was hating the dead man he could take the sins and fling them into the
sea, and they would be changed into demons of the air that would harry
the flying soul till Judgment-Day.”
“And how would that thing be done?”
The man spoke with flashing eyes and parted lips, the breath coming
swift. Andrew Blair looked at him suspiciously; and hesitated, before, in
a cold voice, he spoke again.
“That is all folly, I am thinking, Macallum. Maybe it is all folly, the
whole of it. But, see here, I have no time to be talking with you. If you
will take the bread and the water you shall have a good meal if you want
it, and … and … yes, look you, my man, I will be giving you a shilling
too, for luck.”
“I will have no meal in this house, Anndra-mhic-Adam; nor will I do this
thing unless you will be giving me two silver half-crowns. That is the
sum I must have, or no other.”
“Two half-crowns! Why, man, for one half-crown …”
“Then be eating the sins o’ your father yourself, Andrew Blair! It is
going I am.”
“Stop, man! Stop, Macallum. See here: I will be giving you what you ask.”
“So be it. Is the … Are you ready?”
“Ay, come this way.”
With that the two men turned and moved slowly towards the bier.
In the doorway of the house stood a man and two women; farther in, a
woman; and at the window to the left, the serving-wench, Jessie McFall,
and two men of the farm. Of those in the doorway, the man was Peter, the
half-witted youngest brother of Andrew Blair; the taller and older woman
was Catreen, the widow of Adam, the second brother; and the thin, slight
woman, with staring eyes and drooping mouth, was Muireall, the wife of
Andrew. The old woman behind these was Maisie Macdonald.
Andrew Blair stooped and took a saucer out of the _claar_. This he put
upon the covered breast of the corpse. He stooped again, and brought
forth a thick square piece of new-made bread. That also he placed upon
the breast of the corpse. Then he stooped again, and with that he emptied
a spoonful of salt alongside the bread.
“I must see the corpse,” said Neil Ross simply.
“It is not needful, Macallum.”
“I must be seeing the corpse, I tell you--and for that, too, the bread
and the water should be on the naked breast.”
“No, no, man; it …”
But here a voice, that of Maisie the wise woman, came upon them, saying
that the man was right, and that the eating of the sins should be done in
that way and no other.
With an ill grace the son of the dead man drew back the sheeting.
Beneath it, the corpse was in a clean white shirt, a death-gown long ago
prepared, that covered him from his neck to his feet, and left only the
dusky yellowish face exposed.
While Andrew Blair unfastened the shirt and placed the saucer and the
bread and the salt on the breast, the man beside him stood staring
fixedly on the frozen features of the corpse. The new laird had to speak
to him twice before he heard.
“I am ready. And you, now? What is it you are muttering over against the
lips of the dead?”
“It is giving him a message I am. There is no harm in that, sure?”
“Keep to your own folk, Macallum. You are from the West you say, and we
are from the North. There can be no messages between you and a Blair of
Strathmore, no messages for _you_ to be giving.”
“He that lies here knows well the man to whom I am sending a
message”--and at this response Andrew Blair scowled darkly. He would fain
have sent the man about his business, but he feared he might get no other.
“It is thinking I am that you are not a Macallum at all. I know all of
that name in Mull, Iona, Skye, and the near isles. What will the name of
your naming be, and of your father, and of his place?”
Whether he really wanted an answer, or whether he sought only to divert
the man from his procrastination, his question had a satisfactory result.
“Well, now, it’s ready I am, Anndra-mhic-Adam.”
With that, Andrew Blair stooped once more and from the _claar_ brought a
small jug of water. From this he filled the saucer.
“You know what to say and what to do, Macallum.”
There was not one there who did not have a shortened breath because
of the mystery that was now before them, and the fearfulness of it.
Neil Ross drew himself up, erect, stiff, with white, drawn face. All
who waited, save Andrew Blair, thought that the moving of his lips was
because of the prayer that was slipping upon them, like the last lapsing
of the ebb-tide. But Blair was watching him closely, and knew that it was
no prayer which stole out against the blank air that was around the dead.
