We waited in silence.
‘Wodrow, I believe, has a brief note concerning it,’ be continued, ‘but there is a fuller and better account in the book Jehovah Jireh. One of you, I understand, comes from the University of Edinburgh. The book is in the University Library there. Perhaps it would be as well if you read for yourselves; for I could not hope to tell you the story in equal words. And yet I am deep in your debt; for now I have met two who have heard “The Sweet Singers”, and I know that their singing will never cease.’
The minister had risen from the table; he walked towards the door and there turned. ‘Remember. The book is Jehovah Jireh — “The Lord will Provide.”’ And with that he was gone.
Needless to say I abandoned my examination of the reputed short cist. Lomas and I returned with all speed to Edinburgh, where we at once made for the University library. There the librarian soon put Jehovah Jireh into our hands.
It was a small book — a duodecimo is, I believe, the correct description — and it was clearly an account of the sufferings of the Covenanters in the time of Charles II But it was not indexed. We sat down in the Professors’ Room and turned over the pages, hastily reading the rubrics as we turned. And about the middle of the work we saw the heading for which we looked — The Sweet Singers.
‘Here it is!’ cried Lomas.
And there, with heads bent together, we read the following account:
Mr Robert Wilson being imprisoned in the Bass with many others did fall into a heavy sickness, and so did call for two others and did dictate out the rest of a paper which he had been before writing himself and did subscribe it before them as witnesses who also did subscribe, wherein he gave faithful and clear testimony to the work and cause of God and against the enemies of His Word.
Thereafter his discourse was ever that he longed for the time of relief because it was so near. His breath being very short, he said: ‘Where the hallelujahs are sung there is no shortness of breath!’
That night he became weaker, but spake as sensibly as ever, and blessed those around him with heavenly expressions. And so began he to sing the 51st Psalm, but with great difficulty, and then stopped awondering and said: ‘Will none of you join me in the singing? Even in the old version as it was sung by Master George Wishart on the night that he was taken by his enemies.’ Thereupon those around said: ‘Sir, we will join with you.’ And so did they sing again the first verse, even as those around Master George Wishart had sung with that blessed martyr.
The sound of their singing spread as with wings, and was heard by many more who in turn joined with their praise, so that as it were in the instant all those within the Bass had lifted up their voice in praise, and the sweetness of their singing reached out even to those upon the distant shore.
And in the end of the sixth verse he cried out with a loud voice: ‘A singing of glory! A singing of the angels! Hosannah! Hosannah!’ And so passed he from the singing of the faithful on earth to the singing round the Throne.
Nor shall that singing of the faithful in their affliction ever die. Two-score years have now passed, and in them have been counted five men in East Lothian who have heard that Psalm reaching out to them across the waters from the Bass. The ‘Sweet Singers’ shall yet be heard when the Singers themselves are no more. And the sweetness of their singing shall never cease but shall endure unto the very end of time. ‘He that hath ears to hear, so shall he hear.’
We turned the page, but the story of ‘The Sweet Singers’ had been told, and the succeeding entry bore on a sermon preached in Maybole.
‘Strange!’ muttered Lomas. ‘No one can persuade me that sound waves never die; or that if we could but “tune” ourselves “in” aright we should be able to hear the wisdom that was spoken by Solomon or a sermon that was preached by Knox. Science can find no place for fancies such as those.
Yet we did hear that singing in the night. “He that hath ears to hear, so shall be hear.” But how? That’s what I want to know. How?’
I remained silent. And perhaps silence was the only answer.
THE HOUSE OF BALFOTHER
‘I SOMETIMES WONDER about those traditional immortals who live in secret chambers, like Earl Beardie at Glamis. Do they grow older and older? Do the years weary them? Or do they live on and on at exactly the same age? That’s the worst of legends,’ continued Drummond, addressing the company at large, ‘they leave too much to the imagination.’
‘Well, if Earl Beardie is growing older and older, his beard must be mighty long by now, after some four hundred years,’ put in Sharples, with mock gravity. ‘Unless at some point in time, or at some given length, a man’s beard ceases to grow.’
