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The Moon Endureth

J >> John Buchan >> The Moon Endureth




The whaup gave a whistle of scorn. "I have heard all that long
ago. In my great grandmother's time, which 'ill be a thousand
years and mair syne, there came a people from the south with
bright brass things on their heads and breasts and terrible
swords at their thighs. And with them were some lang gowned men
who kenned the stars and would come out o' nights to talk to the
deer and the corbies in their ain tongue. And one, I mind,
foregathered with my great-grandmother and told her that the
souls o' men flitted in the end to braw meadows where the gods
bide or gaed down to the black pit which they ca' Hell. But the
souls o' birds, he said, die wi' their bodies, and that's the end
o' them. Likewise in my mother's time, when there was a great
abbey down yonder by the Threepdaidle Burn which they called the
House of Kilmaclavers, the auld monks would walk out in the
evening to pick herbs for their distillings, and some were wise
and kenned the ways of bird and beast. They would crack often o'
nights with my ain family, and tell them that Christ had saved
the souls o' men, but that birds and beasts were perishable as
the dew o' heaven. And now ye have a black-gowned man in
Threepdaidle who threeps on the same overcome. Ye may a' ken
something o' your ain kitchen midden, but certes! ye ken little
o' the warld beyond it."

Now this angered the man, and he rebuked the bird. "These are
great mysteries," he said, "which are no to be mentioned in the
ears of an unsanctified creature. What can a thing like you wi'
a lang neb and twae legs like stilts ken about the next warld?"

"Weel, weel," said the whaup, "we'll let the matter be.
Everything to its ain trade, and I will not dispute with ye on
Metapheesics. But if ye ken something about the next warld, ye
ken terrible little about this."

Now this angered the man still more, for he was a shepherd
reputed to have great skill in sheep and esteemed the nicest
judge of hogg and wether in all the countryside. "What ken ye
about that?" he asked. "Ye may gang east to Yetholm and west
to Kells, and no find a better herd."

"If sheep were a'," said the bird, "ye micht be right; but what
o' the wide warld and the folk in it? Ye are Simon Etterick o'
the Lowe Moss. Do ye ken aucht o' your forebears?"

"My father was a God-fearing man at the Kennelhead and my
grandfather and great grandfather afore him. One o' our name,
folk say, was shot at a dykeback by the Black Westeraw. "

"If that's a'" said the bird, "ye ken little. Have ye never
heard o' the little man, the fourth back from yoursel', who
killed the Miller o' Bewcastle at the Lammas Fair? That was in
my ain time, and from my mother I have heard o' the Covenanter
who got a bullet in his wame hunkering behind the divot-dyke and
praying to his Maker. There were others of your name rode in the
Hermitage forays and turned Naworth and Warkworth and Castle Gay.
I have heard o' an Etterick. Sim o' the Redcleuch, who cut the
throat o' Jock Johnstone in his ain house by the Annan side. And
my grandmother had tales o' auld Ettericks who rade wi' Douglas
and the Bruce and the ancient Kings o' Scots; and she used to
tell o' others in her mother's time, terrible shockheaded men
hunting the deer and rinnin' on the high moors, and bidin' in the
broken stane biggings on the hill-taps.

The shepherd stared, and he, too, saw the picture. He smelled
the air of battle and lust and foray, and forgot the Sabbath.

"And you yoursel'," said the bird, "are sair fallen off from
the auld stock. Now ye sit and spell in books, and talk about
what ye little understand, when your fathers were roaming the
warld. But little cause have I to speak, for I too am a
downcome. My bill is two inches shorter than my mother's, and my
grandmother was taller on her feet. The warld is getting
weaklier things to dwell in it, even since I mind mysel'."

"Ye have the gift o' speech; bird," said the man, "and I would
hear mair." You will perceive that he had no mind of the Sabbath
day or the fifteenth head of the forenoon's discourse.

"What things have I to tell ye when ye dinna ken the very
horn-book o' knowledge? Besides, I am no clatter-vengeance to
tell stories in the middle o' the muir, where there are ears open
high and low. There's others than me wi mair experience and a
better skill at the telling. Our clan was well acquaint wi' the
reivers and lifters o' the muirs, and could crack fine o' wars
and the takin of cattle. But the blue hawk that lives in the
corrie o' the Dreichil can speak o' kelpies and the dwarfs that
bide in the hill. The heron, the lang solemn fellow, kens o' the
greenwood fairies and the wood elfins, and the wild geese that
squatter on the tap o' the Muneraw will croak to ye of the merry
maidens and the girls o' the pool. The wren--him that hops in
the grass below the birks--has the story of the Lost Ladies of
the Land, which is ower auld and sad for any but the wisest to
hear; and there is a wee bird bides in the heather-hill--lintie
men call him--who sings the Lay of the West Wind, and the Glee of
the Rowan Berries. But what am I talking of? What are these
things to you, if ye have not first heard True Thomas's Rime,
which is the beginning and end o' all things?

"I have heard no rime" said the man, "save the sacred psalms o'
God's Kirk."

"Bonny rimes" 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 Rime 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 bogblitter 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 fail 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 Rime.

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 midday 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 ill 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 rasp of
the north wind in the sheets. Come forth, one and all, unto the
great lands oversea, and the strange tongues and the hermit
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 your 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 Rime, 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 stone 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 the Border foray,
the shouts of the famished 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 the 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 cried,
"which leads to the Moon and the Great Waters. No changehouse
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 treetop hears and
flaps his wing. It is the lilt which men and women hear in the
darkening of their days, and sigh for the unforgettable; 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 Rime," 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 vagrant 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 Rime, and many women who now sit decently spinning in
Kilmaclavers have heard it. But woman may hear it and lay it up
in her soul and bide at hame, while a man, if he get but a glisk
of it in his fool's heart, must needs up and awa' to the warld's
end on some daft-like ploy. But gang your ways and fare-ye-weel.
My cousin Francie heard it, and he went north wi' a white
cockade in his bonnet and a sword at his side, singing 'Charlie's
come hame'. And Tam Crichtoun o' the Bourhopehead got a sough o'
it one simmers' morning, and the last we heard o' Tam he was
fechting like a deil among the Frenchmen. Once I heard a
tinkler play a sprig of it on the pipes, and a' the lads were
wud to follow him. Gang your ways for I am near the end o'
mine."

And the old wife shook with her coughing. So the man put up his
belongings in a pack on his back and went whistling down the
Great South Road.

Whether or not this tale have a moral it is not for me to say.
The King (who told it me) said that it had, and quoted a scrap of
Latin, for he had been at Oxford in his youth before he fell heir
to his kingdom. One may hear tunes from the Rime, said he, in
the thick of a storm on the scarp of a rough hill, in the soft
June weather, or in the sunset silence of a winter's night. But
let none, he added, pray to have the full music; for it will
make him who hears it a footsore traveller in the ways o' the
world and a masterless man till death.

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