Slowly Neil Ross extended his right arm. He took a pinch of the salt and
put it in the saucer, then took another pinch and sprinkled it upon the
bread. His hand shook for a moment as he touched the saucer. But there
was no shaking as he raised it towards his lips, or when he held it
before him when he spoke.
“With this water that has salt in it, and has lain on thy corpse, O Adam
mhic Anndra mhic Adam Mòr, I drink away all the evil that is upon thee …”
There was throbbing silence while he paused.
“… And may it be upon me and not upon thee, if with this water it cannot
flow away.”
Thereupon, he raised the saucer and passed it thrice round the head of
the corpse sun-ways; and, having done this, lifted it to his lips and
drank as much as his mouth would hold. Thereafter he poured the remnant
over his left hand, and let it trickle to the ground. Then he took the
piece of bread. Thrice, too, he passed it round the head of the corpse
sun-ways.
He turned and looked at the man by his side, then at the others, who
watched him with beating hearts.
With a loud clear voice he took the sins.
“_Thoir dhomh do ciontachd, O Adam mhic Anndra mhic Adam Mòr!_ Give me
thy sins to take away from thee! Lo, now, as I stand here, I break this
bread that has lain on thee in corpse, and I am eating it, I am, and in
that eating I take upon me the sins of thee, O man that was alive and is
now white with the stillness!”
Thereupon Neil Ross broke the bread and ate of it, and took upon himself
the sins of Adam Blair that was dead. It was a bitter swallowing, that.
The remainder of the bread he crumbled in his hand, and threw it on the
ground, and trod upon it. Andrew Blair gave a sigh of relief. His cold
eyes lightened with malice.
“Be off with you, now, Macallum. We are wanting no tramps at the farm
here, and perhaps you had better not be trying to get work this side
Iona; for it is known as the Sin-Eater you will be, and that won’t be for
the helping, I am thinking! There: there are the two half-crowns for you
… and may they bring you no harm, you that are _Scapegoat_ now!”
The Sin-Eater turned at that, and stared like a hill-bull. _Scapegoat!_
Ay, that’s what he was. Sin-Eater, Scapegoat! Was he not, too, another
Judas, to have sold for silver that which was not for the selling? No,
no, for sure Maisie Macdonald could tell him the rune that would serve
for the easing of this burden. He would soon be quit of it.
Slowly he took the money, turned it over, and put it in his pocket.
“I am going, Andrew Blair,” he said quietly, “I am going now. I will not
say to him that is there in the silence, _A chuid do Pharas da!_--nor
will I say to you, _Gu’n gleidheadh Dia thu_,--nor will I say to this
dwelling that is the home of thee and thine, _Gu’n beannaicheadh Dia an
tigh!_”[7]
[7] (1) _A chuid do Pharas da!_ “His share of heaven be his.”
(2) _Gu’n gleidheadh Dia thu_, “May God preserve you.” (3) _Gu’n
beannaicheadh Dia an tigh!_ “God’s blessing on this house.”
Here there was a pause. All listened. Andrew Blair shifted uneasily, the
furtive eyes of him going this way and that, like a ferret in the grass.
“But, Andrew Blair, I will say this: when you fare abroad, _Droch caoidh
ort!_ and when you go upon the water, _Gaoth gun direadh ort!_ Ay, ay,
Anndra-mhic-Adam, _Dia ad aghaidh ’s ad aodann … agus bas dunach ort!
Dhonas ’s dholas ort, agus leat-sa!_”[8]
[8] (1) _Droch caoidh ort!_ “May a fatal accident happen to you”
(_lit._ “bad moan on you”). (2) _Gaoth gun direadh ort!_ “May you
drift to your drowning” (_lit._ “wind without direction on you”).
(3) _Dia ad aghaidh_, etc., “God against thee and in thy face … and
may a death of woe be yours … Evil and sorrow to thee and thine!”
