"But now I have grown nothing, being all,
And the whole world weighs down upon my heart."
Fergus and the Druid.
When old Sine nic Leòid came back to the croft, after she had been to
the burn at the edge of the green airidh, where she had washed the
_claar_ that was for the potatoes at the peeling, she sat down before
the peats.
She was white with years. The mountain wind was chill, too, for all
that the sun had shone throughout the midsummer day. It was well to
sit before the peat-fire.
The croft was on the slope of a mountain, and had the south upon it.
North, south, east, and west, other great slopes reached upward, like
hollow green waves frozen into silence by the very wind that curved
them so, and freaked their crests into peaks and jagged pinnacles.
Stillness was in that place for ever and ever. What though the
Gorromalt Water foamed down Ben Nair, where the croft was, and made a
hoarse voice for aye surrendering sound to silence? What though at
times the stones fell from the ridges of Ben Chaisteal and Maolmòr,
and clattered down the barren declivities till they were slung in the
tangled meshes of whin and juniper? What though on stormy dawns the
eagle screamed as he fought against the wind that graved a thin line
upon the aged front of Ben Mulad, where his eyrie was: or that the
kestrel cried above the rabbit-burrows in the strath: or that the
hill-fox barked, or that the curlew wailed, or that the scattered
sheep made an endless mournful crying? What were these but the
ministers of silence?
There was no blue smoke in the strath except from the one turf cot. In
the hidden valley beyond Ben Nair there was a hamlet, and nigh upon
three-score folk lived there: but that was over three miles away. Sine
Macleod was alone in that solitary place, save for her son Alasdair
Mòr Òg. "Young Alasdair" he was still, though the gray feet of fifty
years had marked his hair. Alasdair Òg he was while Alasdair Ruadh mac
Chalum mhic Leòid, that was his father, lived. But when Alasdair Ruadh
changed, and Sine was left a mourning woman, he that was their son
was Alasdair Òg still.
She had sore weariness that day. For all that, it was not the weight
of the burden that made her go in out of the afternoon sun, and sit by
the red glow of the peats, brooding deep.
When, nigh upon an hour later, Alasdair came up the slope and led the
kye to the byre, she did not hear him: nor had she sight of him, when
his shadow flickered in before him and lay along the floor.
"Poor old woman," he said to himself, bending his head because of the
big height that was his, and he there so heavy and strong, and tender,
too, for all the tangled black beard and the wild hill-eyes that
looked out under bristling gray-black eyebrows.
"Poor old woman, and she with the tired heart that she has. Ay, ay,
for sure the weeks lap up her shadow, as the sayin' is. She will be
thinking of him that is gone. Ay, or maybe the old thoughts of her are
goin' back on their own steps, down this glen an' over that hill an'
away beyont that strath, an' this corrie an' that moor. Well, well,
it is a good love, that of the mother. Sure a bitter pain it will be
to me when there's no old gray hair there to stroke. It's quiet here,
terrible quiet, God knows, to Himself be the blessin' for this an' for
that: but when she has the white sleep at last, then it'll be a sore
day for me, an' one that I will not be able to bear to hear the sheep
callin', callin', callin' through the rain on the hills here, and
Gorromalt Water an' no other voice to be with me on that day of the
days."
She heard a faint sigh, and stirred a moment, but did not look round.
"Muim'-à-ghraidh, is it tired you are, an' this so fine a time, too?"
With a quick gesture, the old woman glanced at him.
"Ah, child, is that you indeed? Well, I am glad of that, for I have
the trouble again."
"What trouble, Muim'-ghaolaiche?"
But the old woman did not answer. Wearily she turned her face to the
peat-glow again.
Alasdair seated himself on the big wooden chair to her right. For a
time he stayed silent thus, staring into the red heart of the peats.
What was the gloom upon the old heart that he loved? What trouble was
it?
At last he rose and put meal and water into the iron pot, and stirred
the porridge while it seethed and sputtered. Then he poured boiling
water upon the tea in the brown jenny, and put the new bread and the
sweet-milk scones on the rude deal board that was the table.
