{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_55865/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_55865","id":"gutenberg_55865","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/55865","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Mythology, Celtic -- Fiction","Scotland -- Social life and customs -- Fiction"],"text":"Re-issue of the Shorter\n                        Stories of Fiona Macleod\n                            rearranged, with\n                               additional\n                                 tales\n\n                       COPYRIGHTED IN THE UNITED\n                      STATES: ALL RIGHTS RESERVED\n\n\n\n\n                               Volume one\n                            Spiritual Tales\n\n\n                                   BY\n                             Fiona Macleod\n\n\n                      PATRICK GEDDES & COLLEAGUES\n                 THE OUTLOOK TOWER\u00b7CASTLEHILL\u00b7EDINBURGH\n\n\n                              _To LILAVAN_\n\n                  _... For I have seen\n  In lonely places, and in lonelier hours,\n  Beyond the involving veils of day and night\n  Circumfluent o\u2019er the shadowy drift of years,\n  My vision of the rainbow-aureoled face\n  Of her whom men name Beauty: proud, austere,\n  Inviolate, immortal, undismayed\n  By the swift-eddying dust of wandering Time\u2014\n  Dim vision of the flawless, perfect Face,\n  Divinely fugitive, that haunts the world\n  And lifts man\u2019s spiral thought to lovelier dreams._\n\n\n\n\n                            SPIRITUAL TALES\n\n\n\u201cI like to think that these spiritual chronicles might as well, in\nsubstance, have been told a thousand years ago or be written a thousand\nyears hence. That Fisher still haunts the invisible shadowy stream of\nhuman tears; those mystic Spinners still ply their triple shuttles, and\nthe fair Weaver of Hope now as of yore and for ever sends his rainbows\nadrift across the hearts and through the minds of men.... These tales,\nlet me add, are not legendary mysteries but legendary moralities. They\nare reflections from the mirror that is often obscured but is never\ndimmed. There is no mystery in them, or anywhere; except the eternal\nmystery of beauty.\u201d\n                         (From the Prologue to\n                                              _The Washer of the Ford_.)\n\n\n\n\n                                CONTENTS\n\n\n                                                                    PAGE\n  St Bride of the Isles                                               11\n  The Three Marvels of Iona                                           55\n  The Melancholy of Ulad                                              85\n  Ula and Urla                                                       101\n  The Dark Nameless One                                              115\n  The Smoothing of the Hand                                          129\n  The Anointed Man                                                   139\n  The Hills of Ruel                                                  151\n  The Fisher of Men                                                  159\n  The Last Supper                                                    179\n  The Awakening of Angus Ogue                                        197\n\n\n\n\n                                 _NOTE_\n\n\nThe tales in this volume which have not hitherto appeared are \u201cThe\nMelancholy of Ulad\u201d and \u201cThe Hills of Ruel.\u201d \u201cThe Awakening of Angus\nOgue\u201d is also for the first time printed in book form, though it\nappeared in the Winter number of _The Evergreen_. Of the re-issued\nstories \u201cThe Anointed Man\u201d is from _The Sin-Eater_, and the others are\nfrom _The Washer of the Ford_. As these tales have not been re-set, they\nare, except in the matter of pagination and re-arrangement, necessarily\nunaltered.\n\n\n\n\n                        _ST BRIDE OF THE ISLES_\n\n\n                                 _NOTE_\n\n_This legendary romance is based upon the ancient and still current\n(though often contradictory) legends concerning Brighid, or Bride,\ncommonly known as \u201cMuime Chriosd\u201d\u2014i.e. the Foster-Mother of Christ. From\nthe universal honour and reverence in which she was and is held\u2014second\nonly in this respect to the Virgin herself\u2014she is also called \u201cMary of\nthe Gael.\u201d Another name, frequent in the West, is\n\u201cBrighde-nam-Brat\u201d\u2014i.e. St Bride of the Mantle, a name explained in the\ncourse of my legendary story. Brighid the Christian saint should not,\nhowever, be confused with a much earlier and remoter Brighid, the\nancient Celtic Muse of Song._\n\n\n\n\n                         ST BRIDE OF THE ISLES\n\n\n                   SLOINNEADH BRIGHDE, MUIME CHRIOSD\n\n  Brighde nighean Dughaill Duinn,\n  \u2019Ic Aoidth, \u2019ic Arta, \u2019ic Cuinn.\n  Gach la is gach oidhche\n  Ni mi cuimhneachadh air sloinneadh Brighde.\n  Cha mharbhar mi,\n  Cha ghuinear mi,\n  Cha ghonar mi,\n  Cha mho dh\u2019 fhagas Criosd an dearmad mi;\n  Cha loisg teine gniomh Shatain mi;\n  \u2019S cha bhath uisge no saile mi;\n  \u2019S mi fo chomraig Naoimh Moire\n  \u2019S mo chaomh mhuime, Brighde.\n _The Genealogy of St Bridget or St Bride, Foster-Mother of Christ_\n\n  St Bridget, the daughter of D\u00f9ghall Donn,\n  Son of Hugh, son of Art, son of Conn.\n  Each day and each night\n  I will meditate on the genealogy of St Bridget.\n  [Whereby] I will not be killed,\n  I will not be wounded,\n  I will not be bewitched;\n  Neither will Christ forsake me;\n  Satan\u2019s fire will not burn me;\n  Neither water nor sea shall drown me;\n  For I am under the protection of the Virgin Mary,\n  And my gentle foster-mother, St Bridget.\n\n\n                                   I\n\nBefore ever St Colum came across the Moyle to the island of Iona, that\nwas then by strangers called Innis-nan-Dhruidhneach, the Isle of the\nDruids, and by the natives Ioua, there lived upon the south-east slope\nof Dun-I a poor herdsman named D\u00f9vach. Poor he was, for sure, though it\nwas not for this reason that he could not win back to Ireland, green\nBanba, as he called it: but because he was an exile thence, and might\nnever again smell the heather blowing over Sliabh-Gorm in what of old\nwas the realm of Aoimag.\n\nHe was a prince in his own land, though none on Iona save the Arch-Druid\nknew what his name was. The high priest, however, knew that D\u00f9vach was\nthe royal D\u00f9ghall, called D\u00f9ghall Donn, the son of Hugh the King, the\nson of Art, the son of Conn. In his youth he had been accused of having\ndone a wrong against a noble maiden of the blood. When her child was\nborn he was made to swear across her dead body that he would be true to\nthe daughter for whom she had given up her life, that he would rear her\nin a holy place, but away from Eir\u00e9, and that he would never set foot\nwithin that land again. This was a bitter thing for D\u00f9ghall Donn to do:\nthe more so as, before the King, and the priests, and the people, he\nswore by the Wind, and by the Moon, and by the Sun, that he was\nguiltless of the thing of which he was accused. There were many there\nwho believed him because of that sacred oath: others, too, forasmuch as\nthat Morna the Princess had herself sworn to the same effect. Moreover,\nthere was Aodh of the Golden Hair, a poet and seer, who avowed that\nMorna had given birth to an immortal, whose name would one day be as a\nmoon among the stars for glory. But the King would not be appeased,\nthough he spared the life of his youngest son. So it was that, by the\nadvice of Aodh of the Druids, D\u00f9ghall Donn went northwards through the\nrealm of Clanadon and so to the sea-loch that was then called Loc\nFeobal. There he took boat with some wayfarers bound for Alba. But in\nthe Moyle a tempest arose, and the frail galley was driven northward,\nand at sunrise was cast like a fish, spent and dead, upon the south end\nof Ioua, that is now Iona. Only two of the mariners survived: D\u00f9ghall\nDonn and the little child. This was at the place where, on a day of the\ndays in a year that was not yet come, St Colum landed in his coracle,\nand gave thanks on his bended knees.\n\nWhen, warmed by the sun, they rose, they found themselves in a waste\nplace. Ill was D\u00f9ghall in his mind because of the portents, and now to\nhis fear and amaze the child Bridget knelt on the stones, and, with\nclaspt hands, small and pink as the sea-shells round about her, sang a\nsong of words which were unknown to him. This was the more marvellous,\nas she was yet but an infant, and could say no word even of Erse, the\nonly tongue she had heard.\n\nAt this portent, he knew that Aodh had spoken seeingly. Truly this child\nwas not of human parentage. So he, too, kneeled, and, bowing before her,\nasked if she were of the race of the Tuatha de Danann, or of the older\ngods, and what her will was, that he might be her servant. Then it was\nthat the kneeling babe looked at him, and sang in a low sweet voice in\nErse:\n\n  I am but a little child,\n  D\u00f9ghall, son of Hugh, son of Art,\n  But my garment shall be laid\n  On the lord of the world,\n  Yea, surely it shall be that He\n  The King of the Elements Himself\n  Shall lean against my bosom,\n  And I will give him peace,\n  And peace will I give to all who ask\n  Because of this mighty Prince,\n  And because of his Mother that is the Daughter of Peace.\n\nAnd while D\u00f9ghall Donn was still marvelling at this thing, the\nArch-Druid of Iona approached, with his white-robed priests. A grave\nwelcome was given to the stranger. While the youngest of the servants of\nGod was entrusted with the child, the Arch-Druid took D\u00f9ghall aside and\nquestioned him. It was not till the third day that the old man gave his\ndecision. D\u00f9ghall Donn was to abide on Iona if he so willed: but the\nchild was to stay. His life would be spared, nor would he be a bondager\nof any kind, and a little land to till would be given him, and all that\nhe might need. But of his past he was to say no word. His name was to\nbecome as nought, and he was to be known simply as D\u00f9vach. The child,\ntoo, was to be named Bride, for that was the way the name Bridget was\ncalled in the Erse of the Isles.\n\nTo the question of D\u00f9ghall, that was thenceforth D\u00f9vach, as to why he\nlaid so great stress on the child that was a girl, and the reputed\noffspring of shame at that, Cathal the Arch-Druid replied thus: \u201cMy\nkinsman Aodh of the Golden Hair who sent you here, was wiser than Hugh\nthe King and all the Druids of Aoimag. Truly, this child is an Immortal.\nThere is an ancient prophecy concerning her: surely of her who is now\nhere, and no other. There shall be, it says, a spotless maid born of a\nvirgin of the ancient immemorial race in Innisfail. And when for the\nseventh time the sacred year has come, she will hold Eternity in her lap\nas a white flower. Her maiden breasts shall swell with milk for the\nPrince of the World. She shall give suck to the King of the Elements. So\nI say unto you, D\u00f9vach, go in peace. Take unto thyself a wife, and live\nupon the place I will give thee on the east side of Ioua. Treat Bride as\nthough she were thy spirit, but leave her much alone, and let her learn\nof the sun and the wind. In the fulness of time the prophecy shall be\nfulfilled.\u201d\n\nSo was it, from that day of the days. D\u00f9vach took a wife unto himself,\nwho weaned the little Bride, who grew in beauty and grace, so that all\nmen marvelled. Year by year for seven years the wife of D\u00f9vach bore him\na son, and these grew apace in strength, so that by the beginning of the\nthird year of the seventh cycle of Bride\u2019s life there were three\nstalwart youths to brother her, and three comely and strong lads, and\none young boy fair to see. Nor did anyone, not even Bride herself,\nsaving Cathal the Arch-Druid, know that D\u00f9vach the herdsman was D\u00f9ghall\nDonn, of a princely race in Innisfail.\n\nIn the end, too, D\u00f9vach came to think that he had dreamed, or at the\nleast that Cathal had not interpreted the prophecy aright. For though\nBride was of exceeding beauty, and of a strange piety that made the\nyoung Druids bow before her as though she were a b\u00e0ndia, yet the world\nwent on as before, and the days brought no change. Often, while she was\nstill a child, he had questioned her about the words she had said as a\nbabe, but she had no memory of them. Once, in her ninth year, he came\nupon her on the hillside of Dun-I singing these self-same words. Her\neyes dreamed far away. He bowed his head, and, praying to the Giver of\nLight, hurried to Cathal. The old man bade him speak no more to the\nchild concerning the mysteries.\n\nBride lived the hours of her days upon the slopes of Dun-I, herding the\nsheep, or in following the kye upon the green hillocks and grassy dunes\nof what then as now was called the Machar. The beauty of the world was\nher daily food. The spirit within her was like sunlight behind a white\nflower. The birdeens in the green bushes sang for joy when they saw her\nblue eyes. The tender prayers that were in her heart for all the beasts\nand birds, for helpless children, and tired women, and for all who were\nold, were often seen flying above her head in the form of white doves of\nsunshine.\n\nBut when the middle of the year came that was, though D\u00f9vach had\nforgotten it, the year of the prophecy, his eldest son, Conn, who was\nnow a man, murmured against the virginity of Bride, because of her\nbeauty and because a chieftain of the mainland was eager to wed her. \u201cI\nshall wed Bride or raid Ioua,\u201d was the message he had sent.\n\nSo one day, before the great fire of the summer-festival, Conn and his\nbrothers reproached Bride.\n\n\u201cIdle are these pure eyes, O Bride, not to be as lamps at thy\nmarriage-bed.\u201d\n\n\u201cTruly, it is not by the eyes that we live,\u201d replied the maiden gently,\nwhile to their fear and amazement she passed her hand before her face\nand let them see that the sockets were empty.\n\nTrembling with awe at this portent, D\u00f9vach intervened.\n\n\u201cBy the Sun I swear it, O Bride, that thou shalt marry whomsoever thou\nwilt and none other, and when thou willest, or not at all if such be thy\nwill.\u201d\n\nAnd when he had spoken, Bride smiled, and passed her hand before her\nface again, and all there were abashed because of the blue light as of\nmorning that was in her shining eyes.\n\n\n                                   II\n\nThe still weather had come, and all the isles lay in beauty. Far south,\nbeyond vision, ranged the coasts of Eir\u00e9: westward, leagues of quiet\nocean dreamed into unsailed wastes whose waves at last laved the shores\nof Tir-n\u00e1\u2019n-\u00d2g, the Land of Eternal Youth: northward, the spell-bound\nwaters sparkled in the sunlight, broken here and there by purple\nshadows, that were the isles of Staffa and Ulva, Lunga and the isles of\nthe columns, misty Coll, and Tiree that is the land beneath the wave;\nwith, pale blue in the heat-haze, the mountains of R\u00fbm called Haleval,\nHaskeval, and Oreval, and the sheer Scuir-na-Gillian and the peaks of\nthe Cuchullins in remote Skye.\n\nAll the sweet loveliness of a late spring remained, to give a freshness\nto the glory of summer. The birds had song to them still.\n\nIt was while the dew was yet wet on the grass that Bride came out of her\nfather\u2019s house, and went up the steep slope of Dun-I. The crying of the\newes and lambs at the pastures came plaintively against the dawn. The\nlowing of the kye arose from the sandy hollows by the shore, or from the\nmeadows on the lower slopes. Through the whole island went a rapid\ntrickling sound, most sweet to hear: the myriad voices of twittering\nbirds, from the dotterel in the sea-weed to the larks climbing the blue\nspirals of heaven.\n\nThis was the morning of her birth, and she was clad in white. About her\nwaist was a girdle of the sacred rowan, the feathery green leaves of it\nflickering dusky shadows upon her robe as she moved. The light upon her\nyellow hair was as when morning wakes, laughing low with joy amid the\ntall corn. As she went she sang, soft as the crooning of a dove. If any\nhad been there to hear he would have been abashed, for the words were\nnot in Erse, and the eyes of the beautiful girl were as those of one in\na vision.\n\nWhen, at last, a brief while before sunrise, she reached the summit of\nthe Scuir, that is so small a hill and yet seems so big in Iona where it\nis the sole peak, she found three young Druids there, ready to tend the\nsacred fire the moment the sun-rays should kindle it. Each was clad in a\nwhite robe, with fillets of oak leaves; and each had a golden armlet.\nThey made a quiet obeisance as she approached. One stepped forward, with\na flush in his face because of her beauty, that was as a sea-wave for\ngrace, and a flower for purity, and sunlight for joy, and moonlight for\npeace, and the wind for fragrance.\n\n\u201cThou mayst draw near if thou wilt, Bride, daughter of D\u00f9vach,\u201d he said,\nwith something of reverence as well as of grave courtesy in his voice:\n\u201cfor the holy Cathal hath said that the Breath of the Source of All is\nupon thee. It is not lawful for women to be here at this moment, but\nthou hast the law shining upon thy face and in thine eyes. Hast thou\ncome to pray?\u201d\n\nBut at that moment a low cry came from one of his companions. He turned,\nand rejoined his fellows. Then all three sank upon their knees, and with\noutstretched arms hailed the rising of God.\n\nAs the sun rose, a solemn chant swelled from their lips, ascending as\nincense through the silent air. The glory of the new day came\nsoundlessly. Peace was in the blue heaven, on the blue-green sea, on the\ngreen land. There was no wind, even where the currents of the deep moved\nin shadowy purple. The sea itself was silent, making no more than a\nsighing slumber-breath round the white sands of the isle, or a hushed\nwhisper where the tide lifted the long weed that clung to the rocks.\n\nIn what strange, mysterious way, Bride did not see; but as the three\nDruids held their hands before the sacred fire there was a faint\ncrackling, then three thin spirals of blue smoke rose, and soon dusky\nred and wan yellow tongues of flame moved to and fro. The sacrifice of\nGod was made. Out of the immeasurable heaven He had come, in His golden\nchariot. Now, in the wonder and mystery of His love, He was re-born upon\nthe world, re-born a little fugitive flame upon a low hill in a remote\nisle. Great must be His love that He could die thus daily in a thousand\nplaces: so great His love that He could give up His own body to daily\ndeath, and suffer the holy flame that was in the embers He illumined to\nbe lighted and revered and then scattered to the four quarters of the\nworld.\n\nBride could bear no longer the mystery of this great love. It moved her\nto an ecstasy. What tenderness of divine love that could thus redeem the\nworld daily: what long-suffering for all the evil and cruelty done\nhourly upon the weeping earth: what patience with the bitterness of the\nblind fates! The beauty of the worship of Be\u2019al was upon her as a golden\nglory. Her heart leaped to a song that could not be sung. The\ninexhaustible love and pity in her soul chanted a hymn that was heard of\nno Druid or mortal anywhere, but was known of the white spirits of Life.\n\nBowing her head, so that the glad tears fell warm as thunder-rain upon\nher hands, she rose and moved away.\n\nNot far from the summit of Dun-I is a hidden pool, to this day called\nthe Fountain of Youth. Hitherward she went, as was her wont when upon\nthe hill at the break of day, at noon, or at sundown. Close by the huge\nboulder, which hides it from above, she heard a pitiful bleating, and\nsoon the healing of her eyes was upon a lamb which had become fixed in a\ncrevice in the rock. On a crag above it stood a falcon, with savage\ncries, lusting for warm blood. With swift step Bride drew near. There\nwas no hurt to the lambkin as she lifted it in her arms. Soft and warm\nwas it there, as a young babe against the bosom that mothers it. Then\nwith quiet eyes she looked at the falcon, who hooded his cruel gaze.\n\n\u201cThere is no wrong in thee, Seobhag,\u201d she said gently; \u201cbut the law of\nblood shall not prevail for ever. Let there be peace this morn.\u201d\n\nAnd when she had spoken this word, the wild hawk of the hills flew down\nupon her shoulder, nor did the heart of the lambkin beat the quicker,\nwhile with drowsy eyes it nestled as against its dam. When she stood by\nthe pool she laid the little woolly creature among the fern. Already the\nbleating of it was sweet against the forlorn heart of a ewe. The falcon\nrose, circled above her head, and with swift flight sped through the\nblue air. For a time Bride watched its travelling shadow: when it was\nitself no more than a speck in the golden haze, she turned, and stooped\nabove the Fountain of Youth.\n\nBeyond it stood then, though for ages past there has been no sign of\neither, two quicken-trees. Now they were gold-green in the morning\nlight, and the brown-green berries that had not yet reddened were still\nsmall. Fair to see was the flickering of the long finger-shadows upon\nthe granite rocks and boulders.\n\nOften had Bride dreamed through their foliage; but now she stared in\namaze. She had put her lips to the water, and had started back because\nshe had seen, beyond her own image, that of a woman so beautiful that\nher soul was troubled within her, and had cried its inaudible cry,\nworshipping. When, trembling, she had glanced again, there was none\nbeside herself. Yet what had happened? For, as she stared at the\nquicken-trees, she saw that their boughs had interlaced, and that they\nnow became a green arch. What was stranger still was that the\nrowan-clusters hung in blood-red masses, although the late heats were\nyet a long way off.\n\nBride rose, her body quivering because of the cool sweet draught of the\nFountain of Youth, so that almost she imagined the water was for her\nthat day what it could be once in each year to every person who came to\nit, a breath of new life and the strength and joy of youth. With slow\nsteps she advanced towards the arch of the quickens. Her heart beat as\nshe saw that the branches at the summit had formed themselves into the\nshape of a wreath or crown, and that the scarlet berries dropped\ntherefrom a steady rain of red drops as of blood. A sigh of joy breathed\nfrom her lips when, deep among the red and green, she saw the white\nmerle of which the ancient poets sang, and heard the exceeding wonder of\nits rapture, which was now the pain of joy and now the joy of pain.\n\nThe song of the mystic bird grew wilder and more sweet as she drew near.\nFor a brief while she hesitated. Then, as a white dove drifted slow\nbefore her under and through the quicken-boughs, a dove white as snow\nbut radiant with sunfire, she moved forward to follow, with a\ndream-smile upon her face and her eyes full of the sheen of wonder and\nmystery, as shadowy waters flooded with moonshine.\n\nAnd this was the passing of Bride, who was not seen again of D\u00f9vach or\nher foster-brothers for the space of a year and a day. Only Cathal, the\naged Arch-Druid, who died seven days thence, had a vision of her, and\nwept for joy.\n\n\n                                  III\n\nWhen the strain of the white merle ceased, though it had seemed to her\nscarce longer than the vanishing song of the swallow on the wing, Bride\nsaw that the evening was come. Through the violet glooms of dusk she\nmoved soundlessly, save for the crispling of her feet among the hot\nsands. Far as she could see to right or left there were hollows and\nridges of sand; where, here and there, trees or shrubs grew out of the\nparched soil, they were strange to her. She had heard the Druids speak\nof the sunlands in a remote, nigh unreachable East, where there were\ntrees called palms, trees in a perpetual sunflood yet that perished not,\nalso tall dark cypresses, black-green as the holy yew. These were the\ntrees she now saw. Did she dream, she wondered? Far down in her mind was\nsome memory, some floating vision only, mayhap, of a small green isle\nfar among the northern seas. Voices, words, faces, familiar yet\nunfamiliar when she strove to bring them near, haunted her.