Scottish Folk and Fairy Tales from Burns to Buchan (Penguin Classics) (18 page)

There
gaed
a cauld
stend
o fear into Tam’s heart. ‘This thing is nae bird,’ thinks he. His een turnt backward in his heid and the day gaed black about him. ‘If I get a dwam here,’ he thoucht, ‘it’s by wi Tam Dale.’ And he signalled for the lads to pu’ him up.

And it seemed the solan understood about signals. For nae sooner was the signal made than he let be the rope,
spried
his wings, squawked out loud, took a turn flying, and dashed
straucht
at Tam Dale’s
een
. Tam had a knife, he
gart
the cold steel glitter. And it seemed the solan understood about knives, for nae suner did the steel glint in the sun than he gied the ae squawk, but
laigher
, like a body disappointit, and
flegged
aff about the roundness of the craig, and Tam saw him nae mair.

And as sune as the thing was gane, Tam’s heid drapt upon his shouther, and they pu’d him up like a deid
corp
,
dadding
on the craig.

A dram of brandy (which he never went without)
broucht
him to his mind, or what was left of it. Up he sat.

‘
Rin
, Geordie, rin to the boat, mak’ sure of the boat, man – rin!’ he cries, ‘or yon solan’ll have it awa,’ says he.

The fower lads stared
at ither
, an’ tried to
whilly-wha
him to be quiet. But naething would satisfy Tam Dale, till ane o them had startit on aheid to stand sentry on the boat. The ithers askit if he was for down again.

‘Na,’ he says, ‘and neither you nor me,’ says he, ‘and as sune as I can win to stand on my twa feet we’ll be aff frae this craig o
Sawtan
.’

Sure eneuch, nae time was lost, and that was
ower muckle
; for before they
won
to North Berwick Tam was in a crying fever. He lay aw the simmer; and wha was sae kind as come
speiring for
him, but Tod Lapraik! Folk thocht afterwards that
ilka
time Tod cam near the house the fever had worsened.
I kenna for that
; but what I ken the best, that was the end of it.

It was about this time o the year; my grandfaither was out at the white fishing; and like a bairn
I wanted but to gang
wi’ him. We had a grand
take
, I mind, and the way that the fish lay broucht us near in by the Bass, whaur we foregaithered wi anither boat that belanged to a man Sandie Fletcher in Castleton. He’s no lang deid neither, or ye could speir at himsel. Weel, Sandie hailed.

‘What’s yon on the Bass?’ says he.

‘On the Bass?’ says grandfaither.

‘Ay,’ says Sandie, ‘on the green side o it.’

‘Whatten kind of a thing?’ says grandfaither. ‘There cannae be naething on the Bass but just the sheep.’

‘It looks unco like a body,’
quo
Sandie, who was nearer in.

‘A body!’ says we, and we nane of us likit that. For there was nae boat that could have broucht a man, and the key o’ the prison
yett
hung ower my faither’s heid at hame in the
press bed
.

We keept the twa boats close for company, and
crap
in nearer hand. Grandfaither had a
gless
, for he had been a sailor, and the captain of a
smack
, and had lost her on the sands of Tay. And when we took the gless to it, sure eneuch there was a man. He was in a
crunkle
o’ green brae,
a wee below
the
chaipel
,
aw by his lee lane
, and he
lowped
and
flang
and danced like a
daft quean
at a
waddin’
.

‘It’s Tod,’ says grandfaither, and passed the gless to Sandie.

‘Ay, it’s him,’ says Sandie.

‘Or ane in the likeness o him,’ says grandfaither.

‘Sma’ is the differ,’ quo Sandie. ‘Deil or
warlock
, I’ll try the gun at him,’ quo he, and broucht up a fowling-piece that he aye carried, for Sandie was a notable famous shot in aw that country.

‘Haud yer hand, Sandie,’ says grandfaither, ‘we maun see clearer first,’ says he, ‘or this may be a dear day’s wark to the baith of us.’

‘Hout!’ says Sandie, ‘this is the Lord’s judgements surely, and be damned to it!’ says he.

‘Maybe ay, and maybe no,’ says my grandfaither, worthy man! ‘But have you a mind of the Procurator Fiscal, that I think ye’ll have forgaithered wi before,’ says he.

This was ower true, and Sandie was
a wee thing set ajee
. ‘Aweel, Edie,’ says he, ‘and what would be your way of it?’