The bitterness of these words was like snow in June upon all there. They
stood amazed. None spoke. No one moved.
Neil Ross turned upon his heel, and, with a bright light in his eyes,
walked away from the dead and the living. He went by the byres, whence he
had come. Andrew Blair remained where he was, now glooming at the corpse,
now biting his nails and staring at the damp sods at his feet.
When Neil reached the end of the milk-shed he saw Maisie Macdonald there,
waiting.
“These were ill sayings of yours, Neil Ross,” she said in a low voice, so
that she might not be overheard from the house.
“So, it is knowing me you are.”
“Sheen Macarthur told me.”
“I have good cause.”
“That is a true word. I know it.”
“Tell me this thing. What is the rune that is said for the throwing into
the sea of the sins of the dead? See here, Maisie Macdonald. There is no
money of that man that I would carry a mile with me. Here it is. It is
yours, if you will tell me that rune.”
Maisie took the money hesitatingly. Then, stooping, she said slowly the
few lines of the old, old rune.
“Will you be remembering that?”
“It is not forgetting it I will be, Maisie.”
“Wait a moment. There is some warm milk here.”
With that she went, and then, from within, beckoned to him to enter.
“There is no one here, Neil Ross. Drink the milk.”
He drank; and while he did so she drew a leather pouch from some hidden
place in her dress.
“And now I have this to give you.”
She counted out ten pennies and two farthings.
“It is all the coppers I have. You are welcome to them. Take them, friend
of my friend. They will give you the food you need, and the ferry across
the Sound.”
“I will do that, Maisie Macdonald, and thanks to you. It is not
forgetting it I will be, nor you, good woman. And now, tell me, is it
safe that I am? He called me a ‘scapegoat’; he, Andrew Blair! Can evil
touch me between this and the sea?”
“You must go to the place where the evil was done to you and yours--and
that, I know, is on the west side of Iona. Go, and God preserve you. But
here, too, is a sian that will be for the safety.”
Thereupon, with swift mutterings she said this charm: an old, familiar
Sian against Sudden Harm:--
“Sian a chuir Moire air Mac ort,
Sian ro’ marbhadh, sian ro’ lot ort,
Sian eadar a’ chlioch ’s a’ ghlun,
Sian nan Tri ann an aon ort,
O mhullach do chinn gu bonn do chois ort:
Sian seachd eadar a h-aon ort,
Sian seachd eadar a dha ort,
Sian seachd eadar a tri ort,
Sian seachd eadar a ceithir ort,
Sian seachd eadar a coig ort,
Sian seachd eadar a sia ort,
Sian seachd paidir nan seach paidir dol deiseil ri diugh
narach ort, ga do ghleidheadh bho bheud ’s bho mhi-thapadh!”
Scarcely had she finished before she heard heavy steps approaching.
“Away with you,” she whispered, repeating in a loud, angry tone, “Away
with you! _Seachad!_ _Seachad!_”
And with that Neil Ross slipped from the milk-shed and crossed the yard,
and was behind the byres before Andrew Blair, with sullen mien and swift,
wild eyes, strode from the house.
It was with a grim smile on his face that Neil tramped down the wet
heather till he reached the high road, and fared thence as through a
marsh because of the rains there had been.
For the first mile he thought of the angry mind of the dead man, bitter
at paying of the silver. For the second mile he thought of the evil that
had been wrought for him and his. For the third mile he pondered over all
that he had heard and done and taken upon him that day.
Then he sat down upon a broken granite heap by the way, and brooded deep
till one hour went, and then another, and the third was upon him.
A man driving two calves came towards him out of the west. He did not
hear or see. The man stopped: spoke again. Neil gave no answer. The
drover shrugged his shoulders, hesitated, and walked slowly on, often
looking back.
An hour later a shepherd came by the way he himself had tramped. He was a
tall, gaunt man with a squint. The small, pale-blue eyes glittered out of
a mass of red hair that almost covered his face. He stood still, opposite
Neil, and leaned on his _cromak_.
