BLACK MURDO'S wife was heavy, and 'twas the time the little brown nats
were pattering in Stronbuie wood. Stronbuie spreads out its greenness
to the sun from the slope of Cladich. It is, in its season, full of the
piping of birds and the hurry of wings, and the winds of it have the
smell of a fat soil. The Diarmaids were the cunning folk to steal it;
for if Stronshira is good, Stronbuie is better; and though the loops
of Aora tangle themselves in the gardens of the Red Duke, Lochow has
enchantment for the galley of a king. Fraoch Eilean, Innis Chonell, and
Innis Chonain--they cluster on the bend of it like the gems on a brooch,
Inishail of the Monks makes it holy, and Cruachan-ben, who lords it
over Lorn, keeps the cold north wind from the shore. They may talk of
Glenaora, but Stronbuie comes close, close to the heart!
For all that, 'twas on a time a poor enough place for a woman in yon
plight; for the rest of the clan crowded down on Innistiynich,
all fighters and coarse men of the sword, and a skilly woman or a
stretching-board was no nearer than a day's tramp over the hill and
down Aora glen to the walls of Inneraora. If one died on Cladich-side
then--and 'twas a dying time, for the Athol dogs were for ever at
the harrying--it was but a rough burying, with no corranach and no
mort-cloth; if a child came, it found but cold water and a cold world,
whatever hearts might be. But for seven years no child came for Black
Murdo.
They say, in the Gaelic old-word, that a stolen bitch will never throw
clean pups nor a home-sick woman giants. Murdo recked nothing of that
when he went wooing in a time of truce to Croit-bhile, the honey-croft
that makes a red patch on the edge of Creag Dubh. He brought Silis home
to the dull place at Stronbuie, and she baked his bannocks and ploughed
his bit of soil, but her heart never left salt Finne-side. In the
morning she would go to the hill to look through the blurred glen, and
she would have made bargains with the ugliest crow that could flap on
feathers for a day's use of his wings. She could have walked it right
often and gaily to her people's place, but Black Murdo was of Clan
Artair, and Artairich had not yet come under the _bratach_ of Diarmaid,
and bloody knives made a march-dyke between the two tartans.
Seven years and seven days went by, and Black Murdo, coming in on an
evening after a hard day at the deer, found Silis making the curious
wee clothes. He looked at her keen, questioning, and she bleached to the
lips.
“So!” said he.
“Just so,” said she, breaking a thread with her teeth, and bending till
the peat-flame dyed her neck like wine.
“God, and I'm the stout fellow!” said he, and out he went, down all the
way to Portinsherrich, and lusty he was with the ale among the pretty
men there.
Weeks chased each other like sheep in a fank, and Silis grew sick at the
heart. There's a time for a woman when the word of a woman is sweeter
than a harp; but there were only foolish girls at Innistrynich, and
coarse men of the sword. So Murdo stayed in from the roes when the time
crept close. To see him do the heavy work of the house and carrying in
the peats was a sorry sight.
Silis kept dreaming of Finne-side, where she had heard the long wave in
the spring of the year when she had gone home on a password to a woman's
wedding with Long Coll. The same Long Coll had brothers, and one had
put a man's foolish sayings in her ears before ever she met Murdo, she
a thin girl like a saugh-wand and not eighteen till Beltane. They called
him--no matter--and he had the way with the women. Faith, it's the
strange art! It is not looks, nor dancing, nor the good heart, nor wit,
but some soft fire of the eye and maybe a song to the bargain. Whatever
it was, it had Silis, for all that her goodman Murdo had a man's
qualities and honesty extra.
They say, “_Cnuic is sluic is Alpeinich, ach cuin a thàinig
Artharaich?_“(1) in the by-word; but Artharaich had age enough for a
_taibhsear_ whatever, for Black Murdo had the Sight.
1 The hills and hollows and Clan Alpine came together, but
when arose Clan Artair?
It's the curious thing to say of a man with all his parts that he should
be _taibhsear_ and see visions; for a _taibhsear_, by all the laws,
should be an old fellow with little use for swords or shinny-sticks.
