The Merry Men

R >> Robert Louis Stevenson >> The Merry Men


Weel, when it got about the clachan that Janet M'Clour was to be servant
at the manse, the folk were fair mad wi' her an' him thegether; and some
o' the guidwives had nae better to dae than get round her door cheeks and
chairge her wi' a' that was ken't again her, frae the sodger's bairn to
John Tamson's twa kye. She was nae great speaker; folk usually let her
gang her ain gate, an' she let them gang theirs, wi', neither Fair-guid-
een nor Fair-guid-day; but when she buckled to, she had a tongue to deave
the miller. Up she got, an' there wasnae an auld story in Ba'weary but
she gart somebody lowp for it that day; they couldnae say ae thing but
she could say twa to it; till, at the hinder end, the guidwives up and
claught haud of her, and clawed the coats aff her back, and pu'd her doun
the clachan to the water o' Dule, to see if she were a witch or no, soum
or droun. The carline skirled till ye could hear her at the Hangin'
Shaw, and she focht like ten; there was mony a guidwife bure the mark of
her neist day an' mony a lang day after; and just in the hettest o' the
collieshangie, wha suld come up (for his sins) but the new minister.

'Women,' said he (and he had a grand voice), 'I charge you in the Lord's
name to let her go.'

Janet ran to him--she was fair wud wi' terror--an' clang to him, an'
prayed him, for Christ's sake, save her frae the cummers; an' they, for
their pairt, tauld him a' that was ken't, and maybe mair.

'Woman,' says he to Janet, 'is this true?'

'As the Lord sees me,' says she, 'as the Lord made me, no a word o't.
Forbye the bairn,' says she, 'I've been a decent woman a' my days.'

'Will you,' says Mr. Soulis, 'in the name of God, and before me, His
unworthy minister, renounce the devil and his works?'

Weel, it wad appear that when he askit that, she gave a girn that fairly
frichtit them that saw her, an' they could hear her teeth play dirl
thegether in her chafts; but there was naething for it but the ae way or
the ither; an' Janet lifted up her hand and renounced the deil before
them a'.

'And now,' says Mr. Soulis to the guidwives, 'home with ye, one and all,
and pray to God for His forgiveness.'

And he gied Janet his arm, though she had little on her but a sark, and
took her up the clachan to her ain door like a leddy of the land; an' her
scrieghin' and laughin' as was a scandal to be heard.

There were mony grave folk lang ower their prayers that nicht; but when
the morn cam' there was sic a fear fell upon a' Ba'weary that the bairns
hid theirsels, and even the men folk stood and keekit frae their doors.
For there was Janet comin' doun the clachan--her or her likeness, nane
could tell--wi' her neck thrawn, and her heid on ae side, like a body
that has been hangit, and a girn on her face like an unstreakit corp. By
an' by they got used wi' it, and even speered at her to ken what was
wrang; but frae that day forth she couldnae speak like a Christian woman,
but slavered and played click wi' her teeth like a pair o' shears; and
frae that day forth the name o' God cam never on her lips. Whiles she
wad try to say it, but it michtnae be. Them that kenned best said least;
but they never gied that Thing the name o' Janet M'Clour; for the auld
Janet, by their way o't, was in muckle hell that day. But the minister
was neither to haud nor to bind; he preached about naething but the
folk's cruelty that had gi'en her a stroke of the palsy; he skelpt the
bairns that meddled her; and he had her up to the manse that same nicht,
and dwalled there a' his lane wi' her under the Hangin' Shaw.

Weel, time gaed by: and the idler sort commenced to think mair lichtly o'
that black business. The minister was weel thocht o'; he was aye late at
the writing, folk wad see his can'le doon by the Dule water after twal'
at e'en; and he seemed pleased wi' himsel' and upsitten as at first,
though a' body could see that he was dwining. As for Janet she cam an'
she gaed; if she didnae speak muckle afore, it was reason she should
speak less then; she meddled naebody; but she was an eldritch thing to
see, an' nane wad hae mistrysted wi' her for Ba'weary glebe.

