, I was there at - that madness, and I played to it on my _feadan_. And now, Sheumais, - can you be thinking of what the tune was that I played? - - “Your brother, who waits his own day, - - “GLOOM.” - - “Do not be forgetting this thing: _I would rather not be playing - the ‘Damhsà-na-mairbh.’_ It was an ill hour for Mànus when he - heard the Dàn-nan-Ròn; it was the song of his soul, that; and - yours is the Davsa-na-Mairv.” - -This letter was ever in his mind: this, and what happened in the gloaming -when he sailed away for Skye in the herring-smack of two men who lived -at Armadale in Sleat. For, as the boat moved slowly out of the haven, -one of the men asked him if he was sure that no one was left upon the -island; for he thought he had seen a figure on the rocks, waving a black -scarf. Achanna shook his head, but just then his companion cried that at -that moment he had seen the same thing. So the smack was put about, and -when she was moving slow through the haven again, Achanna sculled ashore -in the little coggly punt. In vain he searched here and there, calling -loudly again and again. Both men could hardly have been mistaken, he -thought. If there were no human creature on the island, and if their eyes -had not played them false, who could it be? The wraith of Marcus, mayhap; -or might it be the old man himself (his father), risen to bid farewell to -his youngest son, or to warn him? - -It was no use to wait longer; so, looking often behind him, he made his -way to the boat again, and rowed slowly out towards the smack. - -_Jerk_--_jerk_--_jerk_ across the water came, low but only too loud for -him, the opening bars of the Damhsa-na-Mairbh. A horror came upon him, -and he drove the boat through the water so that the sea splashed over the -bows. When he came on deck he cried in a hoarse voice to the man next him -to put up the helm, and let the smack swing to the wind. - -“There is no one there, Callum Campbell,” he whispered. - -“And who is it that will be making that strange music?” - -“What music?” - -“Sure, it has stopped now, but I heard it clear, and so did Anndra -MacEwan. It was like the sound of a reed-pipe, and the tune was an eerie -one at that.” - -“It was the Dance of the Dead.” - -“And who will be playing that?” asked the man, with fear in his eyes. - -“No living man.” - -“No living man?” - -“No. I’m thinking it will be one of my brothers who was drowned here, and -by the same token that it is Gloom, for he played upon the _feadan_; but -if not, then … then …” - -The two men waited in breathless silence, each trembling with -superstitious fear; but at last the elder made a sign to Achanna to -finish. - -“Then … it will be the Kelpie.” - -“Is there … is there one of the … the cave-women here?” - -“It is said; and you know of old that the Kelpie sings or plays a strange -tune to wile seamen to their death.” - -At that moment, the fantastic jerking music came loud and clear across -the bay. There was a horrible suggestion in it, as if dead bodies were -moving along the ground with long jerks, and crying and laughing wild. -It was enough; the men, Campbell and MacEwan, would not now have waited -longer if Achanna had offered them all he had in the world. Nor were -they, or he, out of their panic haste till the smack stood well out at -sea, and not a sound could be heard from Eilanmore. - -They stood watching, silent. Out of the dusky mass that lay in the -seaward way to the north came a red gleam. It was like an eye staring -after them with blood-red glances. - -“What is that, Achanna?” asked one of the men at last. - -“It looks as though a fire had been lit in the house up in the island. -The door and the window must be open. The fire must be fed with wood, for -no peats would give that flame; and there were none lit when I left. To -my knowing, there was no wood for burning except the wood of the shelves -and the bed.” - -“And who would be doing that?” - -“I know of that no more than you do, Callum Campbell.” - -No more was said, and it was a relief to all when the last glimmer of the -light was absorbed in the darkness. - -At the end of the voyage Campbell and MacEwan were well pleased to be -quit of their companion; not so much because he was moody and distraught, -as because they feared that a spell was upon him--a fate in the working -of which they might become involved. It needed no vow of the one to the -other for them to come to the conclusion that they would never land on -Eilanmore, or, if need be, only in broad daylight, and never alone. - - * * * * * - -The days went well for James Achanna, where he made his home at -Ranza-beag, on Ranza Water in the Sleat of Skye. The farm was small but -good, and he hoped that with help and care he would soon have the place -as good a farm as there was in all Skye. - -Donald Macarthur did not let him see much of Katreen, but the old man was -no longer opposed to him. Sheumais must wait till Ian Macarthur came back -again, which might be any day now. For sure, James Achanna of Ranza-beag -was a very different person from the youngest of the Achanna-folk who -held by on lonely Eilanmore; moreover, the old man could not but think -with pleasure that it would be well to see Katreen able to walk over the -whole land of Ranza, from the cairn at the north of his own Ranza-Mòr to -the burn at the south of Ranza-beag, and know it for her own. - -But Achanna was ready to wait. Even before he had the secret word of -Katreen he knew from her beautiful dark eyes that she loved him. As -the weeks went by they managed to meet often, and at last Katreen told -him that she loved him too, and would have none but him; but that they -must wait till Ian came back, because of the pledge given to him by her -father. They were days of joy for him. Through many a hot noon-tide -hour, through many a gloaming, he went as one in a dream. Whenever he -saw a birch swaying in the wind, or a wave leaping upon Loch Liath, that -was near his home, or passed a bush covered with wild