There was once a piper, called Alaister Mackinnon, and he lived in the
town of Inverknickle; he played better than any other piper in all the
country side, and was deservedly esteemed by the gude wives, as he
always brought the earliest news of the events in the distant villages;
for though Alaister called Inverknickle his home, he rarely stayed there
long at a time, but wandered about, hearing and telling news, and
playing at all the merry-makings that were held within twenty miles. At
these he was always to be seen dressed in full Highland garb, with gay
streamers floating from his pipes, and his bonnet set jauntily on the
side of his head, surrounded by young and old, who listened with equal
delight to his tunes and his stories. Alaister's dancing was a thing of
which he was very proud, as none of the lads could compete with him in
it; he was, therefore, not so great a favourite with them as amongst the
women, but none dared say a word against him, as it invariably reached
his ears, and the next time he came to the village he was sure to have
some story about them which turned the laugh against themselves. One
day there was a wedding at a village some miles from Inverknickle, and
of course Alaister was there, marching at the head of the party as it
returned from the manse, dressed in his newest kilt and hose, and
playing the most appropriate tunes, while the young men shouted and
fired guns and pistols at irregular intervals to do honour to the
occasion; and every time they fired, the women screamed, and the men
laughed, and in short they were a very merry party. Then came the
feast, which was more remarkable for quantity than quality, and was held
in the house of the newly married pair; it was succeeded by dancing, the
bride and bridegroom joining most energetically, but never being allowed
to dance together.
Reels were the usual dances; but when the lasses were tired, and sat
down and fanned themselves with their handkerchiefs, the lads began to
dance the sword-dance. The lasses soon asked Alaister to dance; and
after a great deal of pressing, for he always feigned modesty on such
occasions, he danced, the men looking on anxious to catch him making a
false step, the women in silent admiration of his neat foot, silver
buckles, and new hose, which, from the beautiful shape of his leg, did
not require to be gartered.
None of the women saw that he twice touched the sword; but it was not
lost on the men, who looked at each other with pleased smiles, though no
one ventured to say anything, and Alaister's performance was finished
amidst loud applause.
Supper followed, which was much the same as the dinner, only there was
more toddy, and therefore more noise; and Duncan Cameron, emboldened by
the whisky, ventured to say that Alaister had not danced "clean" that
night; to which Alaister answered, with a look of pity, that "Duncan,
puir fellow, had never seen right since the night he had sic a fley wi'
the fairies on the moor, when they shot him into a peat-moss, and the
Will-of-the-Wisps ran so near him that they singed his nose, and it had
been red ever since." This had the effect of silencing Duncan, who had
fallen in as described when coming home tipsy from a wake, and had told
many wonderful stories of his ill-treatment by the "gude fouk," as he
called the fairies.
The conversation now turned on fairies, and all professed the deepest
admiration and respect for them. Alaister, however, rather laughed at
the idea of their doing anybody good or ill, and even hinted that he
doubted their existence. Then began a warm discussion; and by degrees
Alaister grew bolder, and expressed in plain terms his entire disbelief
in these gentle spirits, challenging them to meet him that night on his
way home, and let him play on the bagpipes heard by so many of his
companions in the gloamin' among the heather on the hill-side; at the
same time drinking glass after glass to his success in the exploit.
Soon after this the party broke up, and Alaister started for
Inverknickle, playing what he intended for "Wooed and married and a',"
but it was a bad version of it, and sounded dismal and unearthly as it
died away in the distance.
He crossed the moor in the bright moonlight, and at last reached the
birch wood, where the white stems shone like ghosts in their
winding-sheets, and the branches swung noiselessly in the night breeze,
and gave out their fresh sweet smell. Let it not be supposed that
Alaister actually observed all this, but it had an influence on his
mind, and made him feel eerie, it was so different from the noisy scene
he had left.