About the end o' July there cam' a spell o' weather, the like o't never
was in that country side; it was lown an' het an' heartless; the herds
couldnae win up the Black Hill, the bairns were ower weariet to play; an'
yet it was gousty too, wi' claps o' het wund that rumm'led in the glens,
and bits o' shouers that slockened naething. We aye thocht it but to
thun'er on the morn; but the morn cam, an' the morn's morning, and it was
aye the same uncanny weather, sair on folks and bestial. Of a' that were
the waur, nane suffered like Mr. Soulis; he could neither sleep nor eat,
he tauld his elders; an' when he wasnae writin' at his weary book, he wad
be stravaguin' ower a' the countryside like a man possessed, when a' body
else was blythe to keep caller ben the house.

Abune Hangin' Shaw, in the bield o' the Black Hill, there's a bit
enclosed grund wi' an iron yett; and it seems, in the auld days, that was
the kirkyaird o' Ba'weary, and consecrated by the Papists before the
blessed licht shone upon the kingdom. It was a great howff o' Mr.
Soulis's, onyway; there he would sit an' consider his sermons; and indeed
it's a bieldy bit. Weel, as he cam ower the wast end o' the Black Hill,
ae day, he saw first twa, an syne fower, an' syne seeven corbie craws
fleein' round an' round abune the auld kirkyaird. They flew laigh and
heavy, an' squawked to ither as they gaed; and it was clear to Mr. Soulis
that something had put them frae their ordinar. He wasnae easy fleyed,
an' gaed straucht up to the wa's; an' what suld he find there but a man,
or the appearance of a man, sittin' in the inside upon a grave. He was
of a great stature, an' black as hell, and his e'en were singular to see.
{144} Mr. Soulis had heard tell o' black men, mony's the time; but there
was something unco about this black man that daunted him. Het as he was,
he took a kind o' cauld grue in the marrow o' his banes; but up he spak
for a' that; an' says he: 'My friend, are you a stranger in this place?'
The black man answered never a word; he got upon his feet, an' begude to
hirsle to the wa' on the far side; but he aye lookit at the minister; an'
the minister stood an' lookit back; till a' in a meenute the black man
was ower the wa' an' rinnin' for the bield o' the trees. Mr. Soulis, he
hardly kenned why, ran after him; but he was sair forjaskit wi' his walk
an' the het, unhalesome weather; and rin as he likit, he got nae mair
than a glisk o' the black man amang the birks, till he won doun to the
foot o' the hill-side, an' there he saw him ance mair, gaun, hap, step,
an' lowp, ower Dule water to the manse.

Mr. Soulis wasnae weel pleased that this fearsome gangrel suld mak' sae
free wi' Ba'weary manse; an' he ran the harder, an', wet shoon, ower the
burn, an' up the walk; but the deil a black man was there to see. He
stepped out upon the road, but there was naebody there; he gaed a' ower
the gairden, but na, nae black man. At the hinder end, and a bit feared
as was but natural, he lifted the hasp and into the manse; and there was
Janet M'Clour before his een, wi' her thrawn craig, and nane sae pleased
to see him. And he aye minded sinsyne, when first he set his een upon
her, he had the same cauld and deidly grue.

'Janet,' says he, 'have you seen a black man?'

'A black man?' quo' she. 'Save us a'! Ye're no wise, minister. There's
nae black man in a Ba'weary.'

But she didnae speak plain, ye maun understand; but yam-yammered, like a
powney wi' the bit in its moo.

'Weel,' says he, 'Janet, if there was nae black man, I have spoken with
the Accuser of the Brethren.'

And he sat down like ane wi' a fever, an' his teeth chittered in his
heid.

'Hoots,' says she, 'think shame to yoursel', minister;' an' gied him a
drap brandy that she keept aye by her.

