The last time that the Fisher of Men was seen in Strath-Nair was not of Alasdair Macleod but of the little child, Art Macarthur, him that was born of the woman Mary Gilchrist, that had known the sorrow of women.
He was a little child, indeed, when, because of his loneliness and having lost his way, he lay sobbing among the bracken by the stream-side in the Shadowy Glen.
When he was a man, and had reached the gloaming of his years, he was loved of men and women, for his songs are many and sweet, and his heart was true, and he was a good man and had no evil against any one.
It is he who saw the Fisher of Men when he was but a little lad: and some say that it was on the eve of the day that Alasdair Òg died, though of this I know nothing. And what he saw, and what he heard, was a moonbeam that fell into the dark sea of his mind,and sank therein, and filled it with light for all the days of his life. A moonlit mind was that of Art Macarthur: him that is known best as Ian Mòr, Ian Mòr of the Hills, though why he took the name of Ian Cameron is known to none now but one person, and that need not be for the telling here. He had music always in his mind. I asked him once why he heard what so few heard, but he smiled and said only: “When the heart is full of love, cool dews of peace rise from it and fall upon the mind: and that is when the song of Joy is heard.”
It must have been because of this shining of his soul that some who loved him thought of him as one illumined. His mind was a shell that held the haunting echo of the deep seas: and to know him was to catch a breath of the infinite ocean of wonder and mystery and beauty of which he was the quiet oracle. He has peace now, where he lies under the heather upon a hillside far away: but the Fisher of Men will send him hitherward again, to put a light upon the wave and a gleam upon the brown earth.
I will tell thissgeulas Ian Mòr thatwas the little child Art Macarthur, told it to me.
Often and often it is to me all as a dream that comes unawares. Often and often have I striven to see into the green glens of the mind whence it comes, and whither, in a flash, in a rainbow gleam, it vanishes. When I seek to draw close to it, to know whether it is a winged glory out of the soul, or was indeed a thing that happened to me in my tender years, lo—it is a dawn drowned in day, a star lost in the sun, the falling of dew.
But I will not be forgetting: no, never: no, not till the silence of the grass is over my eyes: I will not be forgetting that gloaming.
Bitter tears are those that children have. All that we say with vain words is said by them in this welling spray of pain. I had the sorrow that day. Strange hostilities lurked in the familiar bracken. The soughing of the wind among the trees, the wash of the brown water by my side, that had been companionable, were voices of awe. The quiet light upon the grass flamed.
The fierce people that lurked in shadow hadeyes for my helplessness. When the dark came I thought I should be dead, devoured of I knew not what wild creature. Would mother never come, never come with saving arms, with eyes like soft candles of home?
Then my sobs grew still, for I heard a step. With dread upon me, poor wee lad that I was, I looked to see who came out of the wilderness. It was a man, tall and thin and worn, with long hair hanging adown his face. Pale he was as a moonlit cot on the dark moor, and his voice was low and sweet. When I saw his eyes I had no fear upon me at all. I saw the mother-look in the grey shadow of them.
“And is that you, Art lennavan-mo?” he said, as he stooped and lifted me.
I had no fear. The wet was out of my eyes.
“What is it you will be listening to now, my little lad?” he whispered, as he saw me lean, intent, to catch I know not what.
“Sure,” I said, “I am not for knowing: but I thought I heard a music away down there in the wood.”
I heard it, for sure. It was a wondrous sweetair, as of one playing the feadan in a dream. Callum Dall, the piper, could give no rarer music than that was; and Callum was a seventh son, and was born in the moonshine.
“Will you come with me this night of the nights, little Art?” the man asked me, with his lips touching my brow and giving me rest.
“That I will indeed and indeed,” I said. And then I fell asleep.
When I awoke we were in the huntsman’s booth, that is at the far end of the Shadowy Glen.
There was a long rough-hewn table in it, and I stared when I saw bowls and a great jug of milk and a plate heaped with oatcakes, and beside it a brown loaf of rye-bread.
“Little Art,” said he who carried me, “are you for knowing now who I am?”
“You are a prince, I’m thinking,” was the shy word that came to my mouth.
“Sure, lennav-aghrày, that is so. It is called the Prince of Peace I am.”