Just then he heard "Wooed and married and a'" played as well as he could
play it (this he only confessed silently to himself, he would on no
account have let any one else say so), but on a bagpipe of the softest
and moat silvery tone, and soon a band of bright little creatures came
from among the green grass and bracken, and stopped directly in his
path. All wore the full Highland dress, but the checks in the tartan
looked as if made of precious stones, for they sparkled and glittered in
the moonlight, till Alaister was almost dazzled by their brilliancy; the
red cherry tufts on their bonnets shone with a clear calm light, like
glowworms, but as he had never seen one of these, he mentally said "like
anything." The party was headed by a piper, playing on pipes, the bag
of which was a bluebell, the chaunter a hedgehog's bristle, and the
ribbons made of dragonflies' wings. He was followed by the king and
queen, who wore beautiful crowns, from which shot rays of variegated
light; then came the train of followers, and round the whole ran three
Will-of-the-Wisps. These were taller than the rest; from their hands,
feet, and eyes came bright flashes like lightning, but their bodies were
quite black and very slight.
When they halted in front of Alaister, the piper stopped playing, and
even the Will-of-the-Wisps did not run quite so fast; the king and queen
stepped forward, and asked who it was who dared to disturb their
midnight march through their own domain, but such a hubbub arose amongst
their followers that, without waiting for his answer, they turned to
inquire into the cause.
This was very soon explained: it was an outburst of rage against the
piper Alaister, with eager offers to bring forward proof of misconduct
against him. These were immediately accepted, and an old fairy-elf was
commanded to speak first.
There was now a dead silence, except when the night wind rustled amongst
the birch branches, and bent the waving bracken, or some night bird
uttered a wild cry. The old elf stepped forward, and then, by suddenly
twisting his legs and arms together, and sinking his head between them,
he changed into the cup, with the picture of the real king in the
bottom, which stood on the chimney-piece of the room where the wedding
feast had been held, and from this cup came a voice which repeated all
the scornful words of Alaister against the fairies. When he ceased he
resumed his former shape and retired; others were then called forward in
his place, and took the form of cups, bowls, toddy ladles, and glosses,
each repeating the same tale; but last of all appeared a lovely girl,
who changed into the little square looking-glass in a red frame, in
which Alaister had from time to time arranged his hair during that
evening; and there was his face reflected in it, and it was his own
voice which he now heard, and he saw his lips moving so distinctly, that
he put up his hand to feel if he were really speaking, but his lips were
still, and the loud ringing laugh of the glittering band made him feel
so angry, that he tried to move away, but he then found that he was
spell-bound, and must remain to be laughed at or ill-treated by his
little enemies. Now Alaister was a very sensible man, so when he found
that he must stay, he tried to look as if he liked to stay, and when he
heard the king command that he should have his wish, and might play on
their bagpipes that night, he smiled blandly, and took the little
instrument, which looked like a large spider as it lay in the palm of
his hand. In an instant it changed, and became as large as his own,
which was carried off by one of the Will-of-the-Wisps, to whom he tried
to say something civil, but before he could make up his mind what it was
to be, the sprite was glancing amongst the trees far away.
Thinking it might be the wisest plan to conciliate the gude fouk, he
played his best tunes, and never had they sounded so well, for the tones
of the fairy pipe were far softer and sweeter than his own, and the
fairies danced so lightly and nimbly, that he forgot it was against his
will he had been ordered to play, and was sorry when the king waved his
crystal sceptre, and, pointing to the moon, now fast sinking towards the
distant hills, commanded his followers to return home. And now, of
course, Alaister thought that he was to return home also, but no, he was
commanded to follow, and in spite of himself he was obliged to run
through the thick wood, down steep banks, and over rocks to the
river-side, where a fleet of egg-shells came towards them at the
fairies' call, and each jumping into one, they shoved off, laughing to
see how Alaister plunged into the cold water, and how the
Will-of-the-Wisps jostled against him in the deepest parts of the
stream.
Wet and weary, he at length reached the cave, which seemed to be the
home of the party, and where he found many already busily employed in
making preparations for a meal.
The cave was hung with the trailing moss, called tod's-tail, while
pieces of rock crystal, cairngorm, and amethyst reflected the light
given out by the Will-of-the-Wisps, who suspended themselves like
chandeliers from the stalactites which hung from the roof. The floor
was thickly strewn with stag-horn moss, which formed a soft and elastic
carpet. In the middle of the cave was a large mushroom, round which the
fairies were now busy spreading the cloth, woven of the finest gossamer,
and arranging the acorn-cups and dishes of delicate meats, which had
been prepared during their absence by those who remained at home.