\n\nThe heat brooded upon the land. The sigh of the parched earth was\n\u201cWater, water.\u201d\n\nAs she moved onward through the gloaming she descried white walls beyond\nher: white walls and square white buildings, looming ghostly through the\ndark, yet home-sweet as the bells of the cows on the sea-pastures,\nbecause of the yellow lights every here and there agleam.\n\nA tall figure moved towards her, clad in white, even as those figures\nwhich haunted her unremembering memory. When he drew near she gave a low\ncry of joy. The face of her father was sweet to her.\n\n\u201cWhere will be the pitcher, Brighid?\u201d he said, though the words were not\nthe words that were near her when she was alone. Nevertheless she knew\nthem, and the same manner of words was upon her lips.\n\n\u201cMy pitcher, father?\u201d\n\n\u201cAh, dreamer, when will you be taking heed! It is leaving your pitcher\nyou will be, and by the Well of the Camels, no doubt: though little\nmatter will that be, since there is now no water, and the drought is\nheavy upon the land. But ... Brighid....\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, my father?\u201d\n\n\u201cSure now, it is not safe for you to be on the desert at night. Wild\nbeasts come out of the darkness, and there are robbers and wild men who\nlurk in the shadow. Brighid ... Brighid ... is it dreaming you are\nstill?\u201d\n\n\u201cI was dreaming of a cool green isle in northern seas, where....\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere you have never been, foolish lass, and are never like to be.\nSure, if any wayfarer were to come upon us you would scarce be able to\ntell him that yonder village is Bethlehem, and that I am D\u00f9ghall Donn\nthe innkeeper, D\u00f9ghall, the son of Hugh, son of Art, son of Conn. Well,\nwell, I am growing old, and they say that the old see wonders. But I do\nnot wish to see this wonder, that my daughter Brighid forgets her own\ntown, and the good inn that is there, and the strong sweet ale that is\ncool against the thirst of the weary. Sure, if the day of my days is\nnear it is near. \u2018Green be the place of my rest,\u2019 I cry, even as Ois\u00ecn\nthe son of Fionn of the hero-line of Trenmor cried in his old age;\nthough if Ois\u00ecn and the Fi\u00e0nn were here not a green place would they\nfind now, for the land is burned dry as the heather after a hill-fire.\nBut now, Brighid, let us go back into Bethlehem, for I have that for the\nsaying which must be said at once.\u201d\n\nIn silence the twain walked through the gloaming that was already the\nmirk, till they came to the white gate, where the asses and camels\nbreathed wearily in the sultry darkness, with dry tongues moving round\nparched mouths. Thence they fared through narrow streets, where a few\nwhite-robed Hebrews and sons of the desert moved silently, or sat in\nniches. Finally, they came to a great yard, where more than a score of\ncamels lay huddled and growling in their sleep. Beyond this was the inn,\nwhich was known to all the patrons and friends of D\u00f9ghall Donn as the\n\u201cRest and Be Thankful,\u201d though formerly as the Rest of Clan-Ailpean, for\nwas he not himself through his mother MacAlpine of the Isles, as well as\nblood-kin to the great Cormac the Ard-Righ, to whom his father, Hugh,\nwas feudatory prince?\n\nAs D\u00f9ghall and Bride walked along the stone flags of a passage leading\nto the inner rooms, he stopped and drew her attention to the\nwater-tanks.\n\n\u201cLook you, my lass,\u201d he said sorrowfully, \u201cof these tanks and barrels\nnearly all are empty. Soon there will be no water whatever, which is an\nevil thing though I whisper it in peace, to the Stones be it said. Now,\nalready the folk who come here murmur. No man can drink ale all day\nlong, and those wayfarers who want to wash the dust of their journey\nfrom their feet and hands complain bitterly. And ... what is that you\nwill be saying? The kye? Ay, sure, there is the kye; but the poor beasts\nare o\u2019ercome with the heat, and there\u2019s not a Cailliach on the hills who\ncould win a drop more of milk from them than we squeeze out of their\nudders now, and that only with rune after rune till all the throats of\nthe milking lassies are as dry as the salt grass by the sea.\n\n\u201cWell, what I am saying is this: \u2019tis months now since any rain will be\nfalling, and every crock of water has been for the treasuring as though\nit had been the honey of Moy-Mell itself. The moon has been full twice\nsince we had the good water brought from the mountain-springs; and now\nthey are for drying up too. The seers say that the drought will last. If\nthat is a true word, and there be no rain till the winter comes, there\nwill be no inn in Bethlehem called \u2018The Rest and Be Thankful\u2019; for\nalready there is not enough good water to give peace even to your little\nthirst, my birdeen. As for the ale, it is poor drink now for man or\nmaid, and as for the camels and asses, poor beasts, they don\u2019t\nunderstand the drinking of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is true, father; but what is to be done?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s what I will be telling you, my lintie. Now, I have been told by\nan oganach out of Jerusalem, that lives in another place close by the\ngreat town, that there is a quenchless well of pure water, cold as the\nsea with a north wind in it, on a hill there called the Mount of Olives.\nNow, it is to that hill I will be going. I am for taking all the camels\nand all the horses, and all the asses, and will lade each with a burthen\nof water-skins, and come back home again with water enough to last us\ntill the drought breaks.\u201d\n\nThat was all that was said that night. But at the dawn the inn was busy,\nand all the folk in Bethlehem were up to see the going abroad of D\u00f9ghall\nDonn and Ronald McIan, his shepherd, and some Macleans and Maccallums\nthat were then in that place. It was a fair sight to see as they went\nforth through the white gate that is called the Gate of Nazareth. A\npiper walked first, playing the Gathering of the Swords: then came\nD\u00f9ghall Donn on a camel, and McIan on a horse, and the herdsmen on\nasses, and then there were the collies barking for joy.\n\nBefore he had gone, D\u00f9ghall took Bride out of the hearing of the others.\nThere was only a little stagnant water, he said; and as for the ale,\nthere was no more than a flagon left of what was good. This flagon and\nthe one jar of pure water he left with her. On no account was she to\ngive a drop to any wayfarer, no matter how urgent he might be; for he,\nD\u00f9ghall, could not say when he would get back, and he did not want to\nfind a dead daughter to greet him on his return, let alone there being\nno maid of the inn to attend to customers. Over and above that, he made\nher take an oath that she would give no one, no, not even a stranger,\naccommodation at the inn, during his absence.\n\nAfternoon and night came, and dawn and night again, and yet again. It\nwas on the afternoon of the third day, when even the crickets were dying\nof thirst, that Bride heard a clanging at the door of the inn.\n\nWhen she went to the door she saw a weary grey-haired man, dusty and\ntired. By his side was an ass with drooping head, and on the ass was a\nwoman, young, and of a beauty that was as the cool shadow of green\nleaves and the cold ripple of running waters. But beautiful as she was\nit was not this that made Bride start: no, nor the heavy womb that\nshowed the woman was with child. For she remembered her of a dream\u2014it\nwas a dream, sure\u2014when she had looked into a pool on a mountain-side,\nand seen, beyond her own image, just this fair and beautiful face, the\nmost beautiful that ever man saw since Nais, of the Sons of Usna, beheld\nDeirdr\u00ea in the forest\u2014ay, and lovelier far even than she, the peerless\namong women.\n\n\u201cGu\u2019m beannaicheadh Dia an tigh,\u201d said the grey-haired man in a weary\nvoice, \u201cthe blessing of God on this house.\u201d\n\n\u201cSoraidh leat,\u201d replied Bride gently, \u201cand upon you likewise.\u201d\n\n\u201cCan you give us food and drink, and, after that, good rest at this inn?\nSure it is grateful we will be. This is my wife Mary, upon whom is a\nmystery: and I am Joseph, a carpenter in Arimathea.\u201d\n\n\u201cWelcome, and to you, too, Mary: and peace. But there is neither food\nnor drink here, and my father has bidden me give shelter to none who\ncomes here against his return.\u201d\n\nThe carpenter sighed, but the fair woman on the ass turned her shadowy\neyes upon Bride, so that the maiden trembled with joy and fear.\n\n\u201cAnd is it forgetting me you will be, Brighid-Alona,\u201d she murmured, in\nthe good sweet Gaelic of the Isles; and the voice of her was like the\nrustle of leaves when a soft rain is falling in a wood.\n\n\u201cSure, I remember,\u201d Bride whispered, filled with deep awe. Then without\na word she turned, and beckoned them to follow: which, having left the\nass by the doorway, they did.\n\n\u201cHere is all the ale that I have,\u201d she said, as she gave the flagon to\nJoseph: \u201cand here, Mary, is all the water that there is. Little there\nis, but it is you that are welcome to it.\u201d\n\nThen, when they had quenched their thirst she brought out oatcakes and\nscones and brown bread, and would fain have added milk, but there was\nnone.\n\n\u201cGo to the byre, Brighid,\u201d said Mary, \u201cand the first of the kye shall\ngive milk.\u201d\n\nSo Bride went, but returned saying that the creature would not give milk\nwithout a sian or song, and that her throat was too dry to sing.\n\n\u201cSay this sian,\u201d said Mary:\n\n  Give up thy milk to her who calls\n  Across the low green hills of Heaven\n  And stream-cool meads of Paradise!\n\nAnd sure enough, when Bride did this, the milk came: and she soothed her\nthirst, and went back to her guests rejoicing. It was sorrow to her not\nto let them stay where they were, but she could not, because of her\noath.\n\nThe man Joseph was weary, and said he was too tired to seek far that\nnight, and asked if there was no empty byre or stable where he and Mary\ncould sleep till morning. At that, Bride was glad: for she knew there\nwas a clean cool stable close to the byre where her kye were: and\nthereto she led them, and returned with peace at her heart.\n\nWhen she was in the inn again, she was afraid once more: for lo, though\nMary and Joseph had drunken deep of the jar and the flagon, each was now\nfull as it had been. Of the food, too, none seemed to have been taken,\nthough she had herself seen them break the scones and the oatcakes.\n\nIt was dusk when her reverie was broken by the sound of the pipes. Soon\nthereafter D\u00f9ghall Donn and his following rode up to the inn, and all\nwere glad because of the cool water, and the grapes, and the green\nfruits of the earth, that they brought with them.\n\nWhile her father was eating and drinking, merry because of the ale that\nwas still in the flagon, Bride told him of the wayfarers. Even as she\nspoke, he made a sign of silence, because of a strange, unwonted sound\nthat he heard.\n\n\u201cWhat will that be meaning?\u201d he asked, in a low, hushed voice.\n\n\u201cSure it is the rain at last, father. That is a glad thing. The earth\nwill be green again. The beasts will not perish. Hark, I hear the noise\nof it coming down from the hills as well.\u201d But D\u00f9ghall sat brooding.\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d he said at last, \u201cis it not foretold that the Prince of the World\nis to be born in this land, during a heavy falling of rain, after a long\ndrought? And who is for knowing that Bethlehem is not the place, and\nthat this is not the night of the day of the days? Brighid, Brighid, the\nwoman Mary must be the mother of the Prince, who is to save all mankind\nout of evil and pain and death!\u201d\n\nAnd with that he rose and beckoned to her to follow. They took a\nlantern, and made their way through the drowsing camels and asses and\nhorses, and past the byres where the kye lowed gently, and so to the\nstable.\n\n\u201cSure that is a bright light they are having,\u201d D\u00f9ghall muttered\nuneasily; for, truly, it was as though the shed were a shell filled with\nthe fires of sunrise.\n\nLightly they pushed back the door. When they saw what they saw they fell\nupon their knees. Mary sat with her heavenly beauty upon her like\nsunshine on a dusk land: in her lap, a Babe, laughing sweet and low.\n\nNever had they seen a Child so fair. He was as though wrought of light.\n\n\u201cWho is it?\u201d murmured D\u00f9ghall Donn, of Joseph, who stood near, with rapt\neyes.\n\n\u201cIt is the Prince of Peace.\u201d\n\nAnd with that Mary smiled, and the Child slept.\n\n\u201cBrighid, my sister dear\u201d\u2014and, as she whispered this, Mary held the\nlittle one to Bride.\n\nThe fair girl took the Babe in her arms, and covered it with her mantle.\nTherefore it is that she is known to this day as Brighde-nam-Brat, St\nBride of the Mantle.\n\nAnd all through that night, while the mother slept, Bride nursed the\nChild with tender hands and croodling crooning songs. And this was one\nof the songs that she sang:\n\n  Ah, Baby Christ, so dear to me,\n    Sang Bridget Bride:\n  How sweet thou art,\n  My baby dear,\n  Heart of my heart!\n\n  Heavy her body was with thee,\n  Mary, beloved of One in Three,\n    Sang Bridget Bride\u2014\n  Mary, who bore thee, little lad:\n  But light her heart was, light and glad\n  With God\u2019s love clad.\n\n  Sit on my knee,\n    Sang Bridget Bride:\n  Sit here\n  O Baby dear,\n  Close to my heart, my heart:\n  For I thy foster-mother am,\n  My helpless lamb!\n  O have no fear,\n    Sang good St Bride.\n\n  None, none,\n  No fear have I:\n  So let me cling\n  Close to thy side\n  Whilst thou dost sing,\n  O Bridget Bride!\n\n  My Lord, my Prince I sing:\n  My baby dear, my King!\n    Sang Bridget Bride.\n\nIt was on this night that, far away in Iona, the Arch-Druid Cathal died.\nBut before the breath went from him he had his vision of joy, and his\nlast words were:\n\n  Brighde \u2019dol air a gl\u00f9n,\n  Righ nan d\u00f9l a shuidh \u2019na h-uchd!\n  (Bridget Bride upon her knee,\n  The King of the Elements asleep on her breast!)\n\nAt the coming of dawn Mary awoke, and took the Child. She kissed Bride\nupon the brows, and said this thing to her: \u201cBrighid, my sister dear,\nthou shalt be known unto all time as Muime Chriosd.\u201d\n\n\n                                   IV\n\nNo sooner had Mary spoken than Bride fell into a deep sleep. So profound\nwas this slumber that when D\u00f9ghall Donn came to see to the wayfarers,\nand to tell them that the milk and the porridge were ready for the\nbreaking of their fast, he could get no word of her at all. She lay in\nthe clean, yellow straw beneath the manger, where Mary had laid the\nChild. D\u00f9ghall stared in amaze. There was no sign of the mother, nor of\nthe Babe that was the Prince of Peace, nor of the douce, quiet man that\nwas Joseph the carpenter. As for Bride, she not only slept so sound that\nno word of his fell against her ears, but she gave him awe. For as he\nlooked at her he saw that she was surrounded by a glowing light.\nSomething in his heart shaped itself into a prayer, and he knelt beside\nher, sobbing low. When he rose, it was in peace. Mayhap an angel had\ncomforted his soul in its dark shadowy haunt of his body.\n\nIt was late when Bride awoke, though she did not open her eyes, but lay\ndreaming. For long she thought she was in Tir-Tairngire, the Land of\nPromise, or wandering on the honey-sweet plain of Magh-Mell; for the\nwind of dreamland brought exquisite odours to her, and in her ears was a\nmost marvellous sweet singing.\n\nAll round her there was a music of rejoicing. Voices, lovelier than any\nshe had ever heard, resounded; glad voices full of praise and joy. There\nwas a pleasant tumult of harps and trumpets, and as from across blue\nhills and over calm water came the sound of the bagpipes. She listened\nwith tears. Loud and glad were the pipes at times, full of triumph, as\nwhen the heroes of old marched with Cuculain or went down to battle with\nFionn: again, they were low and sweet, like humming of bees when the\nheather is heavy with the honey-ooze. The songs and wild music of the\nangels lulled her into peace: for a time no thought of the woman Mary\ncame to her, nor of the Child that was her foster-child.\n\nSuddenly it was in her mind as though the pipes played the chant that is\ncalled the \u201cAoibhneas a Shlighe,\u201d \u201cthe joy of his way,\u201d a march played\nbefore a bridegroom going to his bride.\n\nOut of this glad music came a solitary voice, like a child singing on\nthe hillside.\n\n\u201cThe way of wonder shall be thine, O Brighid-Naomha!\u201d\n\nThis was what the child-voice sang. Then it was as though all the\nharpers of the west were playing \u201cair cl\u00e0rsach\u201d: and the song of a\nmultitude of voices was this:\n\n\u201cBlessed art thou, O Brighid, who nursed the King of the Elements in thy\nbosom: blessed thou, the Virgin Sister of the Virgin Mother, for unto\nall time thou shalt be called Muime Chriosd, the Foster-Mother of Jesus\nthat is the Christ.\u201d\n\nWith that, Bride remembered all, and opened her eyes. Nought strange was\nthere to see, save that she lay in the stable. Then as she noted that\nthe gloaming had come, she wondered at the soft light that prevailed in\nthe shed, though no lamp or candle burned there. In her ears, too, still\nlingered a wild and beautiful music.\n\nIt was strange. Was it all a dream, she pondered. But even as she\nthought thus, she saw half of her mantle lying upon the straw in the\nmanger. Much she marvelled at this, but when she took the garment in her\nhand she wondered more. For though it was no more than a half of the\npoor mantle wherewith she had wrapped the Babe, it was all wrought with\nmystic gold lines and with precious stones more glorious than ever\nArch-Druid or Island Prince had seen. The marvel gave her awe at last,\nwhen, as she placed the garment upon her shoulder, it covered her\ncompletely.\n\nShe knew now that she had not dreamed, and that a miracle was done. So\nwith gladness she went out of the stable, and into the inn. D\u00f9ghall Donn\nwas amazed when he saw her, and then rejoiced exceedingly.\n\n\u201cWhy are you so merry, my father,\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cSure it is glad that I am. For now the folk will be laughing the wrong\nway. This very morning I was so pleased with the pleasure, that while\nthe pot was boiling on the peats I went out and told every one I met\nthat the Prince of Peace was come, and had just been born in the stable\nbehind the \u2018Rest and Be Thankful.\u2019 Well, that saying was just like a\nweasel among the rabbits, only it was an old toothless weasel: for all\nBethlehem mocked me, some with jeers, some with hard words, and some\nwith threats. Sure, I cursed them right and left. No, not for all my\ncursing\u2014and by the blood of my fathers, I spared no man among them,\nwishing them sword and fire, the black plague and the grey death\u2014would\nthey believe. So back it was that I came, and going through the inn I am\ncome to the stable. \u2018Sorrow is on me like a grey mist,\u2019 said Ois\u00ecn,\nmourning for Oscur, and sure it was a grey mist that was on me when not\na sign of man, woman, or child was to be seen, and you so sound asleep\nthat a March gale in the Moyle wouldn\u2019t have roused you. Well, I went\nback, and told this thing, and all the people in Bethlehem mocked at me.\nAnd the Elders of the People came at last, and put a fine upon me: and\ncondemned me to pay three barrels of good ale, and a sack of meal, and\nthree thin chains of gold, each three yards long: and this for causing a\nfalse rumour, and still more for making a laughing-stock of the good\nfolk of Bethlehem. There was a man called Murdoch-Dhu, who is the chief\nsmith in Nazareth, and it\u2019s him I\u2019m thinking will have laughed the\nElders into doing this hard thing.\u201d\n\nIt was then that Bride was aware of a marvel upon her, for she blew an\nincantation off the palm of her hand, and by that frith she knew where\nthe dues were to be found.\n\n\u201cBy what I see in the air that is blown off the palm of my hand, father,\nI bid you go into the cellar of the inn. There you will find three\nbarrels full of good ale, and beside them a sack of meal, and the sack\nis tied with three chains of gold, each three yards long.\u201d\n\nBut while D\u00f9ghall Donn went away rejoicing, and found that which Bride\nhad foretold, she passed out into the street. None saw her in the\ngloaming, or as she went towards the Gate of the East. When she passed\nby the Lazar-house she took her mantle off her back and laid it in the\nplace of offerings. All the jewels and fine gold passed into invisible\nbirds with healing wings: and these birds flew about the heads of the\nsick all night, so that at dawn every one arose, with no ill upon him,\nand went on his way rejoicing. As each went out of Bethlehem that\nmorning of the mornings he found a clean white robe and new sandals at\nthe first mile; and, at the second, food and cool water; and, at the\nthird, a gold piece and a staff.\n\nThe guard that was at the Eastern Gate did not hail Bride. All the gaze\nof him was upon a company of strange men, shepherd-kings, who said they\nhad come out of the East led by a star. They carried rare gifts with\nthem when they first came to Bethlehem: but no man knew whence they\ncame, what they wanted, or whither they went.\n\nFor a time Bride walked along the road that leads to Nazareth. There was\nfear in her gentle heart when she heard the howling of hyenas down in\nthe dark hollows, and she was glad when the moon came out and shone\nquietly upon her.\n\nIn the moonlight she saw that there were steps in the dew before her.\nShe could see the black print of feet in the silver sheen on the wet\ngrass, for it was on a grassy hill that she now walked, though a day ago\nevery leaf and sheath there had lain brown and withered. The footprints\nshe followed were those of a woman and of a child.\n\nAll night through she tracked those wandering feet in the dew. They were\nalways fresh before her, and led her away from the villages, and also\nwhere no wild beasts prowled through the gloom. There was no weariness\nupon her, though often she wondered when she should see the fair\nwondrous face she sought. Behind her also were footsteps in the dew,\nthough she knew nothing of them. They were those of the Following Love.\nAnd this was the Lorgadh-Brighde of which men speak to this day: the\nQuest of the holy St Bride.\n\nAll night she walked; now upon the high slopes of a hill. Never once did\nshe have a glimpse of any figure in the moonlight, though the steps in\nthe dew before her were newly made, and none lay in the glisten a short\nway ahead.\n\nSuddenly she stopped. There were no more footprints. Eagerly she looked\nbefore her. On a hill beyond the valley beneath her she saw the gleaming\nof yellow stars. These were the lights of a city. \u201cBehold, it is\nJerusalem,\u201d she murmured, awe-struck, for she had never seen the great\ntown.\n\nSweet was the breath of the wind that stirred among the olives on the\nmount where she stood. It had the smell of heather, and she could hear\nthe rustle of it among the bracken on a hill close by.\n\n\u201cTruly, this must be the Mount of Olives,\u201d she whispered, \u201cThe Mount of\nwhich I have heard my father speak, and that must be the hill called\nCalvary.