roses, or saw the -moonbeams lying white on the boles of the pines, he thought of Katreen: -his fawn for grace, and so lithe and tall, with sun-brown face and wavy -dark mass of hair and shadowy eyes and rowan-red lips. It is said that -there is a god clothed in shadow who goes to and fro among the human -kind, putting silence between lovers with his waving hands, and breathing -a chill out of his cold breath, and leaving a gulf of deep water flowing -between them because of the passing of his feet. That shadow never -came their way. Their love grew as a flower fed by rains and warmed by -sunlight. - -When midsummer came, and there was no sign of Ian Macarthur, it was -already too late. Katreen had been won. - -During the summer months, it was the custom for Katreen and two of -the farm girls to go up Maol-Ranza, to reside at the shealing of -Cnoc-an-Fhraoch: and this because of the hill-pasture for the sheep. -Cnoc-an-Fhraoch is a round, boulder-studded hill covered with heather, -which has a precipitous corrie on each side, and in front slopes down to -Lochan Fraoch, a lochlet surrounded by dark woods. Behind the hill, or -great hillock rather, lay the shealing. At each week-end Katreen went -down to Ranza-Mòr, and on every Monday morning at sunrise returned to -her heather-girt eyrie. It was on one of these visits that she endured -a cruel shock. Her father told her that she must marry some one else -than Sheumais Achanna. He had heard words about him which made a union -impossible, and, indeed, he hoped that the man would leave Ranza-beag. -In the end, he admitted that what he had heard was to the effect that -Achanna was under a doom of some kind; that he was involved in a blood -feud; and, moreover, that he was fëy. The old man would not be explicit -as to the person from whom his information came, but hinted that he was a -stranger of rank, probably a laird of the isles. Besides this, there was -word of Ian Macarthur. He was at Thurso, in the far north, and would be -in Skye before long, and he--her father--had written to him that he might -wed Katreen as soon as was practicable. - -“Do you see that lintie yonder, father?” was her response to this. - -“Ay, lass; and what about the birdeen?” - -“Well, when she mates with a hawk, so will I be mating with Ian -Macarthur, but not till then.” - -With that she turned, and left the house, and went back to -Cnoc-an-Fhraoch. On the way she met Achanna. - -It was that night that, for the first time, he swam across Lochan Fraoch -to meet Katreen. - -The quickest way to reach the shealing was to row across the lochlet, -and then ascend by a sheep-path that wound through the hazel copses at -the base of the hill. Fully half-an-hour was thus saved, because of the -steepness of the precipitous corries to right and left. A boat was kept -for this purpose, but it was fastened to a shore-boulder by a padlocked -iron chain, the key of which was kept by Donald Macarthur. Latterly he -had refused to let this key out of his possession. For one thing, no -doubt, he believed he could thus restrain Achanna from visiting his -daughter. The young man could not approach the shealing from either side -without being seen. - -But that night, soon after the moon was whitening slow in the dark, -Katreen stole down to the hazel copse and awaited the coming of her -lover. The lochan was visible from almost any point on Cnoc-an-Fhraoch, -as well as from the south side. To cross it in a boat unseen, if any -watcher were near, would be impossible, nor could even a swimmer hope -to escape notice unless in the gloom of night, or, mayhap, in the dusk. -When, however, she saw, half way across the water, a spray of green -branches slowly moving athwart the surface, she knew that Sheumais was -keeping his tryst. If, perchance, any one else saw, he or she would never -guess that those derelict rowan-branches shrouded Sheumais Achanna. - -It was not till the estray had drifted close to the ledge, where, hid -among the bracken and the hazel undergrowth, she awaited him, that -Katreen descried the face of her lover, as with one hand he parted the -green sprays and stared longingly and lovingly at the figure he could -just discern in the dim fragrant obscurity. - -And as it was this night, so was it on many of the nights that followed. -Katreen spent the days as in a dream. Not even the news of her cousin -Ian’s return disturbed her much. - -One day the inevitable meeting came. She was at Ranza-Mòr, and when a -shadow came into the dairy where she was standing she looked up, and saw -Ian before her. She thought he appeared taller and stronger than ever, -though still not so tall as Sheumais, who would appear slim beside the -Herculean Skye man. But as she looked at his close curling black hair, -and thick bull neck, and the sullen eyes in his dark wind-red face, she -wondered that she had ever tolerated him at all. - -He broke the ice at once. - -“Tell me, Katreen, are you glad to see me back again?” - -“I am glad that you are home once more safe and sound.” - -“And will you make it my home for me by coming to live with me, as I’ve -asked you again and again.” - -“No, as I’ve told you again and again.” - -He gloomed at her angrily for a few moments before he resumed. - -“I will be asking you this one thing, Katreen, daughter of my father’s -brother: do you love that man Achanna who lives at Ranza-beag?” - -“You may ask the wind why it is from the east or the west, but it won’t -tell you. You’re not the wind’s master.” - -“If you think I will let this man take you away from me, you are thinking -a foolish thing.” - -“And you saying a foolisher.” - -“Ay?” - -“Ay, sure. What could you do, Ian-mhic-Ian? At the worst, you could do -no more than kill James Achanna. What then? I too would die. You cannot -separate us. I would not marry you, now, though you were the last man on -the world and I the last woman.” - -“You’re a fool, Katreen Macarthur. Your father has promised you to me, -and I tell you this: if you love Achanna you’ll save his life only by -letting him go away from here. I promise you he will not be here long.” - -“Ay, you promise _me_; but you will not say that thing to James Achanna’s -face. You are a coward.” - -With a muttered oath the man turned on his heel. - -“Let him beware o’ me, and you, too, Katreen-mo-nighean-donn. I swear it -by my mother’s grave and by St Martin’s Cross that you will be mine by -hook or by crook.” - -The girl smiled scornfully. Slowly she lifted a milk-pail. - -“It would be a pity to waste the good milk, Ian-gòrach; but if you don’t -go it is I that will be emptying the pail on you, and then you’ll be as -white without as your heart is within.” - -“So, you call me witless, do you? _Ian-gòrach!