_The Tale of the Respectable Whaup and the Great Godly Man_
This is a story that I heard from the King of the Numidians, who with
his tattered retinue encamps behind the peat-ricks. If you ask me where
and when it happened I fear that I am scarce ready with an answer. But I
will vouch my honour for its truth; and if any one seek further proof,
let him go east the town and west the town and over the fields of
Nomansland to the Long Muir, and if he find not the King there among the
peat-ricks, and get not a courteous answer to his question, then times
have changed in that part of the country, and he must continue the quest
to his Majesty's castle in Spain.
Once upon a time, says the tale, there was a Great Godly Man, a shepherd
to trade, who lived in a cottage among heather. If you looked east in
the morning, you saw miles of moor running wide to the flames of
sunrise, and if you turned your eyes west in the evening, you saw a
great confusion of dim peaks with the dying eye of the sun set in a
crevice. If you looked north, too, in the afternoon, when the life of
the day is near its end and the world grows wise, you might have seen a
country of low hills and haughlands with many waters running sweet among
meadows. But if you looked south in the dusty forenoon or at hot midday,
you saw the far-off glimmer of a white road, the roofs of the ugly
little clachan of Kilmaclavers, and the rigging of the fine new kirk of
Threepdaidle.
It was a Sabbath afternoon in the hot weather, and the man had been to
kirk all the morning. He had heard a grand sermon from the minister (or
it may have been the priest, for I am not sure of the date and the King
told the story quickly)--a fine discourse with fifteen heads and three
parentheses. He held all the parentheses and fourteen of the heads in
his memory, but he had forgotten the fifteenth; so for the purpose of
recollecting it, and also for the sake of a walk, he went forth in the
afternoon into the open heather.
The whaups were crying everywhere, making the air hum like the twanging
of a bow. _Poo-eelie, Poo-eelie_, they cried, _Kirlew, Kirlew_, _Whaup,
Wha- -up_. Sometimes they came low, all but brushing him, till they
drove settled thoughts from his head. Often had he been on the moors,
but never had he seen such a stramash among the feathered clan. The
wailing iteration vexed him, and he _shoo'd_ the birds away with his
arms. But they seemed to mock him and whistle in his very face, and at
the flaff of their wings his heart grew sore. He waved his great stick;
he picked up bits of loose moor-rock and flung them wildly; but the
godless crew paid never a grain of heed. The morning's sermon was still
in his head, and the grave words of the minister still rattled in his
ear, but he could get no comfort for this intolerable piping. At last
his patience failed him and he swore unchristian words. "Deil rax the
birds' thrapples," he cried.
At this all the noise was hushed and in a twinkling the moor was empty.
Only one bird was left, standing on tall legs before him with its head
bowed upon its breast, and its beak touching the heather.
Then the man repented his words and stared at the thing in the moss.
"What bird are ye?" he asked thrawnly.
"I am a Respectable Whaup," said the bird, "and I kenna why ye have
broken in on our family gathering. Once in a hundred years we foregather
for decent conversation, and here we are interrupted by a muckle,
sweerin' man."
Now the shepherd was a fellow of great sagacity, yet he never thought it
a queer thing that he should be having talk in the mid-moss with a bird.
"What for were ye making siccan a din, then?" he asked. "D'ye no ken ye
were disturbing the afternoon of the holy Sabbath?"
The bird lifted its eyes and regarded him solemnly. "The Sabbath is a
day of rest and gladness," it said, "and is it no reasonable that we
should enjoy the like?"
The shepherd shook his head, for the presumption staggered him. "Ye
little ken what ye speak of," he said. "The Sabbath is for them that
have the chance of salvation, and it has been decreed that salvation is
for Adam's race and no for the beasts that perish."
The whaup gave a whistle of scorn. "I have heard all that long ago. In
my great-grandmother's time, which 'ill be a thousand years and mair
syne, there came a people from the south with bright brass things on
their heads and breasts and terrible swords at their thighs. And with
them were some lang-gowned men who kenned the stars and would come out
o' nights to talk to the deer and the corbies in their ain tongue. And
one, I mind, foregathered with my great-grandmother and told her that
the souls o' men flitted in the end to braw meadows where the gods bide
or gaed down to the black pit which they ca' Hell. But the souls o'
birds, he said, die wi' their bodies, and that's the end o' them.