\u201d\n\nBut even as she gazed marvelling, she sighed with new wonder; for now\nshe saw that the yellow stars were as the twinkling of the fires of the\nsun along the crest of a hill that is set in the east. There was a\nliving joy in the dawntide. In her ears was a sweet sound of the\nbleating of ewes and lambs. From the hollows in the shadows came the\nswift singing rush of the flowing tide. Faint cries of the herring gulls\nfilled the air; from the weedy boulders by the sea the skuas called\nwailingly.\n\nBewildered, she stood intent. If only she could see the footprints\nagain, she thought. Whither should she turn, whither go? At her feet was\na yellow flower. She stooped and plucked it.\n\n\u201cTell me, O little sun-flower, which way shall I be going?\u201d and as she\nspoke a small golden bee flew up from the heart of it, and up the hill\nto the left of her. So it is that from that day the dandelion is called\nam-B\u00e8arn\u00e0n-Bhrighde.\n\nStill she hesitated. Then a sea-bird flew by her with a loud whistling\ncry.\n\n\u201cTell me, O eisire\u00f9n,\u201d she called, \u201cwhich way shall I be going?\u201d\n\nAnd at this the eisire\u00f9n swerved in its flight, and followed the golden\nbee, crying, \u201cThis way, O Bride, Bride, Bride, Bride, Bri-i-i-ide!\u201d\n\nSo it is that from that day the oyster-catcher has been called the\nGille-Bhrighde, the Servant of St Bridget.\n\nThen it was that Bride said this sian:\n\n  Dia romham;\n  Moire am dheaghuidh;\n  \u2019S am Mac a thug Righ nan Dul!\n  Mis\u2019 air do shlios, a Dhia,\n  Is Dia ma\u2019m luirg.\n  Mac\u2019 \u2019oire, a\u2019s Righ nan Dul,\n  A shoillseachadh gach ni dheth so,\n  Le a ghras, mu\u2019m choinneamh.\n\n  God before me;\n  The Virgin Mary after me;\n  And the Son sent by the King of the Elements.\n  I am to windward of thee, O God!\n  And God on my footsteps.\n  May the Son of Mary, King of the Elements,\n  Reveal the meaning of each of these things\n  Before me, through His grace.\n\nAnd as she ended she saw before her two quicken-trees, of which the\nboughs were interwrought so that they made an arch. Deep in the green\nfoliage was a white merle that sang a wondrous sweet song. Above it the\nsmall branches were twisted into the shape of a wreath or crown, lovely\nwith the sunlit rowan-clusters, from whose scarlet berries red drops as\nof blood fell.\n\nBefore her flew a white dove, all aglow as with golden light. She\nfollowed, and passed beneath the quicken arch.\n\nSweet was the song of the merle, that was then no more; sweet the green\nshadow of the rowans, that now grew straight as young pines. Sweet the\nfar song in the sky, where the white dove flew against the sun.\n\nBride looked, and her eyes were glad. Bonnie the blooming of the heather\non the slopes of Dun-I. Iona lay green and gold, isled in her blue\nwaters. From the sheiling of D\u00f9vach, her father, rose a thin column of\npale blue smoke. The collies, seeing her, barked loudly with welcoming\njoy.\n\nThe bleating of the sheep, the lowing of the kye, the breath of the salt\nwind from the open sea beyond, the song of the flowing tide in the Sound\nbeneath: dear the homing.\n\nWith a strange light in her eyes she moved down through the heather and\namong the green bracken: white, wonderful, fair to see.\n\n\n\n\n                      _THE THREE MARVELS OF IONA_\n\n\n  _I. THE FESTIVAL OF THE BIRDS._\n  _II. THE SABBATH OF THE FISHES AND THE FLIES._\n  _III. THE MOON-CHILD._\n\n\n\n\n                       THE THREE MARVELS OF IONA\n\n\n                                   I\n                       THE FESTIVAL OF THE BIRDS\n\nBefore dawn, on the morning of the hundredth Sabbath after Colum the\nWhite had made glory to God in Hy, that was theretofore called Ioua and\nthereafter I-shona and is now Iona, the Saint beheld his own Sleep in a\nvision.\n\nMuch fasting and long pondering over the missals, with their golden and\nazure and sea-green initials and earth-brown branching letters, had made\nColum weary. He had brooded much of late upon the mystery of the living\nworld that was not man\u2019s world.\n\nOn the eve of that hundredth Sabbath, which was to be a holy festival in\nIona, he had talked long with an ancient greybeard out of a remote isle\nin the north, the wild Isle of the Mountains, where Scathach the Queen\nhanged the men of Lochlin by their yellow hair.\n\nThis man\u2019s name was Ardan, and he was of the ancient people. He had come\nto Hy because of two things. Maolm\u00f2r, the King of the northern Picts,\nhad sent him to learn of Colum what was this god-teaching he had brought\nout of Eir\u00e9: and for himself he had come, with his age upon him, to see\nwhat manner of man this Colum was, who had made Ioua, that was\n\u201cInnis-nan-Dhruidhneach\u201d\u2014the Isle of the Druids\u2014into a place of new\nworship.\n\nFor three hours Ardan and Colum had walked by the sea-shore. Each\nlearned of the other. Ardan bowed his head before the wisdom. Colum knew\nin his heart that the Druid saw mysteries.\n\nIn the first hour they talked of God. Colum spake, and Ardan smiled in\nhis shadowy eyes. \u201cIt is for the knowing,\u201d he said, when Colum ceased.\n\n\u201cAy, sure,\u201d said the Saint: \u201cand now, O Ardan the wise, is my God thy\nGod?\u201d\n\nBut at that Ardan smiled not. He turned the grave, sad eyes of him to\nthe west. With his right hand he pointed to the Sun that was like a\ngreat golden flower. \u201cTruly, He is thy God and my God.\u201d Colum was\nsilent. Then he said: \u201cThee and thine, O Ardan, from Maolm\u00f2r the Pictish\nking to the least of thy slaves, shall have a long weariness in Hell.\nThat fiery globe yonder is but the Lamp of the World: and sad is the\ncase of the man who knows not the torch from the torch-bearer.\u201d\n\nAnd in the second hour they talked of Man. Ardan spake, and Colum smiled\nin his deep, grey eyes.\n\n\u201cIt is for laughter that,\u201d he said, when Ardan ceased.\n\n\u201cAnd why will that be, O Colum of Eir\u00e9?\u201d said Ardan. Then the smile went\nout of Colum\u2019s grey eyes, and he turned and looked about him.\n\nHe beheld, near, a crow, a horse, and a hound.\n\n\u201cThese are thy brethren,\u201d he said scornfully.\n\nBut Ardan answered quietly, \u201cEven so.\u201d\n\nThe third hour they talked about the beasts of the earth and the fowls\nof the air.\n\nAt the last Ardan said: \u201cThe ancient wisdom hath it that these are the\nsouls of men and women that have been, or are to be.\u201d\n\nWhereat Colum answered: \u201cThe new wisdom, that is old as eternity,\ndeclareth that God created all things in love. Therefore are we at one,\nO Ardan, though we sail to the Isle of Truth from the West and the East.\nLet there be peace between us.\u201d\n\n\u201cPeace,\u201d said Ardan.\n\nThat eve, Ardan of the Picts sat with the monks of Iona. Colum blessed\nhim and said a saying. Oran of the Songs sang a hymn of beauty. Ardan\nrose, and put the wine of guests to his lips, and chanted this rune:\n\n  O Colum and monks of Christ,\n  It is peace we are having this night:\n  Sure, peace is a good thing,\n  And I am glad with the gladness.\n\n  We worship one God,\n  Though ye call him D\u00e8\u2014\n  And I say not, _O Dia_!\n  But cry _Bea\u2019uil_!\n\n  For it is one faith for man,\n  And one for the living world,\n  And no man is wiser than another\u2014\n  And none knoweth much.\n\n  None knoweth a better thing than this:\n  The Sword, Love, Song, Honour, Sleep.\n  None knoweth a surer thing than this:\n  Birth, Sorrow, Pain, Weariness, Death.\n\n  Sure, peace is a good thing;\n  Let us be glad of Peace:\n  We are not men of the Sword,\n  But of the Rune and the Wisdom.\n\n  I have learned a truth of Colum,\n  He hath learned of me:\n  All ye on the morrow shall see\n  A wonder of the wonders.\n\n  The thought is on you, that the Cross\n  Is known only of you:\n  Lo, I tell you the birds know it\n  That are marked with the Sorrow.\n\n  Listen to the Birds of Sorrow,\n  They shall tell you a great Joy:\n  It is Peace you will be having,\n  With the Birds.\n\nNo more would Ardan say after that, though all besought him.\n\nMany pondered long that night. Oran made a song of mystery. Colum\nbrooded through the dark; but before dawn he slept upon the fern that\nstrewed his cell. At dawn, with waking eyes, and weary, he saw his Sleep\nin a vision.\n\nIt stood grey and wan beside him.\n\n\u201cWhat art thou, O Spirit?\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cI am thy Sleep, Colum.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd is it peace?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is peace.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat wouldest thou?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have wisdom. Thy heart and thy brain were closed. I could not give\nyou what I brought. I brought wisdom.\u201d\n\n\u201cGive it.\u201d\n\n\u201cBehold!\u201d\n\nAnd Colum, sitting upon the strewed fern that was his bed, rubbed his\neyes that were heavy with weariness and fasting and long prayer. He\ncould not see his Sleep now. It was gone as smoke that is licked up by\nthe wind.\n\nBut on the ledge of the hole that was in the eastern wall of his cell he\nsaw a bird. He leaned his elbow upon the leabhar-aifrionn that was by\nhis side.[1] Then he spoke.\n\n\u201cIs there song upon thee, O Bru-dhearg?\u201d\n\nThen the Red-breast sang, and the singing was so sweet that tears came\ninto the eyes of Colum, and he thought the sunlight that was streaming\nfrom the east was melted into that lilting sweet song. It was a hymn\nthat the Bru-dhearg sang, and it was this:\n\n  Holy, Holy, Holy,\n    Christ upon the Cross:\n  My little nest was near,\n    Hidden in the moss.\n\n  Holy, Holy, Holy,\n    Christ was pale and wan:\n  His eyes beheld me singing\n    _Bron, Bron, mo Bron!_[2]\n\n  Holy, Holy, Holy,\n    \u201cCome near, O wee brown bird!\u201d\n  Christ spake: and lo, I lighted\n    Upon the Living Word.\n\n  Holy, Holy, Holy,\n    I heard the mocking scorn!\n  But _Holy_, _Holy_, _Holy_\n    I sang against a thorn!\n\n  Holy, Holy, Holy,\n    Ah, his brow was bloody:\n  Holy, Holy, Holy,\n    All my breast was ruddy.\n\n  Holy, Holy, Holy,\n    Christ\u2019s-Bird shalt thou be:\n  Thus said Mary Virgin\n    There on Calvary.\n\n  Holy, Holy, Holy,\n    A wee brown bird am I:\n  But my breast is ruddy\n    For I saw Christ die.\n\n  Holy, Holy, Holy,\n    By this ruddy feather,\n  Colum, call thy monks, and\n    All the birds together.\n\nAnd at that Colum rose. Awe was upon him, and joy.\n\nHe went out and told all to the monks. Then he said Mass out on the\ngreen sward. The yellow sunshine was warm upon his grey hair. The love\nof God was warm in his heart.\n\n\u201cCome, all ye birds!\u201d he cried.\n\nAnd lo, all the birds of the air flew nigh. The golden eagle soared from\nthe Cuchullins in far-off Skye, and the osprey from the wild lochs of\nMull; the gannet from above the clouds, and the fulmar and petrel from\nthe green wave: the cormorant and the skua from the weedy rock, and the\nplover and the kestrel from the machar: the corbie and the raven from\nthe moor, and the snipe and the bittern and the heron: the cuckoo and\ncushat from the woodland: the crane from the swamp, the lark from the\nsky, and the mavis and the merle from the green bushes: the yellowyite,\nthe shilfa, and the lintie, the gyalvonn and the wren and the redbreast,\none and all, every creature of the wings, they came at the bidding.\n\n\u201cPeace!\u201d cried Colum.\n\n\u201cPeace!\u201d cried all the Birds, and even the Eagle, the Kestrel, the\nCorbie, and the Raven cried _Peace_, _Peace_!\n\n\u201cI will say the Mass,\u201d said Colum the White.\n\nAnd with that he said the Mass. And he blessed the birds.\n\nWhen the last chant was sung, only the Bru-dhearg remained.\n\n\u201cCome, O Ruddy-Breast,\u201d said Colum, \u201cand sing to us of the Christ.\u201d\n\nThrough a golden hour thereafter the Red-breast sang. Sweet was the joy\nof it.\n\nAt the end Colum said, \u201cPeace! In the name of the Father, the Son, and\nthe Holy Ghost.\u201d\n\nThereat Ardan the Pict bowed his head, and in a loud voice repeated\u2014\n\n\u201c_S\u00ecth_ (shee)! _An ainm an Athar, \u2019s an mhic, \u2019s an Spioraid Naoimh!_\u201d\n\nAnd to this day the song of the Birds of Colum, as they are called in\nHy, is _S\u00ecth\u2014S\u00ecth\u2014S\u00ecth\u2014an\u2014ainm\u2014Chriosd_\u2014\u2014\n\n\u201cPeace\u2014Peace\u2014Peace\u2014in the name of Christ!\u201d\n\n\n                                   II\n                THE SABBATH OF THE FISHES AND THE FLIES\n\nFor three days Colum had fasted, save for a mouthful of meal at dawn, a\npiece of rye-bread at noon, and a mouthful of dulse and spring-water at\nsundown. On the night of the third day, Oran and Keir came to him in his\ncell. Colum was on his knees, lost in prayer. There was no sound there,\nsave the faint whispered muttering of his lips, and on the plastered\nwall the weary buzzing of a fly.\n\n\u201cMaster!\u201d said Oran in a low voice, soft with pity and awe, \u201cMaster!\u201d\n\nBut Colum took no notice. His lips still moved, and the tangled hairs\nbelow his nether lip shivered with his failing breath.\n\n\u201cFather!\u201d said Keir, tender as a woman, \u201cFather!\u201d\n\nColum did not turn his eyes from the wall. The fly droned his drowsy hum\nupon the rough plaster. It crawled wearily for a space, then stopped.\nThe slow hot drone filled the cell.\n\n\u201cMaster,\u201d said Oran, \u201cit is the will of the brethren that you break your\nfast. You are old, and God has your glory. Give us peace.\u201d\n\n\u201cFather,\u201d urged Keir, seeing that Colum kneeled unnoticingly, his lips\nstill moving above his black beard, with the white hair of him falling\nabout his head like a snowdrift slipping from a boulder. \u201cFather, be\npitiful! We hunger and thirst for your presence. We can fast no longer,\nyet have we no heart to break our fast if you are not with us. Come,\nholy one, and be of our company, and eat of the good broiled fish that\nawaiteth us. We perish for the benediction of thine eyes.\u201d\n\nThen it was that Colum rose, and walked slowly towards the wall.\n\n\u201cLittle black beast,\u201d he said to the fly that droned its drowsy hum and\nmoved not at all; \u201clittle black beast, sure it is well I am knowing what\nyou are. You are thinking you are going to get my blessing, you that\nhave come out of hell for the soul of me!\u201d\n\nAt that the fly flew heavily from the wall, and slowly circled round and\nround the head of Colum the White.\n\n\u201cWhat think you of that, brother Oran, brother Keir?\u201d he asked in a low\nvoice, hoarse because of his long fast and the weariness that was upon\nhim.\n\n\u201cIt is a fiend,\u201d said Oran.\n\n\u201cIt is an angel,\u201d said Keir.\n\nThereupon the fly settled upon the wall again, and again droned his\ndrowsy hot hum.\n\n\u201cLittle black beast,\u201d said Colum, with the frown coming down into his\neyes, \u201cis it for peace you are here, or for sin? Answer, I conjure you\nin the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!\u201d\n\n\u201c_An ainm an Athar, \u2019s an mhic, \u2019s an Spioraid Naoimh_,\u201d repeated Oran\nbelow his breath.\n\n\u201c_An ainm an Athar, \u2019s an mhic, \u2019s an Spioraid Naoimh_,\u201d repeated Keir\nbelow his breath.\n\nThen the fly that was upon the wall flew up to the roof and circled to\nand fro. And it sang a beautiful song, and its song was this:\n\n\n\n\n                                   I\n\n\n  Praise be to God, and a blessing too at that, and a blessing!\n  For Colum the White, Colum the Dove, hath worshipped;\n  Yea, he hath worshipped and made of a desert a garden,\n  And out of the dung of men\u2019s souls hath made a sweet savour of\n              burning.\n\n\n\n\n                                   II\n\n\n  A savour of burning, most sweet, a fire for the altar,\n  This he hath made in the desert; the hell-saved all gladden.\n  Sure he hath put his benison, too, on milch-cow and bullock,\n  On the fowls of the air, and the man-eyed seals, and the otter.\n\n\n\n\n                                  III\n\n\n  But where in his D\u00fbn in the great blue mainland of Heaven\n  God the All-Father broodeth, where the harpers are harping his glory;\n  There where He sitteth, where a river of ale poureth ever,\n  His great sword broken, His spear in the dust, He broodeth.\n\n\n\n\n                                   IV\n\n\n  And this is the thought that moves in his brain, as a cloud filled\n              with thunder\n  Moves through the vast hollow sky filled with the dust of the stars:\n  _What boots it the glory of Colum, since he maketh a Sabbath to bless\n              me,_\n  _And hath no thought of my sons in the deeps of the air and the sea?_\n\nAnd with that the fly passed from their vision. In the cell was a most\nwondrous sweet song, like the sound of far-off pipes over water.\n\nOran said in a low voice of awe, \u201cO our God!\u201d\n\nKeir whispered, white with fear, \u201cO God, my God!\u201d\n\nBut Colum rose, and took a scourge from where it hung on the wall. \u201cIt\nshall be for peace, Oran,\u201d he said, with a grim smile flitting like a\nbird above the nest of his black beard; \u201cit shall be for peace, Keir!\u201d\n\nAnd with that he laid the scourge heavily upon the bent backs of Keir\nand Oran, nor stayed his hand, nor let his three days\u2019 fast weaken the\ndeep piety that was in the might of his arm, and because of the glory to\nGod.\n\nThen, when he was weary, peace came into his heart, and he sighed\n\u201c_Amen!_\u201d\n\n\u201cAmen!\u201d said Oran the monk.\n\n\u201cAmen!\u201d said Keir the monk.\n\n\u201cAnd this thing hath been done,\u201d said Colum, \u201cbecause of the evil wish\nof you and the brethren, that I should break my fast, and eat of fish,\ntill God willeth it. And lo, I have learned a mystery. Ye shall all\nwitness to it on the morrow, which is the Sabbath.\u201d\n\nThat night the monks wondered much. Only Oran and Keir cursed the fishes\nin the deeps of the sea and the flies in the deeps of the air.\n\nOn the morrow, when the sun was yellow on the brown sea-weed, and there\nwas peace on the isle and upon the waters, Colum and the brotherhood\nwent slowly towards the sea.\n\nAt the meadows that are close to the sea, the Saint stood still. All\nbowed their heads.\n\n\u201cO winged things of the air,\u201d cried Colum, \u201cdraw near!\u201d\n\nWith that the air was full of the hum of innumerous flies, midges, bees,\nwasps, moths, and all winged insects. These settled upon the monks, who\nmoved not, but praised God in silence. \u201cGlory and praise to God,\u201d cried\nColum, \u201cbehold the Sabbath of the children of God that inhabit the deeps\nof the air! Blessing and peace be upon them.\u201d\n\n\u201cPeace! Peace!\u201d cried the monks, with one voice.\n\n\u201cIn the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!\u201d cried Colum\nthe White, glad because of the glory to God.\n\n\u201c_An ainm an Athar, \u2019s an mhic, \u2019s an Spioraid Naoimh_,\u201d cried the\nmonks, bowing reverently, and Oran and Keir deepest of all, because they\nsaw the fly that was of Colum\u2019s cell leading the whole host, as though\nit were their captain, and singing to them a marvellous sweet song.\n\nOran and Keir testified to this thing, and all were full of awe and\nwonder, and Colum praised God.\n\nThen the Saints and the brotherhood moved onward and went upon the\nrocks. When all stood ankle-deep in the sea-weed that was swaying in the\ntide, Colum cried:\n\n\u201cO finny creatures of the deep, draw near!\u201d\n\nAnd with that the whole sea shimmered as with silver and gold.\n\nAll the fishes of the sea, and the great eels, and the lobsters and the\ncrabs, came in a swift and terrible procession. Great was the glory.\n\nThen Colum cried, \u201cO fishes of the Deep, who is your king?\u201d\n\nWhereupon the herring, the mackerel, and the dog-fish swam forward, and\neach claimed to be king. But the echo that ran from wave to wave said,\n_The Herring is King_.\n\nThen Colum said to the mackerel: \u201cSing the song that is upon you!\u201d\n\nAnd the mackerel sang the song of the wild rovers of the sea, and the\nlust of pleasure.\n\nThen Colum said, \u201cBut for God\u2019s mercy, I would curse you, O false fish.\u201d\n\nThen he spake likewise to the dog-fish: and the dog-fish sang of\nslaughter and the chase, and the joy of blood.\n\nAnd Colum said: \u201cHell shall be your portion.\u201d\n\nAnd there was peace. And the Herring said:\n\n\u201cIn the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost!\u201d\n\nWhereat all that mighty multitude, ere they sank into the deep, waved\ntheir fins and their claws, each after his kind, and repeated as with\none voice:\n\n\u201c_An ainm an Athar, \u2019s an mhic, \u2019s an Spioraid Naoimh!_\u201d\n\nAnd the glory that was upon the Sound of Iona was as though God trailed\na starry net upon the waters, with a shining star in every little\nhollow, and a flowing moon of gold on every wave.\n\nThen Colum the White put out both his arms, and blessed the children of\nGod that are in the deeps of the sea and that are in the deeps of the\nair.\n\nThat is how Sabbath came upon all living things upon Hy that is called\nIona, and within the air above Hy, and within the sea that is around Hy.\n\nAnd the glory is Colum\u2019s.\n\n\n                                  III\n                             THE MOON-CHILD\n\nA year and a day before God bade Colum arise to the Feast of Eternity,\nP\u00f2l the Freckled, the youngest of the brethren, came to him, on a night\nof the nights.\n\n\u201cThe moon is among the stars, O Colum. By his own will, and yours, old\nMurtagh that is this day with God, is to be laid in the deep dry sand at\nthe east end of the isle.\u201d\n\nSo the holy Saint rose from his bed of weariness, and went and blessed\nthe place that Murtagh lay in, and bade neither the creeping worm nor\nany other creature to touch the sacred dead. \u201cLet God only,\u201d he said,\n\u201clet God alone strip that which he made to grow.\u201d\n\nBut on his way back sleep passed from him. The sweet salt smell of the\nsea was in his nostrils: he heard the running of a wave in all his\nblood.\n\nAt the cells he turned, and bade the brethren go in. \u201cPeace be with\nyou,\u201d he sighed wearily.\n\nThen he moved downwards towards the sea.\n\nA great tenderness of late was upon Colum the Bishop. Ever since he had\nblessed the fishes and the flies, the least of the children of God, his\nsoul had glowed in a whiter flame. There were deep seas of compassion in\nhis grey-blue eyes. One night he had waked, because God was there.\n\n\u201cO Christ,\u201d he cried, bowing low his old grey head. \u201cSure, ah sure, the\ngladness and the joy, because of the hour of the hours.\u201d\n\nBut God said: \u201cNot so, Colum, who keepest me upon the Cross. It is\nMurtagh, Murtagh the Druid that was, whose soul I am taking to the\nglory.\u201d\n\nWith that Colum rose in awe and great grief. There was no light in his\ncell. In the deep darkness, his spirit quailed. But lo, the beauty of\nhis heart wrought a soft gleam about him, and in that moonshine of good\ndeeds he rose and made his way to where Murtagh slept.\n\nThe old monk slept indeed. It was a sweet breath he drew\u2014he, young and\nfair now, and laughing with peace under the apples in Paradise.\n\n\u201cO Murtagh,\u201d Colum cried, \u201cand thee I thought the least of the brethren,\nbecause that thou wast a Druid, and loved not to see thy pagan kindred\nput to the sword if they would not repent. But, true, in my years I am\nbecoming as a boy who learns, knowing nothing. God wash the sin of pride\nout of my life!\u201d\n\nAt that a soft white shining, as of one winged and beautiful, stood\nbeside the dead.\n\n\u201cArt thou Murtagh?\u201d whispered Colum, in deep awe.\n\n\u201cNo, I am not Murtagh,\u201d came as the breath of vanishing song.\n\n\u201cWhat art thou?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am Peace,\u201d said the glory.\n\nThereupon Colum sank to his knees, sobbing with joy, for the sorrow that\nhad been and was no more.