“_Latha math leat_,” he said at last: “I wish you good day.”
Neil glanced at him, but did not speak.
“What is your name, for I seem to know you?”
But Neil had already forgotten him. The shepherd took out his snuff-mull,
helped himself, and handed the mull to the lonely wayfarer. Neil
mechanically helped himself.
“_Am bheil thu ’dol do Fhionphort?_” tried the shepherd again: “Are you
going to Fionnaphort?”
“_Tha mise ’dol a dh’ I-challum-chille_,” Neil answered, in a low, weary
voice, and as a man adream: “I am on my way to Iona.”
“I am thinking I know now who you are. You are the man Macallum.”
Neil looked, but did not speak. His eyes dreamed against what the other
could not see or know. The shepherd called angrily to his dogs to keep
the sheep from straying; then, with a resentful air, turned to his victim.
“You are a silent man for sure, you are. I’m hoping it is not the curse
upon you already.”
“What curse?”
“Ah, _that_ has brought the wind against the mist! I was thinking so!”
“What curse?”
“You are the man that was the Sin-Eater over there?”
“Ay.”
“The man Macallum?”
“Ay.”
“Strange it is, but three days ago I saw you in Tobermory, and heard you
give your name as Neil Ross to an Iona man that was there.”
“Well?”
“Oh, sure, it is nothing to me. But they say the Sin-Eater should not be
a man with a hidden lump in his pack.”[9]
[9] _i.e._ With a criminal secret, or an undiscovered crime.
“Why?”
“For the dead know, and are content. There is no shaking off any sins,
then--for that man.”
“It is a lie.”
“Maybe ay and maybe no.”
“Well, have you more to be saying to me? I am obliged to you for your
company, but it is not needing it I am, though no offence.”
“Och, man, there’s no offence between you and me. Sure, there’s Iona
in me, too; for the father of my father married a woman that was the
granddaughter of Tomais Macdonald, who was a fisherman there. No, no; it
is rather warning you I would be.”
“And for what?”
“Well, well, just because of that laugh I heard about.”
“What laugh?”
“The laugh of Adam Blair that is dead.”
Neil Ross stared, his eyes large and wild. He leaned a little forward. No
word came from him. The look that was on his face was the question.
“Yes: it was this way. Sure, the telling of it is just as I heard it.
After you ate the sins of Adam Blair, the people there brought out the
coffin. When they were putting him into it, he was as stiff as a sheep
dead in the snow--and just like that, too, with his eyes wide open. Well,
someone saw you trampling the heather down the slope that is in front
of the house, and said, ‘It is the Sin-Eater!’ With that, Andrew Blair
sneered, and said--‘Ay, ’tis the scapegoat he is!’ Then, after a while,
he went on: ‘The Sin-Eater they call him: ay, just so: and a bitter good
bargain it is, too, if all’s true that’s thought true!’ And with that he
laughed, and then his wife that was behind him laughed, and then …”
“Well, what then?”
“Well, ’tis Himself that hears and knows if it is true! But this is the
thing I was told:--After that laughing there was a stillness and a dread.
For all there saw that the corpse had turned its head and was looking
after you as you went down the heather. Then, Neil Ross, if that be your
true name, Adam Blair that was dead put up his white face against the
sky, and laughed.”
At this, Ross sprang to his feet with a gasping sob.
“It is a lie, that thing!” he cried, shaking his fist at the shepherd.
“It is a lie!”
“It is no lie. And by the same token, Andrew Blair shrank back white
and shaking, and his woman had the swoon upon her, and who knows but
the corpse might have come to life again had it not been for Maisie
Macdonald, the deid-watcher, who clapped a handful of salt on his eyes,
and tilted the coffin so that the bottom of it slid forward, and so let
the whole fall flat on the ground, with Adam Blair in it sideways, and as
likely as not cursing and groaning, as his wont was, for the hurt both to
his old bones and his old ancient dignity.”
