When the strain of the white merle ceased, though it had seemed to her
scarce longer than the vanishing song of the swallow on the wing, Bride
saw that the evening was come. Through the violet glooms of dusk she
moved soundlessly, save for the crispling of her feet among the hot
sands. Far as she could see to right or left there were hollows and
ridges of sand; where, here and there, trees or shrubs grew out of the
parched soil, they were strange to her. She had heard the Druids speak
of the sunlands in a remote, nigh unreachable East, where there were
trees called palms, trees in a perpetual sunflood yet that perished not,
also tall dark cypresses, black-green as the holy yew. These were the
trees she now saw. Did she dream, she wondered? Far down in her mind was
some memory, some floating vision only, mayhap, of a small green isle
far among the northern seas. Voices, words, faces, familiar yet
unfamiliar when she strove to bring them near, haunted her.
The heat brooded upon the land. The sigh of the parched earth was
“Water, water.”
As she moved onward through the gloaming she descried white walls beyond
her: white walls and square white buildings, looming ghostly through the
dark, yet home-sweet as the bells of the cows on the sea-pastures,
because of the yellow lights every here and there agleam.
A tall figure moved towards her, clad in white, even as those figures
which haunted her unremembering memory. When he drew near she gave a low
cry of joy. The face of her father was sweet to her.
“Where will be the pitcher, Brighid?” he said, though the words were not
the words that were near her when she was alone. Nevertheless she knew
them, and the same manner of words was upon her lips.
“My pitcher, father?”
“Ah, dreamer, when will you be taking heed! It is leaving your pitcher
you will be, and by the Well of the Camels, no doubt: though little
matter will that be, since there is now no water, and the drought is
heavy upon the land. But ... Brighid....”
“Yes, my father?”
“Sure now, it is not safe for you to be on the desert at night. Wild
beasts come out of the darkness, and there are robbers and wild men who
lurk in the shadow. Brighid ... Brighid ... is it dreaming you are
still?”
“I was dreaming of a cool green isle in northern seas, where....”
“Where you have never been, foolish lass, and are never like to be.
Sure, if any wayfarer were to come upon us you would scarce be able to
tell him that yonder village is Bethlehem, and that I am Dùghall Donn
the innkeeper, Dùghall, the son of Hugh, son of Art, son of Conn. Well,
well, I am growing old, and they say that the old see wonders. But I do
not wish to see this wonder, that my daughter Brighid forgets her own
town, and the good inn that is there, and the strong sweet ale that is
cool against the thirst of the weary. Sure, if the day of my days is
near it is near. ‘Green be the place of my rest,’ I cry, even as Oisìn
the son of Fionn of the hero-line of Trenmor cried in his old age;
though if Oisìn and the Fiànn were here not a green place would they
find now, for the land is burned dry as the heather after a hill-fire.
But now, Brighid, let us go back into Bethlehem, for I have that for the
saying which must be said at once.”
In silence the twain walked through the gloaming that was already the
mirk, till they came to the white gate, where the asses and camels
breathed wearily in the sultry darkness, with dry tongues moving round
parched mouths. Thence they fared through narrow streets, where a few
white-robed Hebrews and sons of the desert moved silently, or sat in
niches. Finally, they came to a great yard, where more than a score of
camels lay huddled and growling in their sleep. Beyond this was the inn,
which was known to all the patrons and friends of Dùghall Donn as the
“Rest and Be Thankful,” though formerly as the Rest of Clan-Ailpean, for
was he not himself through his mother MacAlpine of the Isles, as well as
blood-kin to the great Cormac the Ard-Righ, to whom his father, Hugh,
was feudatory prince?
As Dùghall and Bride walked along the stone flags of a passage leading
to the inner rooms, he stopped and drew her attention to the
water-tanks.
“Look you, my lass,” he said sorrowfully, “of these tanks and barrels
nearly all are empty. Soon there will be no water whatever, which is an
evil thing though I whisper it in peace, to the Stones be it said. Now,
already the folk who come here murmur. No man can drink ale all day
long, and those wayfarers who want to wash the dust of their journey
from their feet and hands complain bitterly. And ... what is that you
will be saying? The kye? Ay, sure, there is the kye; but the poor beasts
are o’ercome with the heat, and there’s not a Cailliach on the hills who
could win a drop more of milk from them than we squeeze out of their
udders now, and that only with rune after rune till all the throats of
the milking lassies are as dry as the salt grass by the sea.
