The Reverend Murdoch Soulis was long minister of the moorland parish
of Balweary, in the vale of Dule. A severe, bleak-faced old man,
dreadful to his hearers, he dwelt in the last years of his life,
without relative or servant or any human company, in the small and
lonely manse under the Hanging Shaw. In spite of the iron composure
of his features, his eye was wild, scared, and uncertain; and when he
dwelt, in private admonitions, on the future of the impenitent, it
seemed as if his eye pierced through the storms of time to the
terrors of eternity. Many young persons, coming to prepare
themselves against the season of the Holy Communion, were dreadfully
affected by his talk. He had a sermon on 1st Peter, v. and 8th, "The
devil as a roaring lion," on the Sunday after every seventeenth of
August, and he was accustomed to surpass himself upon that text both
by the appalling nature of the matter and the terror of his bearing
in the pulpit. The children were frightened into fits, and the old
looked more than usually oracular, and were, all that day, full of
those hints that Hamlet deprecated. The manse itself, where it stood
by the water of Dule among some thick trees, with the Shaw
overhanging it on the one side, and on the other many cold, moorish
hilltops rising toward the sky, had begun, at a very early period of
Mr. Soulis's ministry, to be avoided in the dusk hours by all who
valued themselves upon their prudence; and guidmen sitting at the
clachan alehouse shook their heads together at the thought of passing
late by that uncanny neighborhood. There was one spot, to be more
particular, which was regarded with especial awe. The manse stood
between the high road and the water of Dule, with a gable to each;
its back was toward the kirktown of Balweary, nearly half a mile
away; in front of it, a bare garden, hedged with thorn, occupied the
land between the river and the road. The house was two stories high,
with two large rooms on each. It opened not directly on the garden,
but on a causewayed path, or passage, giving on the road on the one
hand, and closed on the other by the tall willows and elders that
bordered on the stream. And it was this strip of causeway that
enjoyed among the young parishioners of Balweary so infamous a
reputation. The minister walked there often after dark, sometimes
groaning aloud in the instancy of his unspoken prayers; and when he
was from home, and the manse door was locked, the more daring
schoolboys ventured, with beating hearts, to "follow my leader"
across that legendary spot.
This atmosphere of terror, surrounding, as it did, a man of God of
spotless character and orthodoxy, was a common cause of wonder and
subject of inquiry among the few strangers who were led by chance or
business into that unknown, outlying country. But many even of the
people of the parish were ignorant of the strange events which had
marked the first year of Mr. Soulis's ministrations; and among those
who were better informed, some were naturally reticent, and others
shy of that particular topic. Now and again, only, one of the older
folk would warm into courage over his third tumbler, and recount the
cause of the minister's strange looks and solitary life.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Fifty years syne, when Mr. Soulis cam' first into Ba'weary, he was
still a young man--a callant, the folk said--fu' o' book learnin' and
grand at the exposition, but, as was natural in sae young a man, wi'
nae leevin' experience in religion. The younger sort were greatly
taken wi' his gifts and his gab; but auld, concerned, serious men and
women were moved even to prayer for the young man, whom they took to
be a self-deceiver, and the parish that was like to be sae
ill-supplied. It was before the days o' the moderates--weary fa'
them; but ill things are like guid--they baith come bit by bit, a
pickle at a time; and there were folk even then that said the Lord
had left the college professors to their ain devices, an' the lads
that went to study wi' them wad hae done mair and better sittin' in a
peat-bog, like their forebears of the persecution, wi' a Bible under
their oxter and a speerit o' prayer in their heart. There was nae
doubt, onyway, but that Mr. Soulis had been ower lang at the college.
He was careful and troubled for mony things besides the ae thing
needful. He had a feck o' books wi' him--mair than had ever been
seen before in a' that presbytery; and a sair wark the carrier had
wi' them, for they were a' like to have smoored in the Deil's Hag
between this and Kilmackerlie. They were books o' divinity, to be
sure, or so they ca'd them; but the serious were o' opinion there was
little service for sae mony, when the hail o' God's Word would gang
in the neuk of a plaid. Then he wad sit half the day and half the
nicht forbye, which was scant decent--writin', nae less; and first,
they were feared he wad read his sermons; and syne it proved he was
writin' a book himsel', which way surely no fittin' for ane of his
years an' sma' experience.
