Part 8

“He will awake no more,” murmured Hesus; and the unseen god, whose pulse is beneath the deepest sea and whose breath is the frosty light of the stars, moved out of the shadow into the light, and was at one with it, so that no eyes beheld the radiance which flowered icily in the firmament and was a flame betwixt the earth and the sun, which was a glory amid the cloudy veils about the west and a gleam where quiet dews sustained the green spires of the grass. And as the light lifted and moved, like a vast tide, there was a rumour as of a starry procession sweeping through space to the clashing cymbals of dead moons, to the trumpetings of volcanic worlds, and to the clarions of a thousand suns. But Angus Ogue had the deep immemorial age of the granite upon him, and he slept as the dead sleep.

Orchil smiled. “They are old, old, the ancient gods,” she whispered: “they are so old, they cannot see eternity at rest. For Angus Ogue is the god of Youth, and he only is eternal and unchanging.”

Then, before she turned once more to her looms of life and death, she lifted her eyes till her gaze pierced the brown earth and rose above the green world and was a trouble amid the quietudes of the sky. Thereat the icy stars gave forth snow, and Angus Ogue was wrapped in a white shroud that was not as that which melts in the flame of noon. Moreover, Orchil took one of the shadows of oblivion from her mystic loom, and put it as a band around Ben Monach where Angus Ogue lay under the mountain-ash by the tarn.

· · · · ·

A thousand years passed, and when for the thousandth time the wet green smell of the larches drifted out of Winter into Spring, Orchil lifted her eyes from where she spun at her looms of life and death. For, over the shoulder of the hill, came three old Druids, advancing slowly to where the Yellow-haired One lay adream beneath the snow.

“Awake, Angus,” cried Keithoir.

“Awake, Angus,” cried Manannan.

“Awake, Angus,” cried Hesus.

“Awake, awake,” they cried, “for the world has suddenly grown chill and old.”

They had the grey grief upon them, when they stood there, face to face with Silence.

Then Orchil put down the shuttle of mystery wherewith she wove the threads of her looms, and spoke.

“O ye ancient gods, answer me this. Keithoir, if death were to come to thee, what would happen?”

“The green world would wither as a dry leaf, and as a dead leaf be blown idly before the wind that knows not whither it bloweth.”

“Manannan, if death were to come to thee, what would happen?”

“The deep seas would run dry, O Orchil: there would be sand falling in the place of the dews, and at last the world would reel and fall into the abyss.”

“Hesus, if death were to come to thee, what would happen?”

“There would be no pulse at the heart of earth, O Orchil, no lift of any star against any sun. There would be a darkness and a silence.”

Then Orchil laughed.

“And yet,” she said, “when Angus Ogue had the snow-sleep of a thousand years, none knew it! For a thousand years the pulse of his heart of love has been the rhythmic beat of the world. For a thousand years the breath of his nostrils has been as the coming of Spring in the human heart. For a thousand years the breath of his life has been warm against the lips of lovers. For a thousand years the memory of these has been sweet against oblivion. Nay, not one hath dreamed of the deep sleep of Angus Ogue.”

“Who is he?” cried Keithoir. “Is he older than I, who saw the green earth born?”

“Who is he?” cried Manannan. “Is he older than I, who saw the first waters come forth out of the void?”

“Who is he?” cried Hesus. “Is he older than I, who saw the first comet wander from the starry fold; who saw the moon when it was a flaming sun, and the sun when it was a sevenfold intolerable flame?”

“He is older!” said Orchil. “He is the soul of the gods.”

And with that she blew a frith across the palm of her hand, and took away the deep immemorial age of the granite that was upon the Fair God.

“Awake, eternal Spring!” she cried. And Angus awoke, and laughed with joy; and at his laughing the whole green earth was veiled in a snow of blossom.

“Arise, eternal Youth!” she cried. And Angus arose and smiled; and at his smiling the old brown world was clad in dewy green, and everywhere the beauty of the world was sweet against the eyes of young and old, and everywhere the pulse of love leaped in beating hearts.

“Go forth, eternal Hope!” she cried. And Angus Ogue passed away on the sunflood, weaving rainbows as he went, that were fair upon the hills of age and light within the valleys of sorrow, and were everywhere a wild, glad joy.

