by John Buchan
IV
The conclusion of this tale belongs not to me, but to the shepherd ofthe Redswirehead, and I heard it from him in his dwelling, as I stayedthe night, belated on the darkening moors. He told me it after supperin a flood of misty Doric, and his voice grew rough at times, and hepoked viciously at the dying peat.
In the last back-end I was at Gledfoot wi' sheep, and a weary job I hadand little credit. Ye ken the place, a lang dreich shore wi' the windswirlin' 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 togang to a bit public on the Harbour Walk, where sailor-folk andfishermen feucht and drank, and nae dacent men frae the hills thocht ofgangin'. I was in a gey ill way, for I had sell't my beasts doomscheap, and I thocht o' the lang miles hame in the wintry weather. Soafter 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 manYeddie. He was waur changed than ever. His lang hair was hingin' overhis broo, and his face was thin and white as a ghaist's. His claesfell loose about him, and he sat wi' his hand on his auld stick and hischin on his hand, hearin' nocht and glowerin' afore him. He never sawnor kenned me till I shook him by the shoulders, and cried him by hisname.
"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' theRedswirehead, whaur ye've stoppit often."
"Redswirehead," he says, like a man in a dream. "Redswirehead! That'sat 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'reno fit noo for lang trampin'."
"No," says he, in the same weak voice and wi' nae fushion in him, "butthey winna hae me up yonder noo. I'm ower auld and useless. Yincea'body was gled to see me, and wad keep me as lang's I wantit, and hadaye a gud word at meeting and pairting. Noo it's a' changed, and mywark's dune."
I saw fine that the man was daft, but what answer could I gie to hishavers? Folk in the Callowa Glens are as kind as afore, but illweather and auld age had put queer notions intil his heid. Forbye, hewas seeck, seeck unto death, and I saw mair in his een than I likit tothink.
"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 sinceI had a bite, for I'm no hungry. But I'm awfu' thirsty. I cam hereyestreen, 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, butmaun aye draibble wi' burn water, and noo he had got the thing on thebrain. 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 thegrey sea. A licht for a moment cam intil his een.
"Whatna big water's yon?" he said, wi' his puir mind aye rinnin' onwaters.
"That's the Solloway," says I.
"The Solloway," says he; "it's a big water, and it wad be an ill job toford it."
"Nae man ever fordit it," I said.
"But I never yet cam to the water I couldna ford," says he. "Butwhat's that queer smell i' the air? Something snell and cauld andunfreendly."
"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 cauldand unhamely."
By this time an onding o' rain was coming up' frae the water, and Ibade the man come indoors to the fire. He followed me, as biddable asa sheep, draggin' his legs like yin far gone in seeckness. I set himby 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 sitsstaring 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 traivelledfor 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' theLee, and far ayont I saw the big blue hills o' England shine bricht andclear. I thankit Providence for the day, for it was better to tak thelang 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, droonedsailor-body," says I to mysel', "whae has perished in yesterday'sstorm." But as they cam nearer I got a glisk which made me run likedaft, 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 hisbroo and the duds clingin' to his legs. But out o' the face there hadgane a' the seeckness and weariness. His een were stelled, as if hehad been lookin' forrit to something, and his lips were set like a manon a lang errand. And mair, his stick was grippit sae firm in his handthat 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 hadseen him wanderin' alang the sands, juist as they were putting outtheir boats to sea. They wondered and watched him, till of a sudden heturned to the water and wadit in, keeping straucht on till he was ooto' sicht. They rowed a' their pith to the place, but they were owerlate. Yince they saw his heid appear abune water, still wi' his faceto 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 weresair 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 cameand certifeed the death and the rest was left tae me. I got a woodencoffin made and put him in it, juist as he was, wi' his staff in hishand and his auld duds about him. I mindit o' my sworn word, for I wasyin o' the four that had promised, and I ettled to dae his bidding. Itwas saxteen mile to the hills, and yin and twenty to the lanely tapwhaur he had howkit his grave. But I never heedit it. I'm a strongman, 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 meto leave him in the place he wantit. Forbye, he wasna muckle heavierthan a bairn.
It was a long road, a sair road, but I did it, and by seven o'clock Iwas at the edge o' the muirlands. There was a braw mune, and a theglens and taps stood out as clear as midday. Bit by bit, for I was geytired, 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' theHurlybackit. By ten I had come to the cairn, and black i' the mune Isaw the grave. So there I buried him, and though I'm no a releegiousman, 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 northside of the Muckle Muneraw, you will come in time to a stony ridgewhich ends in a cairn. There you will see the whole hill country ofthe south, a hundred lochs, a myriad streams, and a forest ofhill-tops. There on the very crest lies the old man, in the heart ofhis own land, at the fountain-head of his many waters. If you listenyou will hear a hushed noise as of the swaying in trees or a ripple onthe sea. It is the sound of the rising of burns, which, innumerableand unnumbered, flow thence to the silent glens for evermore.