Likewise in my mother's time, when there was a great abbey down yonder
by the Threepdaidle Burn which they called the House of Kilmaclavers,
the auld monks would walk out in the evening to pick herbs for their
distillings, and some were wise and kenned the ways of bird and beast.
They would crack often o'nights with my ain family, and tell them that
Christ had saved the souls o' men, but that birds and beasts were
perishable as the dew o' heaven. And now ye have a black-gowned man in
Threepdaidle who threeps on the same owercome. Ye may a' ken something
o' your ain kitchen-midden, but certes! ye ken little o' the warld
beyond it."
Now this angered the man, and he rebuked the bird. "These are great
mysteries," he said, "which are no to be mentioned in the ears of an
unsanctified creature. What can a thing like you wi' a lang neb and twae
legs like stilts ken about the next warld?"
"Weel, weel," said the whaup, "we'll let the matter be. Everything to
its ain trade, and I will not dispute with ye on metapheesics. But if ye
ken something about the next warld, ye ken terrible little about this."
Now this angered the man still more, for he was a shepherd reputed to
have great skill in sheep and esteemed the nicest judge of hogg and
wether in all the countryside. "What ken ye about that?" he asked. "Ye
may gang east to Yetholm and west to Kells, and no find a better herd."
"If sheep were a'," said the bird, "ye micht be right; but what o' the
wide warld and the folk in it? Ye are Simon Etterick o' the Lowe Moss.
Do ye ken aucht o' your forebears?"
"My father was a God-fearing man at the Kennelhead, and my grandfather
and great-grandfather afore him. One o' our name, folk say, was shot at
a dykeback by the Black Westeraw."
"If that's a'," said the bird, "ye ken little. Have ye never heard o'
the little man, the fourth back from yoursel', who killed the Miller o'
Bewcastle at the Lammas Fair? That was in my ain time, and from my
mother I have heard o' the Covenanter who got a bullet in his wame
hunkering behind the divot-dyke and praying to his Maker. There were
others o' your name rode in the Hermitage forays and burned Naworth and
Warkworth and Castle Gay. I have heard o' an Etterick, Sim o' the
Redcleuch, who cut the throat o' Jock Johnstone in his ain house by the
Annan side. And my grandmother had tales o' auld Ettericks who rade wi'
Douglas and the Bruce and the ancient Kings o' Scots; and she used to
tell o' others in her mother's time, terrible shock-headed men, hunting
the deer and rinnin' on the high moors, and bidin' in the broken stane
biggings on the hill-taps."
The shepherd stared, and he, too, saw the picture. He smelled the air of
battle and lust and foray, and forgot the Sabbath.
"And you yoursel'," said the bird, "are sair fallen off from the auld
stock. Now ye sit and spell in books, and talk about what ye little
understand, when your fathers were roaming the warld. But little cause
have I to speak, for I too am a downcome. My bill is two inches shorter
than my mother's, and my grandmother was taller on her feet. The warld
is getting weaklier things to dwell in it, even since I mind mysel'."
"Ye have the gift o' speech, bird," said the man, "and I would hear
mair." You will perceive that he had no mind of the Sabbath day or the
fifteenth head of the forenoon's discourse.
"What things have I to tell ye when ye dinna ken the very horn-book o'
knowledge? Besides, I am no clatter-vengeance to tell stories in the
middle o' the muir, where there are ears open high and low. There's
others than me wi' mair experience and a better skill at the telling.
Our clan was well acquaint wi' the reivers and lifters o' the muirs, and
could crack fine o' wars and the taking of cattle. But the blue hawk
that lives in the corrie o' the Dreichil can speak o' kelpies and the
dwarfs that bide in the hill. The heron, the lang solemn fellow, kens o'
the greenwood fairies and the wood elfins, and the wild geese that
squatter on the tap o' the Muneraw will croak to ye of the merrymaidens
and the girls o' the pool. The wren--him that hops in the grass below
the birks--has the story of the _Lost Ladies of the Land_, which is ower
auld and sad for any but the wisest to hear; and there is a wee bird
bides in the heather--hill-lintie men call him--who sings the _Lay of
the West Wind_, and the _Glee of the Rowan Berries_. But what am I
talking of? What are these things to you, if ye have not first heard
True Thomas's Rime, which is the beginning and end o' all things?"
