Foxholme Hall, and Other Tales

by William Henry Giles Kingston

A Will-of-the-Wisp was then commanded to be his guide to the birch wood, and Alaister was again led through the river, up the rocks, and through the woods he had passed on his way to the cave.

Arrived at the wood, his guide vanished, and he found himself alone on a bright sunny morning, the dew-drops glistening on the grass, amongst which he joyfully discovered his pipes; but at the same time he saw that his clothes hung about him in tatters, and oh! how wet and tired he was with his night’s work! He could not, however, show himself at Inverknickle in so disordered a state, so was obliged to remain in the wood till the evening, when he thought it safer to go home, in case his tormentors should again carry him off. When he reached his cottage, he told his wife that he had lost his way in the dark, and had torn his clothes on the brambles and bushes, amongst which he had got entangled; but not a word did he say about the fairies, lest he should offend them, and be carried off, and turned into a black Will-of-the-Wisp, and have to dance about every night in the cold moonlight, which was not at all Alaister’s idea of real comfort.

Now Mrs Mackinnon had what is called “an ill tongue,” and she did not spare poor Alaister as she turned over his torn garments; but he was well accustomed to her attacks, and had learnt that silence was his only safety, so he took one child on his knee as he sat by the fire, and rocked the cradle with his foot, in hopes of softening his wife’s temper. As the evening advanced, she became pretty tired of having all the talk to herself, so sat down opposite him, and with a cross face, and in a sharp voice, asked what made him sit there without speaking,—could not he tell her any news after being sae long away from his gude wife and the weans?

When this question was put, Alaister was always sure the scold was over, however cross the voice was in which it was asked; so he began at once to tell all the events of a harvest home at which he said he had been the night before, but he was at once stopped by an angry “Hout!” from his wife, and then followed a storm of abuse for telling her about things which had happened three years before; then, pointing to the fields of green oats that were to be seen all around, she asked him what sort of harvest home there could be at that time of year. Alaister was sorely puzzled, for certainly the corn was still green; but yet he felt sure it was only yesterday he had been at the harvest feast, and if not at that—where had he been? He could remember nothing of the wedding, and stared at his wife, who at last began to be alarmed at his perfectly stupid look, and said, “Is the man fey?” As soon as she said this, his night’s adventure returned to his mind, and looking on the ground, he saw it alive with fairies, laughing and mocking him. Had it been earlier in the day, he would have run out of the house, but it was nearly dark, and the uncomfortable Will-of-the-Wisp came into his mind, so he sank down again in his chair, and shut his eyes, fully determined not to speak; but he could not keep this resolution. Again and again he was impelled to begin stories, and as often was he told that these things had happened years before. He then tried to play, but could remember none but the very oldest tunes, such as had been out of date for many years, and when, wearied in mind and body, he fell asleep, he dreamed of fairies and discomforts all night long.

Next day he set out again on his wanderings, hoping that it was only in his own house that the fairies would haunt him; but no—go where he would they were by him, nor could he tell any story which was not at least three years old. His former admirers, the women, now asked him, jeeringly, for “three-year-old news;” when he was seen coming towards a farm, he was treated almost as a beggar, and was sent to the back door, where he got a piece of oat-cake and a drink of milk, but was never asked into the house. Occasionally the servants asked him why he did not carry a wallet like other “puir bodies;” but Alaister, though often really in want, never would condescend to a wallet. By degrees he became more and more impoverished; he was thin, and had a look of great unhappiness. His hose hung over the heels of his worn shoes, from which the silver buckles had long since disappeared; his second-best kilt was very much the worse for wear, nor had he money to buy a new one; and as to the one he had worn on the night from which his woes dated, it had even beat the thrifty Mrs Mackinnon to get it into tolerable repair again.

In all the country side it had become the common expression, when any old story was told, “Hout! that’s Piper’s news;” and at last Alaister, feeling that he was despised where he had been respected, and laughed at by those at whom he had laughed, without even having a comfortable house in which to hide himself, for Mrs Mackinnon’s tongue was more abusive than ever, determined to retire from the world.

Being in low spirits, of course he chose the most dismal spot he could find; it was a bleak glen, down which the north wind howled in winter, and in summer the sun hardly reached its depths; for the bare rocks were high and near each other, so that it was always cold and damp. But this suited Alaister’s frame of mind. One chill day in autumn he crept into a sort of hollow in the rock; there was a constant trickle, trickle, trickle, down the sides of this hole, and the water soaked through blackened patches of liver-wort and moss; the floor was damp and slippery, and on it Alaister sat down to think how very uncomfortable he was, and to abuse the fairies as the cause of all his misfortunes.

It grew colder and colder, and darker and darker, and Alaister began half to repent of his determination to die in a cave, when a flash of light shone into the hollow, and in an instant his old acquaintances, the three Will-of-the-Wisps, were dancing round him in a more frenzied way than ever; now they were up in the roof, now out in the open air, now far back in the darkness where he thought there was only rock. But the cave seemed to become larger every moment, and the water dried up as the Will-of-the-Wisps darted along the sides, and then Alaister saw the well-remembered tod’s-tail moss hang where liver-wort had been before, and stag’s-horn moss again covered the dark floor. The air felt dry and warm, and a comfortable sleepy peace crept over the heart of the distressed piper; he began to think that, on the whole, it was more enjoyable to be in the fairies’ cave than in a hay-loft on a gusty autumn night; and when the glittering band sparkled into their hall he smiled, and offered to play to them again, and soon they were all dancing merrily on the moss, for it was now too cold, even for fairies, to spend the whole night in the woods.

Then came the feast, and this time Alaister was given on acorn cup full of brightest mountain dew; and though he thought it a small allowance for a full-grown man, still he knew that the little creatures had no larger cups; and not to disappoint them or fail in his manners, he nodded to the king, and with a “Here’s your very gude health, sir,” emptied his cup. Immediately he sunk back on the floor and slept, for the dew that had been given him has, it is said, wonderful powers, making mortals forget their homes and former lives, and desire only to be with the fairies.