_ Well, we shall be seeing -as to that; and as for the milk, there will be more than milk spilt -because of _you_, Katreen-donn.” - -From that day, though neither Sheumais nor Katreen knew of it, a watch -was set upon Achanna. - -It could not be long before their secret was discovered; and it was -with a savage joy overmastering his sullen rage that Ian Macarthur knew -himself the discoverer, and conceived his double vengeance. He dreamed, -gloatingly, on both the black thoughts that roamed like ravenous beasts -through the solitudes of his heart. But he did not dream that another -man was filled with hate because of Katreen’s lover--another man who had -sworn to make her his own; the man who, disguised, was known in Armadale -as Donald McLean, and in the north isles would have been hailed as Gloom -Achanna. - -There had been steady rain for three days, with a cold raw wind. On -the fourth the sun shone, and set in peace. An evening of quiet beauty -followed, warm, fragrant, dusky from the absence of moon or star, though -the thin veils of mist promised to disperse as the night grew. - -There were two men that eve in the undergrowth on the south side of -the lochlet. Sheumais had come earlier than his wont. Impatient for -the dusk, he could scarce await the waning of the afterglow. Surely, -he thought, he might venture. Suddenly his ears caught the sound of -cautious footsteps. Could it be old Donald, perhaps, with some inkling -of the way in which his daughter saw her lover, in despite of all; or, -mayhap, might it be Ian Macarthur tracking him, as a hunter stalking a -stag by the water-pools? He crouched, and waited. In a few minutes he saw -Ian carefully picking his way. The man stooped as he descried the green -branches; smiled as, with a low rustling, he raised them from the ground. - -Meanwhile, yet another man watched and waited, though on the farther -side of the lochan, where the hazel copses were. Gloom Achanna half -hoped, half feared the approach of Katreen. It would be sweet to see her -again, sweet to slay her lover before her eyes, brother to him though he -was. But, there was the chance that she might descry him, and, whether -recognisingly or not, warn the swimmer. So it was that he had come there -before sundown, and now lay crouched among the bracken underneath a -projecting mossy ledge close upon the water, where it could scarce be -that she or any should see him. - -As the gloaming deepened, a great stillness reigned. There was no breath -of wind. A scarce audible sigh prevailed among the spires of the heather. -The churring of a nightjar throbbed through the darkness. Somewhere -a corncrake called its monotonous _crék-craik_--the dull harsh sound -emphasising the utter stillness. The pinging of the gnats hovering over -and among the sedges made an incessant rumour through the warm sultry air. - -There was a splash once as of a fish; then silence. Then a lower but -more continuous splash, or rather wash of water. A slow susurrus rustled -through the dark. - -Where he lay among the fern Gloom Achanna slowly raised his head, stared -through the shadows, and listened intently. If Katreen were waiting there -she was not near. - -Noiselessly he slid into the water. When he rose it was under a clump of -green branches. These he had cut and secured three hours before. With his -left hand he swam slowly, or kept his equipoise in the water; with his -right he guided the heavy rowan bough. In his mouth were two objects, one -long and thin and dark, the other with an occasional glitter as of a dead -fish. - -His motion was scarce perceptible. None the less he was nigh the -middle of the loch almost as soon the other clump of green branches. -Doubtless the swimmer beneath it was confident that he was now safe from -observation. - -The two clumps of green branches drew nearer. The smaller seemed a mere -estray--a spray blown down by the recent gale. But all at once the larger -clump jerked awkwardly and stopped. Simultaneously a strange low strain -of music came from the other. - -The strain ceased. The two clumps of green branches remained motionless. -Slowly at last the larger moved forward. It was too dark for the swimmer -to see if any one lay hid behind the smaller. When he reached it he -thrust aside the leaves. - -It was as though a great salmon leaped. There was a splash, and a narrow -dark body shot through the gloom. At the end of it something gleamed. -Then suddenly there was a savage struggle. The inanimate green branches -tore this way and that, and surged and swirled. Gasping cries came from -the leaves. Again and again the gleaming thing leaped. At the third leap -an awful scream shrilled through the silence. The echo of it wailed -thrice with horrible distinctness in the corrie beyond Cnoc-an-Fhraoch. -Then, after a faint splashing, there was silence once more. One clump of -green branches drifted loosely up the lochlet. The other moved steadily -towards the place whence, a brief while before, it had stirred. - -Only one thing lived in the heart of Gloom Achanna--the joy of his -exultation. He had killed his brother Sheumais. He had always hated him -because of his beauty; of late he had hated him because he had stood -between him, Gloom, and Katreen Macarthur, because he had