“Well, what I am saying is this: ’tis months now since any rain will be
falling, and every crock of water has been for the treasuring as though
it had been the honey of Moy-Mell itself. The moon has been full twice
since we had the good water brought from the mountain-springs; and now
they are for drying up too. The seers say that the drought will last. If
that is a true word, and there be no rain till the winter comes, there
will be no inn in Bethlehem called ‘The Rest and Be Thankful’; for
already there is not enough good water to give peace even to your little
thirst, my birdeen. As for the ale, it is poor drink now for man or
maid, and as for the camels and asses, poor beasts, they don’t
understand the drinking of it.”
“That is true, father; but what is to be done?”
“That’s what I will be telling you, my lintie. Now, I have been told by
an oganach out of Jerusalem, that lives in another place close by the
great town, that there is a quenchless well of pure water, cold as the
sea with a north wind in it, on a hill there called the Mount of Olives.
Now, it is to that hill I will be going. I am for taking all the camels
and all the horses, and all the asses, and will lade each with a burthen
of water-skins, and come back home again with water enough to last us
till the drought breaks.”
That was all that was said that night. But at the dawn the inn was busy,
and all the folk in Bethlehem were up to see the going abroad of Dùghall
Donn and Ronald McIan, his shepherd, and some Macleans and Maccallums
that were then in that place. It was a fair sight to see as they went
forth through the white gate that is called the Gate of Nazareth. A
piper walked first, playing the Gathering of the Swords: then came
Dùghall Donn on a camel, and McIan on a horse, and the herdsmen on
asses, and then there were the collies barking for joy.
Before he had gone, Dùghall took Bride out of the hearing of the others.
There was only a little stagnant water, he said; and as for the ale,
there was no more than a flagon left of what was good. This flagon and
the one jar of pure water he left with her. On no account was she to
give a drop to any wayfarer, no matter how urgent he might be; for he,
Dùghall, could not say when he would get back, and he did not want to
find a dead daughter to greet him on his return, let alone there being
no maid of the inn to attend to customers. Over and above that, he made
her take an oath that she would give no one, no, not even a stranger,
accommodation at the inn, during his absence.
Afternoon and night came, and dawn and night again, and yet again. It
was on the afternoon of the third day, when even the crickets were dying
of thirst, that Bride heard a clanging at the door of the inn.
When she went to the door she saw a weary grey-haired man, dusty and
tired. By his side was an ass with drooping head, and on the ass was a
woman, young, and of a beauty that was as the cool shadow of green
leaves and the cold ripple of running waters. But beautiful as she was
it was not this that made Bride start: no, nor the heavy womb that
showed the woman was with child. For she remembered her of a dream—it
was a dream, sure—when she had looked into a pool on a mountain-side,
and seen, beyond her own image, just this fair and beautiful face, the
most beautiful that ever man saw since Nais, of the Sons of Usna, beheld
Deirdrê in the forest—ay, and lovelier far even than she, the peerless
among women.
“Gu’m beannaicheadh Dia an tigh,” said the grey-haired man in a weary
voice, “the blessing of God on this house.”
“Soraidh leat,” replied Bride gently, “and upon you likewise.”
“Can you give us food and drink, and, after that, good rest at this inn?
Sure it is grateful we will be. This is my wife Mary, upon whom is a
mystery: and I am Joseph, a carpenter in Arimathea.”
“Welcome, and to you, too, Mary: and peace. But there is neither food
nor drink here, and my father has bidden me give shelter to none who
comes here against his return.”
The carpenter sighed, but the fair woman on the ass turned her shadowy
eyes upon Bride, so that the maiden trembled with joy and fear.
“And is it forgetting me you will be, Brighid-Alona,” she murmured, in
the good sweet Gaelic of the Isles; and the voice of her was like the
rustle of leaves when a soft rain is falling in a wood.
“Sure, I remember,” Bride whispered, filled with deep awe. Then without
a word she turned, and beckoned them to follow: which, having left the
ass by the doorway, they did.
“Here is all the ale that I have,” she said, as she gave the flagon to
Joseph: “and here, Mary, is all the water that there is. Little there
is, but it is you that are welcome to it.”
Then, when they had quenched their thirst she brought out oatcakes and
scones and brown bread, and would fain have added milk, but there was
none.
“Go to the byre, Brighid,” said Mary, “and the first of the kye shall
give milk.”
