Celtic Lore & Legend (28 page)

Onyway, it behoved him to get an auld, decent wife [
Editor’s Note
: housekeeper] to keep the manse for him an’ see to his bit denners, an’ he was recommended to an auld limmer [
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: hussy]—Janet McClour they ca’d her—an’ sae far left tae himsel’ so to be ower persuaded. There was mony advised him to the contrae, for Janet was mair than suspeckit by the best o’ folk in Ba’weary. Lang or that, she had a wean [
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: child] to a dragoon, she hadna come forrit [
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: come to church] for maybe thretty [
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: thirty] year and barirns had seen her mumblin’ to hersel’ up on Kelly’s Loan in the gloamin’, whilk it was an unco’ time an’ place for a Godfearn’ woman. Howsoever, it was the laird himsel’ that had first tould the minister o’ Janet, an’ in thae days he wad hae gone a fair gate [
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: a long way] tae please the laird. When folk tould him that Janet was sib to the de’il [
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: sold to the Devil], it was a superstition by his way o’ it, when they cast up the Bible to him an; the witch of Endor, he would threep it down their thrapples [
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: put it down their throats] that thir days were a’ gone by, an’ the de’il was mercifully restrained.

Weel, when it got about the clachan that Janet McClour was to be servant at the manse, the folk were fair mad wi’ her an’ him thegither [
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: together]; an’ some o’ the guidwives had nae better to dae than get round her door-cheeks an’ charge her wi’ a’ that was kenn’d against her, frae the sodger’s [
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: soldier’s] bairn to John Tamson’s taw kye [
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: two cows]. She was nae great speaker, folk usually let her gang her ain gate, and she let them gang theirs, wi’ neither Fair-guid-een nor Fair-guid-day, but when she bucked to [
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: when she got worked up], she had a tongue to deeve [
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: deafen] the miller. Up she got, and there
wasna an auld story in Ba’weary but she gart somebody lawp for it that day [
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: she ridiculed their own shortcomings]; they couldna say ae thing but she could say twa to it, till at the hinder end, the guidwives up an’ claught haud of her, clawed the coats of her back and pu’d her doun the clachan to the water o’ the Dule to see if she were a witch or no, soom or droun [
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: swim or drown]. The carline [
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: evil old woman] skirled [
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: screamed] till ye could hear her at the Hangin’ Shaw an’ she focht like ten, there was mony a guidwife bure the merk o’ her neist day [
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: next day] an’ mony a lang day after, an’ just in the hettest o’ the collieshangie (uproar) what suld come up (for his sins) but the new minister!

“Women,” said 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 [
Editor’s Note
: women], an’ they for their pairt, tauld him a’ that was ken’t an’ 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 barn” 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 [
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: scream] that fairly frichit [
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: frightened] them that saw her an’ they could hear the teeth play dirl [
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: grinding] the girther in her chafts [
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: cheeks], but there was naething for it but the ae way or the ither; an’ Janet lifted up her hand an’ renounced the de’il before them a’.

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

An’ he gied Janet his arm, though she had little on her but a sark [
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: smock or chemise], and took her up the clachan to her ain door like a leddy o’ the land and her screighin’ [
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: shrieking] an’ 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 that fell upon Ba’weary that the bairns hid theirsel’s, an’ even the menfolk stood an’ keekit [
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: peeped] frae their doors. For there was Janet comin’ doun the clachan—her or her likeness, nane could tell—wi’ her neck thrawn [
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: twisted], an’ her heid on ae side, like a body that has been hangit, an a girn [
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: grimace] on her face like an unstreakit corp. By an’ by they got used wi’ it, an’ even speered at her [
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: questioned her] to ken what was wrang, but frae that day forth she couldna speak like a Christian woman, but slavered and played click wi’ her teeth like a pair o’ shears; an’ frae that day forth, the name o’ God cam’ never on her lips. Whiles she was try to say it, but it michtna be. Them that kenned best said least; but they never geid that Thing the name o’ Janet McClour, 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 the stroke of the palsy, he skelpit [
Editor’s Note
: smacked] the bairns that meddled her, an’ had her up to the manse that same nicht and dwalled there his lain [
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: lived alone] wi’ her under the Hangin’ Shaw.