“And who is to be eating all this?” I asked.
“This is the last supper,” the prince said, so low that I could scarce hear; and it seemedto me that he whispered, “For I die daily, and ever ere I die the Twelve break bread with me.”
It was then I saw that there were six bowls of porridge on the one side and six on the other.
“What is your name, O prince?”
“Iosa.”
“And will you have no other name than that?”
“I am called Iosa mac Dhe.”
“And is it living in this house you are?”
“Ay. But Art, my little lad, I will kiss your eyes, and you shall see who sup with me.”
And with that the prince that was called Iosa kissed me on the eyes, and I saw.
“You will never be quite blind again,” he whispered, and that is why all the long years of my years I have been glad in my soul.
What I saw was a thing strange and wonderful. Twelve men sat at that table, and all had eyes of love upon Iosa. But they were not like any men I had ever seen. Tall and fair and terrible they were, like morning in a desert place; all save one, who was dark,and had a shadow upon him and in his wild eyes.
It seemed to me that each was clad in radiant mist. The eyes of them were as stars through that mist.
And each, before he broke bread, or put spoon to the porridge that was in the bowl before him, laid down upon the table three shuttles.
Long I looked upon that company, but Iosa held me in his arms, and I had no fear.
“Who are these men?” he asked me.
“The Sons of God,” I said, I not knowing what I said, for it was but a child I was.
He smiled at that. “Behold,” he spoke to the twelve men who sat at the table, “behold the little one is wiser than the wisest of ye.” At that all smiled with the gladness and the joy, save one; him that was in the shadow. He looked at me, and I remembered two black lonely tarns upon the hillside, black with the terror because of the kelpie and the drowner.
“Who are these men?” I whispered, with the tremor on me that was come of the awe I had.
“They are the Twelve Weavers, Art, my little child.”
“And what is their weaving?”
“They weave for my Father, whose web I am.”
At that I looked upon the prince, but I could see no web.
“Are you not Iosa the Prince?”
“I am the Web of Life, Art lennavan-mo.”
“And what are the three shuttles that are beside each Weaver?”
I know now that when I turned my child’s-eyes upon these shuttles I saw that they were alive and wonderful, and never the same to the seeing.
“They are calledBeautyandWonderandMystery.”
And with that Iosa mac Dhe sat down and talked with the Twelve. All were passing fair, save him who looked sidelong out of dark eyes. I thought each, as I looked at him, more beautiful than any of his fellows; but most I loved to look at the twain who sat on either side of Iosa.
“He will be a Dreamer among men,” said the prince; “so tell him who ye are.”
Then he who was on the right turned his eyes upon me. I leaned to him, laughing low with the glad pleasure I had because of his eyes and shining hair, and the flame as of the blue sky that was his robe.
“I am the Weaver of Joy,” he said. And with that he took his three shuttles that were called Beauty and Wonder and Mystery, and he wove an immortal shape, and it went forth of the room and out into the green world, singing a rapturous sweet song.
Then he that was upon the left of Iosa the Life looked at me, and my heart leaped. He, too, had shining hair, but I could not tell the colour of his eyes for the glory that was in them. “I am the Weaver of Love,” he said, “and I sit next the heart of Iosa.” And with that he took his three shuttles that were called Beauty and Wonder and Mystery and he wove an immortal shape, and it went forth of the room and into the green world singing a rapturous sweet song.
Even then, child as I was, I wished to look on no other. None could be so passing fair, I thought, as the Weaver of Joy and the Weaver of Love.
But a wondrous sweet voice sang in my ears, and a cool, soft hand laid itself upon my head, and the beautiful lordly one who had spoken said, “I am the Weaver of Death,” and the lovely whispering one who had lulled me with rest said, “I am the Weaver of Sleep.” And each wove with the shuttles of Beauty and Wonder and Mystery, and I knew not which was the more fair, and Death seemed to me as Love, and in the eyes of Dream I saw Joy.