\n\n\u201cTell me, O White Peace,\u201d he murmured, \u201ccan Murtagh hearken, there under\nthe apples where God is?\u201d\n\n\u201cGod\u2019s love is a wind that blows hitherward and hence. Speak, and thou\nshalt hear.\u201d\n\nColum spake. \u201cO Murtagh my brother, tell me in what way it is that I\nstill keep God crucified upon the Cross.\u201d\n\nThere was a sound in the cell as of the morning-laughter of children, of\nthe singing of birds, of the sunlight streaming through the blue fields\nof Heaven.\n\nThen Murtagh\u2019s voice came out of Paradise, sweet with the sweetness:\nhoney-sweet it was, and clothed with deep awe because of the glory.\n\n\u201cColum, servant of Christ, arise!\u201d\n\nColum rose, and was as a leaf there, a leaf that is in the wind.\n\n\u201cColum, thine hour is not yet come. I see it, bathing in the white light\nwhich is the Pool of Eternal Life, that is in the abyss where\ndeep-rooted are the Gates of Heaven.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd my sin, O Murtagh, my sin?\u201d\n\n\u201cGod is weary because thou hast not repented.\u201d\n\n\u201cO my God and my God! Sure, Murtagh, if that is so, it is so, but it is\nnot for knowledge to me. Sure, O God, it is a blessing I have put on man\nand woman, on beast and bird and fish, on creeping things and flying\nthings, on the green grass and the brown earth and the flowing wave, on\nthe wind that cometh and goeth, and on the mystery of the flame! Sure, O\nGod, I have sorrowed for all my sins: there is not one I have not fasted\nand prayed for. Sorrow upon me!\u2014Is it accursed I am, or what is the evil\nthat holdeth me by the hand?\u201d\n\nThen Murtagh, calling through sweet dreams and the rainbow-rain of happy\ntears that make that place so wondrous and so fair, spake once more:\n\n\u201cO Colum, blind art thou. Hast thou yet repented because after that thou\ndidst capture the great black seal, that is a man under spells, thou,\nwith thy monks, didst crucify him upon the great rock at the place\nwhere, long ago, thy coracle came ashore?\u201d\n\n\u201cO Murtagh, favoured of God, will you not be explaining to Him that is\nKing of the Elements, that this was because the seal who was called\nBlack Angus wrought evil upon a mortal woman, and that of the sea-seed\nwas sprung one who had no soul?\u201d\n\nBut no answer came to that, and when Colum looked about him, behold\nthere was no soft shining, but only the body of Murtagh the old monk.\nWith a heavy heart, and his soul like a sinking boat in a sea of pain,\nhe turned and went out into the night.\n\nA fine, wonderful night it was. The moon lay low above the sea, and all\nthe flowing gold and flashing silver of the rippling running water\nseemed to be a flood going that way and falling into the shining hollow\nsplendour.\n\nThrough the sea-weed the old Saint moved, weary and sad. When he came to\na sandy place he stopped. There, on a rock, he saw a little child. Naked\nshe was, though clad with soft white moonlight. In her hair were brown\nweeds of the sea, gleaming golden because of the glow. In her hands was\na great shell, and at that shell was her mouth. And she was singing this\nsong; passing sweet to hear it was, with the sea-music that was in it:\n\n  A little lonely child am I\n    That have not any soul:\n  God made me but a homeless wave,\n    Without a goal.\n\n  A seal my father was, a seal\n    That once was man:\n  My mother loved him tho\u2019 he was\n    \u2019Neath mortal ban.\n\n  He took a wave and drown\u00e8d her,\n    She took a wave and lifted him:\n  And I was born where shadows are\n    I\u2019 the sea-depths dim.\n\n  All through the sunny blue-sweet hours\n    I swim and glide in waters green;\n  Never by day the mournful shores\n    By me are seen.\n\n  But when the gloom is on the wave\n    A shell unto the shore I bring:\n  And then upon the rocks I sit\n    And plaintive sing.\n\n  O what is this wild song I sing,\n    With meanings strange and dim?\n  No soul am I, a wave am I,\n    And sing the Moon-Child\u2019s hymn.\n\nSoftly Colum drew nigh.\n\n\u201cPeace,\u201d he said. \u201cPeace, little one. Ah tender little heart, peace!\u201d\n\nThe child looked at him with wide sea-dusky eyes.\n\n\u201cIs it Colum the Holy you will be?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, my fawn, my white dear babe: it is not Colum the Holy I am, but\nColum the poor fool that knew not God!\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it you, O Colum, that put the sorrow on my mother, who is the\nSea-woman that lives in the whirlpool over there?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, God forgive me!\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it you, O Colum, that crucified the seal that was my father: him\nthat was a man once, and that was called Black Angus?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, God forgive me!\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it you, O Colum, that bade the children of Hy run away from me,\nbecause I was a moon-child, and might win them by the sea-spell into the\ngreen wave?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, God forgive me!\u201d\n\n\u201cSure, dear Colum, it was to the glory of God, it was?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, He knoweth it, and can hear it, too, from Murtagh, who died this\nnight.\u201d\n\n\u201cLook!\u201d\n\nAnd at that Colum looked, and in a moon-gold wave he saw Black Angus,\nthe seal-man, drifting dark, and the eyes in his round head were the\neyes of love. And beside the man-seal swam a woman fair to see, and she\nlooked at him with joy, and with joy at the Moon-Child that was her own,\nand at Colum with joy.\n\nThereupon Colum fell upon his knees and cried\u2014\n\n\u201cGive me thy sorrow, wild woman of the sea!\u201d\n\n\u201cPeace to you, Colum,\u201d she answered, and sank into the shadow-thridden\nwave.\n\n\u201cGive my thy death and crucifixion, O Angus-dhu!\u201d cried the Saint,\nshaking with the sorrow.\n\n\u201cPeace to you, Colum,\u201d answered the man-seal, and sank into the dusky\nquietudes of the deep.\n\n\u201cAh, bitter heart o\u2019 me! Teach me the way to God, O little child,\u201d cried\nColum the old, turning to where the Moon-Child was!\n\nBut lo, the glory and the wonder!\n\nIt was a little naked child that looked at him with healing eyes, but\nthere were no sea-weeds in her hair, and no shell in the little wee\nhands of her. For now, it was a male Child that was there, shining with\na light from within: and in his fair sunny hair was a shadowy crown of\nthorns, and in his hand was a pearl of great price.\n\n\u201cO Christ, my God,\u201d said Colum, with failing voice.\n\n\u201cIt is thine now, O Colum,\u201d said the Moon-Child, holding out to him the\nshining pearl of great price.\n\n\u201cWhat is it, O Lord my God?\u201d whispered the old servant of God that was\nnow glad with the gladness: \u201cwhat is this, thy boon?\u201d\n\n\u201cPerfect Peace.\u201d\n\n                           _And that is all._\n                     (_To God be the Glory. Amen._)\n\n\n\n\n                        _THE MELANCHOLY OF ULAD_\n\n\n\n\n                         THE MELANCHOLY OF ULAD\n\n\nIn the sea-loch now known as that of Tarbert of Loch Fyne, but in the\nold far-off days named the Haven of the Foray, there was once a grian\u00e2n,\na sunbower, of so great a beauty that thereto the strings of the singing\nmen\u2019s clarsachs vibrated even in far-away Ireland.\n\nThis was in the days before the yellow-haired men out of Lochlin came\nswarming in their galleys, along the lochs and fjords of the west. So\nlong ago was it that none knows if Ulad sang his song to Fand before\nDiarmid the Fair was slain on the narrow place between the two lochs, or\nif it were when Colum\u2019s white-robes were wont to come out of the open\nsea up the Loch of the Swans, that is now West Loch Tarbert, so as to\nreach the inlands.\n\nBut of what import is the whitherset of bygone days, where the tale of\nthe years and of the generations is as that of autumn\u2019s leaves?\n\nUlad was there, the poet-king: and Fand, whom he loved: and Life and\nDeath.\n\nIan M\u00f2r, of whom I have written, told me the tale many years ago. I\ncannot recall all he said, and I know well that the echo of ancient\nmusic that was below his words, as he spoke in the gloaming before the\npeats, and in the ancient tongue of our people, is not now what it was\nthen.\n\nNone knows whence Ulad came. In the Isles of the West men said he was a\nprince out of the realm of the Ultonians; but there, in the north of\nEir\u00e9, they said he was a king in the southlands. Art the White, the wise\nold Ardrigh of the peoples who dwelt among the lake-lands far south,\nspoke of Ulad as one born under a solitary star on the night of the\nFestival of Beltane, and told that he came out of an ancient land north\nor south of Muirnict, the sea which has the feet of Wales and Cornwall\nupon its sunrise side and the rocks and sands of Armorica upon that\nwhere the light reddens the west. But upon Ioua, that is now Iona, there\nwas one wiser even than Art the White, D\u00f9ach the Druid: and when\nquestioned as to Ulad the poet-king, he said he was of the ancient\npeople that dwelt among the inlands of Alba, the old race that had known\nthe divine folk, the Tuatha-de-Danann, when they were seen of men and no\nmortality was upon their sweet clay. The islanders were awed by what\nD\u00f9ach told them, for what manner of man could this be who had seen\nMerlin going tranced through the woods, playing upon a reed, with wolves\nfawning upon him, and the noise of eagles\u2019 wings ruffling the\ngreenglooms of the forest overhead?\n\nAnd of Fand, who knows aught? B\u00eal the Harper, whose songs and playing\nmade women\u2019s hearts melt like wax, and in men wrought either intolerable\nlonging or put sudden swift flames into the blood, sang of her. And what\nhe sang was this: that Ulad had fared once to Hy Br\u00e0sil and had there\nbeheld a garth of white blooms, fragrant and wonderful, under the hither\nbase of a rainbow. These flowers he had gathered, and warmed all night\nagainst his breast, and at dawn breathed into them. When the sunbreak\nslid a rising line along the dawn he blew a frith across the palm of his\nleft hand. What had been white blooms, made rosy with his breath and\nwarm against his side, was a woman. It was Fand.\n\nWho, then, can tell whether Ulad were old or young when he came to the\nHaven of the Foray. He had the old ancient wisdom, and mayhap knew how\nto wrap himself round with the green life that endures.\n\nNone knew of his being in that place, till, one set of a disastrous day,\na birlinn drove in before the tempest sweeping from the isle of Arran up\nthe great sea-loch of Fionn. The oarsmen drew breath when the headlands\nwere past, and then stared with amaze. Overagainst the bay in the little\nrocky promontory on the north side was a house built wondrously, and\nthat where no house had stood, and after a fashion that not one of them\nhad seen, and all marvelled with wide eyes. The sunset flamed upon it,\nso that its shining walls were glorious. A small round grian\u00e2n it was,\nbut built all of blocks and stones of hill-crystal, and upborne upon\nfour great pine-boles driven deep into the tangled grass and sand, with\nthese hung about with deerskins and fells of wolf and other savagery.\n\nBefore this grian\u00e2n the men in the birlinn, upon whom silence had\nfallen, and whose listless oars made no lapping upon the foam-white\nsmall leaping waves of the haven, beheld a man lying face downward.\n\nFor a time they thought the man was dead. It was one, they said, some\ngreat one, who had perished at the feet of his desire. Others thought he\nwas a king who had come there to die alone, as Conn the Solitary had\ndone, when he had known all that man can know. And some feared that the\nprone man was a demon, and the shining grian\u00e2n a dreadful place of\nspells. The howling of a wolf, in the opposite glen that is called\nStrathnamara, brought sweat upon their backs: for when the half-human\nwish evil upon men they hide their faces, and the howling of a she-wolf\nis heard.\n\nBut of a sudden the helmsman made a sign. \u201cIt is Ulad,\u201d he whispered\nhoarsely, because of the salt in his throat after that day of flight and\nlong weariness: \u201cIt is Ulad the Wonder-Smith.\u201d\n\nThen all there were glad, for each man knew that Ulad the Wonder-Smith,\nthat was a poet and a king, wrought no ill against any clan, and that\nwherever he was the swords slept.\n\nNevertheless they marvelled much that he was there alone, and in that\nsilence, with his face prone upon the wilderness, while the sunset\nflamed overagainst the grian\u00e2n that was now like wine, or like springing\nblood light and wonderful. But as tide and wind brought the birlinn\nclose upon the shore, they heard a twofold noise, a rumour of strange\nsound. One looked at the other, with amaze that grew into fear. For the\ntwofold sound was wrought of the muffled sobs and prayers of the man\nthat lay upon the grass and of the laughter of the woman that was\nunseen, but who was within the grian\u00e2n.\n\nConnla, the helmsman and leader of the seafarers, waved to his fellows\nto pull the birlinn close in among the weedy masses which hung from the\nrocks. When the galley lay there, all but hidden, and each man\u2019s head\nwas beneath the wrack, Connla rose. Slowly he moved to where Ulad lay,\nface downward, upon the silt of sand and broken rock that was in front\nof the grian\u00e2n. But, before he could speak, the young king rose, though\nnot seeing the newcomer, and, looking upon the sunbower, whence the\nlaughter suddenly ceased, raised his arms.\n\nThen, when he had raised his arms, song was upon his lips. It was a\nstrange chant that Connla heard, and had the sound in it of the wind far\nout at sea, or of a tempest moving across treeless moors, mournful,\nwild, filled with ancient sorrow and a crying that none can interpret.\nAnd the words of it, familiar to the helmsman, and yet with a strange\nlip-life upon them, were as these:\u2014\n\n  _Ah you in the grian\u00e2n there, whose laughter is on me as fire-flames,\n  What of the sorrow of sorrows that is mine because of my loving\u2014\n  You that came to me out of the place where the rainbows are builded,\n  Is it woman you are, O Fand, who laughest up there in thy silence?\n\n  Sure, I have loved thee through storm and peace, through the day and\n              the night;\n  Sure, I have set the singing of songs to a marvellous swan-song for\n              thee,\n  And death I have dared, and life have I dared, and gloom and the\n              grave,\n  And yet, O Fand, thou laughest down on my pain, on my pain, O Fand.\n\n  All things have I thrown away gladly only to win thee\u2014\n  Kingship and lordship of men, the fame of the sword, and all good\n              things\u2014\n  For in thee at the last, I dreamed, in thee, O Fand, Queen of Women,\n  I had found all that a man may find, and was as the gods who die not.\n\n  But what of all this to me, who am Ulad the King, the Harper,\n  Ulad the Singer of Songs that are fire in the hearts of the hearers,\n  Ulad the Wonder-Smith, who can bridle the winds and the billows,\n  Can lay waste the greatest of D\u00fbns or build grian\u00e2ns here in the\n              wilds\u2014\n\n  What of all this to me, who am only a man that seeketh,\n  That seeketh for ever and ever the Soul that is fellow to his\u2014\n  The Soul that is thee, O Fand, who wert born of flowers \u2019neath the\n              rainbow,\n  Breathed with my breath, warmed at my breast, O Fand, whom I love and\n              I worship?\n\n  For all things are vain unto me, but one thing only, and that not vain\n              is\u2014\n  My Dream, my Passion, my Hope, my Fand, whom I won from Hy Br\u00e0sil:\n  O Dream of my life, my Glory, O Rose of the World, my Dream,\n  Lo, death for Ulad the King, if thou failest, for all that I am of the\n              Danann who die not._\n\nAnd when he had chanted these words, Ulad, who was young and wondrous\nfair to look upon, held out his arms to Fand, whom yet he did not see,\nfor she was within the grian\u00e2n.\n\n\u201cThen, if even not yet at the setting of the day,\u201d the king muttered,\n\u201cpatience shall be upon me till the coming of a new day, and then it may\nbe that Fand will hear my prayer.\u201d\n\nAnd so the night fell. But when the screaming of the gulls came over the\nloch, and the plaintive crying of the lapwings was upon the moorland,\nand the smell of loneroid and bracken was heavy in the wind-fallen\nstillness, Ulad turned, for he felt a touch upon his shoulder.\n\nIt was Connla who touched him, and he knew the man. He had the old\nwisdom of knowing all that is in the mind by looking into the eyes, and\nhe knew how the man had come there.\n\n\u201cLet the men who are your men, O Connla, move away from here in their\nbirlinn, and go farther up into the haven.\u201d\n\nAnd because he was a Wonder-Smith, and knew all, the islander did as\nUlad bade, and without question. But when they were alone again he\nspoke.\n\n\u201cUlad, great lord, I am a man who is as idle sand beneath the feet of\nyou who know the ancient wisdom, and are young with imperishing years,\nand are a great king in some land I know not of\u2014so, at the least, men\nsay. But I know one thing that you do not know.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you will tell me one thing that I do not know, O Connla, you shall\nhave your heart\u2019s desire.\u201d\n\nConnla laughed at that.\n\n\u201cNot even you, O Ulad, can give me my heart\u2019s desire.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what will that desire be then, you whom the islesmen call Connla\nthe Wise?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat one might see in the dew the footsteps of old years returning.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat thing, Connla, I cannot do.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yet thou wouldst do what is a thing as vain as that?\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak. I will listen.\u201d\n\nThen Connla drew close to Ulad, and whispered in his ear. Thereafter he\ngave him a hollow reed with holes in it, such as the shepherding folk\nuse on the hills. And with that he went away into the darkness.\n\nWhen the moon rose, Ulad took the reed and played upon it. While he\nplayed, scales fell from his eyes, and dreams passed from his brain, and\nhis heart grew light. Then he sang:\n\n  _Come forth, Fand, come forth, beautiful Fand, my woman, my fawn,\n  The smell of thy falling hair is sweet as the breath of the\n              wild-brier\u2014\n  I weary of this white moonshine who love better the white discs of thy\n              breasts,\n  And the secret song of the gods is faint beside the craving in my\n              blood._\n\n  _Fand, Fand, Fand, white one, who art no dream but a woman,\n  Come forth from the grian\u00e2n, or lo by the word of me, Ulad the King,\n  Forth shalt thou come as a she-wolf, and no more be a woman,\n  Come forth to me, Fand, who am now as a flame for thy burning!_\n\nThereupon a low laugh was heard, and Fand came forth out of the grian\u00e2n.\nWhite and beautiful she was, the fairest of all women, and Ulad was\nglad. When near, she whispered in his ears, and hand-in-hand they went\nback into the grian\u00e2n.\n\nAt dawn Ulad looked upon the beauty of Fand, and he saw she was as a\nflower.\n\n\u201cO fair and beautiful Dream,\u201d he whispered\u2014but of a sudden Fand laughed\nin her sleep, and he remembered what Connla the Wise had told him.\n\n\u201cWoman,\u201d Ulad muttered then, \u201cI see well that thou art not my Dream, but\nonly a woman.\u201d And with that he half-rose from her.\n\nFand opened her eyes, and the beauty of them was greater for the light\nthat was there.\n\n\u201cThen thou art only Ulad, a man?\u201d she cried, and she put her arms about\nhim, and kissed him on the lips and on the breast, sobbing low as with a\nstrange gladness\u2014\u201cI will follow thee, Ulad, to death, for I am thy\nwoman.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d he said, looking beyond her, \u201cif I feed thee, and call thee my\nwoman, and find pleasure in thee, and give thee my manhood.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what else wouldst thou, O Ulad?\u201d Fand asked, wondering.\n\n\u201cI am Ulad the Lonely,\u201d he answered: this, and no more.\n\nThen, later, he took the hollow reed again, and again played.\n\nAnd when he had played he looked at Fand. He saw into her heart, and\ninto her brain.\n\n\u201cI have dreamed my dream,\u201d he said; \u201cbut I am still Ulad the\nWonder-Smith.\u201d\n\nWith that he blew a frith across the palm of his left hand, and said\nthis thing:\u2014\n\n\u201cO woman that would not come to me, when I called out of that within me\nwhich is I myself, farewell!\u201d\n\nAnd with that Fand was a drift of white flowers there upon the\ndeerskins.\n\nThen once more Ulad spoke.\n\n\u201cO woman, that heeded no bitter prayer which I made, but at the last\ncame only as a she-wolf to the wolf, farewell!\u201d\n\nAnd with that a wind-eddy scattered the white flowers upon the\ndeerskins, and they wavered hither and thither, and some were stained by\nthe pale wandering fires of a rainbow that drifted over that place, then\nas now the haunt of these cloudy splendours, forever woven there out of\nsun and mist.\n\nAt noon, the seafarers came towards the grian\u00e2n with songs, and\nofferings.\n\nBut Ulad was not there.\n\n\n\n\n                             _ULA AND URLA_\n\n\n  \u201cRose of all Roses, Rose of all the World!\n  You, too, have come where the dim tides are hurled\n  Upon the wharves of sorrow, and heard ring\n  The bell that calls us on: the sweet far thing.\n  Beauty grown sad with its eternity\n  Made you of us, and of the dim grey sea.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                              ULA AND URLA\n\n\nUla and Urla were under vow to meet by the Stone of Sorrow. But Ula,\ndying first, stumbled blindfold when he passed the Shadowy Gate; and,\ntill Urla\u2019s hour was upon her, she remembered not.[3]\n\n\nThese were the names that had been given to them in the north isles,\nwhen the birlinn that ran down the war-galley of the vikings brought\nthem before the Maormor.\n\nNo word had they spoken that day, and no name. They were of the Gael,\nthough Ula\u2019s hair was yellow, and though his eyes were blue as the heart\nof a wave. They would ask nothing, for both were in love with death. The\nMaormor of Siol Tormaid looked at Urla, and his desire gnawed at his\nheart. But he knew what was in her mind, because he saw into it through\nher eyes, and he feared the sudden slaying in the dark.\n\nNevertheless, he brooded night and day upon her beauty. Her skin was\nmore white than the foam of the moon: her eyes were as a star-lit dewy\ndusk. When she moved, he saw her like a doe in the fern: when she\nstooped, it was as the fall of wind-swayed water. In his eyes there was\na shimmer as of the sunflood in a calm sea. In that dazzle he was led\nastray.\n\n\u201cGo,\u201d he said to Ula, on a day of the days. \u201cGo: the men of Siol Torquil\nwill take you to the south isles, and so you can hale to your own place,\nbe it Eir\u00e8ann or Manannan, or wherever the south wind puts its hand upon\nyour home.\u201d\n\nIt was on that day Ula spoke for the first time.\n\n\u201cI will go, Coll mac Torcall; but I go not alone. Urla that I love goes\nwhither I go.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe is my spoil. But, man out of Eir\u00e8ann\u2014for so I know you to be,\nbecause of the manner of your speech\u2014tell me this: Of what clan and what\nplace are you, and whence is Urla come; and by what shore was it that\nthe men of Lochlin whom we slew took you and her out of the sea, as you\nswam against the sun, with waving swords upon the strand when the\nviking-boat carried you away?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow know you these things?