become her -lover. They were all dead now except himself--all the Achannas. He was -“Achanna.” When the day came that he would go back to Galloway there -would be a magpie on the first birk, and a screaming jay on the first -rowan, and a croaking raven on the first fir. Ay, he would be their -suffering, though they knew nothing of him meanwhile! He would be Achanna -of Achanna again. Let those who would stand in his way beware. As for -Katreen: perhaps he would take her there, perhaps not. He smiled. - -These thoughts were the wandering fires in his brain while he slowly swam -shoreward under the floating green branches, and as he disengaged himself -from them, and crawled upward through the bracken. It was at this moment -that a third man entered the water from the farther shore. - -Prepared as he was to come suddenly upon Katreen, Gloom was startled -when, in a place of dense shadow, a hand touched his shoulder, and her -voice whispered, “_Sheumais, Sheumais!_” - -The next moment she was in his arms. He could feel her heart beating -against his side. - -“What was it, Sheumais? What was that awful cry?” she whispered. - -For answer he put his lips to hers, and kissed her again and again. - -The girl drew back. Some vague instinct warned her. - -“What is it, Sheumais? Why don’t you speak?” - -He drew her close again. - -“Pulse of my heart, it is I who love you--I who love you best of all. It -is I, Gloom Achanna!” - -With a cry, she struck him full in the face. He staggered, and in that -moment she freed herself. - -“You _coward_!” - -“Katreen, I …” - -“Come no nearer. If you do, it will be the death of you!” - -“The death o’ me! Ah, bonnie fool that you are, and is it you that will -be the death o’ me?” - -“Ay, Gloom Achanna, for I have but to scream and Sheumais will be here, -an’ he would kill you like a dog if he knew you did me harm.” - -“Ah, but if there were no James, or any man, to come between me an’ my -will!” - -“Then there would be a woman! Ay, if you overbore me I would strangle you -with my hair, or fix my teeth in your false throat!” - -“I was not for knowing you were such a wild-cat! But I’ll tame you yet, -my lass! Aha, wild-cat!” and, as he spoke, he laughed low. - -“It is a true word, Gloom of the black heart. I _am_ a wild-cat, and like -a wild-cat I am not to be seized by a fox, and that you will be finding -to your cost, by the holy St Bridget! But now, off with you, brother of -my man!” - -“Your man … ha! ha!…” - -“Why do you laugh?” - -“Sure, I am laughing at a warm white lass like yourself having a dead man -as your lover!” - -“A … dead … man?” - -No answer came. The girl shook with a new fear. Slowly she drew closer -till her breath fell warm against the face of the other. He spoke at last. - -“Ay, a dead man.” - -“It is a lie.” - -“Where would you be that you were not hearing his goodbye? I’m thinking -it was loud enough!” - -“It is a lie … it is a lie!” - -“No, it is no lie. Sheumais is cold enough now. He’s low among the weeds -by now. Ay, by now; down there in the lochan.” - -“_What_ … you, _you devil_! Is it for killing your own brother you would -be!” - -“I killed no one. He died his own way. Maybe the cramp took him. Maybe -… maybe a kelpie gripped him. I watched. I saw him beneath the green -branches. He was dead before he died, I saw it in the white face o’ him. -Then he sank. He’s dead--James is dead. Look here, girl, I’ve always -loved you. I swore the oath upon you--you’re mine. Sure, you’re mine now, -Katreen! It is loving you I am! It will be a south wind for you from this -day, _muirnean mochree_! See here, I’ll show you how I …” - -“Back … back … _murderer_!” - -“Be stopping that foolishness now, Katreen Macarthur! By the Book, I am -tired of it! I am loving you, and it’s having you for mine I am! And if -you won’t come to me like the dove to its mate, I’ll come to you like -the hawk to the dove!” - -With a spring he was upon her. In vain she strove to beat him back. His -arms held her as a stoat grips a rabbit. - -He pulled her head back, and kissed her throat till the strangulating -breath sobbed against his ear. With a last despairing effort she screamed -the name of the dead man--“_Sheumais! Sheumais! Sheumais!_” The man who -struggled with her laughed. - -“Ay, call away! The herrin’ will be coming through the bracken as soon as -Sheumais comes to your call! Ah, it is mine you are now, Katreen! He’s -dead an’ cold, … an’ you’d best have a living man … an’ …” - -She fell back, her balance lost in the sudden releasing. What did it -mean? Gloom still stood there, but as one frozen. Through the darkness -she saw at last that a hand gripped his shoulder--behind him a black mass -vaguely obtruded. - -For some moments there was absolute silence. Then a hoarse voice came out -of the dark. - -“You will be knowing now who it is, Gloom Achanna!” - -The voice was that of Sheumais, who lay dead in the lochan. The murderer -shook as in a palsy. With a great effort, slowly he turned his head. He -saw a white splatch--the face of the corpse. In this white splatch flamed -two burning eyes, the eyes of the soul of the brother whom he had slain. - -He reeled, staggered as a blind man, and, free now of that awful clasp, -swayed to and fro as one drunken. - -Slowly Sheumais raised an arm, and pointed downward through the wood -towards the lochan. Still pointing, he moved swiftly forward. With a cry -like a beast, Gloom Achanna swung to one side, stumbled, rose, and leaped -into the darkness. - -For some minutes Sheumais and Katreen stood, silent, apart, listening to -the crashing sound of his flight--the race of the murderer against the -pursuing shadow of the Grave. - - - - -_THE ARCHER_ - - -THE ARCHER - -The man who told me this thing was Coll McColl, an islander of Barra, in -the Southern Hebrides. He spoke in the Gaelic, and it was while he was -mending his net; and by the same token I thought at the time that his -words were like herring-fry in that net, some going clean through, and -others sticking fast by the gills. So I do not give it exactly as I heard -it, but in substance as Coll gave it. - -He is dead now, and has perhaps seen the Archer. Coll was a poet, and the -island-folk said he was mad: but this was only because he loved beyond -the reach of his fate. - - * * * * * - -There were two men who loved one woman. It is of no mere girl with the -fair looks upon her I am speaking, but of a woman, that can put the spell -over two men. The name of the woman was Silis: the names of the men were -Sheumas and Isla. - -Silis was the wife of Sheumas. So Sheumas had his home, for her breast -was his pillow when he willed it: and he had her voice for daily music: -and his eyes had never any thirst, for they could drink of her beauty by -day and by night. But Isla had no home. He saw his home afar off, and his -joy and his strength failed, because the shining lights of it were not -for him. - -One night the two men were upon the water. It was a dead calm, and the -nets had been laid. There was no moon at all, and only a star or two up -in the black corner of the sky. The sea had the wandering flames in it: -and when the big jellyfish floated by, they were like the tide-lamps that -some are for saying the dead bear on their drowned faces. - -“Some day I may be telling you a strange thing, Sheumas,” said Isla, -after the long silence there had been since the last net had sent a -little cloud of sparkles up from the gulfs. - -“Ay?” said Sheumas, taking his pipe from his mouth, and looking at the -spire of smoke rising just forward o’ the mast. The water slipped by, -soft and slow. It was only the tide feeling its way up the sea-loch, for -there was not a breath of wind. Here and there were dusky shadows: the -boats of the fishermen of Inchghunnais. Each carried a red light, and in -some were green lanterns slung midway up the mast. - -No other word was said for a long time. - -“And I’m wondering,” said Isla at last: “I’m wondering what you’ll think -of that story.” - -Sheumas made no answer to that. He smoked, and stared down into the dark -water. - -After a time he rose, and leaned against the mast. Though there was no -light of either moon or lamp, he put his hand above his eyes, as his wont -was. - -“I’m thinking the mackerel will be coming this way to-night. This is the -third time I’ve heard the snoring of the pollack … away yonder, beyond -Peter Macallum’s boat.” - -“Well, Sheumas, I’ll sleep a bit. I had only the outside of a sleep last -night.” - -With that Isla knocked the ash out of his pipe, and lay over against a -pile of rope, and shut his eyes, and did not sleep at all because of the -sick dull pain of the homeless man he was--home, home, home, and Silis -the name of it. - -When, an hour or more later, he grew stiff he moved, and opened his eyes. -His mate was sitting at the helm, but the light in his pipe was out, -though he held the pipe in his mouth, and his eyes were wide staring open. - -“I would not be telling me that story, Isla,” he said. - -Isla answered nothing, but shifted back to where he was before, for all -his cramped leg. He closed his eyes again. - -At the full of the tide, in the deep dark hour before the false dawn, as -the first glimmer is called, the glimmer that comes and goes, both men -got up, and moved about, stamping their feet. Each lit his pipe, and the -smoke hung long in little greyish puffs, so dead-still was it. - -On the _Brudhearg_, John Macalpine’s boat, young Neil Macalpine sang. The -two men on the _Luath_ could hear his singing. It was one of the strange -songs of Ian Mòr. - - O, she will have the deep dark heart, for all her face is fair, - As deep and dark as though beneath the shadow of her hair: - For in her hair a spirit dwells that no white spirit is, - And hell is in the hopeless heaven of that lost spirit’s kiss. - - She has two men within the palm, the hollow of her hand: - She takes their souls and blows them forth as idle drifted sand: - And one falls back upon her breast that is his quiet home, - And one goes out into the night and is as wind-blown foam. - - And when she sees the sleep of one, ofttimes she rises there - And looks into the outer dark and calleth soft and fair: - And then the lost soul that afar within the dark doth roam - Comes laughing, laughing, laughing, and crying _Home! Home!_ - - And is there any home for him, whose portion is the night? - And is there any peace for him whose doom is endless flight? - O wild sad bird, O wind-spent bird, O bird upon the wave, - There is no home for thee, wild bird, but in the cold sea-grave! - -Sheumas leaned against the tiller of the _Luath_, and looked at Isla. He -saw a shadow on his face. With his right foot the man tapped against a -loose spar that was on the starboard deck. - -When the singer ceased, Isla raised his arm and shook menacingly his -clenched fist, over across the water to where the _Brudhearg_ lay. - -There were words on his lips, but they died away when Neil Macalpine -broke into a love song, “Mo nighean donn.” - -“Can you be telling me, Isla,” said Sheumas, “who was the man that made -that song about the homeless man?” - -“Ian Mòr.” - -“Ian Mòr of the Hills?” - -“Ay.” - -“They say he had the shadow upon him?” - -“Well, what then?” - -“Was it because of love?” - -“It was because of love.” - -“Did the woman love him?” - -“Ay.” - -“Did she go to him?” - -“No.” - -“Was that why he had the mind-dark?” - -“Ay.” - -“But he loved her, and she loved him?” - -“He loved her, and she loved him.” - -For a time Sheumas kept silence. Then he spoke again. - -“She was the wife of another man?” - -“Ay; she was the wife of another man.” - -“Did _he_ love her?” - -“Yes, for sure.” - -“Did _she_ love _him_?” - -“Yes … yes.” - -“Whom, then, did she love? For a woman can love one man only.” - -“She loved both.” - -“That is not a possible thing: not the one deep love. It is a lie, Isla -Macleod.” - -“Yes, it is a lie, Sheumas Maclean.” - -“Which man did she love?” - -Isla slowly shook the ash