IV

The conclusion of this tale belongs not to me, but to the shepherd of

the Redswirehead, and I heard it from him in his dwelling, as I stayed

the night, belated on the darkening moors. He told me it after supper

in a flood of misty Doric, and his voice grew rough at times, and he

poked viciously at the dying peat.

In the last back-end I was at Gledfoot wi' sheep, and a weary job I had

and little credit. Ye ken the place, a lang dreich shore wi' the wind

swirlin' and bitin' to the bane, and the broun Gled water choked wi'

Solloway sand. There was nae room in ony inn in the town, so I bude to

gang to a bit public on the Harbour Walk, where sailor-folk and

fishermen feucht and drank, and nae dacent men frae the hills thocht of

gangin'. I was in a gey ill way, for I had sell't my beasts dooms

cheap, and I thocht o' the lang miles hame in the wintry weather. So

after a bite o' meat I gangs out to get the air and clear my heid,

which was a' rammled wi' the auction-ring.

And whae did I find, sittin' on a bench at the door, but the auld man

Yeddie. He was waur changed than ever. His lang hair was hingin' over

his broo, and his face was thin and white as a ghaist's. His claes

fell loose about him, and he sat wi' his hand on his auld stick and his

chin on his hand, hearin' nocht and glowerin' afore him. He never saw

nor kenned me till I shook him by the shoulders, and cried him by his

name.

"Whae are ye?" says he, in a thin voice that gaed to my hert.

"Ye ken me fine, ye auld fule," says I. "I'm Jock Rorison o' the

Redswirehead, whaur ye've stoppit often."

"Redswirehead," he says, like a man in a dream. "Redswirehead! That's

at the tap o' the Clachlands Burn as ye gang ower to the Dreichil."

"And what are ye daein' here? It's no your countryside ava, and ye're

no fit noo for lang trampin'."

"No," says he, in the same weak voice and wi' nae fushion in him, "but

they winna hae me up yonder noo. I'm ower auld and useless. Yince

a'body was gled to see me, and wad keep me as lang's I wantit, and had

aye a gud word at meeting and pairting. Noo it's a' changed, and my

wark's dune."

I saw fine that the man was daft, but what answer could I gie to his

havers? Folk in the Callowa Glens are as kind as afore, but ill

weather and auld age had put queer notions intil his heid. Forbye, he

was seeck, seeck unto death, and I saw mair in his een than I likit to

think.

"Come in-by and get some meat, man," I said. "Ye're famishin' wi'

cauld and hunger."

"I canna eat," he says, and his voice never changed. "It's lang since

I had a bite, for I'm no hungry. But I'm awfu' thirsty. I cam here

yestreen, and I can get nae water to drink like the water in the hills.

I maun be settin' out back the morn, if the Lord spares me."

I mindit fine that the body wad tak nae drink like an honest man, but

maun aye draibble wi' burn water, and noo he had got the thing on the

brain. I never spak a word, for the maitter was bye ony mortal's aid.

For lang he sat quiet. Then he lifts his heid and looks awa ower the

grey sea. A licht for a moment cam intil his een.

"Whatna big water's yon?" he said, wi' his puir mind aye rinnin' on

waters.

"That's the Solloway," says I.

"The Solloway," says he; "it's a big water, and it wad be an ill job to

ford it."

"Nae man ever fordit it," I said.

"But I never yet cam to the water I couldna ford," says he. "But

what's that queer smell i' the air? Something snell and cauld and

unfreendly."

"That's the salt, for we're at the sea here, the mighty ocean.

He keepit repeatin' the word ower in his mouth. "The salt, the salt,

I've heard tell o' it afore, but I dinna like it. It's terrible cauld

and unhamely."

By this time an onding o' rain was coming up' frae the water, and I

bade the man come indoors to the fire. He followed me, as biddable as

a sheep, draggin' his legs like yin far gone in seeckness. I set him

by the fire, and put whisky at his elbow, but he wadna touch it.

"I've nae need o' it," said he. "I'm find and warm"; and he sits

staring at the fire, aye comin' ower again and again, "The Solloway,

the Solloway. It's a guid name and a muckle water."

But sune I gaed to my bed, being heavy wi' sleep, for I had traivelled

for twae days.

The next morn I was up at six and out to see the weather. It was a'

changed. The muckle tides lay lang and still as our ain Loch o' the

Lee, and far ayont I saw the big blue hills o' England shine bricht and

clear. I thankit Providence for the day, for it was better to tak the

lang miles back in sic a sun than in a blast o' rain.

But as I lookit I saw some folk comin' up frae the beach carryin'

something atween them. My hert gied a loup, and "some puir, drooned

sailor-body," says I to mysel', "whae has perished in yesterday's

storm." But as they cam nearer I got a glisk which made me run like

daft, and lang ere I was up on them I saw it was Yeddie.

He lay drippin' and white, wi' his puir auld hair lyin' back frae his

broo and the duds clingin' to his legs. But out o' the face there had

gane a' the seeckness and weariness. His een were stelled, as if he

had been lookin' forrit to something, and his lips were set like a man

on a lang errand. And mair, his stick was grippit sae firm in his hand

that nae man could loose it, so they e'en let it be.

Then they tell't me the tale o't, how at the earliest licht they had

seen him wanderin' alang the sands, juist as they were putting out

their boats to sea. They wondered and watched him, till of a sudden he

turned to the water and wadit in, keeping straucht on till he was oot

o' sicht. They rowed a' their pith to the place, but they were ower

late. Yince they saw his heid appear abune water, still wi' his face

to the other side; and then they got his body, for the tide was rinnin'

low in the mornin'. I tell't them a' I kenned o' him, and they were

sair affected. "Puir cratur," said yin, "he's shurely better now."

So we brocht him up to the house and laid him there till the folk i'

the town had heard o' the business. Syne the procurator-fiscal came

and certifeed the death and the rest was left tae me. I got a wooden

coffin made and put him in it, juist as he was, wi' his staff in his

hand and his auld duds about him. I mindit o' my sworn word, for I was

yin o' the four that had promised, and I ettled to dae his bidding. It

was saxteen mile to the hills, and yin and twenty to the lanely tap

whaur he had howkit his grave. But I never heedit it. I'm a strong

man, weel-used to the walkin' and my hert was sair for the auld body.

Now that he had gotten deliverance from his affliction, it was for me

to leave him in the place he wantit. Forbye, he wasna muckle heavier

than a bairn.

It was a long road, a sair road, but I did it, and by seven o'clock I

was at the edge o' the muirlands. There was a braw mune, and a the

glens and taps stood out as clear as midday. Bit by bit, for I was gey

tired, I warstled ower the rigs and up the cleuchs to the Gled-head;

syne up the stany Gled-cleuch to the lang grey hill which they ca' the

Hurlybackit. By ten I had come to the cairn, and black i' the mune I

saw the grave. So there I buried him, and though I'm no a releegious

man, I couldna help sayin' ower him the guid words o' the Psalmist--

"As streams of water in the South,

Our bondage, Lord, recall."

So if you go from the Gled to the Aller, and keep far over the north

side of the Muckle Muneraw, you will come in time to a stony ridge

which ends in a cairn. There you will see the whole hill country of

the south, a hundred lochs, a myriad streams, and a forest of

hill-tops. There on the very crest lies the old man, in the heart of

his own land, at the fountain-head of his many waters. If you listen

you will hear a hushed noise as of the swaying in trees or a ripple on

the sea. It is the sound of the rising of burns, which, innumerable

and unnumbered, flow thence to the silent glens for evermore.