"Come, dear tired old heart," he said, "and let us give thanks to the
Being."
"Blessings and thanks," she said, and turned round.
Alasdair poured out the porridge, and watched the steam rise. Then he
sat down, with a knife in one hand and the brown-white loaf in the
other.
"O God," he said, in the low voice he had in the kirk when the bread
and wine were given--"O God, be giving us now thy blessing, and have
the thanks. And give us peace."
Peace there was in the sorrowful old eyes of the mother. The two ate
in silence. The big clock that was by the bed _tick-tacked_,
_tick-tacked_. A faint sputtering came out of a peat that had bog-gas
in it. Shadows moved in the silence, and met and whispered and moved
into deep, warm darkness. There was peace.
There was still a red flush above the hills in the west when the
mother and son sat in the ingle again.
"What is it, mother-my-heart?" Alasdair asked at last, putting his
great red hand upon the woman's knee.
She looked at him for a moment. When she spoke she turned away her
gaze again.
"Foxes have holes, and the fowls of the air have their places of rest,
but the Son of Man hath not where to lay his head."
"And what then, dear? Sure, it is the deep meaning you have in that
gray old head that I'm loving so."
"Ay, lennav-aghray, there is meaning to my words. It is old I am, and
the hour of my hours is near. I heard a voice outside the window last
night. It is a voice I will not be hearing, no, not for seventy years.
It was cradle-sweet, it was."
She paused, and there was silence for a time.
"Well, dear," she began again, wearily, and in a low, weak voice, "it
is more tired and more tired I am every day now this last month. Two
Sabbaths ago I woke, and there were bells in the air: and you are for
knowing well, Alasdair, that no kirk-bells ever rang in Strath Nair.
At edge o' dark on Friday, and by the same token the thirteenth day it
was, I fell asleep, and dreamed the mools were on my breast, and that
the roots of the white daisies were in the hollows where the eyes were
that loved you, Alasdair, my son."
The man looked at her with troubled gaze. No words would come. Of what
avail to speak when there is nothing to be said? God sends the gloom
upon the cloud, and there is rain: God sends the gloom upon the hill,
and there is mist: God sends the gloom upon the sun, and there is
winter. It is God, too, sends the gloom upon the soul, and there is
change. The swallow knows when to lift up her wing over against the
shadow that creeps out of the north: the wild swan knows when the
smell of snow is behind the sun: the salmon, lone in the brown pool
among the hills, hears the deep sea, and his tongue pants for salt,
and his fins quiver, and he knows that his time is come, and that the
sea calls. The doe knows when the fawn hath not yet quaked in her
belly: is not the violet more deep in the shadowy dewy eyes? The woman
knows when the babe hath not yet stirred a little hand: is not the
wild-rose on her cheek more often seen, and are not the shy tears
moist on quiet hands in the dusk? How, then, shall the soul not know
when the change is nigh at last? Is it a less thing than a reed, which
sees the yellow birch-gold adrift on the lake, and the gown of the
heather grow russet when the purple has passed into the sky, and the
white bog-down wave gray and tattered where the loneroid grows dark
and pungent--which sees, and knows that the breath of the Death-Weaver
at the Pole is fast faring along the frozen norland peaks? It is more
than a reed, it is more than a wild doe on the hills, it is more than
a swallow lifting her wing against the coming of the shadow, it is
more than a swan drunken with the savour of the blue wine of the waves
when the green Arctic lawns are white and still. It is more than
these, which has the Son of God for brother, and is clothed with
light. God doth not extinguish at the dark tomb what he hath litten in
the dark womb.
Who shall say that the soul knows not when the bird is aweary of the
nest, and the nest is aweary of the wind? Who shall say that all
portents are vain imaginings? A whirling straw upon the road is but a
whirling straw; yet the wind is upon the cheek almost ere it is gone.