from his pipe, and looked for a second or two -at a momentary quiver in the sky in the north-east. - -“The dawn will be here soon now, Sheumas.” - -“Ay. I was asking you, Isla, which man did she love?” - -“Sure she loved the man who gave her the ring.” - -“Which man did she love?” - -“O for sure, man, you’re asking me just like the lawyer who has the -trials away at Balliemore on the mainland yonder.” - -“Well, I’ll tell you that thing myself, Isla Macleod, if you’ll tell me -the name of the woman.” - -“I am not for knowing the name.” - -“Was it Mary … or Jessie … or mayhap was it Silis, now?” - -“I am not for knowing the name.” - -“Well, well, it might be Silis, then?” - -“Ay, for sure it might be Silis. As well Silis as any other.” - -“And what would the name of the other man be?” - -“What man?” - -“The man whose ring she wore?” - -“I am not remembering that name.” - -“Well, now, would it be Padruic, or mayhap Ivor, or … or … perhaps, now, -Sheumas?” - -“Ay, it might be that.” - -“Sheumas?” - -“Ay, as well that as any other.” - -“And what was the end?” - -“The end o’ what?” - -“The end of that loving?” - -Isla Macleod gave a low laugh. Then he stooped to pick up the pipe he had -dropped. Suddenly he rose without touching it. He put his heel on the -warm clay, and crushed it. - -“That is the end of that kind of loving,” he said. He laughed low again -as he said that. - -Sheumas leaned and picked up the trodden fragments. - -“They’re warm still, Macleod.” - -“Are they?” Isla cried at that, his eyes with a red light coming into -the blue: “then they will go where the man in the song went, the man who -sought his home for ever and ever and never came any nearer than into the -shine of the window-lamps.” - -With that he threw the pieces into the dark water that was already -growing ashy-grey. - -“’Tis a sure cure, that, Sheumas Maclean.” - -“Ay, so they say, … and so, so: ay, as you were saying, Ian Mòr went into -the shadow because of that home he could not win?” - -“So they say. And now we’ll take the nets. ’Tis a heavy net that comes -out black, as the sayin’ is. They’re heavy for sure, after this still -night, an’ the wind southerly, an’ the pollack this way an’ that.” - -“Well, now, that’s strange.” - -“What is strange, Sheumas Maclean?” - -“That you should say that thing.” - -“And for why that?” - -“Oh, just this. Silis had a dream the other night, she had. She dreamed -she saw you standing alone on the _Luath_: and you were hauling hard -a heavy net, so that the sweat ran down your face. And your face was -dead-white pale, she said. An’ you hauled an’ you hauled. An’ someone -beside you that she couldn’t see laughed an’ laughed: an’ …” - -With a stifled oath, Isla broke in upon the speaker’s words: - -“Why, man alive, you said he, the man, myself it is, was alone on the -_Luath_.” - -“Well, Silis saw no one but yourself, Isla Macleod.” - -“But she heard some one beside me laughing an’ laughing.” - -“So she said. And you were dead-white, she said: with the sweat pouring -down you. An’ you pulled an’ you pulled. Then you looked up at her and -said: ‘_It’s a heavy net that comes up black, as the sayin’ is._’” - -Isla Macleod made no answer to that, but slowly began to haul at the -nets. A swift moving light slid hither and thither well away to the -north-east. The sea greyed. A new, poignant, salt smell came up from the -waves. Sail after sail of the smacks ceased to be a blur in the dark: -each lifted a brown shadowy wing against a dusk through which a flood of -myriad drops of light steadily oozed. - -Now from this boat, now from that, hoarse cries resounded. - -The _Mairi Ban_ swung slowly round before the faint dawn-wind, and -lifted her bow homeward with a little slapping splash. The _Maggie_, the -_Trilleachan_, the _Eilid_, the _Jessie_, and the _Mairi Donn_ followed -one by one. - -In silence the two men on the _Luath_ hauled in their nets. The herring -made a sheet of shifting silver as they lay in the hold. As the dawn -lightened, the quivering silver mass sparkled. The decks were mailed with -glittering scales: these, too, gleamed upon the legs, arms, and hands of -the two fishermen. - -“Well, that’s done!” exclaimed Sheumas at last. “Up with the helm, Isla, -and let us make for home.” - -The _Luath_ forged ahead rapidly when once the sail had its bellyful of -wind. She passed the _Tern_, then the _Jessie Macalpine_, caught up the -big, lumbering _Maggie_, and went rippling and rushing along the wake of -the _Eilid_, the lightest of the Inchghunnais boats. - -Off shore, the steamer _Osprey_ met the smacks, and took the herring -away, cran by cran. Long before her screw made a yeast of foam athwart -the black-green inshore water, the _Luath_ was in the little haven and -had her nose in the shingle at Craigard point. - -In silence Sheumas and Isla walked by the rock-path to the isolated -cottage where the Macleans lived. The swallows were flitting hither and -thither in front of its low, whitewashed wall, like flying shuttles -against a silent loom. The pale gold of a rainy dawn lit the whiteness -with a vivid gleam. Suddenly Isla stopped. - -“Will you be telling me now, Sheumas, which man it was that she loved?” - -Maclean did not look at the speaker, though he stopped too. He stared at -the white cottage, and at the little square window with the geranium-pot -on the lintel. - -But while he hesitated, Isla Macleod turned away, and walked swiftly -across the wet bracken and bog-myrtle till he disappeared over -Cnoc-na-Hurich, on the hidden slope of which his own cottage stood amid a -wilderness of whins. - -Sheumas watched him till he was out of sight. It was then only that he -answered the question. - -“I’m thinking,” he muttered slowly, “I’m thinking she loved Ian Mòr.” - -“Yes,” he muttered again later, as he took off his sea-soaked clothes, -and lay down on the bed in the kitchen, whence he could see into the -little room where Silis was in a profound sleep: “Yes, I’m thinking she -loved Ian Mòr.” - -He