Ross glared at the man as though the madness was upon him. Fear and
horror and fierce rage swung him now this way and now that.
“What will the name of you be, shepherd?” he stuttered huskily.
“It is Eachainn Gilleasbuig I am to ourselves; and the English of that
for those who have no Gaelic is Hector Gillespie; and I am Eachainn mac
Ian mac Alasdair of Strathsheean that is where Sutherland lies against
Ross.”
“Then take this thing--and that is, the curse of the Sin-Eater! And a
bitter bad thing may it be upon you and yours.”
And with that Neil the Sin-Eater flung his hand up into the air, and then
leaped past the shepherd, and a minute later was running through the
frightened sheep, with his head low, and a white foam on his lips, and
his eyes red with blood as a seal’s that has the death-wound on it.
* * * * *
On the third day of the seventh month from that day, Aulay Macneill,
coming into Balliemore of Iona from the west side of the island, said to
old Ronald MacCormick, that was the father of his wife, that he had seen
Neil Ross again, and that he was “absent”--for though he had spoken to
him, Neil would not answer, but only gloomed at him from the wet weedy
rock where he sat.
The going back of the man had loosed every tongue that was in Iona.
When, too, it was known that he was wrought in some terrible way, if not
actually mad, the islanders whispered that it was because of the sins of
Adam Blair. Seldom or never now did they speak of him by his name, but
simply as “The Sin-Eater.” The thing was not so rare as to cause this
strangeness, nor did many (and perhaps none did) think that the sins of
the dead ever might or could abide with the living who had merely done a
good Christian charitable thing. But there was a reason.
Not long after Neil Ross had come again to Iona, and had settled down
in the ruined roofless house on the croft of Ballyrona, just like a fox
or a wild-cat, as the saying was, he was given fishing-work to do by
Aulay Macneill, who lived at Ard-an-teine, at the rocky north end of the
_machar_ or plain that is on the west Atlantic coast of the island.
One moonlit night, either the seventh or the ninth after the earthing of
Adam Blair at his own place in the Ross, Aulay Macneill saw Neil Ross
steal out of the shadow of Ballyrona and make for the sea. Macneill was
there by the rocks, mending a lobster-creel. He had gone there because of
the sadness. Well, when he saw the Sin-Eater, he watched.
Neil crept from rock to rock till he reached the last fang that churns
the sea into yeast when the tide sucks the land just opposite.
Then he called out something that Aulay Macneill could not catch. With
that he springs up, and throws his arms above him.
“Then,” says Aulay when he tells the tale, “it was like a ghost he was.
The moonshine was on his face like the curl o’ a wave. White! there is no
whiteness like that of the human face. It was whiter than the foam about
the skerry it was; whiter than the moon shining; whiter than … well, as
white as the painted letters on the black boards of the fishing-cobles.
There he stood, for all that the sea was about him, the slip-slop waves
leapin’ wild, and the tide making, too, at that. He was shaking like
a sail two points off the wind. It was then that, all of a sudden, he
called in a womany, screamin’ voice--
“‘I am throwing the sins of Adam Blair into the midst of ye, white dogs
o’ the sea! Drown them, tear them, drag them away out into the black
deeps! Ay, ay, ay, ye dancin’ wild waves, this is the third time I am
doing it, and now there is none left; no, not a sin, not a sin!
“‘O-hi, O-ri, dark tide o’ the sea,
I am giving the sins of a dead man to thee!
By the Stones, by the Wind, by the Fire, by the Tree,
From the dead man’s sins set me free, set me free!
Adam mhic Anndra mhic Adam and me,
Set us free! Set us free!’
“Ay, sure, the Sin-Eater sang that over and over; and after the third
singing he swung his arms and screamed--
“‘And listen to me, black waters an’ running tide,
That rune is the good rune told me by Maisie the wise,
And I am Neil the son of Silis Macallum
By the black-hearted evil man Murtagh Ross,
That was the friend of Adam mac Anndra, God against him!’