\u201d asked Ula, that had been Isla, son of the\nking of Islay.\n\n\u201cOne of the sea-rovers spake before he died.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen let the viking speak again. I have nought to say.\u201d\n\nWith that the Maormor frowned, but said no more. That eve Ula was\nseized, as he walked in the dusk by the sea, singing low to himself an\nancient song.\n\n\u201cIs it death?\u201d he said, remembering another day when he and Eilidh, that\nthey called Urla, had the same asking upon their lips.\n\n\u201cIt is death.\u201d\n\nUla frowned, but spake no word for a time. Then he spake.\n\n\u201cLet me say one word with Urla.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo word canst thou have. She, too, must die.\u201d\n\nUla laughed low at that.\n\n\u201cI am ready,\u201d he said. And they slew him with a spear.\n\nWhen they told Urla, she rose from the deerskins and went down to the\nshore. She said no word then. But she stooped, and she put her lips upon\nhis cold lips, and she whispered in his unhearing ear.\n\nThat night Coll mac Torcall went secretly to where Urla was. When he\nentered, a groan came to his lips and there was froth there: and that\nwas because the spear that had slain Ula was thrust betwixt his\nshoulders by one who stood in the shadow. He lay there till the dawn.\nWhen they found Coll the Maormor he was like a seal speared upon a rock,\nfor he had his hands out, and his head was between them, and his face\nwas downward.\n\n\u201cEat dust, slain wolf,\u201d was all that Eilidh, whom they called Urla,\nsaid, ere she moved away from that place in the darkness of the night.\n\nWhen the sun rose, Urla was in a glen among the hills. A man who\nshepherded there took her to his mate. They gave her milk, and because\nof her beauty and the frozen silence of her eyes, bade her stay with\nthem and be at peace.\n\nThey knew in time that she wished death. But first, there was the\nbirthing of the child.\n\n\u201cIt was Isla\u2019s will,\u201d she said to the woman. Ula was but the shadow of a\nbird\u2019s wing: an idle name. And she, too, was Eilidh once more.\n\n\u201cIt was death he gave you when he gave you the child,\u201d said the woman\nonce.\n\n\u201cIt was life,\u201d answered Eilidh, with her eyes filled with the shadow of\ndream. And yet another day the woman said to her that it would be well\nto bear the child and let it die: for beauty was like sunlight on a day\nof clouds, and if she were to go forth young and alone and so wondrous\nfair, she would have love, and love is best.\n\n\u201cTruly, love is best,\u201d Eilidh answered. \u201cAnd because Isla loved me, I\nwould that another Isla came into the world and sang his songs\u2014the songs\nthat were so sweet, and the songs that he never sang, because I gave him\ndeath when I gave him life. But now he shall live again, and he and I\nshall be in one body, in him that I carry now.\u201d\n\nAt that the woman understood, and said no more. And so the days grew out\nof the nights, and the dust of the feet of one month was in the eyes of\nthat which followed after; and this until Eilidh\u2019s time was come.\n\n\nDusk after dusk, Ula that was Isla the Singer, waited by the Stone of\nSorrow. Then a great weariness came upon him. He made a song there,\nwhere he lay in the narrow place; the last song that he made, for after\nthat he heard no trampling of the hours.\n\n  The swift years slip and slide adown the steep;\n    The slow years pass; neither will come again.\n  Yon huddled years have weary eyes that weep,\n    These laugh, these moan, these silent frown, these plain,\n    These have their lips acurl with proud disdain.\n\n  O years with tears, and tears through weary years,\n    How weary I who in your arms have lain:\n  Now, I am tired: the sound of slipping spears\n    Moves soft, and tears fall in a bloody rain,\n    And the chill footless years go over me who am slain.\n\n  I hear, as in a wood, dim with old light, the rain,\n    Slow falling; old, old, weary, human tears:\n  And in the deepening dark my comfort is my Pain,\n    Sole comfort left of all my hopes and fears,\n    Pain that alone survives, gaunt hound of the shadowy years.\n\nBut, at the last, after many days, he stirred. There was a song in his\nears.\n\nHe listened. It was like soft rain in a wood in June. It was like the\nwind laughing among the leaves.\n\nThen his heart leaped. Sure, it was the voice of Eilidh!\n\n\u201c_Eilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh!_\u201d he cried. But a great weariness came upon\nhim again. He fell asleep, knowing not the little hand that was in his,\nand the small, flower-sweet body that was warm against his side.\n\nThen the child that was his looked into the singer\u2019s heart, and saw\nthere a mist of rainbows, and midway in that mist was the face of\nEilidh, his mother.\n\nThereafter, the little one looked into his brain that was so still, and\nhe saw the music that was there: and it was the voice of Eilidh his\nmother.\n\nAnd, again, the birdeen, that had the blue of Isla\u2019s eyes and the dream\nof Eilidh\u2019s, looked into Ula\u2019s sleeping soul: and he saw that it was not\nIsla nor yet Eilidh, but that it was like unto himself, who was made of\nEilidh and Isla.\n\nFor a long time the child dreamed. Then he put his ear to Isla\u2019s brow,\nand listened. Ah, the sweet songs that he heard. Ah, bitter-sweet\nmoonseed of song! Into his life they passed, echo after echo, strain\nafter strain, wild air after wild sweet air.\n\n\u201cIsla shall never die,\u201d whispered the child, \u201cfor Eilidh loved him. And\nI am Isla and Eilidh.\u201d\n\nThen the little one put his hands above Isla\u2019s heart. There was a flame\nthere, that the Grave quenched not.\n\n\u201cO flame of love!\u201d sighed the child, and he clasped it to his breast:\nand it was a moonshine glory about the two hearts that he had, the heart\nof Isla and the heart of Eilidh, that were thenceforth one.\n\nAt dawn he was no longer there. Already the sunrise was warm upon him\nwhere he lay, new-born, upon the breast of Eilidh.\n\n\u201cIt is the end,\u201d murmured Isla when he waked. \u201cShe has never come. For\nsure, now, the darkness and the silence.\u201d\n\nThen he remembered the words of Maol the Druid, he that was a seer, and\nhad told him of Orchil, the dim goddess who is under the brown earth, in\na vast cavern, where she weaves at two looms. With one hand she weaves\nlife upward through the grass; with the other she weaves death downward\nthrough the mould; and the sound of the weaving is Eternity, and the\nname of it in the green world is Time. And, through all, Orchil weaves\nthe weft of Eternal Beauty, that passeth not, though its soul is Change.\n\nAnd these were the words of Orchil, on the lips of Maol the Druid, that\nwas old, and knew the mystery of the Grave.\n\n  _When thou journeyest towards the Shadowy Gate take neither Fear with\n  thee nor Hope, for both are abashed hounds of silence in that place;\n  but take only the purple nightshade for sleep, and a vial of tears and\n  wine, tears that shall be known unto thee and old wine of love. So\n  shalt thou have thy silent festival, ere the end._\n\nSo therewith Isla, having, in his weariness, the nightshade of sleep,\nand in his mind the slow dripping rain of familiar tears, and deep in\nhis heart the old wine of love, bowed his head.\n\nIt was well to have lived, since life was Eilidh. It was well to cease\nto live, since Eilidh came no more.\n\nThen suddenly he raised his head. There was music in the green world\nabove. A sunray opened the earth about him: staring upward he beheld\nAngus Ogue.\n\n\u201cAh, fair face of the god of youth,\u201d he sighed. Then he saw the white\nbirds that fly about the head of Angus Ogue, and he heard the music that\nhis breath made upon the harp of the wind.\n\n\u201cArise,\u201d said Angus; and, when he smiled the white birds flashed their\nwings and made a mist of rainbows.\n\n\u201cArise,\u201d said Angus Ogue again, and, when he spoke, the spires of the\ngrass quivered to a wild, sweet haunting air.\n\nSo Isla arose, and the sun shone upon him, and his shadow passed into\nthe earth. Orchil wove it into her web of death.\n\n\u201cWhy dost thou wait here by the Stone of Sorrow, Isla that was called\nUla at the end?\u201d\n\n\u201cI wait for Eilidh, who cometh not.\u201d\n\nAt that the wind-listening god stooped and laid his head upon the grass.\n\n\u201cI hear the coming of a woman\u2019s feet,\u201d he said, and he rose.\n\n\u201cEilidh! Eilidh!\u201d cried Isla, and the sorrow of his cry was a moan in\nthe web of Orchil.\n\nAngus Ogue took a branch, and put the cool greenness against his cheek.\n\n\u201cI hear the beating of a heart,\u201d he said.\n\n\u201cEilidh! Eilidh! Eilidh!\u201d Isla cried, and the tears that were in his\nvoice were turned by Angus into dim dews of remembrance in the\nbabe-brain that was the brain of Isla and Eilidh.\n\n\u201cI hear a word,\u201d said Angus Ogue, \u201cand that word is a flame of joy.\u201d\n\nIsla listened. He heard a singing of birds. Then, suddenly, a glory came\ninto the shine of the sun.\n\n\u201c_I have come, Isla my king!_\u201d\n\nIt was the voice of Eilidh. He bowed his head, and swayed; for it was\nhis own life that came to him.\n\n\u201c_Eilidh!_\u201d he whispered.\n\nAnd so, at the last, Isla came into his kingdom.\n\n\nBut are they gone, these twain, who loved with deathless love? Or is\nthis a dream that I have dreamed?\n\nAfar in an island-sanctuary that I shall not see again, where the wind\nchants the blind oblivious rune of Time, I have heard the grasses\nwhisper: _Time never was, Time is not_.\n\n\n\n\n                        _THE DARK NAMELESS ONE_\n\n\n\n\n                         THE DARK NAMELESS ONE\n\n\nOne day this summer I sailed with Padruic Macrae and Ivor McLean,\nboatmen of Iona, along the south-western reach of the Ross of Mull.\n\nThe whole coast of the Ross is indescribably wild and desolate. From\nFeenafort (Fhionnphort), opposite Balliemore of Icolmkill, to the hamlet\nof Earraid Lighthouse, it were hardly exaggeration to say that the whole\ntract is uninhabited by man and unenlivened by any green thing. It is\nthe haunt of the cormorant and the seal.\n\nNo one who has not visited this region can realise its barrenness. Its\none beauty is the faint bloom which lies upon it in the sunlight\u2014a bloom\nwhich becomes as the glow of an inner flame when the sun westers without\ncloud or mist. This is from the ruddy hue of the granite, of which all\nthat wilderness is wrought.\n\nIt is a land tortured by the sea, scourged by the sea-wind. A myriad\nlochs, fiords, inlets, passages, serrate its broken frontiers.\nInnumerable islets and reefs, fanged like ravenous wolves, sentinel\nevery shallow, lurk in every strait. He must be a skilled boatman who\nwould take the Sound of Earraid and penetrate the reaches of the Ross.\n\nThere are many days in the months of peace, as the islanders call the\nperiod from Easter till the autumnal equinox, when Earraid and the rest\nof Ross seem under a spell. It is the spell of beauty. Then the yellow\nlight of the sun is upon the tumbled masses and precipitous shelves and\nledges, ruddy petals or leaves of that vast Flower of Granite. Across it\nthe cloud shadows trail their purple elongations, their scythe-sweep\ncurves, and abrupt evanishing floodings of warm dusk. From wet boulder\nto boulder, from crag to shelly crag, from fissure to fissure, the sea\nceaselessly weaves a girdle of foam. When the wide luminous stretch of\nwaters beyond\u2014green near the land, and farther out all of a living blue,\ninterspersed with wide alleys of amethyst\u2014is white with the sea-horses,\nthere is such a laughter of surge and splash all the way from\nSlugan-dubh to the Rudha-nam-Maol-M\u00f2ra, or to the tide-swept promontory\nof the Sgeireig-a\u2019-Bhochdaidh, that, looking inland, one sees through a\nrainbow-shimmering veil of ever-flying spray.\n\nBut the sun spell is even more fugitive upon the face of this wild land\nthan the spell of beauty upon a woman. So runs one of our proverbs: as\nthe falling of the wave, as the fading of the leaf, so is the beauty of\na woman, unless\u2014ah, that _unless_, and the indiscoverable fount of joy\nthat can only be come upon by hazard once in life, and thereafter only\nin dreams, and the Land of the Rainbow that is never reached, and the\ngreen sea-doors of Tir-na-thonn, that open now no more to any wandering\nwave!\n\nIt was from Ivor McLean, on that day, I heard the strange tale of his\nkinsman Murdoch, the tale of \u201cThe Ninth Wave\u201d that I have told\nelsewhere. It was Padruic, however, who told me of the Sea-witch of\nEarraid.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d he said, \u201cI have heard of the _each-uisge_ (the sea-beast,\nsea-kelpie, or water-horse), but I have never seen it with the eyes. My\nfather and my brother knew of it. But this thing I know, and this what\nwe call _an-cailleach-uisge_ (the siren or water-witch); the\n_cailliach_, mind you, not the _maighdeann-mh\u00e0ra_ (the mermaid), who\nmeans no harm. May she hear my saying it! The cailliach is old and clad\nin weeds, but her voice is young, and she always sits so that the light\nis in the eyes of the beholder. She seems to him young also, and fair.\nShe has two familiars in the form of seals, one black as the grave, and\nthe other white as the shroud that is in the grave; and these sometimes\nupset a boat, if the sailor laughs at the uisge-cailliach\u2019s song.\n\n\u201cA man netted one of those seals, more than a hundred years ago, with\nhis herring-trawl, and dragged it into the boat; but the other seal tore\nat the net so savagely, with its head and paws over the bows, that it\nwas clear no net would long avail. The man heard them crying and\nscreaming, and then talking low and muttering, like women in a frenzy.\nIn his fear he cast the nets adrift, all but a small portion that was\ncaught in the thwarts. Afterwards, in this portion, he found a tress of\nwoman\u2019s hair. And that is just so: to the Stones be it said.\n\n\u201cThe grandson of this man, T\u00f2mais McNair, is still living, a shepherd on\nEilean-Uamhain, beyond Lunga in the Cairnburg Isles. A few years ago,\noff Callachan Point, he saw the two seals, and heard, though he did not\nsee, the cailliach. And that which I tell you\u2014Christ\u2019s Cross before\nme\u2014is a true thing.\u201d\n\nAll the time that Phadruic was speaking, I saw that Ivor McLean looked\naway: either as though he heard nothing, or did not wish to hear. There\nwas dream in his eyes; I saw that, so said nothing for a time.\n\n\u201cWhat is it, Ivor?\u201d I asked at last, in a low voice. He started, and\nlooked at me strangely.\n\n\u201cWhat will you be asking that for? What are you doing in my mind, that\nis secret?\u201d\n\n\u201cI see that you are brooding over something. Will you not tell me?\u201d\n\n\u201cTell her,\u201d said Phadruic quietly.\n\nBut Ivor kept silent. There was a look in his eyes which I understood.\nThereafter we sailed on, with no word in the boat at all.\n\nThat night, a dark, rainy night it was, with an uplift wind beating high\nover against the hidden moon, I went to the cottage where Ivor McLean\nlived with his old deaf mother, deaf nigh upon twenty years, ever since\nthe night of the nights when she heard the women whisper that Callum,\nher husband, was among the drowned, after a death-wind had blown.\n\nWhen I entered, he was sitting before the flaming coal-fire; for on Iona\nnow, by decree of MacCailin M\u00f2r, there is no more peat burned.\n\n\u201cYou will tell me now, Ivor?\u201d was all I said.\n\n\u201cYes; I will be telling you now. And the reason why I did not tell you\nbefore was because it is not a wise or a good thing to tell ancient\nstories about the sea while still on the running wave. Macrae should not\nhave done that thing. It may be we shall suffer for it when next we go\nout with the nets. We were to go to-night; but no, not I, no no, for\nsure, not for all the herring in the Sound.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it an ancient _sgeul_, Ivor?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy. I am not for knowing the age of these things. It may be as old as\nthe days of the F\u00e9inn for all I know. It has come down to us. Alasdair\nMacAlasdair of Tiree, him that used to boast of having all the stories\nof Colum and Brighde, it was he told it to the mother of my mother, and\nshe to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is it called?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, this and that; but there is no harm in saying it is called the\nDark Nameless One.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe Dark Nameless One!\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is this way. But will you ever have been hearing of the MacOdrums of\nUist?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy: the Sliochd-nan-r\u00f2n.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is so. God knows. The Sliochd-nan-r\u00f2n ... the progeny of the\nSeal.... Well, well, no man knows what moves in the shadow of life. And\nnow I will be telling you that old ancient tale, as it was given to me\nby the mother of my mother.\u201d\n\n\nOn a day of the days, Colum was walking alone by the sea-shore. The\nmonks were at the hoe or the spade, and some milking the kye, and some\nat the fishing. They say it was on the first day of the _Faoilleach\nGeamhraidh_, the day that is called _Am fheill Brighde_.\n\nThe holy man had wandered on to where the rocks are, opposite to Soa. He\nwas praying and praying, and it is said that whenever he prayed aloud,\nthe barren egg in the nest would quicken, and the blighted bud unfold,\nand the butterfly cleave its shroud.\n\nOf a sudden he came upon a great black seal, lying silent on the rocks,\nwith wicked eyes.\n\n\u201cMy blessing upon you, O R\u00f2n,\u201d he said with the good kind courteousness\nthat was his.\n\n\u201c_Droch spadadh ort_,\u201d answered the seal. \u201cA bad end to you, Colum of\nthe Gown.\u201d\n\n\u201cSure, now,\u201d said Colum angrily, \u201cI am knowing by that curse that you\nare no friend of Christ, but of the evil pagan faith out of the north.\nFor here I am known ever as Colum the White, or as Colum the Saint; and\nit is only the Picts and the wanton Normen who deride me because of the\nholy white robe I wear.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well,\u201d replied the seal, speaking the good Gaelic as though it\nwere the tongue of the deep sea, as God knows it may be for all you, I,\nor the blind wind can say; \u201cWell, well, let that thing be: it\u2019s a\nwave-way here or a wave-way there. But now if it is a Druid you are,\nwhether of Fire or of Christ, be telling me where my woman is, and where\nmy little daughter.\u201d\n\nAt this, Colum looked at him for a long while. Then he knew.\n\n\u201cIt is a man you were once, O R\u00f2n?\u201d\n\n\u201cMaybe ay and maybe no.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd with that thick Gaelic that you have, it will be out of the north\nisles you come?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is a true thing.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow I am for knowing at last who and what you are. You are one of the\nrace of Odrum the Pagan.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I am not denying it, Colum. And what is more, I am Angus\nMacOdrum, Aonghas mac Torcall mhic Odrum, and the name I am known by is\nBlack Angus.\u201d\n\n\u201cA fitting name too,\u201d said Colum the Holy, \u201cbecause of the black sin in\nyour heart, and the black end God has in store for you.\u201d\n\nAt that Black Angus laughed.\n\n\u201cWhy is there laughter upon you, Man-Seal?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, it is because of the good company I\u2019ll be having. But, now, give\nme the word: Are you for having seen or heard aught of a woman called\nKirsteen McVurich?\u201d\n\n\u201cKirsteen\u2014Kirsteen\u2014that is the good name of a nun it is, and no\nsea-wanton!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, a name here or a name there is soft sand. And so you cannot be for\ntelling me where my woman is?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen a stake for your belly, and the nails through your hands, thirst\non your tongue, and the corbies at your eyne!\u201d\n\nAnd, with that, Black Angus louped into the green water, and the hoarse\nwild laugh of him sprang into the air and fell dead against the cliff\nlike a wind-spent mew.\n\nColum went slowly back to the brethren, brooding deep. \u201cGod is good,\u201d he\nsaid in a low voice, again and again; and each time that he spoke there\ncame a fair sweet daisy into the grass, or a yellow bird rose up, with\nsong to it for the first time wonderful and sweet to hear.\n\nAs he drew near to the House of God he met Murtagh, an old monk of the\nancient old race of the isles.\n\n\u201cWho is Kirsteen McVurich, Murtagh?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cShe was a good servant of Christ, she was, in the south isles, O Colum,\ntill Black Angus won her to the sea.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd when was that?\u201d\n\n\u201cNigh upon a thousand years ago.\u201d\n\nAt that Colum stared in amaze. But Murtagh was a man of truth, nor did\nhe speak in allegories. \u201cAy, Colum, my father, nigh upon a thousand\nyears ago.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut can mortal sin live as long as that?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, it endureth. Long, long ago, before Ois\u00ecn sang, before Fionn,\nbefore Cuchullin was a glorious great prince, and in the days when the\nTuatha-De Dan\u00e0nn were sole lords in all green Banba, Black Angus made\nthe woman Kirsteen McVurich leave the place of prayer and go down to the\nsea-shore, and there he leaped upon her and made her his prey, and she\nfollowed him into the sea.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd is death above her now?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. She is the woman that weaves the sea-spells at the wild place out\nyonder that is known as Earraid: she that is called\n_an-cailleach-uisge_, the sea-witch.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen why was Black Angus for the seeking her here and the seeking her\nthere?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is the Doom. It is Adam\u2019s first wife she is, that sea-witch over\nthere, where the foam is ever in the sharp fangs of the rocks.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd who will he be?\u201d\n\n\u201cHis body is the body of Angus the son of Torcall of the race of Odrum,\nfor all that a seal he is to the seeming; but the soul of him is Judas.\u201d\n\n\u201cBlack Judas, Murtagh?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, Black Judas, Colum.\u201d\n\n\nBut with that, Ivor Macrae rose abruptly from before the fire, saying\nthat he would speak no more that night. And truly enough there was a\nwild, lone, desolate cry in the wind, and a slapping of the waves one\nupon the other with an eerie laughing sound, and the screaming of a\nsea-mew that was like a human thing.\n\nSo I touched the shawl of his mother, who looked up with startled eyes\nand said, \u201cGod be with us\u201d; and then I opened the door, and the salt\nsmell of the wrack was in my nostrils, and the great drowning blackness\nof the night.\n\n\n\n\n                      _THE SMOOTHING OF THE HAND_\n\n\n\n\n                       THE SMOOTHING OF THE HAND\n\n\nGlad am I that wherever and whenever I listen intently I can hear the\nlooms of Nature weaving Beauty and Music. But some of the most beautiful\nthings are learned otherwise\u2014by hazard, in the Way of Pain, or at the\nGate of Sorrow.