"I have heard no rime," said the man, "save the sacred psalms o' God's
Kirk."
"Bonny rimes," said the bird. "Once I flew by the hinder end o' the Kirk
and I keekit in. A wheen auld wives wi' mutches and a wheen solemn men
wi' hoasts! Be sure the Rime is no like yon."
"Can ye sing it, bird?" said the man, "for I am keen to hear it."
"Me sing," cried the bird, "me that has a voice like a craw! Na, na, I
canna sing it, but maybe I can take ye where ye may hear it. When I was
young an auld bogblitter did the same to me, and sae began my education.
But are ye willing and brawly willing?--for if ye get but a sough of it
ye will never mair have an ear for other music."
"I am willing and brawly willing," said the man.
"Then meet me at the Gled's Cleuch Head at the sun's setting," said the
bird, and it flew away.
Now it seemed to the man that in a twinkling it was sunset, and he found
himself at the Gled's Cleuch Head with the bird flapping in the heather
before him. The place was a long rift in the hill, made green with
juniper and hazel, where it was said True Thomas came to drink the
water.
"Turn ye to the west," said the whaup, "and let the sun fall on your
face; then turn ye five times round about and say after me the Rune of
the Heather and the Dew." And before he knew, the man did as he was
told, and found himself speaking strange words, while his head hummed
and danced as if in a fever.
"Now lay ye down and put your ear to the earth," said the bird; and the
man did so. Instantly a cloud came over his brain, and he did not feel
the ground on which he lay or the keen hill-air which blew about him. He
felt himself falling deep into an abysm of space, then suddenly caught
up and set among the stars of heaven. Then slowly from the stillness
there welled forth music, drop by drop like the clear falling of rain,
and the man shuddered, for he knew that he heard the beginning of the
Rime.
High rose the air, and trembled among the tallest pines and the summits
of great hills. And in it were the sting of rain and the blatter of
hail, the soft crush of snow and the rattle of thunder among crags. Then
it quieted to the low sultry croon which told of blazing midday when the
streams are parched and the bent crackles like dry tinder. Anon it was
evening, and the melody dwelled among the high soft notes which mean the
coming of dark and the green light of sunset. Then the whole changed to
a great pæan which rang like an organ through the earth. There were
trumpet notes in it and flute notes and the plaint of pipes. "Come
forth," it cried; "the sky is wide and it is a far cry to the world's
end. The fire crackles fine o' nights below the firs, and the smell of
roasting meat and wood smoke is dear to the heart of man. Fine, too, is
the sting of salt and the risp of the north wind in the sheets. Come
forth, one and all, to the great lands oversea, and the strange tongues
and the fremit peoples. Learn before you die to follow the Piper's Son,
and though your old bones bleach among grey rocks, what matter, if you
have had your bellyful of life and come to your heart's desire?" And the
tune fell low and witching, bringing tears to the eyes and joy to the
heart; and the man knew (though no one told him) that this was the first
part of the Rime, the _Song of the Open Road_, the _Lilt of the
Adventurer_, which shall be now and ever and to the end of days.
Then the melody changed to a fiercer and sadder note. He saw his
forefathers, gaunt men and terrible, run stark among woody hills. He
heard the talk of the bronze-clad invader, and the jar and clangour as
stone met steel. Then rose the last coronach of his own people, hiding
in wild glens, starving in corries, or going hopelessly to the death. He
heard the cry of Border foray, the shouts of the famished Scots as they
harried Cumberland, and he himself rode in the midst of them. Then the
tune fell more mournful and slow, and Flodden lay before him. He saw the
flower of the Scots gentry around their King, gashed to the breast-bone,
still fronting the lines of the south, though the paleness of death sat
on each forehead. "The flowers of the Forest are gone," cried the lilt,
and through the long years he heard the cry of the lost, the desperate,
fighting for kings over the water and princes in the heather. "Who
cares?" cried the air. "Man must die, and how can he die better than in
the stress of fight with his heart high and alien blood on his sword?
Heigh-ho! One against twenty, a child against a host, this is the
romance of life." And the man's heart swelled, for he knew (though no
one told him) that this was the _Song of Lost Battles_ which only the
great can sing before they die.