· · · · ·

And that is why, when Orchil weaves dumbly in the dark: and Keithoir is blind, and dreams among remote hills and by unfrequented shores: and Manannan lies heavy with deep sleep, with the oceans of the world like moving shadows above him: and Hesus is grown white and hoar with the frost of waning stars and weary with the burden of new worlds: that is why Angus Ogue, the youthful god, is more ancient than they, and is for ever young. Their period is set. Oblivion is upon the march against their immemorial time. But in the heart of Angus Ogue blooms the Rose of Youth, whose beauty is everlasting. Yea, Time is the name of that rose, and Eternity the beauty and fragrance thereof.

FOOTNOTES

[1]The “leabhar-aifrionn” (pron. lyo-ur eff-runn) is a missal: literally a mass-book, or chapel-book. Bru-dhearg is literally red-breast.

[2]“O my Grief, my Grief.”

[3]The first part of the story of Ula and Urla, as Isla and Eilidh, is told in “Silk o’ the Kine,” at the end of _The Sin-Eater_. [The name Eilidh, is pronounced Eily (_liq_.) or Isle-ih.]

[4]Pronounce mogh-rāy, mogh-rēe (my heart’s delight—_lit._ my dear one, my heart).

By the Same Author.

PHARAIS: A Romance of the Isles. (Frank Murray, Derby.) (Stone & Kimball, New York.) THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS: A Romance. (John Lane, London.) (Roberts Bros., Boston.) THE SIN-EATER: and other Tales. (Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, Edinburgh.) (Stone & Kimball, New York.) THE WASHER OF THE FORD: and other Legendary Moralities. (Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, Edinburgh.) (Stone & Kimball, New York.) GREEN FIRE: A Romance. (Archibald Constable & Co., London.) (Harpers, New York.) FROM THE HILLS OF DREAM: Mountain Songs and Island Runes. (Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, Edinburgh.)

RE-ISSUE OF Miss Fiona Macleod’s Stories Rearranged, and with Additional Tales

VOL. I. _SPIRITUAL TALES_ Contents

St Bride of the Isles. The Three Marvels of Iona. The Melancholy of Ulad. Ula and Urla. The Dark Nameless One. The Smoothing of the Hand. The Anointed Man. The Hills of Ruel. The Fisher of Men. The Last Supper. The Awakening of Angus Ogue.

VOL. II. _BARBARIC TALES_ Contents

The Song of the Sword. The Flight of the Culdees. Mircath. The Laughter of the Queen. The Harping of Cravetheen. Ahez the Pale. Silk o’ the Kine. Cathal of the Woods. The Washer of the Fords.

VOL. III. _TRAGIC ROMANCES_ Contents

Morag of the Glen. The Dan-nan-Ron. The Sin-Eater. The Ninth Wave. The Judgment o’ God. Green Branches. The Archer.

BY FIONA MACLEOD.

PHARAIS: A Romance of the Isles. THE MOUNTAIN LOVERS. THE SIN-EATER: and other Tales. THE WASHER OF THE FORD. GREEN FIRE: A Romance. FROM THE HILLS OF DREAM: Mountain Songs and Island Runes.

“_Not beauty alone, but that element of strangeness in beauty which Mr Pater rightly discerned as the inmost spirit of romantic art—it is this which gives to Miss Macleod’s work its peculiar æsthetic charm. But apart from and beyond all those qualities which one calls artistic, there is a poignant human cry, as of a voice with tears in it, speaking from out a gloaming which never lightens to day, which will compel and hold the hearing of many who to the claims of art as such are wholly or largely unresponsive._” (James Ashcroft Noble, in The New Age.)

“_Of the products of what has been called the Celtic Renascence,_ ‘The Sin-Eater’ _and its companion Stories seem to us the most remarkable. They are of imagination and a certain terrible beauty all compact._” (From an article in The Daily Chronicle on “The Gaelic Glamour.”)

“_For sheer originality, other qualities apart, her tales are as remarkable, perhaps, as anything we have had of the kind since Mr Kipling appeared.... Their local colour, their idiom, their whole method, combine to produce an effect which may be unaccustomed, but is therefore the more irresistible. They provide as original an entertainment as we are likely to find in this lingering century, and they suggest a new romance among the potential things of the century to come._” (The Academy.)

PRINTED BY W. H. WHITE AND CO. LTD. EDINBURGH RIVERSIDE PRESS

Transcriber’s Notes

--Silently corrected typographical errors and some inconsistencies; retained non-standard spelling.

--Added a footnote anchor on page 103.

--Italic text in the original is delimited by _underscores_ except for decorative italics.