\n\nI learned two things on the day when I saw Sheumas McIan dead upon the\nheather. He of whom I speak was the son of Ian McIan Alltnalee, but was\nknown throughout the home straths and the countries beyond as Sheumas\nDhu, Black James, or, to render the subtler meaning implied in this\ninstance, James the Dark One. I had wondered occasionally at the\ndesignation, because Sheumas, if not exactly fair, was not dark. But the\nname was given to him, as I learned later, because, as commonly\nrumoured, he knew that which he should not have known.\n\nI had been spending some weeks with Alasdair McIan and his wife Silis\n(who was my foster-sister), at their farm of Ardoch, high in a remote\nhill country. One night we were sitting before the peats, listening to\nthe wind crying amid the corries, though, ominously as it seemed to us,\nthere was not a breath in the rowan-tree that grew in the sun\u2019s-way by\nthe house. Silis had been singing, but silence had come upon us. In the\nwarm glow from the fire we saw each other\u2019s faces. There the silence\nlay, strangely still and beautiful, as snow in moonlight. Silis\u2019s song\nwas one of the _Dana Spioradail_, known in Gaelic as the Hymn of the\nLooms. I cannot recall it, nor have I ever heard or in any way\nencountered it again.\n\nIt had a lovely refrain, I know not whether its own or added by Silis. I\nhave heard her chant it to other runes and songs. Now, when too late, my\nregret is deep that I did not take from her lips more of those\nsorrowful, strange songs or chants, with their ancient Celtic melodies,\nso full of haunting sweet melancholy, which she loved so well. It was\nwith this refrain that, after a long stillness, she startled us that\nOctober night. I remember the sudden light in the eyes of Alasdair\nMcIan, and the beat at my heart, when, like rain in a wood, her voice\nfell unawares upon us out of the silence:\n\n_Oh! oh! ohrone, arone! Oh! oh! mo ghraidh, mo chridhe! Oh! oh! mo\nghraidh, mo chridhe!_[4]\n\nThe wail, and the sudden break in the second line, had always upon me an\neffect of inexpressible pathos. Often that sad wind-song has been in my\nears, when I have been thinking of many things that are passed and are\npassing.\n\nI know not what made Silis so abruptly begin to sing, and with that\nwailing couplet only, or why she lapsed at once into silence again.\nIndeed, my remembrance of the incident at all is due to the circumstance\nthat shortly after Silis had turned her face to the peats again, a knock\ncame to the door, and then Sheumas Dhu entered.\n\n\u201cWhy do you sing that lament, Silis, sister of my father?\u201d he asked,\nafter he had seated himself beside me, and spread his thin hands against\nthe peat glow, so that the flame seemed to enter within the flesh.\n\nSilis turned to her nephew, and looked at him, as I thought,\nquestioningly. But she did not speak. He, too, said nothing more, either\nforgetful of his question, or content with what he had learned or failed\nto learn through her silence.\n\nThe wind had come down from the corries before Sheumas rose to go. He\nsaid he was not returning to Alltnalee, but was going upon the hill, for\na big herd of deer had come over the ridge of Mel M\u00f2r. Sheumas, though\nskilled in all hill and forest craft, was not a sure shot, as was his\nkinsman and my host, Alasdair McIan.\n\n\u201cYou will need help,\u201d I remember Alasdair Ardoch saying mockingly,\nadding, \u201c_Co dhiubh is fhearr let mise thoir sealladh na f\u00e0ileadh\ndhiubh?_\u201d\u2014that is to say, Whether would you rather me to deprive them of\nsight or smell?\n\nThis is a familiar saying among the old sportsmen in my country, where\nit is believed that a few favoured individuals have the power to deprive\ndeer of either sight or smell, as the occasion suggests.\n\n\u201c_Dhuit ci\u00e0r nan carn!_\u2014The gloom of the rocks be upon you!\u201d replied\nSheumas, sullenly; \u201cmayhap the hour is come when the red stag will sniff\nat my nostrils.\u201d\n\nWith that dark saying he went. None of us saw him again alive.\n\nWas it a forewarning? I have often wondered. Or had he sight of the\nshadow?\n\nIt was three days after this, and shortly after sunrise, that, on\ncrossing the south slope of Mel M\u00f2r with Alasdair Ardoch, we came\nsuddenly upon the body of Sheumas, half submerged in a purple billow of\nheather. It did not, at the moment, occur to me that he was dead. I had\nnot known that his prolonged absence had been noted, or that he had been\nsearched for. As a matter of fact, he must have died immediately before\nour approach, for his limbs were still loose, and he lay as a sleeper\nlies.\n\nAlasdair kneeled and raised his kinsman\u2019s head. When it lay upon the\npurple tussock, the warmth and glow from the sunlit ling gave a fugitive\ndeceptive light to the pale face. I know not whether the sun can have\nany chemic action upon the dead. But it seemed to me that a dream rose\nto the face of Sheumas, like one of those submarine flowers that are\nsaid to rise at times and be visible for a moment in the hollow of a\nwave. The dream, the light, waned; and there was a great stillness and\nwhite peace where the trouble had been. \u201cIt is the Smoothing of the\nHand,\u201d said Alasdair McIan, in a hushed voice.\n\nOften I had heard this lovely phrase in the Western Isles, but always as\napplied to sleep. When a fretful child suddenly falls into quietude and\ndeep slumber, an isles-woman will say that it is because of the\nSmoothing of the Hand. It is always a profound sleep, and there are some\nwho hold it almost as a sacred thing, and never to be disturbed.\n\nSo, thinking only of this, I whispered to my friend to come away; that\nSheumas was dead weary with hunting upon the hills; that he would awake\nin due time.\n\nMcIan looked at me, hesitated, and said nothing. I saw him glance\naround. A few yards away, beside a great boulder in the heather, a small\nrowan stood, flickering its feather-like shadows across the white wool\nof a ewe resting underneath. He moved thitherward slowly, plucked a\nbranch heavy with scarlet berries, and then, having returned, laid it\nacross the breast of his kinsman.\n\nI knew now what was that passing of the trouble in the face of Sheumas\nDhu, what that sudden light was, that calming of the sea, that ineffable\nquietude. It was the Smoothing of the Hand.\n\n\n\n\n                           _THE ANOINTED MAN_\n\n\n_This story is one of the Achanna series (see \u201cThe D\u00e0n-nan-R\u00f2n\u201d and\n\u201cGreen Branches\u201d in Vol. III., \u201cTragic Romances\u201d). See also the note to\nthese two tales, apposite to the use of the forename Gloom and the\nsurname Achanna._\n\n_The forename Alison is properly a woman\u2019s name, but is occasionally\ngiven to a male child\u2014whence, no doubt, the not infrequent occurrence of\n\u2018Alison\u2019 as a surname._\n\n\n\n\n                            THE ANOINTED MAN\n\n\nOf the seven Achannas\u2014sons of Robert Achanna of Achanna in Galloway,\nself-exiled in the far north because of a bitter feud with his\nkindred\u2014who lived upon Eilanmore in the Summer Isles, there was not one\nwho was not, in more or less degree, or at some time or other, f\u00eby.\n\nDoubtless I shall have occasion to allude to one and all again, and\ncertainly to the eldest and youngest: for they were the strangest folk I\nhave known or met anywhere in the Celtic lands, from the sea-pastures of\nthe Solway to the kelp-strewn beaches of Lewis. Upon James, the seventh\nson, the doom of his people fell last and most heavily. Some day I may\ntell the full story of his strange life and tragic undoing, and of his\npiteous end. As it happened, I knew best the eldest and youngest of the\nbrothers, Alison and James. Of the others, Robert, Allan, William,\nMarcus, and Gloom, none save the last-named survives, if peradventure\n_he_ does, or has been seen of man for many years past. Of Gloom\n(strange and unaccountable name, which used to terrify me\u2014the more so\nas, by the savagery of fate, it was the name of all names suitable for\nRobert Achanna\u2019s sixth son) I know nothing beyond the fact that, ten\nyears or more ago, he was a Jesuit priest in Rome, a bird of passage,\nwhence come and whither bound no inquiries of mine could discover. Two\nyears ago a relative told me that Gloom was dead; that he had been slain\nby some Mexican noble in an old city of Hispaniola, beyond the seas.\nDoubtless the news was founded on truth, though I have ever a vague\nunrest when I think of Gloom; as though he were travelling hitherward,\nas though his feet, on some urgent errand, were already white with the\ndust of the road that leads to my house.\n\nBut now I wish to speak only of Alison Achanna. He was a friend whom I\nloved, though he was a man of close on forty and I a girl less than half\nhis years. We had much in common, and I never knew anyone more\ncompanionable, for all that he was called \u201cSilent Ally.\u201d He was tall,\ngaunt, loosely-built. His eyes were of that misty blue which smoke takes\nwhen it rises in the woods. I used to think them like the tarns that lay\namid the canna and gale-surrounded swamps in Uist, where I was wont to\ndream as a child.\n\nI had often noticed the light on his face when he smiled\u2014a light of such\nserene joy as young mothers have sometimes over the cradles of their\nfirstborn. But for some reason I had never wondered about it, not even\nwhen I heard and dimly understood the half-contemptuous, half-reverent\nmockery with which, not only Alison\u2019s brothers, but even his father, at\ntimes used towards him. Once, I remember, I was puzzled when, on a bleak\nday in a stormy August, I overheard Gloom say, angrily and scoffingly,\n\u201cThere goes the Anointed Man!\u201d I looked, but all I could see was that,\ndespite the dreary cold, despite the ruined harvest, despite the rotting\npotato-crop, Alison walked slowly onward, smiling, and with glad eyes\nbrooding upon the grey lands around and beyond him.\n\nIt was nearly a year thereafter\u2014I remember the date, because it was that\nof my last visit to Eilanmore\u2014that I understood more fully. I was\nwalking westward with Alison towards sundown. The light was upon his\nface as though it came from within; and when I looked again, half in\nawe, I saw that there was no glamour out of the west, for the evening\nwas dull and threatening rain. He was in sorrow. Three months before,\nhis brothers Allan and William had been drowned; a month later, his\nbrother Robert had sickened, and now sat in the ingle from morning till\nthe covering of the peats, a skeleton almost, shivering, and morosely\nsilent, with large staring eyes. On the large bed in the room above the\nkitchen old Robert Achanna lay, stricken with paralysis. It would have\nbeen unendurable for me but for Alison and James, and, above all, for my\nloved girl-friend, Anne Gillespie, Achanna\u2019s niece, and the sunshine of\nhis gloomy household.\n\nAs I walked with Alison I was conscious of a well-nigh intolerable\ndepression. The house we had left was so mournful; the bleak sodden\npastures were so mournful; so mournful was the stony place we were\ncrossing, silent but for the thin crying of the curlews; and, above all,\nso mournful was the sound of the ocean as, unseen, it moved sobbingly\nround the isle: so beyond words distressing was all this to me, that I\nstopped abruptly, meaning to go no farther, but to return to the house,\nwhere at least there was warmth, and where Anne would sing for me as she\nspun.\n\nBut when I looked up into my companion\u2019s face I saw in truth the light\nthat shone from within. His eyes were upon a forbidding stretch of\nground, where the blighted potatoes rotted among a wilderness of round\nskull-white stones. I remember them still, these strange far-blue eyes,\nlamps of quiet joy, lamps of peace they seemed to me.\n\n\u201cAre you looking at Achnacarn?\u201d (as the tract was called), I asked, in\nwhat I am sure was a whisper.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d replied Alison slowly; \u201cI am looking. It is beautiful\u2014beautiful.\nO God, how beautiful is this lovely world!\u201d\n\nI know not what made me act so, but I threw myself on a heathery ridge\nclose by, and broke out into convulsive sobbings.\n\nAlison stooped, lifted me in his strong arms, and soothed me with soft,\ncaressing touches and quieting words.\n\n\u201cTell me, my fawn, what is it? What is the trouble?\u201d he asked again and\nagain.\n\n\u201cIt is _you_\u2014it is _you_, Alison,\u201d I managed to say coherently at last.\n\u201cIt terrifies me to hear you speak as you did a little ago. You must be\nf\u00eby. Why\u2014why do you call that hateful, hideous field beautiful on this\ndreary day\u2014and\u2014and after all that has happened,\u2014O Alison?\u201d\n\nAt this, I remember, he took his plaid and put it upon the wet heather,\nand then drew me thither, and seated himself and me beside him.\n\n\u201cIs it not beautiful, my fawn?\u201d he asked, with tears in his eyes. Then,\nwithout waiting for my answer, he said quietly, \u201cListen, dear, and I\nwill tell you.\u201d\n\nHe was strangely still\u2014breathless, he seemed to me\u2014for a minute or more.\nThen he spoke.\n\n\u201cI was little more than a child\u2014a boy just in my teens\u2014when something\nhappened, something that came down the Rainbow-Arches of Cathair-S\u00ecth.\u201d\nHe paused here, perhaps to see if I followed, which I did, familiar as I\nwas with all fairy-lore. \u201cI was out upon the heather, in the time when\nthe honey oozes in the bells and cups. I had always loved the island and\nthe sea. Perhaps I was foolish, but I was so glad with my joy that\ngolden day that I threw myself on the ground and kissed the hot, sweet\nling, and put my hands and arms into it, sobbing the while with my\nvague, strange yearning. At last I lay still, nerveless, with my eyes\nclosed. Suddenly I was aware that two tiny hands had come up through the\nspires of the heather, and were pressing something soft and fragrant\nupon my eyelids. When I opened them, I could see nothing unfamiliar. No\none was visible. But I heard a whisper: \u2018Arise and go away from this\nplace at once; and this night do not venture out, lest evil befall you.\u2019\nSo I rose, trembling, and went home. Thereafter I was the same, and yet\nnot the same. Never could I see as they saw, what my father and brothers\nor the isle-folk looked upon as ugly or dreary. My father was wroth me\nmany times, and called me a fool. Whenever my eyes fell upon those waste\nand desolated spots, they seemed to me passing fair, radiant with lovely\nlight. At last my father grew so bitter that, mocking me the while, he\nbade me go to the towns and see there the squalor and sordid hideousness\nwherein men dwelled. But thus it was with me: in the places they call\nslums, and among the smoke of factories and the grime of destitution, I\ncould see all that other men saw, only as vanishing shadows. What I saw\nwas lovely, beautiful with strange glory, and the faces of men and women\nwere sweet and pure, and their souls were white. So, weary and\nbewildered with my unwilling quest, I came back to Eilanmore. And on the\nday of my home-coming, Morag was there\u2014Morag of the Falls. She turned to\nmy father and called him blind and foolish. \u2018He has the white light upon\nhis brows,\u2019 she said of me; \u2018I can see it, like the flicker-light in a\nwave when the wind\u2019s from the south in thunder-weather. He has been\ntouched with the Fairy Ointment. The Guid Folk know him. It will be thus\nwith him till the day of his death, if a _duinshee_ can die, being\nalready a man dead yet born anew. He upon whom the Fairy Ointment has\nbeen laid must see all that is ugly and hideous and dreary and bitter\nthrough a glamour of beauty. Thus it hath been since the Mhic-Alpine\nruled from sea to sea, and thus is it with the man Alison your son.\u2019\n\n\u201cThat is all, my fawn; and that is why my brothers, when they are angry,\nsometimes call me the Anointed Man.\u201d\n\n\n\u201cThat is all.\u201d Yes, perhaps. But oh, Alison Achanna, how often have I\nthought of that most precious treasure you found in the heather, when\nthe bells were sweet with honey-ooze! Did the wild bees know of it?\nWould that I could hear the soft hum of their gauzy wings.\n\nWho of us would not barter the best of all our possessions\u2014and some\nthere are who would surrender all\u2014to have one touch laid upon the\neyelids\u2014one touch of the Fairy Ointment? But the place is far, and the\nhour is hidden. No man may seek that for which there can be no quest.\n\nOnly the wild bees know of it; but I think they must be the bees of\nMagh-Mell. And there no man that liveth may wayfare\u2014_yet_.\n\n\n\n\n                          _THE HILLS OF RUEL_\n\n\n\n\n                           THE HILLS OF RUEL\n\n\nOne night Eilidh and Isla and I were sitting before a fire, of pine logs\nblazing upon peats, and listening to the snow as it whispered against\nthe walls of the house. The wind crying in the glen, and the tumult of\nthe hill-stream in spate, were behind the white confused rumour of the\nsnow.\n\nEilidh was singing low to herself, and Isla was watching her. I could\nnot look long at him, because of the welling upward of the tears that\nwere in my heart. I know not why they were there.\n\nAt last, after a pause wherein each sat intent listening to the disarray\nwithout, Eilidh\u2019s sweet thrilling voice slid through the silence\u2014\n\n  \u201cOver the hills and far away,\u201d\n  That is the tune I heard one day.\n  Oh that I too might hear the cruel\n  Honey-sweet folk of the Hills of Ruel.\n\nI saw a shadow go into Isla\u2019s eyes. So I stirred and spoke to my cousin.\n\n\u201cYou, Isla, who were born on the Hills of Ruel, should sure have seen\nsomething of the honey-sweet folk, as they are called in Eilidh\u2019s song.\u201d\n\nHe did not answer straightway, and I saw Eilidh furtively glance at him.\n\n\u201cI will tell you a story,\u201d he said at last simply.\n\n\nLong, long ago there was a beautiful woman, and her name was Etain, and\nshe was loved by a man. I am not for remembering the name of that man,\nfor it is a story of the far-off days: but he was a prince. I will call\nhim Art, and mayhap he was a son of that Art the Solitary who was wont\nto hear the songs of the hidden people and to see the moonshine dancers.\n\nThis Art loved Etain, and she him. So one day he took her to his d\u00fbn,\nand she was his wife. But, and this was an ill thing for one like Art,\nwho was a poet and dreamer, he loved this woman overmuch. She held his\nlife in the hollow of her hand. Nevertheless, and in her own way, she\nloved him truly: and for him, blind with the Dream against his eyes, all\nmight have been well, but for one thing. For Art, who was no coward,\nfeared one hazard, and that was death: not his own death, and not even\nthe death of Etain, but death. He loved Etain beyond the narrow\nfrontiers of life: and at that indrawing shadow he stood appalled.\n\nOne day, when his longing was great upon him, he went out alone upon the\nHills of Ruel. There a man met him, a stranger, comely beyond all men he\nhad seen, with dark eyes of dream, and a shadowy smile.\n\n\u201cAnd so,\u201d he said, \u201cand so, Art the Dreamer, thou art eager to know what\nway thou mayest meet Etain, in that hour when the shadow of the Shadow\nis upon thee?\u201d\n\n\u201cEven so; though I know neither thee nor the way by which my name is\nknown unto thee.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, for sure I am only a wandering singer. But, now that we are met, I\nwill sing to you, Art my lord.\u201d\n\nArt looked at him frowningly. This man who called him lord spake with\nheedless sovereignty.\n\nThen, of a sudden, song eddied off the lips of the man, the air of it\nmarvellous light and of a haunting strangeness: and the words were those\nthat Eilidh there sang by the fire.\n\nThrough the dusk of silence which that song made in his brain, Art saw\nthe stranger draw from the fawnskin, slung round his shoulders and held\nby a gold torque, a reed. The man played upon it.\n\nWhile he played, there was a stirring on the Hills of Ruel. All the\ngreen folk were there. They sang.\n\nArt listened to their honey-sweet song, and grew drowsy with the joy and\npeace of it. And one there was who sang of deathless life; and Art,\nmurmuring the name of Etain, fell asleep.\n\nHe was an old, old man when he awoke, and the grey hair that lay down\nthe side of his face was damp with unremembered tears. But, not knowing\nthis, he rose and cried \u201cEtain,\u201d \u201cEtain!\u201d\n\nWhen he reached his d\u00fbn there was no Etain there. He sat down by old\nashes, where the wind blew through a chink, and pondered. An old man\nentered at dusk.\n\n\u201cWhere is Etain?\u201d Art asked.\n\n\u201cEtain, the wife of Midir?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; Etain, the wife of Art.\u201d\n\nThe old man mumbled through his open jaws:\n\n\u201cAll these years since I was young, Etain the wife of Art has been Etain\nthe wife of Midir.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd who is Midir?\u201d\n\n\u201cMidir is the King of the World; he, they say, who makes sand of women\u2019s\nhearts and dust of men\u2019s hopes.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd I have dreamed but an idle dream?\u201d Art cried, with his heart\nbreaking in a sob within him.\n\n\u201cAy, for if Art you be, you have been dreaming a long dream upon the\nHills of Ruel.\u201d\n\nBut when Art, old now and weak, turned to go back to the honey-sweet\nfolk upon the Hills of Ruel, so that he might dream his dream again, he\nheard Midir laughing, and he died.\n\n\n\u201cAnd that is all,\u201d ended Isla abruptly, looking neither at Eilidh nor at\nme, and staring into the flame of the peats.\n\nBut Eilidh smiled no more to herself that night, and no more sang below\nher breath.\n\n\n\n\n                          _THE FISHER OF MEN_\n\n\n  \u201cBut now I have grown nothing, being all,\n  And the whole world weighs down upon my heart.\u201d\n                                          (_Fergus and the Druid._)\n\n\n\n\n                           THE FISHER OF MEN\n\n\nWhen old Sheen nic L\u00e8oid came back to the croft, after she had been to\nthe burn at the edge of the green airidh, where she had washed the\n_claar_ that was for the potatoes at the peeling, she sat down before\nthe peats.\n\nShe was white with years. The mountain wind was chill, too, for all that\nthe sun had shone throughout the midsummer day. It was well to sit\nbefore the peat-fire.\n\nThe croft was on the slope of a mountain and had the south upon it.\nNorth, south, east, and west, other great slopes reached upward like\nhollow green waves frozen into silence by the very wind that curved them\nso, and freaked their crests into peaks and jagged pinnacles. Stillness\nwas in that place for ever and ever. What though the Gorromalt Water\nfoamed down Ben Nair, where the croft was, and made a hoarse voice for\naye surrendering sound to silence? What though at times the stones fell\nfrom the ridges of Ben Chaisteal and Maolm\u00f2r, and clattered down the\nbarren declivities till they were slung in the tangled meshes of whin\nand juniper? What though on stormy dawns the eagle screamed as he fought\nagainst the wind that graved a thin line upon the aged front of Ben\nMulad, where his eyrie was: or that the kestrel cried above the\nrabbit-burrows in the strath: or that the hill-fox barked, or that the\ncurlew wailed, or that the scattered sheep made an endless mournful\ncrying? What were these but the ministers of silence?\n\nThere was no blue smoke in the strath except from the one turf cot. In\nthe hidden valley beyond Ben Nair there was a hamlet, and nigh upon\nthree-score folk lived there; but that was over three miles away. Sheen\nMacleod was alone in that solitary place, save for her son Alasdair M\u00f2r\nOg. \u201cYoung Alasdair\u201d he was still, though the grey feet of fifty years\nhad marked his hair. Alasdair Og he was while Alasdair Ruadh mac Chalum\nmhic L\u00e8oid, that was his father, lived. But when Alasdair Ruadh changed,\nand Sheen was left a mourning woman, he that was their son was Alasdair\nOg still.