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There
’
s
naething
wrong
wi
’
the
road
.
But
it
’
s
an
eerie
bit
when
the
sun
’
s
no
shinin
’
.
But
gang
your
ways
,
sir
,
for
a
man
o
’
God
is
no
like
common
folk
.
Ye
’
ll
get
a
mune
to
licht
ye
back
.
"
David
rode
out
of
the
kirkton
,
and
past
the
saughs
and
elders
which
marked
the
farm
of
Crossbasket
,
till
the
path
dipped
into
the
glen
of
the
Woodilee
burn
and
the
trees
began
.
Before
he
knew
he
was
among
them
,
old
gnarled
firs
standing
sparsely
among
bracken
.
They
were
thin
along
the
roadside
,
but
on
the
hill
to
his
right
and
down
in
the
burn
’
s
hollow
they
made
a
cloud
of
darkness
.
The
August
night
still
had
a
faint
reflected
light
,
and
the
track
,
much
ribbed
by
tree
roots
,
showed
white
before
him
.
The
burn
,
small
with
the
summer
drought
,
made
a
far
-
away
tinkling
,
the
sweet
scents
of
pine
and
fern
were
about
him
,
the
dense
boskage
where
it
met
the
sky
had
in
the
dark
a
sharp
marmoreal
outline
.
The
world
was
fragrant
and
quiet
;
if
this
be
the
Black
Wood
,
thought
David
,
I
have
been
in
less
happy
places
.
But
suddenly
at
a
turn
of
the
hill
the
trees
closed
in
.
It
was
almost
as
if
he
had
stripped
and
dived
into
a
stagnant
pool
.
The
road
now
seemed
to
have
no
purpose
of
its
own
,
but
ran
on
sufferance
,
slinking
furtively
as
the
Wood
gave
it
leave
,
with
many
meaningless
twists
,
as
if
unseen
hands
had
warded
it
off
.
His
horse
,
which
had
gone
easily
enough
so
far
,
now
needed
his
heel
in
its
side
and
many
an
application
of
his
staff
.
It
shied
at
nothing
visible
,
jibbed
,
reared
,
breathing
all
the
while
as
if
its
wind
were
touched
.
Something
cold
seemed
to
have
descended
on
David
’
s
spirits
,
which
,
as
soon
as
he
was
aware
of
it
,
he
tried
to
exorcise
by
whistling
a
bar
or
two
,
and
then
by
speaking
aloud
.
He
recited
a
psalm
,
but
his
voice
,
for
usual
notably
full
and
mellow
,
seemed
not
to
carry
a
yard
.
It
was
forced
back
on
him
by
the
trees
.
He
tried
to
shout
,
with
no
better
effect
.
There
came
an
echo
which
surprised
him
,
till
he
perceived
that
it
was
an
owl
.
Others
answered
,
and
the
place
was
filled
with
their
eldritch
cries
.
One
flapped
across
the
road
not
a
yard
from
him
,
and
in
a
second
his
beast
was
on
its
haunches
.
He
was
now
beyond
the
throat
of
the
glen
,
and
the
Woodilee
burn
had
left
him
,
going
its
own
way
into
the
deeps
of
Fennan
Moss
,
where
the
wood
was
thin
.
The
road
plucked
up
courage
,
and
for
a
little
ran
broad
and
straight
through
a
covert
of
birches
.
Then
the
pines
closed
down
again
,
this
time
with
more
insistence
,
so
that
the
path
was
a
mere
ladder
among
gnarled
roots
.
Here
there
were
moths
about
-
-
a
queer
thing
,
David
thought
-
-
white
glimmering
creatures
that
brushed
his
face
and
made
his
horse
half
crazy
.
He
had
ridden
at
a
slow
jog
,
but
the
beast
’
s
neck
and
flanks
were
damp
with
sweat
.
Presently
he
had
to
dismount
and
lead
it
,
testing
every
step
with
his
foot
,
for
there
seemed
to
be
ugly
scaurs
breaking
away
on
his
left
.
The
owls
kept
up
a
continuous
calling
,
and
there
was
another
bird
with
a
note
like
a
rusty
saw
.
He
tried
to
whistle
,
to
shout
,
to
laugh
,
but
his
voice
seemed
to
come
out
of
folds
of
cloth
.
He
thought
it
was
his
plaid
,
but
the
plaid
was
about
his
chest
and
shoulders
and
far
from
his
mouth
.
And
then
,
at
one
step
the
Wood
ceased
and
he
was
among
meadows
.