Syne Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang a' his books. It's a lang,
laigh, mirk chalmer, perishin' cauld in winter, an' no very dry even in
the tap o' the simmer, for the manse stands near the burn. Sae doun he
sat, and thocht of a' that had come an' gane since he was in Ba'weary,
an' his hame, an' the days when he was a bairn an' ran daffin' on the
braes; and that black man aye ran in his heid like the ower-come of a
sang. Aye the mair he thocht, the mair he thocht o' the black man. He
tried the prayer, an' the words wouldnae come to him; an' he tried, they
say, to write at his book, but he could nae mak' nae mair o' that. There
was whiles he thocht the black man was at his oxter, an' the swat stood
upon him cauld as well-water; and there was other whiles, when he cam to
himsel' like a christened bairn and minded naething.

The upshot was that he gaed to the window an' stood glowrin' at Dule
water. The trees are unco thick, an' the water lies deep an' black under
the manse; an' there was Janct washin' the cla'es wi' her coats kilted.
She had her back to the minister, an' he, for his pairt, hardly kenned
what he was lookin' at. Syne she turned round, an' shawed her face; Mr.
Soulis had the same cauld grue as twice that day afore, an' it was borne
in upon him what folk said, that Janet was deid lang syne, an' this was a
bogle in her clay-cauld flesh. He drew back a pickle and he scanned her
narrowly. She was tramp-trampin' in the cla'es, croonin' to hersel'; and
eh! Gude guide us, but it was a fearsome face. Whiles she sang louder,
but there was nae man born o' woman that could tell the words o' her
sang; an' whiles she lookit side-lang doun, but there was naething there
for her to look at. There gaed a scunner through the flesh upon his
banes; and that was Heeven's advertisement. But Mr. Soulis just blamed
himsel', he said, to think sae ill of a puir, auld afflicted wife that
hadnae a freend forbye himsel'; an' he put up a bit prayer for him and
her, an' drank a little caller water--for his heart rose again the
meat--an' gaed up to his naked bed in the gloaming.

That was a nicht that has never been forgotten in Ba'weary, the nicht o'
the seeventeenth of August, seventeen hun'er' an twal'. It had been het
afore, as I hae said, but that nicht it was hetter than ever. The sun
gaed doun amang unco-lookin' clouds; it fell as mirk as the pit; no a
star, no a breath o' wund; ye couldnae see your han' afore your face, and
even the auld folk cuist the covers frae their beds and lay pechin' for
their breath. Wi' a' that he had upon his mind, it was gey and unlikely
Mr. Soulis wad get muckle sleep. He lay an' he tummled; the gude, caller
bed that he got into brunt his very banes; whiles he slept, and whiles he
waukened; whiles he heard the time o' nicht, and whiles a tyke yowlin' up
the muir, as if somebody was deid; whiles he thocht he heard bogles
claverin' in his lug, an' whiles he saw spunkies in the room. He
behoved, he judged, to be sick; an' sick he was--little he jaloosed the
sickness.

At the hinder end, he got a clearness in his mind, sat up in his sark on
the bed-side, and fell thinkin' ance mair o' the black man an' Janet. He
couldnae weel tell how--maybe it was the cauld to his feet--but it cam'
in upon him wi' a spate that there was some connection between thir twa,
an' that either or baith o' them were bogles. And just at that moment,
in Janet's room, which was neist to his, there cam' a stramp o' feet as
if men were wars'lin', an' then a loud bang; an' then a wund gaed
reishling round the fower quarters of the house; an' then a' was aince
mair as seelent as the grave.

Mr. Soulis was feared for neither man nor deevil. He got his tinder-box,
an' lit a can'le, an' made three steps o't ower to Janet's door. It was
on the hasp, an' he pushed it open, an' keeked bauldly in. It was a big
room, as big as the minister's ain, an' plenished wi' grand, auld, solid
gear, for he had naething else. There was a fower-posted bed wi' auld
tapestry; and a braw cabinet of aik, that was fu' o' the minister's
divinity books, an' put there to be out o' the gate; an' a wheen duds o'
Janet's lying here and there about the floor. But nae Janet could Mr.
Soulis see; nor ony sign of a contention. In he gaed (an' there's few
that wad ha'e followed him) an' lookit a' round, an' listened. But there
was naethin' to be heard, neither inside the manse nor in a' Ba'weary
parish, an' naethin' to be seen but the muckle shadows turnin' round the
can'le. An' then a' at aince, the minister's heart played dunt an' stood
stock-still; an' a cauld wund blew amang the hairs o' his heid. Whaten a
weary sicht was that for the puir man's een! For there was Janat hangin'
frae a nail beside the auld aik cabinet: her heid aye lay on her
shoother, her een were steeked, the tongue projekit frae her mouth, and
her heels were twa feet clear abune the floor.