Weel, time ga’ed by; an’ the idler sort commenced to think mair lichtly o’ that black business. The minister was weel thoct o’; he was aye late at the writin’, folk was see his can’le doon by the Dule water after twal’ at e’en [
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: midnight] an’ he seemed pleased wi’ himsel’ an; upsittin’ at first though a body could see that he was dwining [
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: pining away or growing weaker]. As for Janet, she cam’ an’ she gaed, if she
didna speak muckle afore, it was reason she should speak less then; she meddled naebody, but she was an eldritch thing to see an’ nane wud hae mistrysted wi’ her for Ba’weary’s glebe.

About the end o’ July there cam a spell o’ weather, the like o’t never was in that countryside; it was lown an’ het an’ heartless [
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: extremely warm]; the herds couldna win up the Black Hill; the bairns were ower weariet to play; an’ yet it was gousty [
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: windy] too, wi’ cleps o’ het wund that rumm’led in the glens and bits o’ showers that slockened [
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: wetted] naething. We aye thocht it but to thun’er on the morn but the morn cam’, an’ the morn’s morning, an’ it was aye the same uncanny weather, sair on folks and bestial. O’ them that were the waur, nane suffered like Mr. Soulis, he could neither sleep nor eat, he tauld his elders; an’ when he wasna writin’ in his weary book, he wad be stravaguin [
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: wandering] ower a’ the country-side like a man possessed, when a’body-else was blithe to keep caller ben the house [
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: stay indoors].

Aboun [
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: above] the Hangin’ Shaw, in the bield [
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: shelter] o’ the Black Hills, there’s a bit enclosed ground wi’ an iron yett [
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: gate], an’ it seems in the auld days, that was the kirkyaird o’ Ba’weary, an’ consecrated by the Papists before the blessed licht shone on the kingdom. It was a great howff [
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: haunt] o’ Mr. Soulis’s onyway, there he wad sit an’ consider his sermons; an’ indeed it’s a bieldy bit [
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: tranquil spot]. Weel, as he cam’ ower the wast end o’ the Black Hill, ae day, he saw first twa, sine fower, syne seeven corbie craws [
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: hooded crows] fleein’ roond an’ roond abune the auld kirkyaird. They flew laigh [
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: low] an’ heavy, an’ squawked to ither as the gaed, an’ it was clear to Mr.. Soulis that something had put them frae their ordinar. He wasna easy fleyed [
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: frightened], an’ geyed straught [
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: straight] up tae the wa’s [
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: walls] an’ what should he find there but a man or the appearance o’ a man, sittin’ on the inside upon a
grave. He was great of stature and black as hell and his e’en were singular to see. Mr. Soulis had heard tell o’ black men mony’s the time but there was somethin’ unco [
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: uncanny] about this black man that daunted him. [
Editor’s Note
: There was a common belief in many parts of Scotland, especially amongst Presbyterians, that the Devil often took the shape of a black man in order to work his evil in the world. References to a black man, sometimes with cloven feet, are made in several Scottish witch trials, where he is described as the Master of the Sabbat or Coven.] Het as he was, he took a kind o’ cold grue [
Editor’s Note
: chill] in the marrow o’ his bones, but up he spake 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’ begoud on to the hirsle [
Editor’s Note
: moved in the direction of the sheepyard] in the wa’ on the far side; but he aye lookit at the minister, an’ the minister stood an’ lookit back; till a’ in a meenit the black man was ower the wa’ an’ rinnin’ for the bield o’ the trees. Mr. Soulis, he hardly kenned why, but he was fair forjeakit [
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: exhausted] wi’ his walk an’ the het, unhalesome weather; an’ rin as he likit, he got nae mair than a glisk [
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: glance] o’ the black man amang the birks [
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: trees], till he won doun to the foot o’ the hillside an’ there he saw him ance mair, gaun, hap-step-an’- lawp, ower the Dule water to the manse.