But Murdo missed being a full taibhsear by an ell, so the fit had him
seldom. He was the seventh son of a mother who died with the brand of a
cross on her brow, and she was kin to the Glenurchy Woman. And something
crept over him with the days, that put a mist in his eyes when he looked
at Silis; but “I'm no real _taibhsear_,” he said to himself, “and I
swear by the black stones it is no cloth. A man with all the Gift might
call it a shroud high on her breast, but----”
“Silis, _a bhean!_ shall it be the Skilly Dame of Inneraora?”
A light leaped to the woman's eyes, for the very thing was in her mind.
“If it could be,” she said, slowly; “but it's not easy to get her, for
black's your name on Aoraside.”
“Black or white, Murdo stands in his own shoes. He has been at the gate
of Inneraora when Strong Colin the warder had little thought of it.”
“Then, oh heart! it must be soon--tomorrow--but----”
The mouth of day found Silis worse, and Murdo on his way to Inneraora.
He stepped it down Glenaora like Coll Mor in the story, or the man with
the fairy shoes. A cloud was over Tullich and a wet wind whistled on
Kennachregan. The man's target played dunt on his back, so hasty was he,
for all that the outposts of Big Colin had hawk's eyes on the pass. He
had got the length of Alt Shelechan when a Diarmaid came out on him
from the bracken with a curse on his mouth. He was a big Diarmaid,
high-breasted and stark, for there's no denying there was breed in the
pigs.
“Ho, ho, lad!” said he, crousely, “it's risking it you are this day!”
Black Murdo's hands went to his sides, where a ready man's should ready
be; but he had sight of Silis. He could see her in Stronbuie in the
bothy, on the wee creepy-stool beside the peats, and he knew she was
saying the Wise Woman's Wish that Diarmaid mothers have so often need
of. Length is length, and it's a far cry to Lochow sure enough; but even
half a _taibhsear_ takes no count of miles and time.
He spoke softly. “I go to Inneraora for the Skilly Woman. My wife is a
daughter of your folks, and she'll have none but the dame who brought
herself home.”
“Death or life?” asked the Diarmaid, a freckled hand still on the
basket-hilt. He put the question roughly, for nobody likes to lose a
ploy.
“Life it is, my lad. It's not to dress corpses but to wash weans she's
wanted.”
“Ho-chutt!” went the blade back against the brass of the scabbard (for
he was _duin-uasal_ who carried it), and the man's face changed.
“Pass!” he said. “I would not stand in a bairn's way to life. Had it
been shrouds instead of sweelers, we could have had it out, for a corpse
is in no great hurry. But troth it's yourself is the tight one, and I
would have liked a bit of the old game.”
“No more than Murdo, red fellow!”
“Murdo! So be't; yet Murdo will give me his dirk for gate-pay, or
they'll be saying farther down that Calum, as good a man, kept out of
his way.”
The _biodag_ went flying into the grass at Calum's feet, and Murdo went
leaping down the glen. It was like stalking deer for the Diarmaids. Here
and there he had to go into the river or among the hazel-switches, or
crawl on his stomach among the gall.
From Kilmune to Uchdan-barracaldine the red fellows were passing, or
playing with the _clachneart_ or the _cabar,_ or watching their women
toiling in the little fields.
“Thorns in their sides!” he said to himself, furious at last, when
another keen-eyed Diarmaid caught sight of his tartan and his black
beard among some whins. It was a stripling with only a dirk, but he
could gather fifty men on the crook of his finger.
“Stand!” cried the Diarmaid, flashing the dirk out. “What want ye so far
over this way?”
Murdo, even in the rage, saw Silis, a limp creature, sweating in her
pains, her black eyes (like the sloe) keen on the door. So close,
so sure, so sorrowful! He could have touched her on the shoulder and
whispered in her ear.
“I am Black Murdo,” he told the lad. “I am for Inneraora for the Skilly
Woman for my wife, child of your own clan.”
“Death or life?”
“Life.”
“'Tis a bonny targe ye have, man; it might be doing for toll.”
The lad got it, and Murdo went on his way. He found the Skilly Woman,
who put before him sour milk and brose. But he would not have drink or
sup, so back through the Diarmaids they went without question (for the
woman's trade was as good as the chief's convoy), till they came to
Tom-an-dearc. Out upon them there a fellow red and pretty.