\n\nShe had sore weariness that day. For all that, it was not the weight of\nthe burden that made her go in and out of the afternoon sun, and sit by\nthe red glow of the peats, brooding deep.\n\nWhen, nigh upon an hour later, Alasdair came up the slope, and led the\nkye to the byre, she did not hear him: nor had she sight of him, when\nhis shadow flickered in before him and lay along the floor.\n\n\u201cPoor old woman,\u201d he said to himself, bending his head because of the\nbig height that was his, and he there so heavy and strong, and tender,\ntoo, for all the tangled black beard and the wild hill-eyes that looked\nout under bristling grey-black eyebrows.\n\n\u201cPoor old woman, and she with the tired heart that she has. Ay, ay, for\nsure the weeks lap up her shadow, as the sayin\u2019 is. She will be thinking\nof him that is gone. Ay, or maybe the old thoughts of her are goin\u2019 back\non their own steps, down this glen an\u2019 over that hill an\u2019 away beyont\nthat strath, an\u2019 this corrie an\u2019 that moor. Well, well, it is a good\nlove, that of the mother. Sure a bitter pain it will be to me when\nthere\u2019s no old grey hair there to stroke. It\u2019s quiet here, terrible\nquiet, God knows, to Himself be the blessin\u2019 for this an\u2019 for that; but\nwhen she has the white sleep at last, then it\u2019ll be a sore day for me,\nan\u2019 one that I will not be able to bear to hear the sheep callin\u2019,\ncallin\u2019, callin\u2019 through the rain on the hills here, and Gorromalt Water\nan\u2019 no other voice to be with me on that day of the days.\u201d\n\nShe heard a faint sigh, and stirred a moment, but did not look round.\n\n\u201cMuim\u2019-\u00e0-ghraidh, is it tired you are, an\u2019 this so fine a time, too?\u201d\n\nWith a quick gesture, the old woman glanced at him.\n\n\u201cAh, child, is that you indeed? Well, I am glad of that, for I have the\ntrouble again.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat trouble, Muim\u2019 ghaolaiche?\u201d\n\nBut the old woman did not answer. Wearily she turned her face to the\npeat-glow again.\n\nAlasdair seated himself on the big wooden chair to her right. For a time\nhe stayed silent thus, staring into the red heart of the peats. What was\nthe gloom upon the old heart that he loved? What trouble was it?\n\nAt last he rose and put meal and water into the iron pot, and stirred\nthe porridge while it seethed and sputtered. Then he poured boiling\nwater upon the tea in the brown jenny, and put the new bread and the\nsweet-milk scones on the rude deal board that was the table.\n\n\u201cCome, dear tired old heart,\u201d he said, \u201cand let us give thanks to the\nBeing.\u201d\n\n\u201cBlessings and thanks,\u201d she said, and turned round.\n\nAlasdair poured out the porridge, and watched the steam rise. Then he\nsat down, with a knife in one hand and the brown-white loaf in the\nother.\n\n\u201cO God,\u201d he said, in the low voice he had in the kirk when the Bread and\nWine were given\u2014\u201cO God, be giving us now thy blessing, and have the\nthanks. And give us peace.\u201d\n\nPeace there was in the sorrowful old eyes of the mother. The two ate in\nsilence. The big clock that was by the bed _tick-tacked, tick-tacked_. A\nfaint sputtering came out of a peat that had bog-gas in it. Shadows\nmoved in the silence, and met and whispered and moved into deep, warm\ndarkness. There was peace.\n\nThere was still a red flush above the hills in the west when the mother\nand son sat in the ingle again.\n\n\u201cWhat is it, mother-my-heart?\u201d Alasdair asked at last, putting his great\nred hand upon the woman\u2019s knee.\n\nShe looked at him for a moment. When she spoke she turned away her gaze\nagain.\n\n\u201cFoxes have holes, and the fowls of the air have their places of rest,\nbut the Son of Man hath not where to lay his head.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what then, dear? Sure, it is the deep meaning you have in that grey\nold head that I\u2019m loving so.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, lennav-aghray, there is meaning to my words. It is old I am, and\nthe hour of my hours is near. I heard a voice outside the window last\nnight. It is a voice I will not be hearing, no, not for seventy years.\nIt was cradle-sweet, it was.\u201d\n\nShe paused, and there was silence for a time.\n\n\u201cWell, dear,\u201d she began again, wearily, and in a low, weak voice, \u201cit is\nmore tired and more tired I am every day now this last month. Two\nSabbaths ago I woke, and there were bells in the air: and you are for\nknowing well, Alasdair, that no kirk-bells ever rang in Strath-Nair. At\nedge o\u2019 dark on Friday, and by the same token the thirteenth day it was,\nI fell asleep, and dreamed the mools were on my breast, and that the\nroots of the white daisies were in the hollows where the eyes were that\nloved you, Alasdair, my son.\u201d\n\nThe man looked at her with troubled gaze. No words would come. Of what\navail to speak when there is nothing to be said? God sends the gloom\nupon the cloud, and there is rain: God sends the gloom upon the hill,\nand there is mist: God sends the gloom upon the sun, and there is\nwinter. It is God, too, sends the gloom upon the soul, and there is\nchange. The swallow knows when to lift up her wing overagainst the\nshadow that creeps out of the north: the wild swan knows when the smell\nof snow is behind the sun: the salmon, lone in the brown pool among the\nhills, hears the deep sea, and his tongue pants for salt, and his fins\nquiver, and he knows that his time is come, and that the sea calls. The\ndoe knows when the fawn hath not yet quaked in her belly: is not the\nviolet more deep in the shadowy dewy eyes? The woman knows when the babe\nhath not yet stirred a little hand: is not the wild-rose on her cheek\nmore often seen, and are not the shy tears moist on quiet hands in the\ndusk? How, then, shall the soul not know when the change is nigh at\nlast? Is it a less thing than a reed, which sees the yellow birch-gold\nadrift on the lake, and the gown of the heather grow russet when the\npurple has passed into the sky, and the white bog-down wave grey and\ntattered where the loneroid grows dark and pungent\u2014which sees, and knows\nthat the breath of the Death-Weaver at the Pole is fast faring along the\nfrozen norland peaks. It is more than a reed, it is more than a wild doe\non the hills, it is more than a swallow lifting her wing against the\ncoming of the shadow, it is more than a swan drunken with the savour of\nthe blue wine of the waves when the green Arctic lawns are white and\nstill. It is more than these, which has the Son of God for brother, and\nis clothed with light. God doth not extinguish at the dark tomb what he\nhath litten in the dark womb.\n\nWho shall say that the soul knows not when the bird is aweary of the\nnest, and the nest is aweary of the wind? Who shall say that all\nportents are vain imaginings? A whirling straw upon the road is but a\nwhirling straw: yet the wind is upon the cheek almost ere it is gone.\n\nIt was not for Alasdair \u00d2g, then, to put a word upon the saying of the\nwoman that was his mother, and was age-white, and could see with the\nseeing of old wise eyes.\n\nSo all that was upon his lips was a sigh, and the poor prayer that is\nonly a breath out of the heart.\n\n\u201cYou will be telling me, grey sweetheart,\u201d he said lovingly, at\nlast\u2014\u201cyou will be telling me what was behind the word that you said:\nthat about the foxes that have holes for the hiding, poor beasts, and\nthe birdeens wi\u2019 their nests, though the Son o\u2019 Man hath not where to\nlay his head?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, Alasdair, my son that I bore long syne an\u2019 that I\u2019m leaving soon, I\nwill be for telling you that thing, an\u2019 now too, for I am knowing what\nis in the dark this night o\u2019 the nights.\u201d\n\n\nOld Sheen put her head back wearily on the chair, and let her hands lie,\nlong and white, palm-downward upon her knees. The peat-glow warmed the\ndull grey that lurked under her closed eyes and about her mouth, and in\nthe furrowed cheeks. Alasdair moved nearer and took her right hand in\nhis, where it lay like a tired sheep between two scarped rocks. Gently\nhe smoothed her hand, and wondered why so frail and slight a creature as\nthis small old wizened woman could have mothered a great swarthy man\nlike himself\u2014he a man now, with his two score and ten years, and yet but\na boy there at the dear side of her.\n\n\u201cIt was this way, Alasdair-mochree,\u201d she went on in her low thin\nvoice\u2014like a wind-worn leaf, the man that was her son thought. \u201cIt was\nthis way. I went down to the burn to wash the _claar_, and when I was\nthere I saw a wounded fawn in the bracken. The big sad eyes of it were\nlike those of Maisie, poor lass, when she had the birthing that was her\ngoing-call. I went through the bracken, and down by the Gorromalt, and\ninto the Shadowy Glen.\n\n\u201cAnd when I was there, and standing by the running water, I saw a man by\nthe stream-side. He was tall, but spare and weary: and the clothes upon\nhim were poor and worn. He had sorrow. When he lifted his head at me, I\nsaw the tears. Dark, wonderful, sweet eyes they were. His face was pale.\nIt was not the face of a man of the hills. There was no red in it, and\nthe eyes looked in upon themselves. He was a fair man, with the white\nhands that a woman has, a woman like the Bantighearna of Glenchaisteal\nover yonder. His voice, too, was a voice like that: in the softness, and\nthe sweet, quiet sorrow, I am meaning.\n\n\u201cThe word that I gave him was in the English: for I thought he was like\na man out of _Sasunn_, or of the southlands somewhere. But he answered\nme in the Gaelic: sweet, good Gaelic like that of the Bioball over\nthere, to Himself be the praise.\n\n\u201c\u2018And is it the way down the Strath you are seeking,\u2019 I asked: \u2018and will\nyou not be coming up to the house yonder, poor cot though it is, and\nhave a sup of milk, and a rest if it\u2019s weary you are?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018You are having my thanks for that,\u2019 he said, \u2018and it is as though I\nhad both the good rest and the cool sweet drink. But I am following the\nflowing water here.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Is it for the fishing?\u2019 I asked.\n\n\u201c\u2018I am a Fisher,\u2019 he said, and the voice of him was low and sad.\n\n\u201cHe had no hat on his head, and the light that streamed through a\nrowan-tree was in his long hair. He had the pity of the poor in his\nsorrowful grey eyes.\n\n\u201c\u2018And will you not sleep with us?\u2019 I asked again: \u2018that is, if you have\nno place to go to, and are a stranger in this country, as I am thinking\nyou are; for I have never had sight of you in the home-straths before.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I am a stranger,\u2019 he said, \u2018and I have no home, and my father\u2019s house\nis a great way off.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Do not tell me, poor man,\u2019 I said gently, for fear of the pain, \u2018do\nnot tell me if you would fain not; but it is glad I will be if you will\ngive me the name you have.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018My name is Mac-an-t\u2019-Saoir,\u2019 he answered with the quiet deep gaze that\nwas his. And with that he bowed his head, and went on his way, brooding\ndeep.\n\n\u201cWell, it was with a heavy heart I turned, and went back through the\nbracken. A heavy heart, for sure, and yet, oh peace too, cool dews of\npeace. And the fawn was there: healed, Alasdair, healed, and\nwhinny-bleating for its doe, that stood on a rock wi\u2019 lifted hoof an\u2019\nstared down the glen to where the Fisher was.\n\n\u201cWhen I was at the burnside, a woman came down the brae. She was fair to\nsee, but the tears were upon her.\n\n\u201c\u2018Oh,\u2019 she cried, \u2018have you seen a man going this way?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Ay, for sure,\u2019 I answered, \u2018but what man would he be?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018He is called Mac-an-t\u2019-Saoir.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, there are many men that are called Son of the Carpenter. What\nwill his own name be?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Iosa,\u2019 she said.\n\n\u201cAnd when I looked at her, she was weaving the wavy branches of a thorn\nnear by, and sobbing low, and it was like a wreath or crown that she\nmade.\n\n\u201c\u2018And who will you be, poor woman?\u2019 I asked.\n\n\u201c\u2018O my Son, my Son,\u2019 she said, and put her apron over her head and went\ndown into the Shadowy Glen, she weeping sore, too, at that, poor woman.\n\n\u201cSo now, Alasdair, my son, tell me what thought you have about this\nthing that I have told you. For I know well whom I met on the brae\nthere, and who the Fisher was. And when I was at the peats here once\nmore I sat down, and my mind sank into myself. And it is knowing the\nknowledge I am.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well, dear, it is sore tired you are. Have rest now. But sure\nthere are many men called Macintyre.\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, an\u2019 what Gael that you know will be for giving you his surname like\nthat.\u201d\n\nAlasdair had no word for that. He rose to put some more peats on the\nfire. When he had done this, he gave a cry.\n\nThe whiteness that was on the mother\u2019s hair was now in the face. There\nwas no blood there, or in the drawn lips. The light in the old, dim eyes\nwas like water after frost.\n\nHe took her hand in his. Clay-cold it was. He let it go, and it fell\nstraight by the chair, stiff as the cromak he carried when he was with\nthe sheep.\n\n\u201cOh my God and my God,\u201d he whispered, white with the awe, and the bitter\ncruel pain.\n\nThen it was that he heard a knocking at the door.\n\n\u201cWho is there?\u201d he cried hoarsely.\n\n\u201cOpen, and let me in.\u201d It was a low, sweet voice, but was that grey hour\nthe time for a welcome?\n\n\u201cGo, but go in peace, whoever you are. There is death here.\u201d\n\n\u201cOpen, and let me in.\u201d\n\nAt that, Alasdair, shaking like a reed in the wind, unclasped the latch.\nA tall fair man, ill-clad and weary, pale, too, and with dreaming eyes,\ncame in.\n\n\u201c_Beannachd Dhe an Tigh_,\u201d he said, \u201cGod\u2019s blessing on this house, and\non all here.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe same upon yourself,\u201d Alasdair said, with the weary pain in his\nvoice. \u201cAnd who will you be? and forgive the asking.\u201d\n\n\u201cI am called Mac-an-t\u2019-Saoir, and Iosa is the name I bear\u2014Jesus, the Son\nof the Carpenter.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is a good name. And is it good you are seeking this night?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am a Fisher.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, that\u2019s here an\u2019 that\u2019s there. But will you go to the Strath over\nthe hill, and tell the good man that is there, the minister, Lachlan\nMacLachlan, that old Sheen nic L\u00e8oid, wife of Alasdair Ruadh, is dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know that, Alasdair \u00d2g.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how will you be knowing that, and my name too, you that are called\nMacintyre?\u201d\n\n\u201cI met the white soul of Sheen as it went down by the Shadowy Glen a\nbrief while ago. She was singing a glad song, she was. She had green\nyouth in her eyes. And a man was holding her by the hand. It was\nAlasdair Ruadh.\u201d\n\nAt that Alasdair fell on his knees. When he looked up there was no one\nthere. Through the darkness outside the door, he saw a star shining\nwhite, and leaping like a pulse.\n\nIt was three days after that day of shadow that Sheen Macleod was put\nunder the green turf.\n\nOn each night, Alasdair \u00d2g walked in the Shadowy Glen, and there he saw\na man fishing, though ever afar off. Stooping he was, always, and like a\nshadow at times. But he was the man that was called Iosa\nMac-an-t\u2019-Saoir\u2014Jesus, the Son of the Carpenter.\n\nAnd on the night of the earthing he saw the Fisher close by.\n\n\u201cLord God,\u201d he said, with the hush on his voice, and deep awe in his\nwondering eyes: \u201cLord God!\u201d\n\nAnd the Man looked at him.\n\n\u201cNight and day, Alasdair MacAlasdair,\u201d he said, \u201cnight and day I fish in\nthe waters of the world. And these waters are the waters of grief, and\nthe waters of sorrow, and the waters of despair. And it is the souls of\nthe living I fish for. And lo, I say this thing unto you, for you shall\nnot see me again: _Go in peace_. Go in peace, good soul of a poor man,\nfor thou hast seen the Fisher of Men.\u201d\n\n\n\n\n                           _THE LAST SUPPER_\n\n\n          \u201c... and there shall be\n  Beautiful things made new....\u201d\n                                                      (_Hyperion._)\n\n\n\n\n                            THE LAST SUPPER\n\n\nThe last time that the Fisher of Men was seen in Strath-Nair was not of\nAlasdair Macleod but of the little child, Art Macarthur, him that was\nborn of the woman Mary Gilchrist, that had known the sorrow of women.\n\nHe was a little child, indeed, when, because of his loneliness and\nhaving lost his way, he lay sobbing among the bracken by the stream-side\nin the Shadowy Glen.\n\nWhen he was a man, and had reached the gloaming of his years, he was\nloved of men and women, for his songs are many and sweet, and his heart\nwas true, and he was a good man and had no evil against any one.\n\nIt is he who saw the Fisher of Men when he was but a little lad: and\nsome say that it was on the eve of the day that Alasdair \u00d2g died, though\nof this I know nothing. And what he saw, and what he heard, was a\nmoonbeam that fell into the dark sea of his mind, and sank therein, and\nfilled it with light for all the days of his life. A moonlit mind was\nthat of Art Macarthur: him that is known best as Ian M\u00f2r, Ian M\u00f2r of the\nHills, though why he took the name of Ian Cameron is known to none now\nbut one person, and that need not be for the telling here. He had music\nalways in his mind. I asked him once why he heard what so few heard, but\nhe smiled and said only: \u201cWhen the heart is full of love, cool dews of\npeace rise from it and fall upon the mind: and that is when the song of\nJoy is heard.\u201d\n\nIt must have been because of this shining of his soul that some who\nloved him thought of him as one illumined. His mind was a shell that\nheld the haunting echo of the deep seas: and to know him was to catch a\nbreath of the infinite ocean of wonder and mystery and beauty of which\nhe was the quiet oracle. He has peace now, where he lies under the\nheather upon a hillside far away: but the Fisher of Men will send him\nhitherward again, to put a light upon the wave and a gleam upon the\nbrown earth.\n\nI will tell this _sgeul_ as Ian M\u00f2r that was the little child Art\nMacarthur, told it to me.\n\n\nOften and often it is to me all as a dream that comes unawares. Often\nand often have I striven to see into the green glens of the mind whence\nit comes, and whither, in a flash, in a rainbow gleam, it vanishes. When\nI seek to draw close to it, to know whether it is a winged glory out of\nthe soul, or was indeed a thing that happened to me in my tender years,\nlo\u2014it is a dawn drowned in day, a star lost in the sun, the falling of\ndew.\n\nBut I will not be forgetting: no, never: no, not till the silence of the\ngrass is over my eyes: I will not be forgetting that gloaming.\n\nBitter tears are those that children have. All that we say with vain\nwords is said by them in this welling spray of pain. I had the sorrow\nthat day. Strange hostilities lurked in the familiar bracken. The\nsoughing of the wind among the trees, the wash of the brown water by my\nside, that had been companionable, were voices of awe. The quiet light\nupon the grass flamed.\n\nThe fierce people that lurked in shadow had eyes for my helplessness.\nWhen the dark came I thought I should be dead, devoured of I knew not\nwhat wild creature. Would mother never come, never come with saving\narms, with eyes like soft candles of home?\n\nThen my sobs grew still, for I heard a step. With dread upon me, poor\nwee lad that I was, I looked to see who came out of the wilderness. It\nwas a man, tall and thin and worn, with long hair hanging adown his\nface. Pale he was as a moonlit cot on the dark moor, and his voice was\nlow and sweet. When I saw his eyes I had no fear upon me at all. I saw\nthe mother-look in the grey shadow of them.\n\n\u201cAnd is that you, Art lennavan-mo?\u201d he said, as he stooped and lifted\nme.\n\nI had no fear. The wet was out of my eyes.\n\n\u201cWhat is it you will be listening to now, my little lad?\u201d he whispered,\nas he saw me lean, intent, to catch I know not what.\n\n\u201cSure,\u201d I said, \u201cI am not for knowing: but I thought I heard a music\naway down there in the wood.\u201d\n\nI heard it, for sure. It was a wondrous sweet air, as of one playing the\nfeadan in a dream. Callum Dall, the piper, could give no rarer music\nthan that was; and Callum was a seventh son, and was born in the\nmoonshine.\n\n\u201cWill you come with me this night of the nights, little Art?\u201d the man\nasked me, with his lips touching my brow and giving me rest.\n\n\u201cThat I will indeed and indeed,\u201d I said. And then I fell asleep.\n\nWhen I awoke we were in the huntsman\u2019s booth, that is at the far end of\nthe Shadowy Glen.\n\nThere was a long rough-hewn table in it, and I stared when I saw bowls\nand a great jug of milk and a plate heaped with oatcakes, and beside it\na brown loaf of rye-bread.\n\n\u201cLittle Art,\u201d said he who carried me, \u201care you for knowing now who I\nam?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are a prince, I\u2019m thinking,\u201d was the shy word that came to my\nmouth.\n\n\u201cSure, lennav-aghr\u00e0y, that is so. It is called the Prince of Peace I\nam.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd who is to be eating all this?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cThis is the last supper,\u201d the prince said, so low that I could scarce\nhear; and it seemed to me that he whispered, \u201cFor I die daily, and ever\nere I die the Twelve break bread with me.\u201d\n\nIt was then I saw that there were six bowls of porridge on the one side\nand six on the other.\n\n\u201cWhat is your name, O prince?\u201d\n\n\u201cIosa.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd will you have no other name than that?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am called Iosa mac Dhe.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd is it living in this house you are?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy. But Art, my little lad, I will kiss your eyes, and you shall see\nwho sup with me.\u201d\n\nAnd with that the prince that was called Iosa kissed me on the eyes, and\nI saw.\n\n\u201cYou will never be quite blind again,\u201d he whispered, and that is why all\nthe long years of my years I have been glad in my soul.\n\nWhat I saw was a thing strange and wonderful. Twelve men sat at that\ntable, and all had eyes of love upon Iosa. But they were not like any\nmen I had ever seen. Tall and fair and terrible they were, like morning\nin a desert place; all save one, who was dark, and had a shadow upon him\nand in his wild eyes.\n\nIt seemed to me that each was clad in radiant mist. The eyes of them\nwere as stars through that mist.\n\nAnd each, before he broke bread, or put spoon to the porridge that was\nin the bowl before him, laid down upon the table three shuttles.\n\nLong I looked upon that company, but Iosa held me in his arms, and I had\nno fear.\n\n\u201cWho are these men?\u201d he asked me.\n\n\u201cThe Sons of God,\u201d I said, I not knowing what I said, for it was but a\nchild I was.