The Short Stories of John Buchan (Complete Collection). Buchan John

have heard no songs,” said the man, “save the sacred psalms o’ God’s Kirk.”

      “Bonny sangs,” said the bird. “Once I flew by the hinder end o’ the Kirk and I keekit in. A wheen auld wives wi’ mutches and a wheen solemn men wi’ hoasts! Be sure the Moor-Song is no like yon.”

      “Can ye sing it, bird?” said the man, “for I am keen to hear it.”

      “Me sing,” cried the bird, “me that has a voice like a craw! Na, na, I canna sing it, but maybe I can tak ye where ye may hear it. When I was young an auld bog-blitter did the same to me, and sae began my education. But are ye willing and brawly willing?—for if ye get but a sough of it ye will never mair have an ear for other music.”

      “I am willing and brawly willing,” said the man.

      “Then meet me at the Gled’s Cleuch Head at the sun’s setting,” said the bird, and it flew away.

      Now it seemed to the man that in a twinkling it was sunset, and he found himself at the Gled’s Cleuch Head with the bird flapping in the heather before him. The place was a long rift in the hill, made green with juniper and hazel, where it was said True Thomas came to drink the water.

      “Turn ye to the west,” said the whaup, “and let the sun fall on your face, then turn ye five times round about and say after me the Rune of the Heather and the Dew.” And before he knew, the man did as he was told, and found himself speaking strange words, while his head hummed and danced as if in a fever.

      “Now lay ye down and put your ear to the earth,” said the bird, and the man did so. Instantly a cloud came over his brain, and he did not feel the ground on which he lay or the keen hill-air which blew about him. He felt himself falling deep into an abysm of space, then suddenly caught up and set among the stars of heaven. Then slowly from the stillness there welled forth music, drop by drop like the clear falling of rain, and the man shuddered, for he knew that he heard the beginning of the Moor-Song.

      High rose the air, and trembled among the tallest pines and the summits of great hills. And in it were the sting of rain and the blatter of hail, the soft crush of snow and the rattle of thunder among crags. Then it quieted to the low sultry croon which told of blazing mid-day when the streams are parched and the bent crackles like dry tinder. Anon it was evening, and the melody dwelled among the high soft notes which mean the coming of dark and the green light of sunset. Then the whole changed to a great paean which rang like an organ through the earth. There were trumpet notes in it and flute notes and the plaint of pipes. “Come forth,” it cried; “the sky is wide and it is a far cry to the world’s end. The fire crackles fine o’ nights below the firs, and the smell of roasting meat and wood smoke is dear to the heart of man. Fine, too, is the sting of salt and the risp of the north-wind in the sheets. Come forth, one and all, to the great lands oversea, and the strange tongues and the fremit peoples. Learn before you die to follow the Piper’s Son, and though your old bones bleach among grey rocks, what matter, if you have had your bellyful of life and come to the land of Heart’s Desire?” And the tune fell low and witching, bringing tears to the eyes and joy to the heart; and the man knew (though no one told him) that this was the first part of the Moor-Song, the Song of the Open Road, the Lilt of the Adventurer, which shall be now and ever and to the end of days.

      Then the melody changed to a fiercer and sadder note. He saw his forefathers, gaunt men and terrible, run stark among woody hills. He heard the talk of the bronze-clad invader, and the jar and clangour as flint met steel. Then rose the last coronach of his own people, hiding in wild glens, starving in corries, or going hopelessly to the death. He heard the cry of Border foray, the shouts of the poor Scots as they harried Cumberland, and he himself rode in the midst of them. Then the tune fell more mournful and slow, and Flodden lay before him. He saw the flower of Scots gentry around their king, gashed to the breast bone, still fronting the lines of the south, though the paleness of death sat on each forehead. “The flowers of the Forest are gone,” cried the lilt, and through the long years he heard the cry of the lost, the desperate, fighting for kings over the water and princes in the heather. “Who cares?” cried the air. “Man must die, and how can he die better than in the stress of fight with his heart high and alien blood on his sword? Heigh-ho! One against twenty, a child against a host, this is the romance of life.” And the man’s heart swelled, for he knew (though no one told him) that this was the Song of Lost Battles, which only the great can sing before they die.

      But the tune was changing, and at the change the man shivered, for the air ran up to the high notes and then down to the deeps with an eldrich cry, like a hawk’s scream at night, or a witch’s song in the gloaming. It told of those who seek and never find, the quest that knows no fulfilment. “There is a road,” it cries, “which leads to the Moon and the Great Waters. No change-house cheers it, and it has no end; but it is a fine road, a braw road—who will follow it?” And the man knew (though no one told him) that this was the Ballad of Grey Weather, which makes him who hears it sick all the days of his life for something which he cannot name. It is the song which the birds sing on the moor in the autumn nights, and the old crow on the tree-top hears and flaps his wing. It is the lilt which old men and women hear in the darkening of their days, and sigh for the unforgetable; and love-sick girls get catches of it and play pranks with their lovers. It is a song so old that Adam heard it in the Garden before Eve came to comfort him, so young that from it still flows the whole joy and sorrow of earth.

      Then it ceased, and all of a sudden the man was rubbing his eyes on the hillside, and watching the falling dusk. “I have heard the Moor-Song,” he said to himself, and he walked home in a daze. The whaups were crying, but none came near him, though he looked hard for the bird that had spoken with him. It may be that it was there and he did not know it, or it may be that the whole thing was only a dream; but of this I cannot say.

      The next morning the man rose and went to the manse.

      “I am glad to see you, Simon,” said the minister, “for it will soon be the Communion Season, and it is your duty to go round with the tokens.”

      “True,” said the man, “but it was another thing I came to talk about,” and he told him the whole tale.

      “There are but two ways of it, Simon,” said the minister. “Either ye are the victim of witchcraft, or ye are a self-deluded man. If the former (whilk I am loth to believe), then it behoves ye to watch and pray lest ye enter into temptation. If the latter, then ye maun put a strict watch over a vagrom fancy, and ye ‘ll be quit o’ siccan whigmaleeries.”

      Now Simon was not listening, but staring out of the window. “There was another thing I had it in my mind to say,” said he. “I have come to lift my lines, for I am thinking of leaving the place.”

      “And where would ye go?” asked the minister, aghast.

      “I was thinking of going to Carlisle and trying my luck as a dealer, or maybe pushing on with droves to the South.”

      “But that’s a cauld country where there are no faithfu’ ministrations,” said the minister.

      “Maybe so, but I am not caring very muckle about ministrations,” said the man, and the other looked after him in horror.

      When he left the manse he went to a Wise Woman, who lived on the left side of the Kirkyard above Threepdaidle burn-foot. She was very old, and sat by the ingle day and night, waiting upon death. To her he told the same tale.

      She listened gravely, nodding with her head. “Ach,” she said, “I have heard a like story before. And where will you be going?”

      “I am going south to Carlisle to try the dealing and droving,” said the man, “for I have some skill of sheep.”

      “And will ye bide there?” she asked.

      “Maybe aye, and maybe no,” he said. “I had half a mind to push on to the big toun or even to the abroad. A man must try his fortune.”

      “That’s the way of men,” said the old wife. “I, too, have heard the Moor- Song,