The Moon Endureth: Tales and Fancies

by John Buchan

  II

  Two years passed, and April came with her suns and rains and again thewaters brimmed full in the valleys. Under the clear, shining sky thelambing went on, and the faint bleat of sheep brooded on the hills. Ina land of young heather and green upland meads, of faint odours ofmoor-burn, and hill-tops falling in clear ridges to the sky-line, theveriest St. Anthony would not abide indoors; so I flung all else to thewinds and went a-fishing.

  At the first pool on the Callowa, where the great flood sweeps noblyround a ragged shoulder of hill, and spreads into broad deeps beneath atangle of birches, I began my toils. The turf was still wet with dewand the young leaves gleamed in the glow of morning. Far up the streamrose the grim hills which hem the mosses and tarns of that tableland,whence flow the greater waters of the countryside. An ineffablefreshness, as of the morning alike of the day and the seasons, filledthe clear hill-air, and the remote peaks gave the needed touch ofintangible romance.

  But as I fished I came on a man sitting in a green dell, busy at themaking of brooms. I knew his face and dress, for who could forget sucheclectic raggedness?--and I remembered that day two years before whenhe first hobbled into my ken. Now, as I saw him there, I wascaptivated by the nameless mystery of his appearance. There wassomething startling to one accustomed to the lack-lustre gaze oftown-bred folk, in the sight of an eye as keen and wild as a hawk'sfrom sheer solitude and lonely travelling. He was so bent and scarredwith weather that he seemed as much a part of that woodland place asthe birks themselves, and the noise of his labours did not startle thebirds that hopped on the branches.

  Little by little I won his acquaintance--by a chance reminiscence, asingle tale, the mention of a friend. Then he made me free of hisknowledge, and my fishing fared well that day. He dragged me up littlestreams to sequestered pools, where I had astonishing success; and thenback to some great swirl in the Callowa where he had seen monstroustakes. And all the while he delighted me with his talk, of men andthings, of weather and place, pitched high in his thin, old voice, andgarnished with many tones of lingering sentiment. He spoke in a broad,slow Scots, with so quaint a lilt in his speech that one seemed to bein an elder time among people of a quieter life and a quainterkindliness.

  Then by chance I asked him of a burn of which I had heard, and how itmight be reached. I shall never forget the tone of his answer as hisface grew eager and he poured forth his knowledge.

  "Ye'll gang up the Knowe Burn, which comes down into the Cauldshaw.It's a wee tricklin' thing, trowin' in and out o' pools i' the rock,and comin' doun out o' the side o' Caerfraun. Yince a merrymaidenbided there, I've heard folks say, and used to win the sheep frae theCauldshaw herd, and bile them i' the muckle pool below the fa'. Theysay that there's a road to the ill Place there, and when the Deil likithe sent up the lowe and garred the water faem and fizzle like an auldkettle. But if ye're gaun to the Colm Burn ye maun haud atower the rigo' the hill frae the Knowe heid, and ye'll come to it wimplin' amonggreen brae faces. It's a bonny bit, rale lonesome, but awfu' bonny,and there's mony braw trout in its siller flow."

  Then I remembered all I had heard of the old man's craze, and Ihumoured him. "It's a fine countryside for burns," I said.

  "Ye may say that," said he gladly, "a weel-watered land. But a' thisbraw south country is the same. I've traivelled frae the YeaveringHill in the Cheviots to the Caldons in Galloway, and it's a' the same.When I was young, I've seen me gang north to the Hielands and doun tothe English lawlands, but now that I'm gettin' auld I maun bide i' theyae place. There's no a burn in the South I dinna ken, and I never camto the water I couldna ford."

  "No?" said I. "I've seen you at the ford o' Clachlands in the Lammasfloods."

  "Often I've been there," he went on, speaking like one calling up vaguememories. "Yince, when Tam Rorison was drooned, honest man. Yinceagain, when the brigs were ta'en awa', and the Black House o'Clachlands had nae bread for a week. But oh, Clachlands is a bit easywater. But I've seen the muckle Aller come roarin' sae high that itwashed awa' a sheepfold that stood weel up on the hill. And I've seenthis verra burn, this bonny clear Callowa, lyin' like a loch for milesi' the haugh. But I never heeds a spate, for if a man just kens theway o't it's a canny, hairmless thing. I couldna wish to dee betterthan just be happit i' the waters o' my ain countryside, when my legsfail and I'm ower auld for the trampin'."

  Something in that queer figure in the setting of the hills struck anote of curious pathos. And towards evening as we returned down theglen the note grew keener. A spring sunset of gold and crimson flamedin our backs and turned the clear pools to fire. Far off down the valethe plains and the sea gleamed half in shadow. Somehow in thefragrance and colour and the delectable crooning of the stream, thefantastic and the dim seemed tangible and present, and high sentimentrevelled for once in my prosaic heart.

  And still more in the breast of my companion. He stopped and sniffedthe evening air, as he looked far over hill and dale and then back tothe great hills above us. "Yen's Crappel, and Caerdon, and the LaighLaw," he said, lingering with relish over each name, "and the Gledcomes doun atween them. I haena been there for a twalmonth, and I maunhae anither glisk o't, for it's a braw place." And then some bitterthought seemed to seize him, and his mouth twitched. "I'm an auldman," he cried, "and I canna see ye a' again. There's burns and mairburns in the high hills that I'll never win to." Then he remembered mypresence, and stopped. "Ye maunna mind me," he said huskily, "but thesicht o' a' thae lang blue hills makes me daft, now that I've faun i'the vale o' years. Yince I was young and could get where I wantit, butnow I am auld and maun bide i' the same bit. And I'm aye thinkin' o'the waters I've been to, and the green heichs and howes and the linnsthat I canna win to again. I maun e'en be content wi' the Callowa,which is as guid as the best."

  And then I left him, wandering down by the streamside and telling hiscrazy meditations to himself.