Many years have pa.s.sed since that terrible adventure. Thank Heaven! I make silhouettes no longer, nor portraits of burgomasters. Through hard work and perseverance, I have conquered my place in the world, and I earn my living honourably by painting works of art--the sole end, in my opinion, to which a true artist should aspire. But the memory of that nocturnal sketch has always remained in my mind. Sometimes, in the midst of work, the thought of it recurs. Then I lay down my palette and dream for hours.
How could a crime committed by a man that I did not know--at a place that I had never seen--have been reproduced by my pencil, in all its smallest details?
Was it chance? No! And moreover, what is chance but the effect of a cause of which we are ignorant?
Was Schiller right when he said: "The immortal soul does not partic.i.p.ate in the weaknesses of matter; during the sleep of the body, it spreads its radiant wings and travels, G.o.d knows where! What it then does, no one can say, but inspiration sometimes betrays the secret of its nocturnal wanderings."
Who knows? Nature is more audacious in her realities than man in his most fantastic imagining.
GREEN BRANCHES
FIONA MACLEOD
In the year that followed the death of Ma.n.u.s MacCodrum, James Achanna saw nothing of his brother Gloom. He might have thought himself alone in the world, of all his people, but for a letter that came to him out of the west. True, he had never accepted the common opinion that his brothers had both been drowned on that night when Anne Gillespie left Eilanmore with Ma.n.u.s.
In the first place he had nothing of that inner conviction concerning the fate of Gloom which he had concerning that of Marcus; in the next, had he not heard the sound of the _feadan_, which no one that he knew played except Gloom; and, for further token, was not the tune that which he hated above all others--the "Dance of the Dead"--for who but Gloom would be playing that, he hating it so, and the hour being late, and no one else on Eilanmore? It was no sure thing that the dead had not come back; but the more he thought of it the more Achanna believed that his sixth brother was still alive. Of this, however, he said nothing to any one.
It was as a man set free that, at last, after long waiting and patient trouble, with the disposal of all that was left of the Achanna heritage, he left the island. It was a grey memory for him. The bleak moorland of it, the blight that had lain so long and so often upon the crops, the rains that had swept the isle for grey days and grey weeks and grey months, the sobbing of the sea by day and its dark moan by night, its dim relinquishing sigh in the calm of dreary ebbs, its hollow, baffling roar when the storm-shadow swept up out of the sea--one and all oppressed him, even in memory. He had never loved the island, even when it lay green and fragrant in the green and white seas under white and blue skies, fresh and sweet as an Eden of the sea.
He had ever been lonely and weary, tired of the mysterious shadow that lay upon his folk, caring little for any of his brothers except the eldest--long since mysteriously gone out of the ken of man--and almost hating Gloom, who had ever borne him a grudge because of his beauty, and because of his likeness to and reverent heed for Alison. Moreover, ever since he had come to love Katreen Macarthur, the daughter of Donald Macarthur who lived in Sleat of Skye, he had been eager to live near her; the more eager as he knew that Gloom loved the girl also, and wished for success not only for his own sake, but so as to put a slight upon his younger brother.
So, when at last he left the island, he sailed southward gladly. He was leaving Eilanmore; he was bound to a new home in Skye, and perhaps he was going to his long-delayed, long dreamed-of happiness. True, Katreen was not pledged to him; he did not even know for sure if she loved him.
He thought, hoped, dreamed, almost believed that she did; but then there was her cousin Ian, who had long wooed her, and to whom old Donald Macarthur had given his blessing. Nevertheless, his heart would have been lighter than it had been for long, but for two things. First, there was the letter. Some weeks earlier he had received it, not recognizing the writing, because of the few letters he had ever seen, and, moreover, as it was in a feigned hand. With difficulty he had deciphered the ma.n.u.script, plain printed though it was. It ran thus:
"Well, Sheumais, my brother, it is wondering if I am dead, you will be. Maybe ay, and maybe no. But I send you this writing to let you know that I know all you do and think of. So you are going to leave Eilanmore without an Achanna upon it? And you will be going to Sleat in Skye? Well, let me be telling you this thing. _Do not go._ I see blood there. And there is this, too: neither you nor any man shall take Katreen away from me. _You_ know that; and Ian Macarthur knows it; and Katreen knows it; and that holds whether I am alive or dead.
I say to you: do not go. It will be better for you, and for all. Ian Macarthur is away in the north-sea with the whaler-captain who came to us at Eilanmore, and will not be back for three months yet. It will be better for him not to come back. But if he comes back he will have to reckon with the man who says that Katreen Macarthur is his. I would rather not have two men to speak to, and one my brother. It does not matter to you where I am. I want no money just now. But put aside my portion for me. Have it ready for me against the day I call for it. I will not be patient that day; so have it ready for me. In the place that I am I am content. You will be saying: why is my brother away in a remote place (I will say this to you: that it is not further north than St. Kilda nor further south than the Mull of Cantyre!), and for what reason? That is between me and silence. But perhaps you think of Anne sometimes. Do you know that she lies under the green gra.s.s? And of Ma.n.u.s MacCodrum? They say that he swam out into the sea and was drowned; and they whisper of the seal-blood, though the minister is wrath with them for that.
He calls it a madness. Well, I was there at that madness, and I played to it on my _feadan_. And now, Sheumais, can you be thinking of what the tune was that I played?
"Your brother, who waits his own day,
"GLOOM."