He
knew
the
place
,
for
after
the
darkness
of
the
trees
the
land
,
though
the
moon
had
not
risen
,
seemed
almost
light
.
There
in
front
was
the
vale
down
which
Aller
flowed
,
and
on
the
right
was
his
own
familiar
glen
of
Rood
.
Now
he
could
laugh
at
his
oppression
-
-
now
that
he
was
among
the
pleasant
fields
where
he
had
played
as
a
boy
.
.
.
.
Why
had
he
forgotten
about
the
Black
Wood
,
for
it
had
no
part
in
his
memories
?
True
,
he
had
come
always
to
Roodfoot
by
the
other
road
behind
the
Hill
of
Deer
,
but
there
were
the
dark
pines
not
a
mile
off
-
-
he
must
have
adventured
many
times
within
their
fringes
.
He
thought
that
it
was
because
a
child
is
shielded
by
innocence
from
ugliness
.
.
.
.
And
yet
,
even
then
,
he
had
had
many
nightmares
and
fled
from
many
bogles
.
But
not
from
the
Wood
.
.
.
.
No
doubt
it
was
the
growing
corruption
of
a
man
’
s
heart
.
The
mill
at
Roodfoot
stood
gaunt
and
tenantless
,
passing
swiftly
into
decay
.
He
could
see
that
the
mill
-
wheel
had
gone
,
and
its
supports
stood
up
like
broken
teeth
;
the
lade
was
choked
with
rushes
;
the
line
of
a
hill
showed
through
the
broken
rigging
.
He
had
known
of
this
,
but
none
the
less
the
sight
gave
him
a
pang
,
for
David
was
a
jealous
conserver
of
his
past
.
.
.
.
But
as
the
path
turned
up
the
glen
beside
the
brawling
Rood
,
he
had
a
sudden
uplifting
of
spirit
.
This
could
not
change
,
this
secret
valley
,
whose
every
corner
he
had
quartered
,
whose
every
nook
was
the
home
of
a
delightful
memory
.
He
felt
again
the
old
ardour
,
when
,
released
from
Edinburgh
,
he
had
first
revisited
his
haunts
,
tearful
with
excited
joy
.
The
Wood
was
on
him
again
,
but
a
different
wood
,
his
own
wood
.
The
hazels
snuggled
close
to
the
roadside
,
and
the
feathery
birches
and
rowans
made
a
canopy
,
not
a
shadow
.
The
oaks
were
ancient
friends
,
the
alders
old
playmates
.
His
horse
had
recovered
its
sanity
,
and
David
rode
through
the
dew
-
drenched
night
in
a
happy
rapture
of
remembrance
.
He
was
riding
up
Rood
-
-
that
had
always
been
the
thing
he
had
hoped
to
do
.
He
had
never
been
even
so
far
as
Calidon
before
,
for
a
boy
’
s
day
’
s
march
is
short
.
But
he
had
promised
himself
that
some
day
when
he
was
a
man
he
would
have
a
horse
,
and
ride
to
the
utmost
springs
-
-
to
Roodhope
-
foot
,
to
the
crinkle
in
Moss
Fell
where
Rood
was
born
.
.
.
.
"
Up
the
water
"
had
always
been
like
a
spell
in
his
ear
.
He
remembered
lying
in
bed
at
night
and
hearing
a
clamour
at
the
mill
door
:
it
was
men
from
up
the
water
,
drovers
from
Moffat
,
herds
from
the
back
of
beyond
,
once
a
party
of
soldiers
from
the
south
.
And
up
the
water
lay
Calidon
,
that
ancient
castle
.
The
Hawkshaws
were
a
name
in
a
dozen
ballads
,
and
the
tales
of
them
in
every
old
wife
’
s
mouth
.
Once
they
had
captained
all
the
glens
of
Rood
and
Aller
in
raids
to
the
Border
,
and
when
Musgrave
and
Salkeld
had
led
a
return
foray
,
it
was
the
Hawkshaws
that
smote
them
mightily
in
the
passes
.
He
had
never
seen
one
of
the
race
;
the
men
were
always
at
the
wars
or
at
the
King
’
s
court
;
but
they
had
filled
his
dreams
.
One
fancy
especially
was
of
a
little
girl
-
-
a
figure
with
gold
hair
like
King
Malcolm
’
s
daughter
in
the
"
Red
Etin
of
Ireland
"
tale
-
-
whom
he
rescued
from
some
dire
peril
,
winning
the
thanks
of
her
tall
mail
-
clad
kin
.