“Hold!” he said, as if it had been dogs. “What's the name of ye, black
fellow?” Murdo cursed in his beard. “My name's honest man, but I have
not time to prove it.”
“Troth that's a pity. But seeing there's the _caüleach_ with you,
you must e'en go your way. There's aye some of you folk on the
stretching-board. Ye want heart, and ye die with a flaff of wind. Lend
me your sword, _'ille!_''
“Squint-mouth!” cried Murdo, “your greedy clan took too much off me this
day already for me to part with the sweetest blade Gow-an-aora ever beat
on iron. I took it from one of your cowards at Carnus, and if it's back
it goes, it's not with my will.”
“Then it's the better man must have it,” said the red fellow, and, Lord,
he was the neat-built one! They took off their coats, and for lack of
bucklers rolled them round their arms, both calm and canny. The Diarmaid
was first ready with his brand out, and Murdo put to his point. For a
little the two men stood, spread out, hard-drawn behind the knees, with
the cords of the neck like thongs, then at it with a clatter of steel.
The Skilly Woman, with the plaid pulled tight over her grey hair, sat
with sunk eyes on a stone and waited without wonder. She had sons who
had died in brawls at Kilmichael market, or in the long foray far
in Kintail; and her man, foster-brother to a chief, got death in the
strange foreign wars, where the pay was not hide and horn but round
gold.
A smoky soft smirr of rain filled all the gap between the hills, though
Sithean Sluaidhe and Dunchuach had tips of brass from a sun dropping
behind the Salachary hills. The grass and the gall lost their glitter
and became grey and dull; the hill of Lecknamban, where five burns are
born, coaxed the mist down on its breast like a lover. It was wet, wet,
but never a drop made a rush bend or a leaf fall. Below the foot the
ground was greasy, as it is in a fold at the dippingtime; but the two
men pulled themselves up with a leap on it as if it might be dry sand,
and the brogues made no error on the soil.
First the Diarmaid pressed, for he had it over the other man in youth,
and youth is but tame when it's slow or slack. Murdo waited, all eyes
that never blinked, with the basket well up, and kept on his toes.
“Splank, sp-ll-ank, sp-ll-ank--_siod e_!” said the blades, and the
Diarmaid's for a time made the most of the music, but he never got
inside the black fellow's guard. Then Murdo took up the story with a
snap of the teeth, skelping hard at the red one till the hands dirled in
the basket like a bag of pins. The smirr gathered thicker, and went
to rain that fell solid, the brogues grew like steeped bladders on the
feet, a scatter of crows made a noisy homing to the trees at Tullich,
and Aora gobbled like swine in a baron's trough.
“Haste ye, heroes,” said the old woman, cowering on the wet stone;
“haste ye, dears; it's mighty long ye are about it.”
The Diarmaid turned the edge twice on the coated arm, and Murdo wasted
his wind to curse. Then he gave the stroke that's worth fifty head of
kyloes (fine they know that same all below Cladichl), and a red seam
jumped to the Diarmaid's face. All his heart went to stiffen his
slacking heavy arm, and he poured on Murdo till Murdo felt it like a
rain of spears. One hot wandering stroke he got on the bonnet, and for
want of the bowl of brose at Inneraora, the wind that should go to help
him went inside, and turned his stomach. Sweat, hot and salt, stung his
eyes, his ears filled with a great booming, he fell in a weary dream of
a far-off fight on a witched shore, with the waves rolling, and some one
else at the fencing, and caring nought, but holding guard with the
best blade Gow-an-aora ever took from flame. Back stepped the Diarmaid,
sudden, and sweep went his steel at the shaking knees.
A bairn's cry struck Murdo's ear through the booming and sent him full
awake. He drew back the stretched foot fast, and round the red one's
sword hissed through air. “Foil! foil!” said Murdo, and he slashed him
on the groin.
“That'll do, man; no more,” said the Skilly Woman, quickly,
“I may as well finish him; it's lame he'll be all his days any way, and
little use is a man with a halt in a healthy clan.”
“Halt or no halt, let him be; he's my second cousin's son.”