‘I know nothing about legends. Scottish history is too full of them,’ said Petrie, critical as always. ‘But, if someone will give me a long drink, I will tell you of one “immortal” who was certainly burdened by the years — so much so that he had declined into something worse than a second childhood. Yet from what I saw and experienced, I shudder to think what “life” would have meant to him had he not suffered an unnatural and terrible end.’
Someone got up to provide the drink.
‘It will have to be a long one,’ Petrie added, quickly, ‘for I shall have to tell you how I came to the House of Balfother, before I try to describe what happened there. And, after that, you will still have to hear the end of the tale.’
A very long drink was provided.
It all happened when I was a student at St Andrews — a ‘magistrand’, in my final year. And when I was also a great walker: which meant something more than the traditional ten-mile walk of St Andrews men, ‘out by Cameron, and in by Grange’. To me, walking in those days meant striding across the hills by map and compass — the road to be taken only in times of sheer necessity — and never doing less than twenty miles a day. I can still do my twenty miles, but, in my student days, my long walks also meant trusting to hospitality, and hoping that the lonely farm or shepherd’s cottage, marked with a small dot on the map, would somehow or other provide me with shelter for the night. Youth hostels were still unknown. Yet I was seldom turned away — even though, upon occasion, I must have been taken in at great inconvenience. And when I knew that that had been the case, I always strove to show my gratitude by giving any services I could on the following morning before setting out again — for I knew that any offer of payment would certainly be refused.
After the night of my strange experience, however, I left long before the day broke. And I was glad to be gone.
It was the Easter vacation of my final year and, faced with my examinations at the end of the coming summer term, I had decided upon a noble walk. I would take with me a copy of Kidnapped, and I would retrace David Balfour’s route — partly that of ‘the lad with the silver button’, and partly that of David Balfour and Alan Breck when they ‘took to the heather’ after the murder of the ‘Red Fox’, Glenure. But I would do it in reverse, from North Queensferry to the Ross of Mull. Then back to Oban, and thence to St Andrews by train — to be at my books once more.
I had set out with high heart, and, blessed with fine clear days, I was well ahead of my schedule when I reached the few small houses of Kilchonan, on Loch Rannoch-side. From there I walked the mile or so to the Bridge of Ericht and then struck northwards towards Loch Ericht. It was hardly midday, so I planned to go up the valley of the stream, skirt the loch on its western side (for I would find no Cluny’s ‘gillie’ to row me across), and, with luck, find shelter for the night at Ben Alder Cottage. I knew I was giving myself something of a task, for, according to the map, it was ten miles and a bit, with no habitation of any kind between Kilchonan and the Cottage. But I was in fine fettle, the day was glorious, and I had every confidence.
And then, for the first time, I found myself in difficulties. The way by the fast-running stream soon proved to be more troublesome than I had expected, so I struck up to the higher ground on the west. There I was beginning to make better progress, with a track to help me, w
hen, gradually, the sun paled and the afternoon grew colder. I knew well enough what that meant. I knew that before long I should be running the dangers of a mountain mist.
Wisely, I decided to turn back to Kilchonan. And then came the mist: thin at first, but soon, all too soon, thick and enveloping. I knew that all I had to do was to keep on due south. If I did that, I was bound to strike Loch Rannoch — and Kilchonan — again; or, if I had strayed too far west, I would strike the road that ran from the western end of the loch to Rannoch Station. After all, I had my compass — a fine prismatic one, with a luminous dial, a legacy of my father’s service in the First World War. More than once I had had to rely upon it amid the hills, and more than once it had served me well. But, although I could keep on walking in the right direction, I could not see where I was going; and, almost immediately, I was reminded of a new danger. Stumbling badly on some rough ground, I twisted my foot. Fortunately I was wearing heavy boots, but there and then I pictured myself, with a sprained ankle, trying painfully to make my way back and perhaps not succeeding, perhaps not being found. I took greater care, but, trying to pick my way slowly in thick white mist, over ground that I could barely see ahead of me, meant that before long I was chilled to the bone.