My gaze was still upon the fair wonderful shapes that went forth from these twain—from the Weaver of Sleep, an immortal shape of star-eyed Silence, and from the Weaver of Death a lovely Dusk with a heart of hidden flame—when I heard the voice of two others of the Twelve. They were like the laughter of the wind in the corn, and like the golden fire upon that corn. And the one said, “I am the Weaver of Passion,” and when he spoke I thought that he was both Love and Joy, and Death and Life, and I put out my hands. “It is Strength I give,” he said, and he took and kissed me. Then, while Iosa took me again upon his knee, I saw the Weaver ofPassion turn to the white glory beside him, him that Iosa whispered to me was the secret of the world, and that was called “The Weaver of Youth.” I know not whence nor how it came, but there was a singing of skiey birds when these twain took the shuttles of Beauty and Wonder and Mystery, and wove each an immortal shape, and bade it go forth out of the room into the green world, to sing there for ever and ever in the ears of man a rapturous sweet song.
“O Iosa,” I cried, “are these all thy brethren? for each is fair as thee, and all have lit their eyes at the white fire I see now in thy heart.”
But, before he spake, the room was filled with music. I trembled with the joy, and in my ears it has lingered ever, nor shall ever go. Then I saw that it was the breathing of the seventh and eighth, of the ninth and the tenth of those star-eyed ministers of Iosa whom he called the Twelve: and the names of them were the Weaver of Laughter, the Weaver of Tears, the Weaver of Prayer, and the Weaver of Peace. Each rose and kissed me there. “We shall be with you to the end, little Art,” they said: and I took hold of the hand of one,and cried, “O beautiful one, be likewise with the woman my mother,” and there came back to me the whisper of the Weaver of Tears: “I will, unto the end.”
Then, wonderingly, I watched him likewise take the shuttles that were ever the same and yet never the same, and weave an immortal shape. And when this Soul of Tears went forth of the room, I thought it was my mother’s voice singing that rapturous sweet song, and I cried out to it.
The fair immortal turned and waved to me. “I shall never be far from thee, little Art,” it sighed, like summer rain falling on leaves: “but I go now to my home in the heart of women.”
There were now but two out of the Twelve. Oh the gladness and the joy when I looked at him who had his eyes fixed on the face of Iosa that was the Life! He lifted the three shuttles of Beauty and Wonder and Mystery, and he wove a Mist of Rainbows in that room; and in the glory I saw that even the dark twelfth one lifted up his eyes and smiled.
“O what will the name of you be?” I cried,straining my arms to the beautiful lordly one. But he did not hear, for he wrought Rainbow after Rainbow out of the mist of glory that he made, and sent each out into the green world, to be for ever before the eyes of men.
“He is the Weaver of Hope,” whispered Iosa mac Dhe; “and he is the soul of each that is here.”
Then I turned to the twelfth, and said “Who art thou, O lordly one with the shadow in the eyes.”
But he answered not, and there was silence in the room. And all there, from the Weaver of Joy to the Weaver of Peace, looked down, and said nought. Only the Weaver of Hope wrought a rainbow, and it drifted into the heart of the lonely Weaver that was twelfth.
“And who will this man be, O Iosa mac Dhe?” I whispered.
“Answer the little child,” said Iosa, and his voice was sad.
Then the Weaver answered:
“I am the Weaver of Glory——,” he began, but Iosa looked at him, and he said no more.
“Art, little lad,” said the Prince of Peace, “he is the one who betrayeth me for ever. He is Judas, the Weaver of Fear.”
And at that the sorrowful shadow-eyed man that was the twelfth took up the three shuttles that were before him.
“And what are these, O Judas?” I cried eagerly, for I saw that they were black.
When he answered not, one of the Twelve leaned forward and looked at him. It was the Weaver of Death who did this thing.
“The three shuttles of Judas the Fear-Weaver, O little Art,” said the Weaver of Death, “are called Mystery, and Despair, and the Grave.”
And with that Judas rose and left the room. But the shape that he had woven went forth with him as his shadow: and each fared out into the dim world, and the Shadow entered into the minds and into the hearts of men, and betrayed Iosa that was the Prince of Peace.
Thereupon, Iosa rose and took me by the hand, and led me out of that room. When, once, I looked back I saw none of the Twelve save only the Weaver of Hope, and he satsinging a wild sweet song that he had learned of the Weaver of Joy, sat singing amid a mist of rainbows and weaving a radiant glory that was dazzling as the sun.