It was not for Alasdair Òg, then, to put a word upon the saying of the
woman that was his mother, and was age-white, and could see with the
seeing of old wise eyes.
So all that was upon his lips was a sigh, and the poor prayer that is
only a breath out of the heart.
"You will be telling me, gray sweetheart," he said lovingly, at
last--"you will be telling me what was behind the word that you said:
that about the foxes that have holes for the hiding, poor beasts, and
the birdeens wi' their nests, though the Son o' Man hath not where to
lay his head?"
"Ay, Alasdair, my son that I bore long syne an' that I'm leaving
soon, I will be for telling you that thing, an' now too, for I am
knowing what is in the dark this night o' the nights."
* * * * *
Old Sine put her head back wearily on the chair, and let her hands
lie, long and white, palm-downward upon her knees. The peat-glow
warmed the dull gray that lurked under her closed eyes and about her
mouth, and in the furrowed cheeks. Alasdair moved nearer, and took her
right hand in his, where it lay like a tired sheep between two scarped
rocks. Gently he smoothed her hand, and wondered why so frail and
slight a creature as this small old wizened woman could have mothered
a great swarthy man like himself--he a man, now, with his two score
and ten years, and yet but a boy there at the dear side of her.
"It was this way, Alasdair-mochree," she went on in her low thin
voice,--like a wind-worn leaf, the man that was her son thought. "It
was this way. I went down to the burn to wash the _claar_, and when I
was there I saw a wounded fawn in the bracken. The big sad eyes of it
were like those of Maisie, poor lass, when she had the birthing that
was her going-call. I went through the bracken, and down by the
Gorromalt, and into the Shadowy Glen.
"And when I was there, and standing by the running water, I saw a man
by the stream-side. He was tall, but spare and weary: and the clothes
upon him were poor and worn. He had sorrow. When he lifted his head at
me, I saw the tears. Dark, wonderful, sweet eyes they were. His face
was pale. It was not the face of a man of the hills. There was no red
in it, and the eyes looked in upon themselves. He was a fair man, with
the white hands that a woman has, a woman like the Bantighearna of
Glenchaisteal over yonder. His voice, too, was a voice like that: in
the softness, and the sweet, quiet sorrow, I am meaning.
"The word that I gave him was in the English: for I thought he was
like a man out of Sasunn, or of the southlands somewhere. But he
answered me in the Gaelic: sweet, good Gaelic like that of the Bioball
over there, to Himself be the praise.
"'And is it the way down the Strath you are seeking?' I asked: 'and
will you not be coming up to the house yonder, poor cot though it is,
and have a sup of milk, and a rest if it's weary you are?'
"'You are having my thanks for that,' he said, 'and it is as though I
had both the good rest and the cool sweet drink. But I am following
the flowing water here.'
"'Is it for the fishing?' I asked.
"'I am a Fisher,' he said, and the voice of him was low and sad. He
had no hat on his head, and the light that streamed through a
rowan-tree was in his long hair. He had the pity of the poor in his
sorrowful gray eyes.
"'And will you not sleep with us?' I asked again: 'that is, if you
have no place to go to, and are a stranger in this country, as I am
thinking you are; for I have never had sight of you in the
home-straths before.'
"'I am a stranger,' he said, 'and I have no home, and my father's
house is a great way off.'
"'Do not tell me, poor man,' I said gently, for fear of the pain, 'do
not tell me if you would fain not; but it is glad I will be if you
will give me the name you have.'
"'My name is Mac-an-t'-Saoir,' he answered with the quiet deep gaze
that was his. And with that he bowed his head, and went on his way,
brooding deep.
"Well, it was with a heavy heart I turned, and went back through the
bracken. A heavy heart, for sure, and yet, oh peace too, cool dews of
peace. And the fawn was there: healed, Alasdair, healed, and
whinny-bleating for its doe, that stood on a rock wi' lifted hoof an'
stared down the glen to where the Fisher was.
"When I was at the burnside, a woman came down the brae. She was fair
to see, but the tears were upon her.