So Bride went, but returned saying that the creature would not give milk
without a sian or song, and that her throat was too dry to sing.
“Say this sian,” said Mary:
Give up thy milk to her who calls
Across the low green hills of Heaven
And stream-cool meads of Paradise!
And sure enough, when Bride did this, the milk came: and she soothed her
thirst, and went back to her guests rejoicing. It was sorrow to her not
to let them stay where they were, but she could not, because of her
oath.
The man Joseph was weary, and said he was too tired to seek far that
night, and asked if there was no empty byre or stable where he and Mary
could sleep till morning. At that, Bride was glad: for she knew there
was a clean cool stable close to the byre where her kye were: and
thereto she led them, and returned with peace at her heart.
When she was in the inn again, she was afraid once more: for lo, though
Mary and Joseph had drunken deep of the jar and the flagon, each was now
full as it had been. Of the food, too, none seemed to have been taken,
though she had herself seen them break the scones and the oatcakes.
It was dusk when her reverie was broken by the sound of the pipes. Soon
thereafter Dùghall Donn and his following rode up to the inn, and all
were glad because of the cool water, and the grapes, and the green
fruits of the earth, that they brought with them.
While her father was eating and drinking, merry because of the ale that
was still in the flagon, Bride told him of the wayfarers. Even as she
spoke, he made a sign of silence, because of a strange, unwonted sound
that he heard.
“What will that be meaning?” he asked, in a low, hushed voice.
“Sure it is the rain at last, father. That is a glad thing. The earth
will be green again. The beasts will not perish. Hark, I hear the noise
of it coming down from the hills as well.” But Dùghall sat brooding.
“Ay,” he said at last, “is it not foretold that the Prince of the World
is to be born in this land, during a heavy falling of rain, after a long
drought? And who is for knowing that Bethlehem is not the place, and
that this is not the night of the day of the days? Brighid, Brighid, the
woman Mary must be the mother of the Prince, who is to save all mankind
out of evil and pain and death!”
And with that he rose and beckoned to her to follow. They took a
lantern, and made their way through the drowsing camels and asses and
horses, and past the byres where the kye lowed gently, and so to the
stable.
“Sure that is a bright light they are having,” Dùghall muttered
uneasily; for, truly, it was as though the shed were a shell filled with
the fires of sunrise.
Lightly they pushed back the door. When they saw what they saw they fell
upon their knees. Mary sat with her heavenly beauty upon her like
sunshine on a dusk land: in her lap, a Babe, laughing sweet and low.
Never had they seen a Child so fair. He was as though wrought of light.
“Who is it?” murmured Dùghall Donn, of Joseph, who stood near, with rapt
eyes.
“It is the Prince of Peace.”
And with that Mary smiled, and the Child slept.
“Brighid, my sister dear”—and, as she whispered this, Mary held the
little one to Bride.
The fair girl took the Babe in her arms, and covered it with her mantle.
Therefore it is that she is known to this day as Brighde-nam-Brat, St
Bride of the Mantle.
And all through that night, while the mother slept, Bride nursed the
Child with tender hands and croodling crooning songs. And this was one
of the songs that she sang:
Ah, Baby Christ, so dear to me,
Sang Bridget Bride:
How sweet thou art,
My baby dear,
Heart of my heart!
Heavy her body was with thee,
Mary, beloved of One in Three,
Sang Bridget Bride—
Mary, who bore thee, little lad:
But light her heart was, light and glad
With God’s love clad.
Sit on my knee,
Sang Bridget Bride:
Sit here
O Baby dear,
Close to my heart, my heart:
For I thy foster-mother am,
My helpless lamb!
O have no fear,
Sang good St Bride.
None, none,
No fear have I:
So let me cling
Close to thy side
Whilst thou dost sing,
O Bridget Bride!
My Lord, my Prince I sing:
My baby dear, my King!
Sang Bridget Bride.
It was on this night that, far away in Iona, the Arch-Druid Cathal died.
But before the breath went from him he had his vision of joy, and his
last words were:
Brighde ’dol air a glùn,
Righ nan dùl a shuidh ’na h-uchd!
(Bridget Bride upon her knee,
The King of the Elements asleep on her breast!)
At the coming of dawn Mary awoke, and took the Child. She kissed Bride
upon the brows, and said this thing to her: “Brighid, my sister dear,
thou shalt be known unto all time as Muime Chriosd.”