Voltaire, whae was gien for ordinar’ to rinnin’ wide and playin’ himsel’, kept close rubbin’ against my heels. We were miles frae hame, and unless the thing cleared there was sma’ chance o’ us winnin’ there. Yae guid thing, there was little wind, but just a saft, even fa’; so it wasna so bad as though it had been a fierce driftin’. I had a general kind o’ glimmer o’ the road, though I had never been in thae hills afore. If we held doun by the Lanely Bield Burn we wad come to the tap o’ the Stark Water, whilk cam into Gled no a mile abune Callowa. So on we warstled, prayin’ and greetin’ like bairns, wi’ scarce a thocht o’ what we were daein’.
“Whaur are we?” says the doctor in a wee, and his voice sounded as though he had a naipkin roond his mouth.
“I think we should be somewhere near the Stark heid,” said I. “We ‘re gaun doun, and there’s nae burn hereaways but it.”
“But I aye thocht the Stark Glen was a’ sklidders at the heid,” said he; “and this is as saft a slope as a hoose riggin’.”
“I canna help that,” says I. “It maun e’en be it, or we’ve clean missed the airt.”
So on we gaed again, and the snaw aye got deeper. It wasna awfu’ saft, so we didna sink far as we walkit, but it was terrible wearin’. I sune was sae tired that I could scarce drag mysel’; forbye being frichtit oot o’ my senses. But the doctor was still stoot and hopefu’, and I just followed him.
Suddenly, ere ever we kenned, the slope ceased, and we were walkin’ on flat grund. I could scarce believe my een, but there it was at my feet, as laigh as a kitchen floor. But the queer thing was that while a’ around was deep snaw, this place was a’ but bare, and here and there rigs o’ green land stuck oot.
“What in the warld’s this?” says I, as I steppit oot boldly, and I turned to my companion. When I saw him I was fair astonished. For his face was white as the snaw, and he was tremblin’ to his fingers.
“Ye ‘re no feared, are ye?” I asked. “D ‘ye no ken guid land when ye see’t?”
His teeth were chattering in his heid. “You hae na sense to be feared. The Almichty help us, but I believe we ‘re daein’ what nae man ever did afore.”
I never saw sae queer a place. The great wecht o’ snaw was still fa’in’ on us, but it seemed to disappear when it cam to the grund. And our feet when we steppit aye sank a wee bit, but no in snaw. The feel i’ the air wasna cauld, but if onything ‘t was het and damp. The sweat began to rin doon aff my broo, and I could hear the man ahint me pantin’ like a broken-winded horse. I lookit roond me for the dowg, but nae dowg was to be seen; for at the first step we took on the queer land he had ta’en himsel’ aff. I didna like the look o’t, for it wad hae ta’en muckle to drive the beast frae my side.
Every now and then we cam on a wee hillock whaur the snaw lay deeper, but the spaces atween were black and saft, and crunkled aneath the feet. Ye ken i’ the spring about the burn-heids how the water rins oot o’ the grund, and a’ the colour o’ the place is a sodden grey. Weel, ‘t was the same here. There was a seepin’, dreepin’ feel i’ the grund whilk made it awesome to the eye. Had I been i’ my clear senses, I wad hae been rale puzzled about the maitter, but I was donnered wi’ the drifts and the weariness, and thocht only o’ gettin’ by’t. But sune a kind o’ terror o’ the thing took me. Every time my feet touched the grund, as I walkit, a groo gae’d through my body. I grat wi’ the fair hate o’ the place, and when I lookit at my neebor it didna mak me better. For there he was gaun along shakin’ like a tree-tap, and as white’s a clout. It made it waur that the snaw was sae thick i’ the air that we couldna see a foot in front. It was like walkin’ blindfold roond the tap o’ a linn.
Then a’ of a sudden the bare grund stopped, and we were flounderin’ among deep drifts up to the middle. And yet it was a relief, and my hert was strengthened. By this time I had clean lost coont o’ the road, but we keepit aye to the laigh land, whiles dippin’ intil a glen and whiles warslin’ up a brae face. I had learned frae mony days in hill mists to keep frae gaun roond about. We focht our way like fair deevils, for the terror o’ the place ahint had grippit us like a vice. We ne’er spak a word, but wrocht till our herts were like to burst and our een felt fou o’ bluid. It got caulder and caulder, and thicker and ever thicker. Hope had lang syne gane frae us, and fricht had ta’en its place. It was just a maitter o’ keepin’ up till we fell down, and then …
It wasna lang ere they fund us, for find us they did, by God’s grace and the help o’ the dowg. For the beast went hame and made sic a steer that my wife roused the nearest neebor and got folk startit oot to seek us. And wad ye believe it, the dowg took them to the verra bit. They fund the doctor last, and he lay in his bed for a month and mair wi’ the effects. But for mysel’, I was nane the waur. When they took me hame, I was put to bed, and sleepit on for twenty hoor, as if I had been streikit oot. They waukened me every six hoor, and put a spoonfu’ o’ brandy doon my throat, and when a’ was feenished, I rase as weel as ever.
It was about fower months after that I had to gang ower to Annandale wi’ sheep, and cam back by the hills. It was a road I had never been afore, and I think it was the wildest that ever man trod. I mind it was a warm, bricht day, verra het and wearisome for the walkin’. Bye and bye I cam to a place I seemed to ken, though I had never been there to my mind, and I thocht hoo I could hae seen it afore. Then I mindit that it was abune the heid o’ the Stark, and though the snaw had been in my een when I last saw it, I minded the lie o’ the land and the saft slope. I turned verra keen to ken what the place was whaur me and the doctor had had sic a fricht. So I went oot o’ my way, and climbed yae hill and gaed doun anither, till I cam to a wee rig, and lookit doun on the verra bit.
I just lookit yince, and then turned awa’ wi’ my hert i’ my mooth.
For there below was a great green bog, oozing and blinking in the sun.
THE HERD OF STANDLAN
“When the wind is nigh and the moon is high
And the mist on the riverside,
Let such as fare have a very good care Of the Folk who come to ride.
For they may meet with the riders fleet
Who fare from the place of dread;
And hard it is for a mortal man
To sort at ease with the Dead.”
—The Ballad of Grey Weather.
When Standlan Burn leaves the mosses and hags which gave it birth, it tumbles over a succession of falls into a deep, precipitous glen, whence in time it issues into a land of level green meadows, and finally finds its rest in the Gled. Just at the opening of the ravine there is a pool shut in by high, dark cliffs, and black even on the most sunshiny day. The rocks are never dry but always black with damp and shadow. There is scarce any vegetation save stunted birks, juniper bushes, and draggled fern; and the hoot of owls and the croak of hooded crows is seldom absent from the spot. It is the famous Black Linn where in winter sheep stray and are never more heard of, and where more than once an unwary shepherd has gone to his account. It is an Inferno on the brink of a Paradise, for not a stone’s throw off is the green, lawn-like turf, the hazel thicket, and the broad, clear pools, by the edge of which on that July day the Herd of Standlan and I sat drowsily smoking and talking of fishing and