did not sleep at all, for all his weariness. - -When the sunlight streamed in across the red sandstone floor, and crept -towards his wife’s bed, he rose softly and looked at her. He did not need -to stoop when he entered the room, as Isla Macleod would have had to do. - -He looked at Silis a long time. Her shadowy hair was all about her face. -She had never seemed to him more beautiful. Well was she called “Silis -the Fawn” in the poem that some one had made about her. - -The poem that some one had made about her? … yes, for sure, how could he -be forgetting who it was. Was it not Isla, and he a poet too, another Ian -Mòr they said. - -“Another Ian Mòr.” As he repeated the words below his breath, he bent -over his wife. Her white breast rose and fell, the way a moonbeam does -in moving water. - -Then he knelt. When he took the slim white hand in his she did not wake. -It closed lovingly upon his own. - -A smile slowly came and went upon the dreaming face--ah, lovely, white, -dreaming face, with the hidden starry eyes. There was a soft flush, and -a parting of the lips. The half-covered bosom rose and fell as with some -groundswell from the beating heart. - -“_Silis_,” he whispered. “_Silis_ … _Silis_ …” - -She smiled. He leaned close above her lips. - -“Ah, heart o’ me,” she whispered, “O Isla, Isla, mo rùn, moghray, Isla, -Isla, Isla!” - -Sheumas drew back. He too was like the man in her dream, for it was -dead-white he was, with the sweat in great beads upon his face. - -He made no noise as he went back to the hearthside, and took his wet -clothes from where he had hung them before the smoored peats, and put -them on again. - -Then he went out. - -It was a long walk to Isla Macleod’s cottage that few-score yards: a -long, long walk. - -When Sheumas stood on the wet grass round the flagstones he saw that the -door was ajar. Isla had not lain down. He had taken his ash-lute, and was -alternately playing and singing low to himself. - -Maclean went close up to the wall, and listened. At first he could hear -no more than snatches of songs. - - And is there any home for him whose portion is the night?… - - And one goes out into the night and is as wind-blown foam … - - O heart that is breaking, - Breaking, breaking, - O for the home that I canna, canna win: - O the weary aching, - The weary, weary aching - To be in the home that I canna, canna win! - -Then suddenly the man within put down his ash-lute, and stirred. In a -loud vibrant voice he sang: - - O far away upon the hills at the lighting of the dawn - I saw a stirring in the fern and out there leapt a fawn: - And O my heart was up at that and like a wind it blew - Till its shadow hovered o’er the fawn as ’mid the fern it flew. - And _Silis! Silis! Silis!_ was the wind-song on the hill, - And _Silis! Silis! Silis!_ did the echoing corries fill: - My hunting heart was glad indeed, at the lighting of the dawn, - For O it was the hunting then of my bonnie, bonnie Fawn! - -For some moments there was dead silence. Then a heavy sigh came from -within the cottage. - -Sheumas Maclean at last made a step forward. But before his shadow fell -across the doorway Isla had breathed a few melancholy notes from his -_feadan_, and then began a slow wailing song. - - O heart that is breaking, - Breaking, breaking, - O for the home that I canna, canna win: - O the weary aching, - The weary, weary aching - To be in the home that I canna, canna win! - - For O the long home-sickness, - The long, long home-sickness! - ’Tis slow, slow death for me who long for home, for home! - And a heart is breaking, - I know a heart that’s breaking, - All to be at home at last, to be at home, at home, - O Silis, Silis, - Home, Home, Home! - -Sheumas’ face was white and tired. It is weary work with the herring, no -doubt. - -He lifted a white stone and rapped loudly on the door. Isla came out, and -looked at him. The singer smiled, though that smiling had no light in it. -It was dark as a dark wave it was. - -“Well?” he said. - -“May I come in?” - -“Come in, and welcome. And what will you be wanting, Sheumas Maclean?” - -“Sure, it’s too late to sleep, an’ I’m thinking I would like to hear now -that story you were to tell me.” - -The man gave no answer to that. Each looked at the other with luminous -unwinking eyes. - -“It will not be a fair thing,” said Isla slowly, at last. “It will not be -a fair thing: for I am bigger and stronger.” - -“There is another way, Isla Macleod.” - -“Ay?” - -“That you or I go to her, and tell her all, and then at the last say: -‘Come with me, or stay with him.’” - -“So be it.” - -So there and then they drew for chance. The gaining of that hazard was -with Sheumas Maclean. - -Without a word Isla turned and went into the house. There he took his -_feadan_, and played low to himself, staring into the red heart of the -smouldering peats. He neither smiled nor frowned; but only once he -smiled, and that was when Sheumas came back, and said _Come_. - -So the two walked in silence across the dewy grass. There was a loud -calling of skuas and terns, and the raucous laughing cry of the great -herring-gull, upon the weedy shore of Craigard. The tide bubbled and -oozed through the wilderness of wrack. Farther off there were the -cackling of hens, the lowing of restless kye, and the bleating of the -sheep on the slopes of Melmonach. A shrewd salt air tingled in the -nostrils of the two men. - -At the closed door Sheumas made a sign of silence. Then he unfastened the -latch, and entered. - -“Silis,” he said in a low voice, but clear. - -“Silis, I’ve come back again. Dry your tears, my lass, and tell me once -again--for I’m dying to hear the blessed truth once again--tell me once -again if it’s me you love best, or Isla Macleod.” - -“I have told you, Sheumas.” - -Without, Isla heard her words and drew closer. - -“And it is a true thing that you love me best, and that since the choice -between him and me has come, you choose me?” - -“It is a true thing.” - -A shadow fell across the room. Isla