Mr. Soulis wasna weel pleased that this fearsome gangrel [
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: vagrant or beggar] suld mak’ sae free wi’ Ba’weary manse an’ he ran the harder, an’ wet shoon [
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: his shoes] ower the burn an’ up the walk; but the de’il a black man was there to see. He stepped out upon the road but there was naebody there; he gaed ower the gairden, but na, nae black man. At the hinder end, an’ a bit feared as was but natural, he lifted the hasp [
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: latch] an’ into the manse; an’ there was Janet McClour before his e’en [
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: eyes] wi’ her thrawn craig [
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: twisted neck], an’ nane sae pleased to see him. An’ he aye minded sinsyne [
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:
in the past], when he first set his e’en 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 Ba’weary.”

But she didna’ speak plain, ye maun understan’, but yamyammered, like a powny 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.”

An’ he sat doun like ane wi’ a fever, an’ his teeth chattered in his heid.

“Hoots”, says she, “think shame to yoursel’, minister”, an’ gied him a drap o’ brandy that she keepit aye by her.

Syne, Mr. Soulis gaed into his study amang his books It’s a lang, laigh, mirk [
Editor’s Note
: gloomy] chalmer [
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: chamber], perishin’ cauld in winter, an no’ very dry even at the top o’ the simmer, for the manse stands near the burn [
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: stream, river]. Sae doun he sat, and thoct of a’ that had come an’ gone since he was in Ba’weary an’ his hame, an’ the days when he was a bairn an’ ran daffin’ on the braes [
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: playing on the hillside], an’ that black man aye ran in his like the owercome o’ a sang [
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: melody of a song]. Aye the mair he thoct, the mair he thoct o’ the black man. He tried the prayer, an’ the words wouldna come to him, an’, they say, he tried to write at his book, but he couldna make nae mair o’ that. There was whiles that he thoct the black man was at, his oxter, an’ the swat stood on him cauld as well-water; an’ there were ither whiles when he cam’ to himsel’ like a christen bairn and minded naething.

The upshot was that he gaed to the window an’ stood glowerin ‘ at the Dule water. The trees were unco thick, an’ the water lies deep an’ black under the manse, an’ there was Janet 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 upon him what folk said, that Janet was died lang syne, an’ this was a bogle [
Editor’s Note
: ghost] in her claycauld flesh. He drew back a pickle and scanned her narrowly. She was tramp-trampin’ the cla’es, croonin’ tae hersel’, and eh! God 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 [
Editor’s Note
: loathing] through the flesh upon his banes an’ that was Heeven’s advertisement. But Mr. Soulis just blamed himsel’, he said, to think sae ill o’ a puir, auld afflicted wife that hadna a freend forby himsel’; an’ he put up a bit prayer for him an’ her an’ drank a little caller water—for his heart rose again’ the meat—an’ he gaed up to his naked bed in the gloamin’ [
Editor’s Note
: twilight].

That was a nicht that has never been forgotten in Ba’weary, the nicht o’ the seeventeenth o’ August, seeventeen hun’er an’ twal’. It had been het afore, as I hae said, but that nicht was hetter than ever. The sun gaed doun amang unco-lookin’ clouds, it fell as mirk [
Editor’s Note
: dark] as the pit, no’ a star, no’ a breath o’ wund, ye couldna see your hand’ afore your face; an’ even the auld folk cuist the covers frae their beds an’ lay pechin’ [
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: panting] for their breath. Wi’ a’ that he had upon his mind, it was gey and unlikely that Mr. Soulis was get muckle sleep. He lay an’ he tumbled; the guide caller bed that he got into brunt [
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: bruised] his very banes, whiles he slept an’ whiles he wakened; whiles he heard the time o’ nicht an’ whiles a tyke yowlin’ up the muir, as if somebody was deid, whiles he thoct he heard bogles claverin’ in his lug [
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: specters whispering in his ear] an’ whiles he saw spunkies [
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: will-o’-the-wisps] in the room. He behoved, he judged, to be sick, an’ sick he was—little he jaloused the sickness.