'God forgive us all!' thocht Mr. Soulis; 'poor Janet's dead.'

He cam' a step nearer to the corp; an' then his heart fair whammled in
his inside. For by what cantrip it wad ill-beseem a man to judge, she
was hingin' frae a single nail an' by a single wursted thread for darnin'
hose.

It's an awfu' thing to be your lane at nicht wi' siccan prodigies o'
darkness; but Mr. Soulis was strong in the Lord. He turned an' gaed his
ways oot o' that room, and lockit the door ahint him; and step by step,
doon the stairs, as heavy as leed; and set doon the can'le on the table
at the stairfoot. He couldnae pray, he couldnae think, he was dreepin'
wi' caul' swat, an' naething could he hear but the dunt-dunt-duntin' o'
his ain heart. He micht maybe have stood there an hour, or maybe twa, he
minded sae little; when a' o' a sudden, he heard a laigh, uncanny steer
upstairs; a foot gaed to an' fro in the cha'mer whaur the corp was
hingin'; syne the door was opened, though he minded weel that he had
lockit it; an' syne there was a step upon the landin', an' it seemed to
him as if the corp was lookin' ower the rail and doun upon him whaur he
stood.

He took up the can'le again (for he couldnae want the licht), and as
saftly as ever he could, gaed straucht out o' the manse an' to the far
end o' the causeway. It was aye pit-mirk; the flame o' the can'le, when
he set it on the grund, brunt steedy and clear as in a room; naething
moved, but the Dule water seepin' and sabbin' doon the glen, an' yon
unhaly footstep that cam' ploddin doun the stairs inside the manse. He
kenned the foot over weel, for it was Janet's; and at ilka step that cam'
a wee thing nearer, the cauld got deeper in his vitals. He commanded his
soul to Him that made an' keepit him; 'and O Lord,' said he, 'give me
strength this night to war against the powers of evil.'

By this time the foot was comin' through the passage for the door; he
could hear a hand skirt alang the wa', as if the fearsome thing was
feelin' for its way. The saughs tossed an' maned thegether, a lang sigh
cam' ower the hills, the flame o' the can'le was blawn aboot; an' there
stood the corp of Thrawn Janet, wi' her grogram goun an' her black mutch,
wi' the heid aye upon the shouther, an' the girn still upon the face
o't--leevin', ye wad hae said--deid, as Mr. Soulis weel kenned--upon the
threshold o' the manse.

It's a strange thing that the saul of man should be that thirled into his
perishable body; but the minister saw that, an' his heart didnae break.

She didnae stand there lang; she began to move again an' cam' slowly
towards Mr. Soulis whaur he stood under the saughs. A' the life o' his
body, a' the strength o' his speerit, were glowerin' frae his een. It
seemed she was gaun to speak, but wanted words, an' made a sign wi' the
left hand. There cam' a clap o' wund, like a cat's fuff; oot gaed the
can'le, the saughs skrieghed like folk; an' Mr. Soulis kenned that, live
or die, this was the end o't.

'Witch, beldame, devil!' he cried, 'I charge you, by the power of God,
begone--if you be dead, to the grave--if you be damned, to hell.'

An' at that moment the Lord's ain hand out o' the Heevens struck the
Horror whaur it stood; the auld, deid, desecrated corp o' the witch-wife,
sae lang keepit frae the grave and hirsled round by deils, lowed up like
a brunstane spunk and fell in ashes to the grund; the thunder followed,
peal on dirling peal, the rairing rain upon the back o' that; and Mr.
Soulis lowped through the garden hedge, and ran, wi' skelloch upon
skelloch, for the clachan.