\n\nHe smiled at that. \u201cBehold,\u201d he spoke to the twelve men who sat at the\ntable, \u201cbehold the little one is wiser than the wisest of ye.\u201d At that\nall smiled with the gladness and the joy, save one; him that was in the\nshadow. He looked at me, and I remembered two black lonely tarns upon\nthe hillside, black with the terror because of the kelpie and the\ndrowner.\n\n\u201cWho are these men?\u201d I whispered, with the tremor on me that was come of\nthe awe I had.\n\n\u201cThey are the Twelve Weavers, Art, my little child.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what is their weaving?\u201d\n\n\u201cThey weave for my Father, whose web I am.\u201d\n\nAt that I looked upon the prince, but I could see no web.\n\n\u201cAre you not Iosa the Prince?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am the Web of Life, Art lennavan-mo.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what are the three shuttles that are beside each Weaver?\u201d\n\nI know now that when I turned my child\u2019s-eyes upon these shuttles I saw\nthat they were alive and wonderful, and never the same to the seeing.\n\n\u201cThey are called _Beauty_ and _Wonder_ and _Mystery_.\u201d\n\nAnd with that Iosa mac Dhe sat down and talked with the Twelve. All were\npassing fair, save him who looked sidelong out of dark eyes. I thought\neach, as I looked at him, more beautiful than any of his fellows; but\nmost I loved to look at the twain who sat on either side of Iosa.\n\n\u201cHe will be a Dreamer among men,\u201d said the prince; \u201cso tell him who ye\nare.\u201d\n\nThen he who was on the right turned his eyes upon me. I leaned to him,\nlaughing low with the glad pleasure I had because of his eyes and\nshining hair, and the flame as of the blue sky that was his robe.\n\n\u201cI am the Weaver of Joy,\u201d he said. And with that he took his three\nshuttles that were called Beauty and Wonder and Mystery, and he wove an\nimmortal shape, and it went forth of the room and out into the green\nworld, singing a rapturous sweet song.\n\nThen he that was upon the left of Iosa the Life looked at me, and my\nheart leaped. He, too, had shining hair, but I could not tell the colour\nof his eyes for the glory that was in them. \u201cI am the Weaver of Love,\u201d\nhe said, \u201cand I sit next the heart of Iosa.\u201d And with that he took his\nthree shuttles that were called Beauty and Wonder and Mystery and he\nwove an immortal shape, and it went forth of the room and into the green\nworld singing a rapturous sweet song.\n\nEven then, child as I was, I wished to look on no other. None could be\nso passing fair, I thought, as the Weaver of Joy and the Weaver of Love.\n\nBut a wondrous sweet voice sang in my ears, and a cool, soft hand laid\nitself upon my head, and the beautiful lordly one who had spoken said,\n\u201cI am the Weaver of Death,\u201d and the lovely whispering one who had lulled\nme with rest said, \u201cI am the Weaver of Sleep.\u201d And each wove with the\nshuttles of Beauty and Wonder and Mystery, and I knew not which was the\nmore fair, and Death seemed to me as Love, and in the eyes of Dream I\nsaw Joy.\n\nMy gaze was still upon the fair wonderful shapes that went forth from\nthese twain\u2014from the Weaver of Sleep, an immortal shape of star-eyed\nSilence, and from the Weaver of Death a lovely Dusk with a heart of\nhidden flame\u2014when I heard the voice of two others of the Twelve. They\nwere like the laughter of the wind in the corn, and like the golden fire\nupon that corn. And the one said, \u201cI am the Weaver of Passion,\u201d and when\nhe spoke I thought that he was both Love and Joy, and Death and Life,\nand I put out my hands. \u201cIt is Strength I give,\u201d he said, and he took\nand kissed me. Then, while Iosa took me again upon his knee, I saw the\nWeaver of Passion turn to the white glory beside him, him that Iosa\nwhispered to me was the secret of the world, and that was called \u201cThe\nWeaver of Youth.\u201d I know not whence nor how it came, but there was a\nsinging of skiey birds when these twain took the shuttles of Beauty and\nWonder and Mystery, and wove each an immortal shape, and bade it go\nforth out of the room into the green world, to sing there for ever and\never in the ears of man a rapturous sweet song.\n\n\u201cO Iosa,\u201d I cried, \u201care these all thy brethren? for each is fair as\nthee, and all have lit their eyes at the white fire I see now in thy\nheart.\u201d\n\nBut, before he spake, the room was filled with music. I trembled with\nthe joy, and in my ears it has lingered ever, nor shall ever go. Then I\nsaw that it was the breathing of the seventh and eighth, of the ninth\nand the tenth of those star-eyed ministers of Iosa whom he called the\nTwelve: and the names of them were the Weaver of Laughter, the Weaver of\nTears, the Weaver of Prayer, and the Weaver of Peace. Each rose and\nkissed me there. \u201cWe shall be with you to the end, little Art,\u201d they\nsaid: and I took hold of the hand of one, and cried, \u201cO beautiful one,\nbe likewise with the woman my mother,\u201d and there came back to me the\nwhisper of the Weaver of Tears: \u201cI will, unto the end.\u201d\n\nThen, wonderingly, I watched him likewise take the shuttles that were\never the same and yet never the same, and weave an immortal shape. And\nwhen this Soul of Tears went forth of the room, I thought it was my\nmother\u2019s voice singing that rapturous sweet song, and I cried out to it.\n\nThe fair immortal turned and waved to me. \u201cI shall never be far from\nthee, little Art,\u201d it sighed, like summer rain falling on leaves: \u201cbut I\ngo now to my home in the heart of women.\u201d\n\nThere were now but two out of the Twelve. Oh the gladness and the joy\nwhen I looked at him who had his eyes fixed on the face of Iosa that was\nthe Life! He lifted the three shuttles of Beauty and Wonder and Mystery,\nand he wove a Mist of Rainbows in that room; and in the glory I saw that\neven the dark twelfth one lifted up his eyes and smiled.\n\n\u201cO what will the name of you be?\u201d I cried, straining my arms to the\nbeautiful lordly one. But he did not hear, for he wrought Rainbow after\nRainbow out of the mist of glory that he made, and sent each out into\nthe green world, to be for ever before the eyes of men.\n\n\u201cHe is the Weaver of Hope,\u201d whispered Iosa mac Dhe; \u201cand he is the soul\nof each that is here.\u201d\n\nThen I turned to the twelfth, and said \u201cWho art thou, O lordly one with\nthe shadow in the eyes.\u201d\n\nBut he answered not, and there was silence in the room. And all there,\nfrom the Weaver of Joy to the Weaver of Peace, looked down, and said\nnought. Only the Weaver of Hope wrought a rainbow, and it drifted into\nthe heart of the lonely Weaver that was twelfth.\n\n\u201cAnd who will this man be, O Iosa mac Dhe?\u201d I whispered.\n\n\u201cAnswer the little child,\u201d said Iosa, and his voice was sad.\n\nThen the Weaver answered:\n\n\u201cI am the Weaver of Glory\u2014\u2014,\u201d he began, but Iosa looked at him, and he\nsaid no more.\n\n\u201cArt, little lad,\u201d said the Prince of Peace, \u201che is the one who\nbetrayeth me for ever. He is Judas, the Weaver of Fear.\u201d\n\nAnd at that the sorrowful shadow-eyed man that was the twelfth took up\nthe three shuttles that were before him.\n\n\u201cAnd what are these, O Judas?\u201d I cried eagerly, for I saw that they were\nblack.\n\nWhen he answered not, one of the Twelve leaned forward and looked at\nhim. It was the Weaver of Death who did this thing.\n\n\u201cThe three shuttles of Judas the Fear-Weaver, O little Art,\u201d said the\nWeaver of Death, \u201care called Mystery, and Despair, and the Grave.\u201d\n\nAnd with that Judas rose and left the room. But the shape that he had\nwoven went forth with him as his shadow: and each fared out into the dim\nworld, and the Shadow entered into the minds and into the hearts of men,\nand betrayed Iosa that was the Prince of Peace.\n\nThereupon, Iosa rose and took me by the hand, and led me out of that\nroom. When, once, I looked back I saw none of the Twelve save only the\nWeaver of Hope, and he sat singing a wild sweet song that he had learned\nof the Weaver of Joy, sat singing amid a mist of rainbows and weaving a\nradiant glory that was dazzling as the sun.\n\n\nAnd at that I woke, and was against my mother\u2019s heart, and she with the\ntears upon me, and her lips moving in a prayer.\n\n\n\n\n                     _THE AWAKENING OF ANGUS OGUE_\n\n\n\n\n                      THE AWAKENING OF ANGUS OGUE\n\n\nOne noon, among the hills, Angus Ogue lay in sleep. It was a fair place\nwhere he lay, with the heather about him and the bracken with its\nSeptember gold in it. On the mountain-slope there was not a juniper tall\nenough, not a rock big enough, to give poise to a raven: all of gold\nbracken and purple heather it was, with swards of the paler ling. The\none outstanding object was a mountain ash. Midway it grew, and leaned so\nthat when the sun was in the east above Ben Monach, the light streamed\nthrough the feather-foliage upon the tarn just beneath: so leaned, that\nwhen the sun was on the sea-verge of Ben Mheadhonach in the west, the\nglow, lifting upward over leagues of yellow bracken, turned the\nrowan-feathers to the colour of brass, and the rowan-berries into\nbronze.\n\nThe tarn was no more than a boulder-set hollow. It was fed by a spring\nthat had slipped through the closing granite in a dim far-off age, and\nhad never ceased to put its cool lips round the little rocky basin of\nthat heather-pool. At the south end the ling fell over its marge in a\ncurling wave: under the mountain-ash there was a drift of moss and\nfragrant loneroid, as the Gaels call the bog-myrtle.\n\nHere it was, through the tides of noon, that Angus Ogue slept. The god\nwas a flower there in the sunflood. His hair lay upon the green\nloneroid, yellow as fallen daffodils in the grass. Above him was the\nunfathomable sea of blue. Not a cloudlet drifted there, nor the\nwandering shadow of an eagle soaring from a mountain-eyrie or ascending\nin wide gyres of flight from invisible lowlands.\n\nAround him there was the same deep peace. Not a breath stirred the\nrowan-leaves, or the feathery shadows these cast upon his white limbs:\nnot a breath frayed the spires of the heather on the ridges of Ben\nMonach: not a breath slid along the a\u00ebrial pathways to where, on Ben\nMheadhonach, the sea-wind had fallen in a garth of tansies and\nmoon-daisies, and swooned there is the sun-haze, moveless as a lapsed\nwave.\n\nYet there were eyes to see, for Orchil lifted her gaze from where she\ndreamed her triune dream beneath the heather. The goddess ceased from\nher weaving at the looms of life and death, and looked broodingly at\nAngus Ogue\u2014Angus, the fair god, the ever-young, the lord of love, of\nmusic, of song.\n\n\u201cIs it time that he slept indeed?\u201d she murmured, after a long while,\nwherein she felt the sudden blood redden her lips and the pulse in her\nquiet veins leap like a caged bird.\n\nBut while she still pondered this thing, three old Druids came over the\nshoulder of the hill, and advanced slowly to where the Yellow-haired One\nlay adream. These, however, she knew to be no mortals, but three of the\nancient gods.\n\nWhen they came upon Angus Ogue they sought to wake him, but Orchil had\nbreathed a breath across a granite rock and blown the deep immemorial\nage of it upon him, so that even the speech of the elder gods was no\nmore in his ears than a gnat\u2019s idle rumour.\n\n\u201cAwake,\u201d said Keithoir, and his voice was as the sigh of pine-forests\nwhen the winds surge from the pole.\n\n\u201cAwake,\u201d said Manannan, and his voice was as the hollow booming of the\nsea.\n\n\u201cAwake,\u201d said Hesus, and his voice was as the rush of the green world\nthrough space, or as the leaping of the sun.\n\nBut Angus Ogue stirred not, and dreamed only that a mighty eagle soared\nout of the infinite, and scattered planets and stars as the dust of its\npinions: and that as these planets fell they expanded into vast oceans\nwhereon a myriad million waves leaped and danced in the sunlight,\nsinging a laughing song: and that as the stars descended in a silver\nrain they spread into innumerable forests, wherein went harping the four\nwinds of the world, and amidst which the white doves that were his\nkisses flitted through the gold and shadow.\n\n\u201cHe will awake no more,\u201d murmured Keithoir, and the god of the green\nworld moved sorrowfully apart, and played upon a reed the passing sweet\nsong that is to this day in the breath of the wind in the grass, or its\nrustle in the leaves, or its sigh in the lapping of reedy waters.\n\n\u201cHe will awake no more,\u201d murmured Manannan, and the god of the dividing\nseas moved sorrowfully upon his way; and on the hillside there was a\nfloating echo as of the ocean-music in a shell, mournful with ancient\nmournfulness and the sorrow-song of age upon age. The sound of it is in\nthe ears of the dead, where they move through the glooms of silence: and\nit haunts the time-worn shores of the dying world.\n\n\u201cHe will awake no more,\u201d murmured Hesus; and the unseen god, whose pulse\nis beneath the deepest sea and whose breath is the frosty light of the\nstars, moved out of the shadow into the light, and was at one with it,\nso that no eyes beheld the radiance which flowered icily in the\nfirmament and was a flame betwixt the earth and the sun, which was a\nglory amid the cloudy veils about the west and a gleam where quiet dews\nsustained the green spires of the grass. And as the light lifted and\nmoved, like a vast tide, there was a rumour as of a starry procession\nsweeping through space to the clashing cymbals of dead moons, to the\ntrumpetings of volcanic worlds, and to the clarions of a thousand suns.\nBut Angus Ogue had the deep immemorial age of the granite upon him, and\nhe slept as the dead sleep.\n\nOrchil smiled. \u201cThey are old, old, the ancient gods,\u201d she whispered:\n\u201cthey are so old, they cannot see eternity at rest. For Angus Ogue is\nthe god of Youth, and he only is eternal and unchanging.\u201d\n\nThen, before she turned once more to her looms of life and death, she\nlifted her eyes till her gaze pierced the brown earth and rose above the\ngreen world and was a trouble amid the quietudes of the sky. Thereat the\nicy stars gave forth snow, and Angus Ogue was wrapped in a white shroud\nthat was not as that which melts in the flame of noon. Moreover, Orchil\ntook one of the shadows of oblivion from her mystic loom, and put it as\na band around Ben Monach where Angus Ogue lay under the mountain-ash by\nthe tarn.\n\n                               \u00b7 \u00b7 \u00b7 \u00b7 \u00b7\n\nA thousand years passed, and when for the thousandth time the wet green\nsmell of the larches drifted out of Winter into Spring, Orchil lifted\nher eyes from where she spun at her looms of life and death. For, over\nthe shoulder of the hill, came three old Druids, advancing slowly to\nwhere the Yellow-haired One lay adream beneath the snow.\n\n\u201cAwake, Angus,\u201d cried Keithoir.\n\n\u201cAwake, Angus,\u201d cried Manannan.\n\n\u201cAwake, Angus,\u201d cried Hesus.\n\n\u201cAwake, awake,\u201d they cried, \u201cfor the world has suddenly grown chill and\nold.\u201d\n\nThey had the grey grief upon them, when they stood there, face to face\nwith Silence.\n\nThen Orchil put down the shuttle of mystery wherewith she wove the\nthreads of her looms, and spoke.\n\n\u201cO ye ancient gods, answer me this. Keithoir, if death were to come to\nthee, what would happen?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe green world would wither as a dry leaf, and as a dead leaf be blown\nidly before the wind that knows not whither it bloweth.\u201d\n\n\u201cManannan, if death were to come to thee, what would happen?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe deep seas would run dry, O Orchil: there would be sand falling in\nthe place of the dews, and at last the world would reel and fall into\nthe abyss.\u201d\n\n\u201cHesus, if death were to come to thee, what would happen?\u201d\n\n\u201cThere would be no pulse at the heart of earth, O Orchil, no lift of any\nstar against any sun. There would be a darkness and a silence.\u201d\n\nThen Orchil laughed.\n\n\u201cAnd yet,\u201d she said, \u201cwhen Angus Ogue had the snow-sleep of a thousand\nyears, none knew it! For a thousand years the pulse of his heart of love\nhas been the rhythmic beat of the world. For a thousand years the breath\nof his nostrils has been as the coming of Spring in the human heart. For\na thousand years the breath of his life has been warm against the lips\nof lovers. For a thousand years the memory of these has been sweet\nagainst oblivion. Nay, not one hath dreamed of the deep sleep of Angus\nOgue.\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is he?\u201d cried Keithoir. \u201cIs he older than I, who saw the green\nearth born?\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is he?\u201d cried Manannan. \u201cIs he older than I, who saw the first\nwaters come forth out of the void?\u201d\n\n\u201cWho is he?\u201d cried Hesus. \u201cIs he older than I, who saw the first comet\nwander from the starry fold; who saw the moon when it was a flaming sun,\nand the sun when it was a sevenfold intolerable flame?\u201d\n\n\u201cHe is older!\u201d said Orchil. \u201cHe is the soul of the gods.\u201d\n\nAnd with that she blew a frith across the palm of her hand, and took\naway the deep immemorial age of the granite that was upon the Fair God.\n\n\u201cAwake, eternal Spring!\u201d she cried. And Angus awoke, and laughed with\njoy; and at his laughing the whole green earth was veiled in a snow of\nblossom.\n\n\u201cArise, eternal Youth!\u201d she cried. And Angus arose and smiled; and at\nhis smiling the old brown world was clad in dewy green, and everywhere\nthe beauty of the world was sweet against the eyes of young and old, and\neverywhere the pulse of love leaped in beating hearts.\n\n\u201cGo forth, eternal Hope!\u201d she cried. And Angus Ogue passed away on the\nsunflood, weaving rainbows as he went, that were fair upon the hills of\nage and light within the valleys of sorrow, and were everywhere a wild,\nglad joy.\n\n                               \u00b7 \u00b7 \u00b7 \u00b7 \u00b7\n\nAnd that is why, when Orchil weaves dumbly in the dark: and Keithoir is\nblind, and dreams among remote hills and by unfrequented shores: and\nManannan lies heavy with deep sleep, with the oceans of the world like\nmoving shadows above him: and Hesus is grown white and hoar with the\nfrost of waning stars and weary with the burden of new worlds: that is\nwhy Angus Ogue, the youthful god, is more ancient than they, and is for\never young. Their period is set. Oblivion is upon the march against\ntheir immemorial time. But in the heart of Angus Ogue blooms the Rose of\nYouth, whose beauty is everlasting. Yea, Time is the name of that rose,\nand Eternity the beauty and fragrance thereof.\n\n                [Illustration: Decorative flying doves]\n\n\n\n\n                               FOOTNOTES\n\n\n[1]The \u201cleabhar-aifrionn\u201d (pron. lyo-ur eff-runn) is a missal: literally\n   a mass-book, or chapel-book. Bru-dhearg is literally red-breast.\n\n[2]\u201cO my Grief, my Grief.\u201d\n\n[3]The first part of the story of Ula and Urla, as Isla and Eilidh, is\n   told in \u201cSilk o\u2019 the Kine,\u201d at the end of _The Sin-Eater_. [The name\n   Eilidh, is pronounced Eily (_liq_.) or Isle-ih.]\n\n[4]Pronounce mogh-r\u0101y, mogh-r\u0113e (my heart\u2019s delight\u2014_lit._ my dear one,\n   my heart).\n\n\n\n\n                          By the Same Author.\n\n\n  PHARAIS: A Romance of the Isles.\n          (Frank Murray, Derby.)\n          (Stone & Kimball, New York.)\n  THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS: A Romance.\n          (John Lane, London.)\n          (Roberts Bros., Boston.)\n  THE SIN-EATER: and other Tales.\n          (Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, Edinburgh.)\n          (Stone & Kimball, New York.)\n  THE WASHER OF THE FORD:\n      and other Legendary Moralities.\n          (Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, Edinburgh.)\n          (Stone & Kimball, New York.)\n  GREEN FIRE: A Romance.\n          (Archibald Constable & Co., London.)\n          (Harpers, New York.)\n  FROM THE HILLS OF DREAM:\n      Mountain Songs and Island Runes.\n          (Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, Edinburgh.)\n\n\n\n\n                              RE-ISSUE OF\n                      Miss Fiona Macleod\u2019s Stories\n                 Rearranged, and with Additional Tales\n\n\n                                VOL. I.\n                           _SPIRITUAL TALES_\n                                Contents\n\n  St Bride of the Isles.\n  The Three Marvels of Iona.\n  The Melancholy of Ulad.\n  Ula and Urla.\n  The Dark Nameless One.\n  The Smoothing of the Hand.\n  The Anointed Man.\n  The Hills of Ruel.\n  The Fisher of Men.\n  The Last Supper.\n  The Awakening of Angus Ogue.\n\n\n                                VOL. II.\n                            _BARBARIC TALES_\n                                Contents\n\n  The Song of the Sword.\n  The Flight of the Culdees.\n  Mircath.\n  The Laughter of the Queen.\n  The Harping of Cravetheen.\n  Ahez the Pale.\n  Silk o\u2019 the Kine.\n  Cathal of the Woods.\n  The Washer of the Fords.\n\n\n                               VOL. III.\n                           _TRAGIC ROMANCES_\n                                Contents\n\n  Morag of the Glen.\n  The Dan-nan-Ron.\n  The Sin-Eater.\n  The Ninth Wave.\n  The Judgment o\u2019 God.\n  Green Branches.\n  The Archer.\n\n\n\n\n                           BY FIONA MACLEOD.\n\n\n  PHARAIS: A Romance of the Isles.\n  THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS.\n  THE SIN-EATER: and other Tales.\n  THE WASHER OF THE FORD.\n  GREEN FIRE: A Romance.\n  FROM THE HILLS OF DREAM: Mountain Songs and Island Runes.\n\n\n\u201c_Not beauty alone, but that element of strangeness in beauty which Mr\nPater rightly discerned as the inmost spirit of romantic art\u2014it is this\nwhich gives to Miss Macleod\u2019s work its peculiar \u00e6sthetic charm. But\napart from and beyond all those qualities which one calls artistic,\nthere is a poignant human cry, as of a voice with tears in it, speaking\nfrom out a gloaming which never lightens to day, which will compel and\nhold the hearing of many who to the claims of art as such are wholly or\nlargely unresponsive._\u201d (James Ashcroft Noble, in The New Age.)\n\n\u201c_Of the products of what has been called the Celtic Renascence,_ \u2018The\nSin-Eater\u2019 _and its companion Stories seem to us the most remarkable.\nThey are of imagination and a certain terrible beauty all compact._\u201d\n(From an article in The Daily Chronicle on \u201cThe Gaelic Glamour.\u201d)\n\n\u201c_For sheer originality, other qualities apart, her tales are as\nremarkable, perhaps, as anything we have had of the kind since Mr\nKipling appeared.... Their local colour, their idiom, their whole\nmethod, combine to produce an effect which may be unaccustomed, but is\ntherefore the more irresistible. They provide as original an\nentertainment as we are likely to find in this lingering century, and\nthey suggest a new romance among the potential things of the century to\ncome._\u201d (The Academy.)\n\n                     [Illustration: Publisher logo]\n\n                  PRINTED BY W. H. WHITE AND CO. LTD.\n                       EDINBURGH RIVERSIDE PRESS\n\n\n\n\n                          Transcriber\u2019s Notes\n\n\n--Silently corrected typographical errors and some inconsistencies;\n  retained non-standard spelling.\n\n--Added a footnote anchor on page 103.\n\n--Italic text in the original is delimited by _underscores_ except for\n  decorative italics.","title":"Spiritual Tales: Re-issue of the Shorter Stories of Fiona Macleod; Rearranged, with Additional Tales","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":33376}