Murdo looked for a bit at the bloody thing before him, but the woman
craved again with bony fingers on his wrist; so he spat on the dirty
green tartan and went. The smoke rose from him and hung about with a
smell of wearied flesh, the grey of the mist was black at Carnus. When
the pair came over against Lochow, where one can see the holy isle when
it is day, the night was deep and cold; but the woman bent at the cross
with a “_Mhoire Mhathair_,” and so did the man, picking the clotted
blood from his ear. They dropped down the brae on the house at last.
For a little Black Murdo's finger hung on the sneck, and when he heard a
sound he pushed in the door.
All about the house the peat-reek swung like mist on the mountain. Wind
and rain fought it out on Cladich brae, and when it was not the wind
that came bold through the smoke-hole in the roof, 'twas the rain, a
beady slant that hissed on the peats like roasting herrings. The woman
lay slack on the bed, her eyes glossed over with the glass that folks
see the great sights through, and her fingers making love over the face
and breast of a new-born boy that cried thinly at her knees. A lighted
cruisie spluttered with heavy smell at the end of a string on a rafter.
“O Skilly Woman, Skilly Woman, it's late we are,” said Black Murdo.
“Late enough, as ye say, just man. Had ye bartered an old sword for
twenty minutes on the Tom-an-dearc, I was here before danger.”
Then the Skilly Woman set him on the wet windy side of the door, and
went about with busy hands.
The man, with the ragged edge of his kilt scraping his knees and the
rain bubbling in his brogues, leaned against the wattled door and
smeared the blood from his brow. A cold wind gulped down from Glenurchy
and ghosts were over Inishail. The blast whirled about and whirled
about, and swung the rowan like a fern, and whistled in the gall, and
tore the thatch, all to drown a child's cry. The blackness crowded close
round like a wall, and flapped above like a plaid--Stronbuie was in a
tent and out of the world. Murdo strained to hear a voice, but the wind
had the better of him. He went round to the gable, thinking to listen at
the window, but the board on the inside shut the wind and him out. The
strange emptiness of grief was in his belly.
Inside, the Skilly One went like a witch, beak-nosed and half-blind.
There was clatter of pans and the dash of water, the greeting of the
child and the moan of the mother. What else is no man's business. For
all she was skilly the old dame had no thought of the woman sinking.
“You'll have blithe-meat in the morning,” she said, cheerily, from the
fireside.
Silis made worse moan than before.
“Such a boy, white love! And hair like the copper! His hide is mottled
like a trout's back; calf of my heart!”
Silis, on her side, put out white craving arms. “Give it to me, wife;
give it to me.”
“Wheesht! rest ye, dear, rest ye,” said the Skilly Dame.
But she put the bairn in its mother's arms. Silis, when she had it on
her breast, sobbed till the bed shook.
“Is not he the hero, darling?” said the Skilly Woman. “It's easy seen
he's off Clan Diarmaid on one side, for all that yoar hair is black as
the sloe. Look at the colour of him!”
Fright was in the mother's face. “Come close, come close till I tell
you,” she said, her long hair damp on her milky shoulders.
The Skilly Woman put down her head and listened with wonder.
“Me-the-day! Was I not the blind one to miss it? His name, white love?
No one shall ken it from me, not even Murdo.”
A man's name took up the last breath of Silis; she gave a little shiver,
and choked with a sound that the old crone had heard too often not to
know.
She looked, helpless, for a little at the bed, then felt the mother's
feet. They were as cold as stone.
A cry caught Murdo's ear against the wattles, and he drove in the door
with his shoulder, heeding no sneck nor bar.
“Am not I the blind fool?” said the crone.
“There's your wife gone, cheap enough at the price of a yard of steel.”
They stood and looked at the bed together, the bairn crying without
notice.
“I knew it,” said the man, heaving; “_taibhsear_ half or whole, I could
see the shroud on her neck!”
The grey light was drifting in from Cladich. The fir-trees put stretched
fingers up against the day, and Murdo was placing a platter of salt on a
bosom as cold and as white as the snow.
“You're feeding him on the wrong cloth,” said he, seeing the crone give
suck to the child from a rag of Diarmaid tartan dipped in goat's milk.