Onyway it behooved him to get an auld, decent wife to keep the manse
for him an' see to his bit denners; and he was recommended to an auld
limmer--Janet M'Clour, they ca'd her--and sae far left to himsel' as
to be ower persuaded. There was mony advised him to the contrar, for
Janet was mair than suspeckit by the best folk in Ba'weary. Lang or
that, she had had a wean to a dragoon; she hadnae come forrit for
maybe thretty year; and bairns had seen her mumblin' to hersel' up on
Key's Loan in the gloamin', whilk was an unco time an' place for a
God-fearin' woman. Howsoever, it was the laird himsel' that had
first tauld the minister o' Janet; and in thae days he wad have gane
a far gate to pleesure the laird. When folk tauld him that Janet was
sib to the deil, it was a' superstition by his way of it; an' when
they cast up the Bible to him an' the witch of Endor, he wad threep
it doun their thrapples that thir days were a' gane by, and the deil
was mercifully restrained.
Weel, when it got about the clachan that Janet M'Clour was to be
servant at the manse, the folk were fair mad wi' her an' him
thegether; and some o' the guidwives had nae better to dae than get
round her door cheeks and chairge her wi' a' that was ken't again
her, frae the sodger's bairn to John Tamson's twa kye. She was nae
great speaker; folk usually let her gang her ain gate, an' she let
them gang theirs, wi' neither Fair-guid-een nor Fair-guid-day; but
when she buckled to she had a tongue to deave the miller. Up she
got, an' there wasnae an auld story in Ba'weary but she gart somebody
lowp for it that day; they couldnae say ae thing but she could say
twa to it; till, at the hinder end, the guidwives up and claught haud
of her, and clawed the coats aff her back, and pu'd her doun the
clachan to the water o' Dule, to see if she were a witch or no, soum
or droun. The carline skirled till ye could hear her at the Hangin'
Shaw, and she focht like ten; there was mony a guidwife bure the mark
of her neist day, an' mony a lang day after; and just in the hettest
o' the collteshangie, wha suld come up (for his sins) but the new
minister.
"Women," said he (and he had a grand voice), "I charge you in the
Lord's name to let her go."
Janet ran to him--she was fair wud wi' terror--an' clang to him an'
prayed him, for Christ's sake, save her frae the cummers; an' they,
for their pairt, tauld him a' that was ken't, and maybe mair.
"Woman," says he to Janet, "is this true?"
"As the Lord sees me," says she, "as the Lord made me, no a word o't.
Forbye the bairn," says she, "I've been a decent woman a' my days."
"Will you," says Mr. Soulis, "in the name of God, and before me, His
unworthy minister, renounce the devil and his works?"
Weel, it wad appear that when he askit that, she gave a girn that
fairly frichtit them that saw her, an' they could hear her teeth play
dirl thegether in her chafts; but there was naething for it but the
ae way or the ither; an' Janet lifted up her hand and renounced the
deil before them a'.
"And now," said Mr. Soulis to the guidwives, "home with ye, one and
all, and pray to God for His forgiveness."
And he gied Janet his arm, though she had little on her but a sark,
and took her up the clachan to her ain door like a leddy of the land;
an' her scrieghin' and laughin' as was a scandal to be heard.
There were mony grave folk lang ower their prayers that nicht; but
when the morn cam' there was sic a fear fell upon a' Ba'weary that
the bairns hid theirsels, and even the men-folk stood and keekit frae
their doors. For there was Janet comin' doun the clachan--her or her
likeness, nane could tell--wi' her neck thrawn, and her heid on ae
side, like a body that has been hangit, and a girn on her face like
an unstreakit corp. By an' by they got used wi' it, and even speered
at her to ken what was wrang; but frae that day forth she couldnae
speak like a Christian woman, but slavered and played click wi' her
teeth like a pair o' shears; and frae that day forth the name o' God
cam' never on her lips. Whiles she wad try to say it, but it
michtnae be. Them that kenned best said least; but they never gied
that Thing the name o' Janet M'Clour; for the auld Janet, by their
way o't, was in muckle hell that day. But the minister was neither
to haud nor to bind; he preached about naething but the folk's
cruelty that had gi'en her a stroke of the palsy; he skelpt the
bairns that meddled her; and he had her up to the manse that same
nicht and dwalled there a' his lane wi' her under the Hangin' Shaw.