I cannot say that I was alarmed or dispirited. To the best of my recollection, my first feeling was simply one of frustration — partly that I had had to abandon my plan of reaching Ben Alder Cottage that night, and partly at the enforced slowness of my return to Kilchonan. But, as the afternoon wore on, and still I had reached neither Loch Rannoch, nor the road, I began to feel worried. Also, I was tired out. My slow groping through the mist would have tired anyone. But why had I made such poor progress? I had kept steadily south. Where was I? By now, too, although the mist was beginning to lift, darkness was taking its place.
And then, in the strange light that was half mist and half darkness, a tall square-standing tower suddenly loomed up a few yards ahead of me. Here was luck, indeed. Here I could find shelter for the night. Then came a strange sense of puzzlement, perhaps even of disquiet. What was this tower-house? It was certainly not marked on the map. There was no house of this kind anywhere between Kilchonan and Loch Ericht. But there it stood: a solid pile, much like a Border tower. It was no figment of my imagination.
There was no surrounding wall of any kind, and I walked straight up to the door. Again I was puzzled. The door was of solid oak, studded with iron nails. Surely no house still boasted such a mediæval defence? I knocked as loudly as I could, but my knuckles seemed to make no sound that would carry through the thick oak. Wondering what to do, I kicked the door with my heavy boots, and knew that the noise I made was bound to be heard. Standing there, cold and shivering, I kicked again and again. And at last my demand was answered. I heard the drawing of bars, the door opened slowly, and a man stood in the narrow opening as though to contest any entry.
‘For why are ye makand sic dunts on the door?’ he asked.
‘Could I have shelter for the night?’ I replied.
‘Na stranger enters Balfother. It’s weel kent. The king’s writ aye has it so,’ he answered, and would have closed the door.
But I was in no mood to be put off so easily, and, being young and impetuous, I thrust my foot into the gap.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said firmly, ‘but you can’t leave me out all night. I will be no trouble to you. I have food in my pack, and I can sleep on the kitchen floor, or in an outhouse if you have one. I want only that, and a fire to dry out my clothes.’
He seemed to hesitate, and then said again, almost as though it were a set phrase, ‘Na stranger enters Balfother. The king’s writ has it. It canna be.’
‘But it must be,’ I returned, and, pushing against the door, I edged myself in.
‘Bide ye there, then,’ said the man, seeing that I had indeed entered Balfother, and apparently not wishing to dispute my entry. He shuffled away in the darkness of what I assumed to be some kind of entrance-passage, and left me standing there. A minute or two later, however, he reappeared, carrying a lighted tallow candle on a dish. Beckoning me to follow him, he led the way up a winding stone stairway, opened a door, and ushered me into a small room. There he set the candle upon a rough table, and, without a word, left me again.
I looked at my quarters for the night, and again I felt that strange sense of disquiet. The room was perhaps twelve feet square and completely empty save for the rough table on which the man had set my candle, and a bed that was even more roughly made and was completely devoid of bed-clothes of any kind. The stone walls were cold and bare; as also was the stone floor. Only a small window, high up in one of the walls, and a crude fire-place in the wall opposite the bed, broke the forbidding monotony of stone. More than that, the whole room smelled dank and musty, as though the one window had never been opened, and the room had never been used, for countless years.
‘A chilly reception, if ever there was one,’ I muttered resentfully. ‘Surely there’s a fire in the house, somewhere.’
But I did my reluctant host an injustice. I had barely muttered my resentment than he came into the room, bearing an armful of logs. Again without speaking he laid them in a neat pile in the fire-place and went out, returning a second time with a log that was still glowing from a fire elsewhere. He placed the glowing log in the centre of the pile, lay full length upon the floor and blew until the log broke into flames and began to set the other logs alight.
