Isolated, in one of the wildest and loneliest mountain-regions of the
Highlands of Ross, I know a hill-tarn so rarely visited that one might
almost say the shadow of man does not fall across its brown water from
year’s end to year’s end. It lies on the summit of a vast barren hill,
its cradle being the hollow of a crater. Seven mountains encircle
Maoldhu from north, south, east, and west. One of these is split like
a hayfork, and that is why it is called in Gaelic the Prong of Fionn.
Another, whose furrowed brows are dark with the immemorial rheum of the
Atlantic, is called the Organ of Oisin, because at a height of about
two thousand feet it shows on its haggard front a black colonnade of
basalt, where all the winds of the west make a wild and desolate music.
I have heard its lamentation falling across the hill-solitudes and down
through the mountain-glens with a sound as of a myriad confused sobs
and cries, a sound that is now a forlorn ecstasy and now the voice of
the abyss and of immeasurable desolation. Another, that on the east,
is an unscalable cone, from whose crest, when sunrise flames the
serrated crags into a crown of burning bronze, the golden eagle sways
like a slow-rising and slow-falling meteor. All day, save for a brief
hour at noon, shadow dwells about its knees, and never lifts from the
dark grassy lochan at its feet. It is called Maol Athair-Uaibhreach,
the Hill of the Haughty Father: I know not why. ‘The Haughty Father’
is a Gaelic analogue for the Prince of Darkness--son of Saturn, as he
is called in an old poem: ‘God’s Elder Brother,’ as he is named in a
legend that I have met or heard of once only--a legend that He was God
of this world before ‘Mac Greinne’ (lit.: Son of the Sun) triumphed
over him, and drove him out of the East and out of the South, leaving
him only in the West and in the North two ancient forgotten cities of
the moon, that in the West below the thunder of grey seas and that in
the North under the last shaken auroras of the Pole.
It is not easy to reach this tarn of Maoldhu even when the hillways are
known. The mountain-flanks have so vast a sweep, with such wide tracts
of barren declivity, where the loose stones and boulders seem to hang
in the air like a grey suspended fruit though the first tempest will
set them rolling in avalanche; there are so many hidden ravines, and
sudden precipices that lean beneath tangled brows like smooth appalling
faces; on the eastern slopes the mountain-sheep cannot climb more than
halfway; on the south and west the wailing curlews are in continual
flight above wide unfrontiered reaches of peat-bog and quaking morass;
so many crags lead abruptly to long shelving ledges shelterless and
slippery as ice, and twice an abyss of a thousand feet falls sheer from
loose rock covered by treacherous heather for a yard or more beyond the
last gnarled, twisted roots.
But, when it is once reached, is there any solitude in the world more
solitary than here. The tarn, or lochan rather--for if it is not wide
enough to be called a loch it is larger than the ordinary tarn one is
familiar with on high moorlands and among the hills--has no outlook
save to the lonely reach of sky just above it. A serrated crest of
herbless and lifeless precipice circles it. On the lower slopes a rough
grass grows, and here and there a little bog-myrtle may be seen. At one
end a small dishevelled array of reed disputes the water-edge, in thin,
straggling, disconsolate lines. There is nothing else. Sometimes the
ptarmigan will whirr across it, though they do not love crossing water.
Sometimes the shadow of an eagle’s wing darkens the already obscure
depths. But the mountain-sheep never reach this height, and even the
red deer do not come here to drink these still, brown waters: ‘One sees
no antlers where the heather ceases,’ as the shepherds say. The clouds
rise above the crests of the west and pass beyond the crests of the
east: snow, the steel-blue sleet, the grey rains, sweep past overhead.
In summer, a vast cumulus will sometimes for hours overlean the barren
crater and fill the tarn with a snowy wonderland and soft abysses of
rose and violet: sometimes a deep, cloudless azure will transmute it to
a still flame of unruffled, shadowless blue. At night, when it is not a
pit of darkness to which the upper darkness is twilight, it will hold
many stars. For three hours Arcturus will pulsate in it like a white
flame. Other planets will rise, and other stars. Their silver feet
tread the depths in silence. Sometimes the moon thrusts long yellow
lances down into its brooding heart, or will lie on its breast like the
curled horn of the honeysuckle, or, in autumn, like a floating shell
filled with fires of phosphorescence. Sunset never burns there, though
sometimes the flush of the afterglow descends as on soft impalpable
wings from the zenith. At dawn, in midsummer, long scarlet lines will
drift from its midmost to the south and west, like blood-stained shafts
and battle-spears of a defeated aerial host.
