Foxholme Hall, and Other Tales

by William Henry Giles Kingston

Story 8--Chapter I.

STORY EIGHT—Piper’s News—A Fairy Tale.

There was once a piper, called Alaister Mackinnon, and he lived in the town of Inverknickle; he played better than any other piper in all the country side, and was deservedly esteemed by the gude wives, as he always brought the earliest news of the events in the distant villages; for though Alaister called Inverknickle his home, he rarely stayed there long at a time, but wandered about, hearing and telling news, and playing at all the merry-makings that were held within twenty miles. At these he was always to be seen dressed in full Highland garb, with gay streamers floating from his pipes, and his bonnet set jauntily on the side of his head, surrounded by young and old, who listened with equal delight to his tunes and his stories. Alaister’s dancing was a thing of which he was very proud, as none of the lads could compete with him in it; he was, therefore, not so great a favourite with them as amongst the women, but none dared say a word against him, as it invariably reached his ears, and the next time he came to the village he was sure to have some story about them which turned the laugh against themselves. One day there was a wedding at a village some miles from Inverknickle, and of course Alaister was there, marching at the head of the party as it returned from the manse, dressed in his newest kilt and hose, and playing the most appropriate tunes, while the young men shouted and fired guns and pistols at irregular intervals to do honour to the occasion; and every time they fired, the women screamed, and the men laughed, and in short they were a very merry party. Then came the feast, which was more remarkable for quantity than quality, and was held in the house of the newly married pair; it was succeeded by dancing, the bride and bridegroom joining most energetically, but never being allowed to dance together.

Reels were the usual dances; but when the lasses were tired, and sat down and fanned themselves with their handkerchiefs, the lads began to dance the sword-dance. The lasses soon asked Alaister to dance; and after a great deal of pressing, for he always feigned modesty on such occasions, he danced, the men looking on anxious to catch him making a false step, the women in silent admiration of his neat foot, silver buckles, and new hose, which, from the beautiful shape of his leg, did not require to be gartered.

None of the women saw that he twice touched the sword; but it was not lost on the men, who looked at each other with pleased smiles, though no one ventured to say anything, and Alaister’s performance was finished amidst loud applause.

Supper followed, which was much the same as the dinner, only there was more toddy, and therefore more noise; and Duncan Cameron, emboldened by the whisky, ventured to say that Alaister had not danced “clean” that night; to which Alaister answered, with a look of pity, that “Duncan, puir fellow, had never seen right since the night he had sic a fley wi’ the fairies on the moor, when they shot him into a peat-moss, and the Will-of-the-Wisps ran so near him that they singed his nose, and it had been red ever since.” This had the effect of silencing Duncan, who had fallen in as described when coming home tipsy from a wake, and had told many wonderful stories of his ill-treatment by the “gude fouk,” as he called the fairies.

The conversation now turned on fairies, and all professed the deepest admiration and respect for them. Alaister, however, rather laughed at the idea of their doing anybody good or ill, and even hinted that he doubted their existence. Then began a warm discussion; and by degrees Alaister grew bolder, and expressed in plain terms his entire disbelief in these gentle spirits, challenging them to meet him that night on his way home, and let him play on the bagpipes heard by so many of his companions in the gloamin’ among the heather on the hill-side; at the same time drinking glass after glass to his success in the exploit.

Soon after this the party broke up, and Alaister started for Inverknickle, playing what he intended for “Wooed and married and a’,” but it was a bad version of it, and sounded dismal and unearthly as it died away in the distance.

He crossed the moor in the bright moonlight, and at last reached the birch wood, where the white stems shone like ghosts in their winding-sheets, and the branches swung noiselessly in the night breeze, and gave out their fresh sweet smell. Let it not be supposed that Alaister actually observed all this, but it had an influence on his mind, and made him feel eerie, it was so different from the noisy scene he had left.