That same mornin', John Christie saw the Black Man pass the Muckle Cairn
as it was chappin' six; before eicht, he gaed by the change-house at
Knockdow; an' no lang after, Sandy M'Lellan saw him gaun linkin' doun the
braes frae Kilmackerlie. There's little doubt but it was him that
dwalled sae lang in Janet's body; but he was awa' at last; and sinsyne
the deil has never fashed us in Ba'weary.

But it was a sair dispensation for the minister; lang, lang he lay ravin'
in his bed; and frae that hour to this, he was the man ye ken the day.




OLALLA


'Now,' said the doctor, 'my part is done, and, I may say, with some
vanity, well done. It remains only to get you out of this cold and
poisonous city, and to give you two months of a pure air and an easy
conscience. The last is your affair. To the first I think I can help
you. It fells indeed rather oddly; it was but the other day the Padre
came in from the country; and as he and I are old friends, although of
contrary professions, he applied to me in a matter of distress among some
of his parishioners. This was a family--but you are ignorant of Spain,
and even the names of our grandees are hardly known to you; suffice it,
then, that they were once great people, and are now fallen to the brink
of destitution. Nothing now belongs to them but the residencia, and
certain leagues of desert mountain, in the greater part of which not even
a goat could support life. But the house is a fine old place, and stands
at a great height among the hills, and most salubriously; and I had no
sooner heard my friend's tale, than I remembered you. I told him I had a
wounded officer, wounded in the good cause, who was now able to make a
change; and I proposed that his friends should take you for a lodger.
Instantly the Padre's face grew dark, as I had maliciously foreseen it
would. It was out of the question, he said. Then let them starve, said
I, for I have no sympathy with tatterdemalion pride. There-upon we
separated, not very content with one another; but yesterday, to my
wonder, the Padre returned and made a submission: the difficulty, he
said, he had found upon enquiry to be less than he had feared; or, in
other words, these proud people had put their pride in their pocket. I
closed with the offer; and, subject to your approval, I have taken rooms
for you in the residencia. The air of these mountains will renew your
blood; and the quiet in which you will there live is worth all the
medicines in the world.'

'Doctor,' said I, 'you have been throughout my good angel, and your
advice is a command. But tell me, if you please, something of the family
with which I am to reside.'

'I am coming to that,' replied my friend; 'and, indeed, there is a
difficulty in the way. These beggars are, as I have said, of very high
descent and swollen with the most baseless vanity; they have lived for
some generations in a growing isolation, drawing away, on either hand,
from the rich who had now become too high for them, and from the poor,
whom they still regarded as too low; and even to-day, when poverty forces
them to unfasten their door to a guest, they cannot do so without a most
ungracious stipulation. You are to remain, they say, a stranger; they
will give you attendance, but they refuse from the first the idea of the
smallest intimacy.'

I will not deny that I was piqued, and perhaps the feeling strengthened
my desire to go, for I was confident that I could break down that barrier
if I desired. 'There is nothing offensive in such a stipulation,' said
I; 'and I even sympathise with the feeling that inspired it.'

'It is true they have never seen you,' returned the doctor politely; 'and
if they knew you were the handsomest and the most pleasant man that ever
came from England (where I am told that handsome men are common, but
pleasant ones not so much so), they would doubtless make you welcome with
a better grace. But since you take the thing so well, it matters not. To
me, indeed, it seems discourteous. But you will find yourself the
gainer. The family will not much tempt you. A mother, a son, and a
daughter; an old woman said to be halfwitted, a country lout, and a
country girl, who stands very high with her confessor, and is,
therefore,' chuckled the physician, 'most likely plain; there is not much
in that to attract the fancy of a dashing officer.'

'And yet you say they are high-born,' I objected.

'Well, as to that, I should distinguish,' returned the doctor. 'The
mother is; not so the children. The mother was the last representative
of a princely stock, degenerate both in parts and fortune. Her father
was not only poor, he was mad: and the girl ran wild about the residencia
till his death. Then, much of the fortune having died with him, and the
family being quite extinct, the girl ran wilder than ever, until at last
she married, Heaven knows whom, a muleteer some say, others a smuggler;
while there are some who uphold there was no marriage at all, and that
Felipe and Olalla are bastards. The union, such as it was, was
tragically dissolved some years ago; but they live in such seclusion, and
the country at that time was in so much disorder, that the precise manner
of the man's end is known only to the priest--if even to him.'