And at that I woke, and was against my mother’s heart, and she with the tears upon me, and her lips moving in a prayer.
One noon, among the hills, Angus Ogue lay in sleep. It was a fair place where he lay, with the heather about him and the bracken with its September gold in it. On the mountain-slope there was not a juniper tall enough, not a rock big enough, to give poise to a raven: all of gold bracken and purple heather it was, with swards of the paler ling. The one outstanding object was a mountain ash. Midway it grew, and leaned so that when the sun was in the east above Ben Monach, the light streamed through the feather-foliage upon the tarn just beneath: so leaned, that when the sun was on the sea-verge of Ben Mheadhonach in the west, the glow, lifting upward over leagues of yellow bracken, turned the rowan-feathers to the colour of brass, and the rowan-berries into bronze.
The tarn was no more than a boulder-set hollow. It was fed by a spring that had slipped through the closing granite in a dim far-off age, and had never ceased to put its cool lips round the little rocky basin of that heather-pool. At the south end the ling fell over its marge in a curling wave: under the mountain-ash there was a drift of moss and fragrant loneroid, as the Gaels call the bog-myrtle.
Here it was, through the tides of noon, that Angus Ogue slept. The god was a flower there in the sunflood. His hair lay upon the green loneroid, yellow as fallen daffodils in the grass. Above him was the unfathomable sea of blue. Not a cloudlet drifted there, nor the wandering shadow of an eagle soaring from a mountain-eyrie or ascending in wide gyres of flight from invisible lowlands.
Around him there was the same deep peace. Not a breath stirred the rowan-leaves, or the feathery shadows these cast upon his white limbs: not a breath frayed the spires of the heather on the ridges of Ben Monach: not a breath slid along theaërial pathways to where, on Ben Mheadhonach, the sea-wind had fallen in a garth of tansies and moon-daisies, and swooned there is the sun-haze, moveless as a lapsed wave.
Yet there were eyes to see, for Orchil lifted her gaze from where she dreamed her triune dream beneath the heather. The goddess ceased from her weaving at the looms of life and death, and looked broodingly at Angus Ogue—Angus, the fair god, the ever-young, the lord of love, of music, of song.
“Is it time that he slept indeed?” she murmured, after a long while, wherein she felt the sudden blood redden her lips and the pulse in her quiet veins leap like a caged bird.
But while she still pondered this thing, three old Druids came over the shoulder of the hill, and advanced slowly to where the Yellow-haired One lay adream. These, however, she knew to be no mortals, but three of the ancient gods.
When they came upon Angus Ogue they sought to wake him, but Orchil had breatheda breath across a granite rock and blown the deep immemorial age of it upon him, so that even the speech of the elder gods was no more in his ears than a gnat’s idle rumour.
“Awake,” said Keithoir, and his voice was as the sigh of pine-forests when the winds surge from the pole.
“Awake,” said Manannan, and his voice was as the hollow booming of the sea.
“Awake,” said Hesus, and his voice was as the rush of the green world through space, or as the leaping of the sun.
But Angus Ogue stirred not, and dreamed only that a mighty eagle soared out of the infinite, and scattered planets and stars as the dust of its pinions: and that as these planets fell they expanded into vast oceans whereon a myriad million waves leaped and danced in the sunlight, singing a laughing song: and that as the stars descended in a silver rain they spread into innumerable forests, wherein went harping the four winds of the world, and amidst which the white doves that were his kisses flitted through the gold and shadow.
“He will awake no more,” murmured Keithoir, and the god of the green world moved sorrowfully apart, and played upon a reed the passing sweet song that is to this day in the breath of the wind in the grass, or its rustle in the leaves, or its sigh in the lapping of reedy waters.
“He will awake no more,” murmured Manannan, and the god of the dividing seas moved sorrowfully upon his way; and on the hillside there was a floating echo as of the ocean-music in a shell, mournful with ancient mournfulness and the sorrow-song of age upon age. The sound of it is in the ears of the dead, where they move through the glooms of silence: and it haunts the time-worn shores of the dying world.