Weel, time gaed by: and the idler sort commenced to think mair
lichtly o' that black business. The minister was weel thocht o'; he
was aye late at the writing, folk wad see his can'le doun by the Dule
water after twal' at e'en; and he seemed pleased wi' himsel' and
upsitten as at first, though a' body could see that he was dwining.
As for Janet she cam' an' she gaed; if she didnae speak muckle afore,
it was reason she should speak less then; she meddled naebody; but
she was an eldritch thing to see, an' nane wad hae mistrysted wi' her
for Ba'weary glebe.
About the end o' July there cam' a spell o' weather, the like o't
never was in that countryside; it was lown an' het an' heartless; the
herds couldnae win up the Black Hill, the bairns were ower weariet to
play; an' yet it was gousty too, wi' claps o' het wund that rumm'led
in the glens, and bits o' shouers that sleekened naething. We aye
thocht it but to thun'er on the morn; but the morn cam', and the
morn's morning, and it was aye the same uncanny weather, sair on
folks and bestial. Of a' that were the waur, nane suffered like Mr.
Soulis; he could neither sleep nor eat, he tauld his elders; an' when
he wasnae writin' at his weary book, he wad be stravaguin' ower a'
the countryside like a man possessed, when a' body else was blythe to
keep caller ben the house.
Abune Hangin' Shaw, in the bield o' the Black Hill, there's a bit
inclosed grund wi' an iron yett; and it seems, in the auld days, that
was the kirkyaird o' Ba'weary, and consecrated by the Papists before
the blessed licht shone upon the kingdom. It was a great howff o'
Mr. Soulis's, onyway; there he would sit an' consider his sermons;
and indeed it's a bieldy bit. Weel, as he cam' ower the wast end o'
the Black Hill, ae day, he saw first twa, an' syne fower, an' syne
seeven corbie craws fleein' round an' round abune the auld kirkyaird.
They flew laigh and heavy, an' squawked to ither as they gaed; and it
was clear to Mr. Soulis that something had put them frae their
ordinar. He wasnae easy fleyed, an' gaed straucht up to the wa's;
an' what suld he find there but a man, or the appearance of a man,
sittin' in the inside upon a grave. He was of a great stature, an'
black as hell, and his e'en were singular to see. Mr. Soulis had
heard tell o' black men, mony's the time; but there was something
unco about this black man that daunted him. Het as he was, he took a
kind o' cauld grue in the marrow o' his banes; but up he spak for a'
that; an' says he: "My friend, are you a stranger in this place?"
The black man answered never a word; he got upon his feet, an' begude
to hirsle to the wa' on the far side; but he aye lookit at the
minister; an' the minister stood an' lookit back; till a' in a
meenute the black man was ower the wa' an' rinnin' for the bield o'
the trees. Mr. Soulis, he hardly kenned why, ran after him; but he
was sair forjaskit wi' his walk an' the het, unhalesome weather; and
rin as he likit, he got nae mair than a glisk o' the black man amang
the birks, till he won doun to the foot o' the hillside, an' there he
saw him ance mair, gaun, hap, step, an' lowp, ower Dule water to the
manse.
Mr. Soulis wasnae weel pleased that this fearsome gangrel suld mak'
sae free wi' Ba'weary manse; an' he ran the harder, an', wet shoon,
ower the burn, an' up the walk; but the deil a black man was there to
see. He stepped out upon the road, but there was naebody there; he
gaed a' ower the gairden, but na, nae black man. At the hinder end,
and a bit feared as was but natural, he lifted the hasp and into the
manse; and there was Janet M'Clour before his een, wi' her thrawn
craig, and nane sae pleased to see him. And he aye minded sinsyne,
when first he set his een upon her, he had the same cauld and deidly
grue.
"Janet," says he, "have you seen a black man?"
"A black man?" quo' she. "Save us a'! Ye're no wise, minister.
There's nae black man in a' Ba'weary."
But she didnae speak plain, ye maun understand; but yam-yammered,
like a powney wi' the bit in its moo.
"Weel," says he, "Janet, if there was nae black man, I have spoken
with the Accuser of the Brethren."
And he sat down like ane wi' a fever, an' his teeth chittered in his
heid.
"Hoots," says she, "think shame to yoursel', minister;" an' gied him
a drap brandy that she keept aye by her.
Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a' his books. It's a lang,
laigh, mirk chalmer, perishin' cauld in winter, an' no very dry even
in the tap o' the simmer, for the manse stands near the burn. Sae
doun he sat, and thocht of a' that had come an' gane since he was in
Ba'weary, an' his hame, an' the days when he was a bairn an' ran
daffin' on the braes; and that black man aye ran in his heid like the
owercome of a sang. Aye the mair he thocht, the mair he thocht o'
the black man. He tried the prayer, an' the words wouldnae come to
him; an' he tried, they say, to write at his book, but he couldnae
mak' nae mair o' that. There was whiles he thocht the black man was
at his oxter, an' the swat stood upon him cauld as well-water; and
there was other whiles, when he cam' to himsel' like a christened
bairn and minded naething.
The upshot was that he gaed to the window an' stood glowrin' at Dule
water. The trees are unco thick, an' the water lies deep an' black
under the manse; an' there was Janet washin' the cla'es wi' her coats
kilted. She had her back to the minister, an' he, for his pairt,
hardly kenned what he was lookin' at. Syne she turned round, an'
shawed her face; Mr. Soulis had the same cauld grue as twice that day
afore, an' it was borne in upon him what folk said, that Janet was
deid lang syne, an' this was a bogle in her clay cauld flesh. He
drew back a pickle and he scanned her narrowly. She was
tramp-trampin' in the cla'es, croonin' to hersel'; and eh! Gude guide
us, but it was a fearsome face. Whiles she sang louder, but there
was nae man born o' woman that could tell the words o' her sang; an'
whiles she lookit side-lang doun, but there was naething there for
her to look at. There gaed a scunner through the flesh upon his
banes; and that was Heeven's advertisement. But Mr. Soulis just
blamed himsel', he said, to think sae ill of a puir, auld afflicted
wife that hadnae a freend forby himsel'; and he put up a bit prayer
for him and her, an' drank a little caller water--for his heart rose
again the meat--an' gaed up to his naked bed in the gloaming.
That was a nicht that has never been forgotten in Ba'weary, the nicht
o' the seeventeenth of August, seeventeen hun'er' and twal'. It had
been het afore, as I hae said, but that nicht it was hetter than
ever. The sun gaed doun amang unco-lookin' clouds; it fell as mirk
as the pit; no a star, no a breath o' wund; ye couldnae see your han'
afore your face, and even the auld folk cuist the covers frae their
beds and lay pechin' for their breath. Wi' a' that he had upon his
mind, it was gey and unlikely Mr. Soulis wad get muckle sleep. He
lay an' he tummled; the gude, caller bed that he got into brunt his
very banes; whiles he slept, and whiles he waukened; whiles he heard
the time o' nicht, and whiles a tyke yowlin' up the muir, as if
somebody was deid; whiles he thocht he heard bogles claverin' in his
lug, an' whiles he saw spunkies in the room. He behooved, he judged,
to be sick; an' sick he was--little he jaloosed the sickness.
At the hinder end, he got a clearness in his mind, sat up in his sark
on the bedside, and fell thinkin' ance mair o' the black man an'
Janet. He couldnae weel tell how--maybe it was the cauld to his
feet--but it cam' in upon him wi' a spate that there was some
connection between thir twa, an' that either or baith o' them were
bogles. And just at that moment, in Janet's room, which was neist to
his, there cam' a stramp o' feet as if men were wars'lin', an' then a
loud bang; an' then a wund gaed reishling round the fower quarters of
the house; an' then a' was aince mair as seelent as the grave.
Mr. Soulis was feared for neither man nor deevil. He got his tinder
box, an' lighted a can'le, an' made three steps o't ower to Janet's
door. It was on the hasp, an' he pushed it open, an' keeked bauldly
in. It was a big room, as big as the minister's ain, an' plenished
wi' grand, auld, solid gear, for he had naething else. There was a
fower-posted bed wi' auld tapestry; and a braw cabinet of aik, that
was fu' o' the minister's divinity books, an' put there to be out o'
the gate; an' a wheen duds o' Janet's lying here and there about the
floor. But nae Janet could Mr. Soulis see; nor ony sign of a
contention. In he gaed (an' there's few that wad ha'e followed him)
an' lookit a' round, an' listened. But there was naethin' to be
heard, neither inside the manse nor in a' Ba'weary parish, an'
naethin' to be seen but the muckle shadows turnin' round the can'le.
An' then a' at aince, the minister's heart played dunt an' stood
stock-still; an' a cauld wund blew amang the hairs o' his heid.