'I begin to think I shall have strange experiences,' said I.

'I would not romance, if I were you,' replied the doctor; 'you will find,
I fear, a very grovelling and commonplace reality. Felipe, for instance,
I have seen. And what am I to say? He is very rustic, very cunning,
very loutish, and, I should say, an innocent; the others are probably to
match. No, no, senor commandante, you must seek congenial society among
the great sights of our mountains; and in these at least, if you are at
all a lover of the works of nature, I promise you will not be
disappointed.'

The next day Felipe came for me in a rough country cart, drawn by a mule;
and a little before the stroke of noon, after I had said farewell to the
doctor, the innkeeper, and different good souls who had befriended me
during my sickness, we set forth out of the city by the Eastern gate, and
began to ascend into the Sierra. I had been so long a prisoner, since I
was left behind for dying after the loss of the convoy, that the mere
smell of the earth set me smiling. The country through which we went was
wild and rocky, partially covered with rough woods, now of the cork-tree,
and now of the great Spanish chestnut, and frequently intersected by the
beds of mountain torrents. The sun shone, the wind rustled joyously; and
we had advanced some miles, and the city had already shrunk into an
inconsiderable knoll upon the plain behind us, before my attention began
to be diverted to the companion of my drive. To the eye, he seemed but a
diminutive, loutish, well-made country lad, such as the doctor had
described, mighty quick and active, but devoid of any culture; and this
first impression was with most observers final. What began to strike me
was his familiar, chattering talk; so strangely inconsistent with the
terms on which I was to be received; and partly from his imperfect
enunciation, partly from the sprightly incoherence of the matter, so very
difficult to follow clearly without an effort of the mind. It is true I
had before talked with persons of a similar mental constitution; persons
who seemed to live (as he did) by the senses, taken and possessed by the
visual object of the moment and unable to discharge their minds of that
impression. His seemed to me (as I sat, distantly giving ear) a kind of
conversation proper to drivers, who pass much of their time in a great
vacancy of the intellect and threading the sights of a familiar country.
But this was not the case of Felipe; by his own account, he was a home-
keeper; 'I wish I was there now,' he said; and then, spying a tree by the
wayside, he broke off to tell me that he had once seen a crow among its
branches.

'A crow?' I repeated, struck by the ineptitude of the remark, and
thinking I had heard imperfectly.

But by this time he was already filled with a new idea; hearkening with a
rapt intentness, his head on one side, his face puckered; and he struck
me rudely, to make me hold my peace. Then he smiled and shook his head.

'What did you hear?' I asked.

'O, it is all right,' he said; and began encouraging his mule with cries
that echoed unhumanly up the mountain walls.

I looked at him more closely. He was superlatively well-built, light,
and lithe and strong; he was well-featured; his yellow eyes were very
large, though, perhaps, not very expressive; take him altogether, he was
a pleasant-looking lad, and I had no fault to find with him, beyond that
he was of a dusky hue, and inclined to hairyness; two characteristics
that I disliked. It was his mind that puzzled, and yet attracted me. The
doctor's phrase--an innocent--came back to me; and I was wondering if
that were, after all, the true description, when the road began to go
down into the narrow and naked chasm of a torrent. The waters thundered
tumultuously in the bottom; and the ravine was filled full of the sound,
the thin spray, and the claps of wind, that accompanied their descent.
The scene was certainly impressive; but the road was in that part very
securely walled in; the mule went steadily forward; and I was astonished
to perceive the paleness of terror in the face of my companion. The
voice of that wild river was inconstant, now sinking lower as if in
weariness, now doubling its hoarse tones; momentary freshets seemed to
swell its volume, sweeping down the gorge, raving and booming against the
barrier walls; and I observed it was at each of these accessions to the
clamour, that my driver more particularly winced and blanched. Some
thoughts of Scottish superstition and the river Kelpie, passed across my
mind; I wondered if perchance the like were prevalent in that part of
Spain; and turning to Felipe, sought to draw him out.