"Do not be forgetting this thing: I would rather not be playing the "Damhsa-na-Mairbh." It was an ill hour for Ma.n.u.s when he heard the "Dan-nan-Ron"; it was the song of his soul, that; and yours is the "DAVSA-NA-MAIRV.""
This letter was ever in his mind; this, and what happened in the gloaming when he sailed away for Skye in the herring-smack of two men who lived at Armandale in Sleat. For, as the boat moved slowly out of the haven, one of the men asked him if he was sure that no one was left upon the island; for he thought he had seen a figure on the rocks, waving a black scarf. Achanna shook his head; but just then his companion cried that at that moment he had seen the same thing. So the smack was put about, and when she was moving slowly through the haven again, Achanna sculled ash.o.r.e in the little coggly punt. In vain he searched here and there, calling loudly again and again. Both men could hardly have been mistaken, he thought. If there were no human creature on the island, and if their eyes had not played them false, who could it be? The wraith of Marcus, mayhap; or might it be the old man himself (his father), risen to bid farewell to his youngest son, or to warn him?
It was no use to wait longer, so, looking often behind him, he made his way to the boat again, and rowed slowly out toward the smack.
_Jerk_--_jerk_--_jerk_ across the water came, low but only too loud for him, the opening motif of the "Damhsa-na-Mairbh." A horror came upon him, and he drove the boat through the water so that the sea splashed over the bows. When he came on deck he cried in a hoa.r.s.e voice to the man next him to put up the helm, and let the smack swing to the wind.
"There is no one there, Callum Campbell," he whispered.
"And who is it that will be making that strange music?"
"What music?"
"Sure it has stopped now, but I heard it clear, and so did Anndra MacEwan. It was like the sound of a reed pipe, and the tune was an eery one at that."
"It was the Dance of the Dead."
"And who will be playing that?" asked the man, with fear in his eyes.
"No living man."
"No living man?"
"No. I"m thinking it will be one of my brothers who was drowned here, and by the same token that it is Gloom, for he played upon the _feadan_.
But if not, then--then----"
The two men waited in breathless silence, each trembling with superst.i.tious fear; but at last the elder made a sign to Achanna to finish.
"Then--it will be the Kelpie."
"Is there--is there one of the--cave-women here?"
"It is said; and you know of old that the Kelpie sings or plays a strange tune to wile seamen to their death."
At that moment the fantastic, jerking music came loud and clear across the bay. There was a horrible suggestion in it, as if dead bodies were moving along the ground with long jerks, and crying and laughing wild.
It was enough; the men, Campbell and MacEwan, would not now have waited longer if Achanna had offered them all he had in the world. Nor were they, or he, out of their panic haste till the smack stood well out at sea, and not a sound could be heard from Eilanmore.
They stood watching, silent. Out of the dusky ma.s.s that lay in the seaward way to the north came a red gleam. It was like an eye staring after them with blood-red glances.
"What is that, Achanna?"
"It looks as though a fire had been lighted in the house up in the island. The door and the window must be open. The fire must be fed with wood, for no peats would give that flame; and there were none lighted when I left. To my knowing, there was no wood for burning except the wood of the shelves and the bed."
"And who would be doing that?"
"I know of that no more than you do, Callum Campbell."
No more was said, and it was a relief to all when the last glimmer of the light was absorbed in the darkness.
At the end of the voyage Campbell and MacEwan were well pleased to be quit of their companion; not so much because he was moody and distraught as because they feared that a spell was upon him--a fate in the working of which they might become involved. It needed no vow of the one to the other for them to come to the conclusion that they would never land on Eilanmore, or, if need be, only in broad daylight, and never alone.
The days went well for James Achanna, where he made his home at Ranza-beag, on Ranza Water in the Sleat of Skye. The farm was small but good, and he hoped that with help and care he would soon have the place as good a farm as there was in all Skye.
Donald Macarthur did not let him see much of Katreen, but the old man was no longer opposed to him. Sheumais must wait till Ian Macarthur came back again, which might be any day now. For sure, James Achanna of Ranza-beag was a very different person from the youngest of the Achanna-folk, who held by on lonely Eilanmore; moreover, the old man could not but think with pleasure that it would be well to see Katreen able to walk over the whole land of Ranza, from the cairn at the north of his own Ranza-Mr to the burn at the south of Ranza-beag, and know it for her own.
But Achanna was ready to wait. Even before he had the secret word of Katreen he knew from her beautiful dark eyes that she loved him. As the weeks went by they managed to meet often, and at last Katreen told him that she loved him too, and would have none but him; but that they must wait till Ian came back, because of the pledge given to him by her father. They were days of joy for him. Through many a hot noon-tide hour, through many a gloaming he went as one in a dream. Whenever he saw a birch swaying in the wind, or a wave leaping upon Loch Laith, that was near his home, or pa.s.sed a bush covered with wild roses, or saw the moonbeams lying white on the boles of the pines, he thought of Katreen--his fawn for grace, and so lithe and tall, with sunbrown face and wavy, dark ma.s.s of hair, and shadowy eyes and rowan-red lips. It is said that there is a G.o.d clothed in shadow who goes to and fro among the human kind, putting silence between lovers with his waving hands, and breathing a chill out of his cold breath, and leaving a gulf of deep water flowing between them because of the pa.s.sing of his feet. That shadow never came their way. Their love grew as a flower fed by rains and warmed by sunlight.
When midsummer came, and there was no sign of Ian Macarthur, it was already too late. Katreen had been won.