When all was ready, numbers of green beetles ran forward to the table
and ranged themselves round it; on these the fairies sat as they
feasted.
Never was there a merrier party; they laughed and talked, and pledged
each other in bumpers of mountain dew, and sang sweetly while bunches of
white hare-bells, which hung from the roof, chimed in as accompaniment.
All this time Alaister had stood looking on, wondering what was to
happen to him, and not feeling quite at his ease, for he knew it was a
mark of displeasure when the gude fouk ate without offering anything to
the mortal who was present, and besides, the younger fairies every now
and then made faces at him. At length the feast was ended, and the king
called together the oldest of his followers, and retired to some
distance from the rest, where, for a time, they held eager consultation.
The king then advanced to Alaister and told him that as he had played
so well for them that night, they had determined not to change him into
a Will-of-the-Wisp, as was the fate of all who spoke ill of them, and
who afterwards fell into their power, but they would send him out into
the world again, under a ban which would follow him to the end of his
life, but which they would leave him to discover. While his sentence
was being pronounced, the Will-of-the-Wisps were much agitated, darting
about the roof, and giving out streams of pale cold light; the white
hare-bells rang mournfully, shaken by a creeping blast which circled
round and round; cold drops fell from the roof and trickled feebly down
the sides of the cave, while the voices of the elves' and fairies
sounded harsh and shrill.
A Will-of-the-Wisp was then commanded to be his guide to the birch wood,
and Alaister was again led through the river, up the rocks, and through
the woods he had passed on his way to the cave.
Arrived at the wood, his guide vanished, and he found himself alone on a
bright sunny morning, the dew-drops glistening on the grass, amongst
which he joyfully discovered his pipes; but at the same time he saw that
his clothes hung about him in tatters, and oh! how wet and tired he was
with his night's work! He could not, however, show himself at
Inverknickle in so disordered a state, so was obliged to remain in the
wood till the evening, when he thought it safer to go home, in case his
tormentors should again carry him off. When he reached his cottage, he
told his wife that he had lost his way in the dark, and had torn his
clothes on the brambles and bushes, amongst which he had got entangled;
but not a word did he say about the fairies, lest he should offend them,
and be carried off, and turned into a black Will-of-the-Wisp, and have
to dance about every night in the cold moonlight, which was not at all
Alaister's idea of real comfort.
Now Mrs Mackinnon had what is called "an ill tongue," and she did not
spare poor Alaister as she turned over his torn garments; but he was
well accustomed to her attacks, and had learnt that silence was his only
safety, so he took one child on his knee as he sat by the fire, and
rocked the cradle with his foot, in hopes of softening his wife's
temper. As the evening advanced, she became pretty tired of having all
the talk to herself, so sat down opposite him, and with a cross face,
and in a sharp voice, asked what made him sit there without speaking,--
could not he tell her any news after being sae long away from his gude
wife and the weans?
When this question was put, Alaister was always sure the scold was over,
however cross the voice was in which it was asked; so he began at once
to tell all the events of a harvest home at which he said he had been
the night before, but he was at once stopped by an angry "Hout!" from
his wife, and then followed a storm of abuse for telling her about
things which had happened three years before; then, pointing to the
fields of green oats that were to be seen all around, she asked him what
sort of harvest home there could be at that time of year. Alaister was
sorely puzzled, for certainly the corn was still green; but yet he felt
sure it was only yesterday he had been at the harvest feast, and if not
at that--where had he been? He could remember nothing of the wedding,
and stared at his wife, who at last began to be alarmed at his perfectly
stupid look, and said, "Is the man fey?" As soon as she said this, his
night's adventure returned to his mind, and looking on the ground, he
saw it alive with fairies, laughing and mocking him. Had it been
earlier in the day, he would have run out of the house, but it was
nearly dark, and the uncomfortable Will-of-the-Wisp came into his mind,
so he sank down again in his chair, and shut his eyes, fully determined
not to speak; but he could not keep this resolution. Again and again he
was impelled to begin stories, and as often was he told that these
things had happened years before. He then tried to play, but could
remember none but the very oldest tunes, such as had been out of date
for many years, and when, wearied in mind and body, he fell asleep, he
dreamed of fairies and discomforts all night long.