Whaten a weary sicht was that for the puir man's een! For there was
Janet hangin' frae a nail beside the auld aik cabinet: her heid aye
lay on her shoother, her een were steeked, the tongue projekit frae
her mouth, and her heels were twa feet clear abune the floor.
"God forgive us all!" thocht Mr. Soulis; "poor Janet's dead."
He cam' a step nearer to the corp; an' then his heart fair whammled
in his inside. For by what cantrip it wad ill-beseem a man to judge,
she was hingin' frae a single nail an' by a single wursted thread for
darnin' hose.
It's an awfu' thing to be your lane at nicht wi' siccan prodigies o'
darkness; but Mr. Soulis was strong in the Lord. He turned an' gaed
his ways oot o' that room, and lockit the door ahint him; and step by
step, doon the stairs, as heavy as leed; and set doon the can'le on
the table at the stairfoot. He couldnae pray, he couldnae think, he
was dreepin' wi' caul' swat, an' naething could he hear but the
dunt-dunt-duntin' o' his ain heart. He micht maybe have stood there
an hour, or maybe twa, he minded sae little; when a' o' a sudden he
heard a laigh, uncanny steer upstairs; a foot gaed to an' fro in the
cha'mer whaur the corp was hingin'; syne the door was opened, though
he minded weel that he had lockit it; an' syne there was a step upon
the landin', an' it seemed to him as if the corp was lookin' ower the
rail and doun upon him whaur he stood.
He took up the can'le again (for he couldnae want the licht) and, as
saftly as ever he could, gaed straucht out o' the manse an' to the
far end o' the causeway. It was aye pit-mirk; the flame o' the
can'le, when he set it on the grund, brunt steedy and clear as in a
room; naething moved, but the Dule water seepin' and sabbin' doon the
glen, an' yon unhaly footstep that cam' ploddin' doun the stairs
inside the manse. He kenned the foot ower weel, for it was Janet's;
and at ilka step that cam' a wee thing nearer, the cauld got deeper
in his vitals. He commended his soul to Him that made an' keepit
him; "and O Lord," said he, "give me strength this night to war
against the powers of evil."
By this time the foot was comin' through the passage for the door; he
could hear a hand skirt alang the wa', as if the fearsome thing was
feelin' for its way. The saughs tossed an' maned thegether, a lang
sigh cam' ower the hills, the flame o' the can'le was blawn aboot;
an' there stood the corp of Thrawn Janet, wi' her grogram goun an'
her black mutch, wi' the heid aye upon the shouther, an' the girn
still upon the face o't--leevin', ye wad hae said--deid, as Mr.
Soulis weel kenned--upon the threshold o' the manse.
It's a strange thing that the saul of man should be that thirled into
his perishable body; but the minister saw that, an' his heart didnae
break.
She didnae stand there lang; she began to move again an' cam' slowly
toward Mr. Soulis whaur he stood under the saughs. A' the life o'
his body, a' the strength o' his speerit, were glowerin' frae his
een. It seemed she was gaun to speak, but wanted words, an' made a
sign wi' the left hand. There cam' a clap o' wund, like a cat's
fuff; oot gaed the can'le, the saughs skrieghed like folk; an' Mr.
Soulis kenned that, live or die, this was the end o't.
"Witch, beldame, devil!" he cried, "I charge you, by the power of
God, begone--if you be dead, to the grave--if you be damned, to hell."
An' at that moment the Lord's ain hand out o' the Heevens struck the
Horror whaur it stood; the auld, deid, desecrated corp o' the
witch-wife, sae lang keepit frae the grave and hirsled round by
deils, lowed up like a brunstane spunk and fell in ashes to the
grund; the thunder followed, peal on dirling peal, the rairing rain
upon the back o' that; and Mr. Soulis lowped through the garden
hedge, and ran, wi' skelloch upon skelloch, for the clachan.
That same mornin', John Christie saw the Black Man pass the Muckle
Cairn as it was chappin' six; before eicht, he gaed by the
change-house at Knockdow; an' no lang after, Sandy M'Lellan saw him
gaun linkin' doun the braes frae Kilmackerlie. There's little doubt
but it was him that dwalled sae lang in Janet's body; but he was awa'
at last; and sinsyne the deil has never fashed us in Ba'weary.
But it was a sair dispensation for the minister; lang, lang he lay
ravin' in his bed; and frae that hour to this, he was the man ye ken
the day.