“He will awake no more,” murmured Hesus; and the unseen god, whose pulse is beneath the deepest sea and whose breath is the frosty light of the stars, moved out of the shadow into the light, and was at one with it, so that no eyes beheld the radiance which flowered icily in the firmament and was a flame betwixt the earth and the sun, which was a glory amid the cloudy veils about the west and agleam where quiet dews sustained the green spires of the grass. And as the light lifted and moved, like a vast tide, there was a rumour as of a starry procession sweeping through space to the clashing cymbals of dead moons, to the trumpetings of volcanic worlds, and to the clarions of a thousand suns. But Angus Ogue had the deep immemorial age of the granite upon him, and he slept as the dead sleep.
Orchil smiled. “They are old, old, the ancient gods,” she whispered: “they are so old, they cannot see eternity at rest. For Angus Ogue is the god of Youth, and he only is eternal and unchanging.”
Then, before she turned once more to her looms of life and death, she lifted her eyes till her gaze pierced the brown earth and rose above the green world and was a trouble amid the quietudes of the sky. Thereat the icy stars gave forth snow, and Angus Ogue was wrapped in a white shroud that was not as that which melts in the flame of noon. Moreover, Orchil took one of the shadows of oblivion from her mystic loom, and put it as a band around Ben Monach where AngusOgue lay under the mountain-ash by the tarn.
· · · · ·
A thousand years passed, and when for the thousandth time the wet green smell of the larches drifted out of Winter into Spring, Orchil lifted her eyes from where she spun at her looms of life and death. For, over the shoulder of the hill, came three old Druids, advancing slowly to where the Yellow-haired One lay adream beneath the snow.
“Awake, Angus,” cried Keithoir.
“Awake, Angus,” cried Manannan.
“Awake, Angus,” cried Hesus.
“Awake, awake,” they cried, “for the world has suddenly grown chill and old.”
They had the grey grief upon them, when they stood there, face to face with Silence.
Then Orchil put down the shuttle of mystery wherewith she wove the threads of her looms, and spoke.
“O ye ancient gods, answer me this. Keithoir, if death were to come to thee, what would happen?”
“The green world would wither as a dry leaf, and as a dead leaf be blown idly beforethe wind that knows not whither it bloweth.”
“Manannan, if death were to come to thee, what would happen?”
“The deep seas would run dry, O Orchil: there would be sand falling in the place of the dews, and at last the world would reel and fall into the abyss.”
“Hesus, if death were to come to thee, what would happen?”
“There would be no pulse at the heart of earth, O Orchil, no lift of any star against any sun. There would be a darkness and a silence.”
Then Orchil laughed.
“And yet,” she said, “when Angus Ogue had the snow-sleep of a thousand years, none knew it! For a thousand years the pulse of his heart of love has been the rhythmic beat of the world. For a thousand years the breath of his nostrils has been as the coming of Spring in the human heart. For a thousand years the breath of his life has been warm against the lips of lovers. For a thousand years the memory of these has been sweet against oblivion. Nay, not onehath dreamed of the deep sleep of Angus Ogue.”
“Who is he?” cried Keithoir. “Is he older than I, who saw the green earth born?”
“Who is he?” cried Manannan. “Is he older than I, who saw the first waters come forth out of the void?”
“Who is he?” cried Hesus. “Is he older than I, who saw the first comet wander from the starry fold; who saw the moon when it was a flaming sun, and the sun when it was a sevenfold intolerable flame?”
“He is older!” said Orchil. “He is the soul of the gods.”
And with that she blew a frith across the palm of her hand, and took away the deep immemorial age of the granite that was upon the Fair God.
“Awake, eternal Spring!” she cried. And Angus awoke, and laughed with joy; and at his laughing the whole green earth was veiled in a snow of blossom.
“Arise, eternal Youth!” she cried. And Angus arose and smiled; and at his smiling the old brown world was clad in dewy green, and everywhere the beauty of the world was sweetagainst the eyes of young and old, and everywhere the pulse of love leaped in beating hearts.
“Go forth, eternal Hope!” she cried. And Angus Ogue passed away on the sunflood, weaving rainbows as he went, that were fair upon the hills of age and light within the valleys of sorrow, and were everywhere a wild, glad joy.