Next day he set out again on his wanderings, hoping that it was only in
his own house that the fairies would haunt him; but no--go where he
would they were by him, nor could he tell any story which was not at
least three years old. His former admirers, the women, now asked him,
jeeringly, for "three-year-old news;" when he was seen coming towards a
farm, he was treated almost as a beggar, and was sent to the back door,
where he got a piece of oat-cake and a drink of milk, but was never
asked into the house. Occasionally the servants asked him why he did
not carry a wallet like other "puir bodies;" but Alaister, though often
really in want, never would condescend to a wallet. By degrees he
became more and more impoverished; he was thin, and had a look of great
unhappiness. His hose hung over the heels of his worn shoes, from which
the silver buckles had long since disappeared; his second-best kilt was
very much the worse for wear, nor had he money to buy a new one; and as
to the one he had worn on the night from which his woes dated, it had
even beat the thrifty Mrs Mackinnon to get it into tolerable repair
again.
In all the country side it had become the common expression, when any
old story was told, "Hout! that's Piper's news;" and at last Alaister,
feeling that he was despised where he had been respected, and laughed at
by those at whom he had laughed, without even having a comfortable house
in which to hide himself, for Mrs Mackinnon's tongue was more abusive
than ever, determined to retire from the world.
Being in low spirits, of course he chose the most dismal spot he could
find; it was a bleak glen, down which the north wind howled in winter,
and in summer the sun hardly reached its depths; for the bare rocks were
high and near each other, so that it was always cold and damp. But this
suited Alaister's frame of mind. One chill day in autumn he crept into
a sort of hollow in the rock; there was a constant trickle, trickle,
trickle, down the sides of this hole, and the water soaked through
blackened patches of liver-wort and moss; the floor was damp and
slippery, and on it Alaister sat down to think how very uncomfortable he
was, and to abuse the fairies as the cause of all his misfortunes.
It grew colder and colder, and darker and darker, and Alaister began
half to repent of his determination to die in a cave, when a flash of
light shone into the hollow, and in an instant his old acquaintances,
the three Will-of-the-Wisps, were dancing round him in a more frenzied
way than ever; now they were up in the roof, now out in the open air,
now far back in the darkness where he thought there was only rock. But
the cave seemed to become larger every moment, and the water dried up as
the Will-of-the-Wisps darted along the sides, and then Alaister saw the
well-remembered tod's-tail moss hang where liver-wort had been before,
and stag's-horn moss again covered the dark floor. The air felt dry and
warm, and a comfortable sleepy peace crept over the heart of the
distressed piper; he began to think that, on the whole, it was more
enjoyable to be in the fairies' cave than in a hay-loft on a gusty
autumn night; and when the glittering band sparkled into their hall he
smiled, and offered to play to them again, and soon they were all
dancing merrily on the moss, for it was now too cold, even for fairies,
to spend the whole night in the woods.
Then came the feast, and this time Alaister was given on acorn cup full
of brightest mountain dew; and though he thought it a small allowance
for a full-grown man, still he knew that the little creatures had no
larger cups; and not to disappoint them or fail in his manners, he
nodded to the king, and with a "Here's your very gude health, sir,"
emptied his cup. Immediately he sunk back on the floor and slept, for
the dew that had been given him has, it is said, wonderful powers,
making mortals forget their homes and former lives, and desire only to
be with the fairies.
How long he slept no one can tell; he never more was seen: but on calm
summer nights his pipes can be heard droning under ground, or in the
sweet birch wood. From their being heard to this day it is supposed
that those who enter the service of the fairies become immortal; but no
one has ventured to watch the gambols of the "gude fouk," so as to
ascertain whether it is Alaister himself who still leads their march, or
whether another has succeeded him; indeed, the glen is more shunned than
ever, and the cave goes by the name of the Piper's Cave in all that
district, while the expression "Piper's news" is known over the whole
world.
Story 9--CHAPTER ONE.