“As streams of water in the South,
Our bondage, Lord, recall.”
Ay, but yon’s the name for them. “Streams o’ water in the South.”’
As we went down the slopes to the darkening vale I heard him crooning to himself in a high, quavering voice the single distich; then in a little his weariness took him again, and he plodded on with no thought save for his sorrows.
IV
The conclusion of this tale belongs not to me, but to the shepherd of the Redswirehead, and I heard it from him in his dwelling, as I stayed the night, belated on the darkening moors. He told me it after supper in a flood of misty Doric, and his voice grew rough at times, and he poked viciously at the dying peat.
‘In the last back-end I was at Gledfoot wi’ sheep, and a weary job I had and sma’ credit. Ye ken the place, a lang dreich shore wi’ the wind swirlin’ and bitin’ to the bane, and the broun Gled water choked wi’ Solloway sand. There was nae room in ony inn in the town, so I bude to try a bit public on the Harbour Walk, where sailor-folk and fishermen feucht and drank, and nae dacent men frae the hills thocht o’ gangin’. I was in a gey ill way, for I had sell’t my beasts dooms cheap, and I thocht o’ the lang miles name in the wintry weather. So after a bite o’ meat I gangs oot to get the air and clear my heid, which was a’ rammled wi’ the auction-ring.
‘And whae did I find, sittin’ on a bench at the door, but the auld man Yeddie? He was waur changed than ever. His lang hair was hingin’ ower his broo, and his face was thin and white as a ghaist’s. His claes fell loose about him, and he sat wi’ his hand on his auld stick and his chin on his hand, hearin’ nocht and glowerin’ afore him. He never saw nor kenned me till I shook him by the shouthers, and cried him by his name.
‘“Whae are ye?” says he, in a thin voice that gaed to my hert.
‘“Ye ken me fine, ye auld fule,” says I. “I’m Jock Rorison o’ the Redswirehead, whaur ye’ve stoppit often.”
‘“Redswirehead,” he says, like a man in a dream. “Redswirehead! That’s at the tap o’ the Clachlands Burn as ye gang ower to the Dreichil.”
‘“And what are ye daein’ here? It’s no your countryside ava, and ye’re no fit noo for lang trampin’.”
‘“No,” says he, in the same weak voice and wi’ nae fushion in him, “but they winna hae me up yonder noo. I’m ower auld and useless. Yince a’body was gled to see me, and wad keep me as lang’s I wantit, and had aye a guid word at meeting and pairting. Noo it’s a’ changed, and my wark’s dune.”
‘I saw fine that the man was daft, but what answer could I gie to his havers? Folk in the Callowa glens are as kind as afore, but ill weather and auld age had put queer notions intil his heid. Forbye, he was seeck, seeck unto death, and I saw mair in his ee than I likit to think.
‘“Come in-by and get some meat, man,” I said. “Ye’re famishin’ wi’ cauld and hunger.”
‘“I canna eat,” he says, and his voice never changed. “It’s lang since I had a bite, for I’m no hungry. But I’m awfu’ thirsty. I cam here yestreen, and I can get nae water to drink like the water in the hills. I maun be settin’ out back the morn, if the Lord spares me.”
‘I mindit fine that the body wad tak nae drink like an honest man, but maun aye draibble wi’ burn water, and noo he had got the thing on the brain. I never spak a word, for the maitter was bye ony mortal’s aid.
‘For lang he sat quiet. Then he lifts his heid and looks awa ower the grey sea. Α licht for a moment cam intil his een.
‘“Whatna big water’s yon?” he said, wi’ his puir mind aye rinnin’ on waters.
‘“That’s the Solloway,” says I.
‘“The Solloway,” says he; “it’s a big water, and it wad be an ill job to ford it.”
‘“Nae man ever fordit it,” I said.
‘“But I never yet cam to the water I couldna ford,” says he. “But what’s that queer smell i’ the air? Something snell and cauld and unfreendly.”
‘“That’s the salt, for we’re at the sea here, the mighty ocean.”
‘He keepit repeatin’ the word ower in his mouth. “The salt, the salt! I’ve heard tell o’ it afore, but I dinna like it. It’s terrible cauld.”
‘By this time an on-ding o’ rain was coming up frae the water, and I bade the man come indoors to the fire. He followed me, as biddable as a sheep, draggin’ his legs like yin far gone in seeckness. I set him by the fire, and put whisky at his elbow, but he wadna touch it.
‘“I’ve nae need o’ it,” said he. “I’m fine and warm;” and he sits staring at the fire, aye comin’ ower again and again, “The Solloway, the Solloway. It’s a guid name and a muckle water.” But sune I gaed to my bed, being heavy wi’ sleep, for I had traivelled for twae days.
‘The next morn I was up at six and oot to see the weather. It was a’ changed. The muckle tides lay lang and still as our ain Loch o’ the Lee, and far ayont I saw the big blue hills o’ England shine bricht and clear. I thankit Providence for the day, for it was better to tak the lang miles back in the sun than in a blast o’ rain.
‘But as I lookit I saw folk comin’ up frae the beach cairryin’ something atween them. My hert gied a loup, and “Some puir, drooned sailor body,” says I to mysel’, “whae has perished in yesterday’s storm.” But as they cam nearer I got a glisk which made me run like daft, and lang ere I was up on them I saw it was Yeddie.
‘He lay drippin’ and white, wi’ his puir auld hair lyin’ back frae his broo and the duds clingin’ to his legs. But oot o’ the face there had gane a’ the seeckness and weariness. His een were stelled as if he had been lookin’ forrit to something, and his lips were set like a man on a lang errand. And mair, his stick was grippit sae firm in his hand that nae man could lowse it, so they e’en let it be.
‘Then they tell’t me the tale o’t, how at the earliest licht they had seen him wanderin’ alang the sands, juist as they were putting out their boats to sea. They wondered and watched him, till of a sudden he turned to the water and wadit in, keeping straucht on till he was oot o’ sicht. They rowed a’ their pith to the place, but they were ower late. Yince they saw his heid appear abune water, still wi’ his face to the other side; and then they got his body, for the tide was rinnin’ low in the mornin’.
‘We brocht him up to the house and laid him there till the folk i’ the town had heard o’ the business. Syne the procurator-fiscal came and certifeed the death, and the rest was left to me. I got a wooden coffin made and put him in it, juist as he was, wi’ his staff in his hand and his auld duds about him. I mindit o’ my sworn word, for I was yin o’ the four that had promised, and I ettled to dae his bidding. It was saxteen miles to the hills, and yin and twenty to the lanely tap whaur he had howkit his grave. But I never heedit it. I’m a strong man, weel used to the walkin’, and my hert was sair for the auld body. Now that he had gotten deliverance from his affliction, it was for me to leave him in the place he wantit. Forbye, he wasna muckle heavier than a bairn.
‘It was a long road, a sair road, but I did it, and by seven o’clock I was at the edge o’ the muirlands. There was a braw mune, and a’ the glens and taps stood out as clear as midday. Bit by bit, for I was gey tired, I warstled ower the rigs and up the cleuchs to the Gled-head; syne up the stany Gled-cleuch to the