“And with that he scrambled and fell into the sea. But, as I am Aulay mac
Luais and no other, he was up in a moment, an’ swimmin’ like a seal, and
then over the rocks again, an’ away back to that lonely roofless place
once more, laughing wild at times, an’ muttering an’ whispering.”
It was this tale of Aulay Macneill’s that stood between Neil Ross and the
isle-folk. There was something behind all that, they whispered one to
another.
So it was always the Sin-Eater he was called at last. None sought him.
The few children who came upon him now and again fled at his approach, or
at the very sight of him. Only Aulay Macneill saw him at times, and had
word of him.
After a month had gone by, all knew that the Sin-Eater was wrought to
madness because of this awful thing: the burden of Adam Blair’s sins
would not go from him! Night and day he could hear them laughing low, it
was said.
But it was the quiet madness. He went to and fro like a shadow in the
grass, and almost as soundless as that, and as voiceless. More and more
the name of him grew as a terror. There were few folk on that wild west
coast of Iona, and these few avoided him when the word ran that he had
knowledge of strange things, and converse, too, with the secrets of the
sea.
One day Aulay Macneill, in his boat, but dumb with amaze and terror for
him, saw him at high tide swimming on a long rolling wave right into
the hollow of the Spouting Cave. In the memory of man, no one had done
this and escaped one of three things: a snatching away into oblivion, a
strangled death, or madness. The islanders know that there swims into the
cave, at full tide, a Mar-Tarbh, a dreadful creature of the sea that some
call a kelpie; only it is not a kelpie, which is like a woman, but rather
is a sea-bull, offspring of the cattle that are never seen. Ill indeed
for any sheep or goat, ay, or even dog or child, if any happens to be
leaning over the edge of the Spouting Cave when the Mar-tarbh roars: for,
of a surety, it will fall in and straightway be devoured.
With awe and trembling Aulay listened for the screaming of the doomed
man. It was full tide, and the sea-beast would be there.
The minutes passed, and no sign. Only the hollow booming of the sea, as
it moved like a baffled blind giant round the cavern-bases: only the rush
and spray of the water flung up the narrow shaft high into the windy air
above the cliff it penetrates.
At last he saw what looked like a mass of sea-weed swirled out on the
surge. It was the Sin-Eater. With a leap, Aulay was at his oars. The boat
swung through the sea. Just before Neil Ross was about to sink for the
second time, he caught him and dragged him into the boat.
But then, as ever after, nothing was to be got out of the Sin-Eater save
a single saying: _Tha e lamhan fuar: Tha e lamhan fuar!_--“It has a
cold, cold hand!”
The telling of this and other tales left none free upon the island to
look upon the “scapegoat” save as one accursed.
It was in the third month that a new phase of his madness came upon Neil
Ross.
The horror of the sea and the passion for the sea came over him at the
same happening. Oftentimes he would race along the shore, screaming wild
names to it, now hot with hate and loathing, now as the pleading of a man
with the woman of his love. And strange chants to it, too, were upon his
lips. Old, old lines of forgotten runes were overheard by Aulay Macneill,
and not Aulay only: lines wherein the ancient sea-name of the island,
_Ioua_, that was given to it long before it was called Iona, or any other
of the nine names that are said to belong to it, occurred again and again.
The flowing tide it was that wrought him thus. At the ebb he would wander
across the weedy slabs or among the rocks: silent, and more like a lost
duinshee than a man.
Then again after three months a change in his madness came. None knew
what it was, though Aulay said that the man moaned and moaned because of
the awful burden he bore. No drowning seas for the sins that could not be
washed away, no grave for the live sins that would be quick till the day
of the Judgment!
For weeks thereafter he disappeared. As to where he was, it is not for
the knowing.
Then at last came that third day of the seventh month when, as I have
said, Aulay Macneill told old Ronald MacCormick that he had seen the
Sin-Eater again.