‘Oh, just this,’ says grandfaither. ‘Let me that has the fastest boat gang back to North Berwick, and let you
bide
here and keep
an eye on
Thon
. If I cannae find Lapraik, I’ll join ye and the twa of us’ll have a
crack
wi him. But if Lapraik’s at hame, I’ll rin up a flag at the harbour, and ye can try Thon Thing wi the gun.’

Aweel, so it was agreed between them twa. I was just a bairn, an’
clum
in Sandie’s boat, whaur I thocht I would see the
best of the employ
. My grandsire gied Sandie a
siller tester
to pit in his gun wi’ the
leid draps
, bein’ mair deidly against
bogles
. And then the
ae
boat set aff for North Berwick, and the tither lay whaur it was and watched the
wanchancy
thing on the braeside.

Aw the time we lay there it lowped and flang and capered and
span like a teetotum
, and whiles we could hear it
skelloch
as it span. I hae seen lassies, the daft queans, that would lowp and dance a winter’s nicht, and still be lowping and dancing when the winter’s day cam in. But there would be folk there to hauld them company, and the lads to egg them on; and this thing was its lee-lane. And there would be a fiddler diddling his
elbock
in the chimney-side; and this thing had nae music but the skirling of the solans. And the lassies were bits o young things wi the reid life
dinnling and stending
in their members; and this was a muckle, fat,
creishy
man, and him
fa’n
in the vale o years. Say what ye like, I maun say what I believe. It was joy was in the creature’s heart; the joy o’ hell, I daursay: joy whatever. Mony a time have I askit mysel why witches and warlocks should sell their sauls (whilk are their maist dear possessions) and be auld,
duddy
,
wrunkl’t
wives or auld, feckless, doddered men; and then I mind upon Tod Lapraik dancing aw they hours by his lane in the black glory of his heart. Nae doubt they burn for it in muckle hell, but they have a grand time here of it whatever! – and the Lord
forgie
us!

Weel,
at the hinder end
, we saw the wee flag
yirk
up to the mast-heid upon the harbour rocks. That was aw Sandie waited for. He up wi the gun, took a deleeberate aim, an pu’d the trigger. There cam’ a bang and then ae waefu’ skirl frae the Bass. And there were we rubbin’ our een and lookin’ at ither like daft folk. For wi the bang and the skirl the thing had clean disappeared. The sun glintit, the wund blew, and there was the bare yaird whaur the Wonder had been lowping and flinging but ae second syne.

The hale way hame I roared and grat wi the terror of
that dispensation
. The
grawn
folk were nane sae muckle better; there was little said in Sandie’s boat but just the name of God; and when we won in by the pier, the harbour rocks were fair black wi the folk waitin’ us. It seems they had fund Lapraik in ane of his dwams, cawing the shuttle and smiling. Ae lad they sent to hoist the flag, and the rest abode there in the wabster’s house. You may be sure they liked it little; but it was a means of grace to
severals
that stood there praying in to themsels (for nane cared to pray out loud) and looking on thon awesome thing as it cawed the shuttle. Syne, upon a suddenty, and wi the
ae dreidfu’ skelloch
, Tod sprang up frae his
hinderlands
and fell forrit on the
wab
, a bloody corp.

When the corp was examined the leid draps hadnae played buff upon the warlock’s body; sorrow a leid drap was to be fund; but there was grandfaither’s siller tester in the
puddock
’s heart of him.

He was a great shock-headed, freckle-faced Borderer, the lineal descendant of a cattle-thieving clan in Liddesdale. In spite of his ancestry he was as solid and sober a citizen as one would wish to see, a town councillor of Melrose, an elder of the Church, and the chairman of the local branch of the Young Men’s Christian Association. Brown was his name – and you saw it printed up as ‘Brown and Handiside’ over the great grocery stores in the High Street. His wife, Maggie Brown, was an Armstrong before her marriage, and came from an old farming stock in the wilds of Teviothead. She was small, swarthy, and dark-eyed, with a strangely nervous temperament for a Scotswoman. No greater contrast could be found than the big tawny man and the dark little woman, but both were of the soil as far back as any memory could extend.