"'Oh,' she cried, 'have you seen a man going this way?'
"'Ay, for sure,' I answered, 'but what man would he be?'
"'He is called Mac-an-t'-Saoir.'
"'Well, there are many men that are called Son of the Carpenter. What
will his own name be?'
"'Iosa,' she said.
"And when I looked at her, she was weaving the wavy branches of a
thorn near by, and sobbing low, and it was like a wreath or crown that
she made.
"'And who will you be, poor woman?' I asked.
"'O my Son, my Son,' she said, and put her apron over her head and
went down into the Shadowy Glen, she weeping sore, too, at that, poor
woman.
"So now, Alasdair, my son, tell me what thought you have about this
thing that I have told you. For I know well whom I met on the brae
there, and who the Fisher was. And when I was at the peats here once
more I sat down, and my mind sank into myself. And it is knowing the
knowledge I am."
"Well, well, dear, it is sore tired you are. Have rest now. But sure
there are many men called Macintyre."
"Ay, and what Gael that you know will be for giving you his surname
like that?"
Alasdair had no word for that. He rose to put some more peats on the
fire. When he had done this, he gave a cry.
The whiteness that was on the mother's hair was now in the face.
There was no blood there, or in the drawn lips. The light in the old,
dim eyes was like water after frost.
He took her hand in his. Clay-cold it was. He let it go, and it fell
straight by the chair, stiff as the cromak he carried when he was with
the sheep.
"O my God and my God," he whispered, white with the awe, and the
bitter cruel pain.
Then it was that he heard a knocking at the door.
"Who is there?" he cried hoarsely.
"Open, and let me in." It was a low, sweet voice; but was that gray
hour the time for a welcome?
"Go, but go in peace, whoever you are. There is death here."
"Open, and let me in."
At that, Alasdair, shaking like a reed in the wind, unclasped the
latch. A tall, fair man, ill-clad and weary, pale, too, and with
dreaming eyes, came in.
"_Beannachd Dhe an Tigh_," he said; "God's blessing on this house, and
on all here."
"The same upon yourself," Alasdair said, with a weary pain in his
voice. "And who will you be? and forgive the asking."
"I am called Mac-an-t'-Saoir, and Iosa is the name I bear--Jesus, the
Son of the Carpenter."
"It is a good name. And is it good you are seeking this night?"
"I am a Fisher."
"Well, that's here an' that's there. But will you go to the Strath
over the hill, and tell the good man that is there, the minister,
Lachlan MacLachlan, that old Sine nic Leòid, wife of Alasdair Ruadh,
is dead."
"I know that, Alasdair Òg."
"And how will you be knowing that, and my name, too, you that are
called Macintyre?"
"I met the white soul of Sine as it went down by the Shadowy Glen a
brief while ago. She was singing a glad song, she was. She had green
youth in her eyes. And a man was holding her by the hand. It was
Alasdair Ruadh."
At that Alasdair fell on his knees. When he looked up, there was no
one there. Through the darkness outside the door, he saw a star
shining white, and leaping like a pulse.
It was three days after that day of shadow that Sine Macleod was put
under the green turf.
On each night, Alasdair Òg walked in the Shadowy Glen, and there he
saw a man fishing, though ever afar off. Stooping he was, always, and
like a shadow at times. But he was the man that was called Iosa
Mac-an-t'-Saoir--Jesus, the Son of the Carpenter.
And on the night of the earthing he saw the Fisher close by.
"Lord God," he said, with the hush on his voice, and deep awe in his
wondering eyes: "Lord God!"
And the Man looked at him.
"Night and day, Alasdair MacAlasdair," he said, "night and day I fish
in the waters of the world. And these waters are the waters of grief,
and the waters of sorrow, and the waters of despair. And it is the
souls of the living I fish for. And lo, I say this thing unto you, for
you shall not see me again: _Go in peace._ Go in peace, good soul of a
poor man, for thou hast seen the Fisher of Men."