At any rate I shall have a fire, I thought, thankfully, as I watched him at his task. And then once more I was puzzled. What was this house with an ancient look about everything? Who was this man? And why did his coarse clothes seem so odd? Had he inherited them from a grandfather, or a great-grandfather?
As the man rose from his task, I thanked him sincerely for his attention to my wants. But he merely looked at me blankly and moved to the door. There, however, he turned before leaving.
‘God keep ye through the night,’ he said, and, with that, he was gone.
‘And what might that mean?’ I wondered. Was it just a benison, or was it a warning? I had virtually commanded shelter for the night, but what sort of shelter had I taken? What soft of a night was I to have?
Dismissing various vague apprehensions which flitted through my mind, I opened my pack and took out the spare socks, shift and underclothing which I always carried on my long walks. These I laid, like a hearth-rug, on the stone floor in front of the fire, and then stripped to the skin. Standing on my hearth-rug, I rubbed myself hard and long with my towel. Then I began to dry out my soaking clothes, first arranging them in small pyramids before the fire and then holding them up, one at a time, close to the flames. I knew I ran the risk of singeing them, but dry clothes I had to have if I was to sleep without blankets. For perhaps an hour I continued this task until all my clothes were dry. Then I dressed, ate some chocolate and plain biscuits, and felt completely refreshed.
I stress all this to show that I was fully alert and far from likely to ‘imagine’ things. Sitting on the edge of the bed I was ready to accept the shelter I had demanded and to face whatever the night might bring. Again taking out my map, I looked for a house somewhere in the hills to the south of Loch Ericht. No house was marked. But surely a tower-house like this was bound to be marked. What was this House of Balfother? And what had my queer host meant about ‘na stranger’, and ‘the king’s writ’? Well, I was ready for anything.
The fire was now burning low, but there was still life in the tallow candle. And then, just as I was debating whether or not to trust myself to the bed, and its possible vermin, I saw the door slowly opening. I flatter myself I was not in the least afraid. If robbery was intended, I felt in just the right mood to put up a good fight for my few pounds and pence. But it was not my host who entered. I was being visited by a large dog.
The animal, yellowish-white, and strangely devoid of fur, crawled slowly into the room and made straight for the fire-place and the warmth of the glowing embers there. But, instead o
f lying down, it sat down, much as a human would sit on the floor in front of a fire. Startled, I looked more closely at that strange posture. With a sudden feeling of revulsion, I realised that I was looking, not at a dog, but at a man.
He was completely naked. His skin was yellow, loose, and wrinkled — much like a piece of faded paper that had been crumpled up and then roughly smoothed out again. Soon, as he sat there, warming himself before the fire, he began to make little noises, similar to those made by a baby before it first begins to talk. After a while, he stopped and, teetering to and fro, began to croon to himself: ‘Robbie Norrie, Robbie Norrie canna die. Robbie Norrie wilna die.’
It is impossible to describe my feelings as I witnessed this complete degradation of humanity. And, as I wondered what to do, the man turned, and saw me sitting on the bed. With a gurgle of delight, he got up and crawled towards me. Never had I seen, never shall I see again such an old, old face. It looked as though it had aged through centuries. Now too, as he came close to me, I could smell his body — a horrible, indefinable smell of rank flesh.
‘Robbie Norrie,’ he gibbered. ‘Robbie Norrie.’
I strove to push him away, and his body yielded to my hands like a soft sponge.
‘Robbie Norrie. Robbie Norrie,’ I heard in a kind of childish sing-song as I feverishly struggled to avoid an approach that sent shivers of horror through every nerve in my frame.
I have no idea how long I struggled with that degenerate lump of human flesh. I was contending with a creature (for that is the only appropriate name) that seemed to have risen in bodily form from an age-old grave; a creature that sought to nestle close to me and that I pushed away again and again.
‘Robbie Norrie, Robbie Norrie.’ The childish repetition, as the foul creature constantly returned and strove to nestle against me, suddenly snapped my control. I seized him by the throat, and might well have strangled him, had not the door opened, just in time.
Dark Encounters: Ghost Stories Page 12