· · · · ·
And that is why, when Orchil weaves dumbly in the dark: and Keithoir is blind, and dreams among remote hills and by unfrequented shores: and Manannan lies heavy with deep sleep, with the oceans of the world like moving shadows above him: and Hesus is grown white and hoar with the frost of waning stars and weary with the burden of new worlds: that is why Angus Ogue, the youthful god, is more ancient than they, and is for ever young. Their period is set. Oblivion is upon the march against their immemorial time. But in the heart of Angus Ogue blooms the Rose of Youth, whose beauty is everlasting. Yea, Time is the name of that rose, and Eternity the beauty and fragrance thereof.
Decorative flying doves
[1]The “leabhar-aifrionn” (pron. lyo-ur eff-runn) is a missal: literally a mass-book, or chapel-book. Bru-dhearg is literally red-breast.[2]“O my Grief, my Grief.”[3]The first part of the story of Ula and Urla, as Isla and Eilidh, is told in “Silk o’ the Kine,” at the end ofThe Sin-Eater. [The name Eilidh, is pronounced Eily (liq.) or Isle-ih.][4]Pronounce mogh-rāy, mogh-rēe (my heart’s delight—lit.my dear one, my heart).
[1]The “leabhar-aifrionn” (pron. lyo-ur eff-runn) is a missal: literally a mass-book, or chapel-book. Bru-dhearg is literally red-breast.
[2]“O my Grief, my Grief.”
[3]The first part of the story of Ula and Urla, as Isla and Eilidh, is told in “Silk o’ the Kine,” at the end ofThe Sin-Eater. [The name Eilidh, is pronounced Eily (liq.) or Isle-ih.]
[4]Pronounce mogh-rāy, mogh-rēe (my heart’s delight—lit.my dear one, my heart).
PHARAIS: A Romance of the Isles.(Frank Murray, Derby.)(Stone & Kimball, New York.)THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS: A Romance.(John Lane, London.)(Roberts Bros., Boston.)THE SIN-EATER: and other Tales.(Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, Edinburgh.)(Stone & Kimball, New York.)THE WASHER OF THE FORD:and other Legendary Moralities.(Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, Edinburgh.)(Stone & Kimball, New York.)GREEN FIRE: A Romance.(Archibald Constable & Co., London.)(Harpers, New York.)FROM THE HILLS OF DREAM:Mountain Songs and Island Runes.(Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, Edinburgh.)
PHARAIS: A Romance of the Isles.
(Frank Murray, Derby.)
(Stone & Kimball, New York.)
THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS: A Romance.
(John Lane, London.)
(Roberts Bros., Boston.)
THE SIN-EATER: and other Tales.
(Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, Edinburgh.)
(Stone & Kimball, New York.)
THE WASHER OF THE FORD:
and other Legendary Moralities.
(Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, Edinburgh.)
(Stone & Kimball, New York.)
GREEN FIRE: A Romance.
(Archibald Constable & Co., London.)
(Harpers, New York.)
FROM THE HILLS OF DREAM:
Mountain Songs and Island Runes.
(Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, Edinburgh.)
“Not beauty alone, but that element of strangeness in beauty which Mr Pater rightly discerned as the inmost spirit of romantic art—it is this which gives to Miss Macleod’s work its peculiar æsthetic charm. But apart from and beyond all those qualities which one calls artistic, there is a poignant human cry, as of a voice with tears in it, speaking from out a gloaming which never lightens to day, which will compel and hold the hearing of many who to the claims of art as such are wholly or largely unresponsive.” (James Ashcroft Noble, inThe New Age.)
“Of the products of what has been called the Celtic Renascence,‘The Sin-Eater’and its companion Stories seem to us the most remarkable. They are of imagination and a certain terrible beauty all compact.” (From an article inThe Daily Chronicleon “The Gaelic Glamour.”)
“For sheer originality, other qualities apart, her tales are as remarkable, perhaps, as anything we have had of the kind since Mr Kipling appeared.... Their local colour, their idiom, their whole method, combine to produce an effect which may be unaccustomed, but is therefore the more irresistible. They provide as original an entertainment as we are likely to find in this lingering century, and they suggest a new romance among the potential things of the century to come.” (The Academy.)
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