But the tune was changing, and at the change the man shivered, for the
air ran up to the high notes and then down to the deeps with an eldrich
cry, like a hawk's scream at night, or a witch's song in the gloaming.
It told of those who seek and never find, the quest that knows no
fulfilment. "There is a road," it cried, "which leads to the Moon and
the Great Waters. No change-house cheers it, and it has no end; but it
is a find road, a braw road--who will follow it?" And the man knew
(though no one told him) that this was the _Ballad of Grey Weather_,
which makes him who hears it sick all the days of his life for something
which he cannot name. It is the song which the birds sing on the moor in
the autumn nights, and the old crow on the treetop hears and flaps his
wing. It is the lilt which men and women hear in the darkening of their
days, and sigh for the unforgettable; and lovesick girls get catches of
it and play pranks with their lovers. It is a song so old that Adam
heard it in the Garden before Eve came to comfort him, so young that
from it still flows the whole joy and sorrow of earth.
Then it ceased, and all of a sudden the man was rubbing his eyes on the
hillside, and watching the falling dusk. "I have heard the Rime," he
said to himself, and he walked home in a daze. The whaups were crying,
but none came near him, though he looked hard for the bird that had
spoken with him. It may be that it was there and he did not know it, or
it may be that the whole thing was only a dream; but of this I cannot
say.
The next morning the man rose and went to the manse.
"I am glad to see you, Simon," said the minister, "for it will soon be
the Communion Season, and it is your duty to go round with the tokens."
"True," said the man, "but it was another thing I came to talk about,"
and he told him the whole tale.
"There are but two ways of it, Simon," said the minister. "Either ye are
the victim of witchcraft, or ye are a self-deluded man. If the former
(whilk I am loth to believe), then it behoves ye to watch and pray lest
ye enter into temptation. If the latter, then ye maun put a strict watch
over a vagrom fancy, and ye'll be quit o' siccan whigmaleeries."
Now Simon was not listening, but staring out of the window. "There was
another thing I had it in my mind to say," said he. "I have come to lift
my lines, for I am thinking of leaving the place."
"And where would ye go?" asked the minister, aghast.
"I was thinking of going to Carlisle and trying my luck as a dealer, or
maybe pushing on with droves to the South."
"But that's a cauld country where there are no faithfu' ministrations,"
said the minister.
"Maybe so, but I am not caring very muckle about ministrations," said
the man, and the other looked after him in horror.
When he left the manse he went to a Wise Woman, who lived on the left
side of the kirk-yard above Threepdaidle burn-foot. She was very old,
and sat by the ingle day and night, waiting upon death. To her he told
the same tale.
She listened gravely, nodding with her head. "Ach," she said, "I have
heard a like story before. And where will you be going?"
"I am going south to Carlisle to try the dealing and droving," said the
man, "for I have some skill of sheep."
"And will ye bide there?" she asked.
"Maybe aye, and maybe no," he said. "I had half a mind to push on to the
big toun or even to the abroad. A man must try his fortune."
"That's the way of men," said the old wife. "I, too, have heard the
Rime, and many women who now sit decently spinning in Kilmaclavers have
heard it. But a woman may hear it and lay it up in her soul and bide at
hame, while a man, if he get but a glisk of it in his fool's heart, must
needs up and awa' to the warld's end on some daft-like ploy. But gang
your ways and fare-ye-weel. My cousin Francie heard it, and he went
north wi' a white cockade in his bonnet and a sword at his side, singing
'Charlie's come hame.' And Tam Crichtoun o' the Bourhopehead got a sough
o' it one simmer's morning, and the last we heard o' Tam he was fechting
like a deil among the Frenchmen. Once I heard a tinkler play a sprig of
it on the pipes, and a' the lads were wud to follow him. Gang your
ways, for I am near the end o' mine." And the old wife shook with her
coughing.
So the man put up his belongings in a pack on his back and went
whistling down the Great South Road.
Whether or not this tale have a moral it is not for me to say. The King
(who told it me) said that it had, and quoted a scrap of Latin, for he
had been at Oxford in his youth before he fell heir to his kingdom. One
may hear tunes from the Rime, said he, in the thick of a storm on the
scarp of a rough hill, in the soft June weather, or in the sunset
silence of a winter's night. But let none, he added, pray to have the
full music; for it will make him who hears it a footsore traveller in
the ways o' the world and a masterless man till death.