Few sounds are heard by that mountain-tarn. The travelling cloud
lets fall no echo of its fierce frost-crashing shards. Dawn and noon
and dusk are quiet-footed as mist. The stars march in silence. The
springing Northern Lights dance in swift fantastic flame, but are
voiceless as the leaping shadows in a wood. Only those other wayfarers
of the mountain-summit, tempest, thunder, the streaming wind, the snow
coming with muffled rush out of the north, wild rains and whirling
sleet, the sharp crackling tread of the hosts of frost: only these
break the silence; or, at times, the cries of ‘the eldest children of
the hill’ as the mountain-Gael calls the eagle, the hill-fox, and the
ptarmigan--the only creatures that have their home above the reach of
the heather and in the grey stony wildernesses where only the speckled
moss and the lichen thrive.
When I was last at this desolate and remote tarn I realised the truth
of that hill-saying. After the farthest oaks on Sliabh Gorm, as the
ridge to the south-west is called and up which alone is a practicable
if rough and often broken way, came scattered groups and then isolated
trees of birch and mountain-ash. Thereafter for a long way the heather
climbed. Then it gave way more and more to bracken. In turn the bracken
broke like the last faint surf against huge boulders and waste stony
places. The grouse called far below. The last deer were browsing
along their extreme pastures, some five hundred to eight hundred feet
below the precipitous bastions of Maoldhu. Higher than they I saw a
circling hawk and three ravens flying slowly against the wind. Then
came the unpeopled wilderness, or so it seemed till I heard the wail of
a solitary curlew (that spirit of the waste, for whom no boggy moors
lie too low and desolate, for whom no mountain-ranges are too high
and wild and solitary), and once, twice, and again in harsh response
but faint against the wind, the barking of a hill-fox and its mate.
All life had ceased, I thought, after that, save an eagle which in a
tireless monotony swung round and round the vast summit of Maoldhu.
But suddenly, perhaps a hundred feet above me, six or seven ptarmigan
rose with a whirr, made a long sailing sweep, and settled (slidingly
and gradually as flounders in shallow waters among grey pebbles and
obscuring sand-furrows) among the lichened boulders and loose disarray
of speckled granite and dark and grey basalt and trap--an ideal cover,
for even a keen following gaze could not discern the living from the
inanimate.
Truly the eagle, the hill-fox, and the ptarmigan are ‘the eldest
children of the hill.’ The stag may climb thus high too at times, for
outlook, or for the intoxication of desolation and of illimitable
vastness; sometimes the hawks soar over the wilderness; even the
mountain-hares sometimes reach and race desperately across these high
arid wastes. But these all come as men in forlorn and lonely lands
climb the grey uninhabitable mountains beyond them, seeking to know
that which they cannot see beneath, seeking often for they know not
what. They are not dwellers there. The stag, that mountain-lover,
cannot inhabit waste rock; the red grouse would perish where the
ptarmigan thrives and is content.
How little has been written about these birds of the mountain-brow.
What poetry is in their name, for those who know the hills. They dwell
higher than the highest June-flight of the tireless swift, higher than
the last reaches of the sunrise-leaping larks. Cities might crumble
away in pale clouds of dust, floods might whelm every lowland, great
fires might devour the forests and the red insatiable myriad of flame
lap up the last high frontiers of bracken and climbing heather, and
the ptarmigan would know nothing of it, would not care. Their grey
home would be inviolate. No tempest can drive them forth. Even the
dense snows of January do not starve them out. Do they not mock them
by then taking the whiteness of the snow for their own? They have
nothing to fear save the coming of a black frost so prolonged and
deathly that even the sunfire in the eagle’s blood grows chill, and the
great pinions dare no more face the icy polar breath. ‘They’ll be the
last things alive when the world is cold,’ said an old gillie to me,
speaking of these storm-swept lichen-fed children of the upper-wild.
The same old gillie once saw a strange sight at my mountain-tarn. He
had when a youth climbed Maoldhu to its summit in midwinter, because of
a challenge that he could not do what no other had ever done at that
season. He started before dawn, but did not reach the lochan till a red
fire of sunset flared along the crests. The tarn was frozen deep, and
for all the pale light that dwelled upon it was black as basalt, for a
noon-tempest had swept its surface clear of snow. At first he thought
small motionless icebergs lay in it, but wondered at their symmetrical
circle. He descended as far as he dared, and saw that seven wild-swans
were frozen on the tarn’s face. They had alit there to rest, no doubt:
but a fierce cold had numbed them, and an intense frost of death had
suddenly transfixed each as they swam slowly circlewise as is their
wont. They may have been there for days, perhaps for weeks. A month
later the gillie repeated his arduous and dangerous feat. They were
still there, motionless, ready for flight as it seemed.
How often in thought I have seen that coronal of white swans above
the dark face of that far, solitary tarn: in how many dreams I have
listened to the rustle of unloosening wings, and seen seven white
phantoms rise cloud-like, and like clouds at night drift swiftly into
the dark; and heard, as mournful bells through the solitudes of sleep,
the _honk-honk_ of the wild-swans traversing the obscure forgotten ways
to the secret country beyond sleep and dreams and silence.