Macleod stood in the doorway. - -Silis turned the white beautiful face of her, and looked at the man she -loved with all her heart and all her soul. He smiled. She was no coward, -his Silis, though he called her his fawn. - -“Is--it--a--true--thing, Silis?” he asked slowly. - -She looked at Sheumas, then at Isla, then back at her husband. - -“It might kill Sheumas,” she muttered below her breath, so that neither -heard her: “it might kill him,” she repeated. - -Then, with a swift turn of her eyes, she spoke. - -“Yes, it is a true thing, Isla. I abide by Sheumas.” - -That was all. - -She was conscious of the wave of relief that went into Sheumas’ face. She -saw the rising of a dark, strange tide in the eyes of Isla. - -He stared at her. Perhaps he did not hear? Perhaps he was dreaming still? -He was a dreamer, a poet: perhaps he could not understand. - -It was a little while wherein to kill a man. - -“My Fawn,” he whispered hoarsely, “my wee Fawn!” - -But Silis was frozen. - -The deadly frost in her eyes slew the dream that the brain of the poet -dreamed. - -Then it slew the poet. - -Isla, the man, stood awhile, strangely tremulous. She could see his -nerves quivering below his clothes. He was a big, strong giant of a -lover: but he trembled now just like a bit fawn, she thought. His blue -eyes were suddenly grown cloudy and dim. Then the deadly frost slew the -brain that was the altar where the poet offered up his dreams of beauty. - -And that is how Isla the dreamer ceased to dream. - -He was quite white and still when they found him three days later. He -seemed a giant of a man as he lay, face upward, among the green flags -by the water-edge. The chill starlight of three nights had got into the -quiet of his face. - - * * * * * - -That night, resumed Coll McColl, after a long pause--that night he, Coll, -was walking in the moonlight across the hither slope of Melmonach. - -He stood under a rowan-tree, and watched a fawn leaping wildly through -the fern. While he watched, amazed, he saw a tall shadowy woman pass -by. She stopped, and drew a great bow she carried, and shot an arrow. -It went through the air with a sharp whistling sound--just like -_Silis--Silis--Silis_, Coll said, to give me an idea of it. - -The arrow went right through the fawn. - -But here was a strange thing. The fawn leapt away sobbing into the night: -while its heart suspended, arrow-pierced, from the white stem of a -silver birch. - -“And to this day,” said Coll at the last, “I am not for knowing who that -archer was, or who that fawn. You think it was these two who loved? Well, -’tis Himself knows. But I have this thought of my thinking: that it was -only a vision I saw, and that the fawn was the poor suffering heart -of Love, and that the Archer was the great Shadowy Archer that hunts -among the stars. For in the dark of the morrow after that night I was -on Cnoc-na-Hurich, and I saw a woman there shooting arrow after arrow -against the stars. At dawn she rose and passed away, like smoke, beyond -those pale wandering fires.” - -[Illustration] - - - - -RE-ISSUE OF - -Miss Fiona Macleod’s Stories - -Rearranged, and with Additional Tales - - -VOL. I. - -_SPIRITUAL TALES_ - -Contents - - ST BRIDE OF THE ISLES. - THE THREE MARVELS OF IONA. - THE MELANCHOLY OF ULAD. - ULA AND URLA. - THE DARK NAMELESS ONE. - THE SMOOTHING OF THE HAND. - THE ANOINTED MAN. - THE HILLS OF RUEL. - THE FISHER OF MEN. - THE LAST SUPPER. - THE AWAKENING OF ANGUS OGUE. - - -VOL II. - -_BARBARIC TALES_ - -Contents - - THE SONG OF THE SWORD. - THE FLIGHT OF THE CULDEES. - MIRCATH. - THE LAUGHTER OF THE QUEEN. - THE HARPING OF CRAVETHEEN. - AHEZ THE PALE. - SILK O’ THE KINE. - CATHAL OF THE WOODS. - THE WASHER OF THE FORD. - - -VOL III. - -_TRAGIC ROMANCES_ - -Contents - - MORAG OF THE GLEN. - THE DÀN-NAN-RÒN. - THE SIN-EATER. - THE NINTH WAVE. - THE JUDGMENT O’ GOD. - GREEN BRANCHES. - THE ARCHER. - - - - -BY FIONA MACLEOD. - - - PHARAIS: A Romance of the Isles. - THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS. - THE SIN-EATER: and other Tales. - THE WASHER OF THE FORD. - GREEN FIRE: A Romance. - FROM THE HILLS OF DREAM: Mountain Songs and Island Runes. - -“_Not beauty alone, but that element of strangeness in beauty which Mr -Pater rightly discerned as the inmost spirit of romantic art--it is this -which gives to Miss Macleod’s work its peculiar æsthetic charm. But apart -from and beyond all those qualities which one calls artistic, there is -a poignant human cry, as of a voice with tears in it, speaking from out -a gloaming which never lightens to day, which will compel and hold the -hearing of many who to the claims of art as such are wholly or largely -unresponsive._” (JAMES ASHCROFT NOBLE, in THE NEW AGE.) - -“_Of the products of what has been called the Celtic Renascence_, ‘The -Sin-Eater’ _and its companion Stories seem to us the most remarkable. -They are of imagination and a certain terrible beauty all compact._” -(From an article in THE DAILY CHRONICLE on “The Gaelic Glamour.”) - -“_For sheer originality, other qualities apart, her tales are as -remarkable, perhaps, as anything we have had of the kind since Mr Kipling -appeared … Their local colour, their idiom, their whole method, combine -to produce an effect which may be unaccustomed, but is therefore the more -irresistible. They provide as original an entertainment as we are likely -to find in this lingering century, and they suggest a new romance among -the potential things of the century to come._” (THE ACADEMY.) - - [Illustration] - - PRINTED BY W. H. WHITE AND CO. LTD. - EDINBURGH RIVERSIDE PRESS - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tragic Romances, by Fiona Macleod - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TRAGIC ROMANCES *** - -***** This file should be named 53839-0.txt or 53839-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/8/3/53839/ - -Produced by Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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