One day – it was the first anniversary of their wedding – they had driven over together to see the excavations of the Roman fort at Newstead. It was not a particularly picturesque spot. From the northern bank of the Tweed, just where the river forms a loop, there extends a gentle slope of arable land. Across it run the trenches of the excavators, with here and there an exposure of old stonework to show the foundations of the ancient walls. It had been a huge place, for the camp was fifty acres in extent, and the fort fifteen. However, it was all made easy for them since Mr Brown knew the farmer to whom the land belonged. Under his guidance they spent a long summer evening inspecting the trenches, the pits, the ramparts, and all the strange variety of objects which were waiting to be transported to the Edinburgh Museum of Antiquities. The buckle of a woman’s belt had been
dug up that very day, and the farmer was discoursing upon it when his eyes fell upon Mrs Brown’s face.

‘Your good leddy’s tired,’ said he. ‘Maybe you’d best rest a wee before we gang further.’

Brown looked at his wife. She was certainly very pale, and her dark eyes were bright and wild.

‘What is it, Maggie? I’ve wearied you. I’m thinkin’ it’s time we went back.’

‘No, no, John, let us go on. It’s wonderful! It’s like a dreamland place. It all seems so close and so near to me. How long were the Romans here, Mr Cunningham?’

‘A fair time, mam. If you saw the kitchen midden-pits you would guess it took a long time to fill them.’

‘And why did they leave?’

‘Well, mam, by all accounts they left because they had to. The folk around could
thole
them no longer, so they just up and burned the fort aboot their lugs. You can see the fire marks on the stanes.’

The woman gave a quick little shudder. ‘A wild night – a fearsome night,’ said she. ‘The sky must have been red that night – and these grey stones, they may have been red also.’

‘Aye, I think they were red,’ said her husband. ‘It’s a queer thing, Maggie, and it may be your words that have done it; but I seem to see that business aboot as clear as ever I saw anything in my life. The light shone on the water.’

‘Aye, the light shone on the water. And the smoke gripped you by the throat. And all the savages were yelling.’

The old farmer began to laugh. ‘The leddy will be writin’ a story aboot the old fort,’ said he. ‘I’ve shown many a one ower it, but I never heard it put so clear afore. Some folk have the gift.’

They had strolled along the edge of the foss, and a pit yawned upon the right of them.

‘That pit was fourteen foot deep,’ said the farmer. ‘What d’ye think we dug oot from the bottom o’t? Weel, it was just the skeleton of a man wi’ a spear by his side. I’m thinkin’ he was grippin’ it when he died. Now, how cam’ a man wi’ a spear doon
a hole fourteen foot deep? He wasna’ buried there, for they aye burned their dead. What make ye o’ that, mam?’

‘He sprang doon to get clear of the savages,’ said the woman.

‘Weel, it’s likely enough, and a’ the professors from Edinburgh couldna gie a better reason. I wish you were aye here, mam, to answer a’ oor deeficulties sae readily. Now, here’s the altar that we foond last week. There’s an inscreeption. They tell me it’s Latin, and it means that the men o this fort give thanks to God for their safety.’

They examined the old worn stone. There was a large deeply cut ‘VV upon the top of it.

‘What does “VV” stand for?’ asked Brown.

‘Naebody kens,’ the guide answered.

‘
Valeria Victrix,’
said the lady softly. Her face was paler than ever, her eyes far away, as one who peers down the dim aisles of over-arching centuries.

‘What’s that?’ asked her husband sharply.

She started as one who wakes from sleep. ‘What were we talking about?’ she asked.

‘About this “VV” upon the stone.’

‘No doubt it was just the name of the Legion which put the altar up.’

‘Aye, but you gave some special name.’

‘Did I? How absurd! How should I ken what the name was?’

‘You said something – “
Victrix
”, I think.’

‘I suppose I was guessing. It gives me the queerest feeling, this place, as if I were not myself, but someone else.’

‘Aye, it’s an uncanny place,’ said her husband, looking around with an expression almost of fear in his bold grey eyes. ‘I feel it mysel’. I think we’ll just be wishin’ you good evenin’, Mr Cunningham, and get back to Melrose before the dark sets in.’

Neither of them could shake off the strange impression which had been left upon them by their visit to the excavations. It was as if some miasma had risen from those damp trenches and passed into their blood. All the evening they were silent and thoughtful, but such remarks as they did make showed that the same subject was in the minds of each. Brown had a restless night, in which he dreamed a strange connected dream, so vivid
that he woke sweating and shivering like a frightened horse. He tried to convey it all to his wife as they sat together at breakfast in the morning.

‘It was the clearest thing, Maggie,’ said he. ‘Nothing that has ever come to me in my waking life has been more clear than that. I feel as if these hands were sticky with blood.’