Pipes o’ the Mist

Dominion, Volume 29, Issue 208, 30 May 1936, Page 27

Pipes o’ the Mist

[A Highland Adventure by San Toy (13). Hastings.]

“Dilina’ye touch them !” ~ . , . , "Why not. grandfather?” Donald looked away from the old bagpipes hanging on the wall to the doorway where his grandfather sat enjoying the warm Highland morning sun. "Thev arc enchanted, they belong to the Little Folk ol the Mist. "Enchanted, they belong to the Little Folk of the Mist—the■ 1< nines I laughed Donald, a very modern young boy of fifteen, who was up on holiday from the city enjoying a stay at the little village of Benqharrie in the West Highlands. ■‘Aye. laugh if ye want to, my lad, but, I tell ye they belong to Malcolm McHugh and the Mist Folk.” Just then a dark-hatred sprightly lass of about thirteen came running up t lie path. She was Fiona Fearguis, a distant relation of Donald and Ins grandtatlier. Like most of the other folk of the north, she was very superstitious, and that was the only thing about her that earned Donald's aversion. "Come. Dhonuil," she called, "and I'll show ye the caves ye wanted to see last

“Whv didn't you take me to see them then?” grumbled Donald. “Whitt, then, wander out about sunset. Nae, nae! ]■ tona shook her head, ‘‘Why, the Little Folk would spirit us away.’’ . Donald laughed. “Fairies again!" and that reminded him of Ins grandtatnei s

“Fiona,” be said, “what’s the story about the bagpipes on grandfathers unil, why are they enchanted, how do they belong to the Mist Folk, or whatever you cull “Ab. they belong more to Malcolm McEagb than to the Mist I* oik, said I‘lona “although it’s all one, for wb.it belongs to the Little Folk belongs to the fsons ot the Mist, too.” • "Now, what on earth do you mean?” “Why Dhonuil,” interposed his grandfather “surely ye know that the McLaghs have always been called ‘The Children of the Mist’?" “Well, go on and tell me about it,” urged Donald. “Who was Malcolm. "Malcolm was an ancestor of yours, laddie, and a famous McEagb he w.u, but get ye along wi’ Fiona, she'll tell you the story,” said the old man, as he fumbled wit.h his pipe. The two young people set out, and, as the quaint little shieling gradually became lost from sight, Fiona began the story. „ . “Malcolm was a brave voting clansman, and feared nothing, perhaps just a little the Water Kelpies and the Mist Folk. The night Hint he was lost, he wa.s last seen from a shieling window just after the sunset. He was striding over the moor.*, his bagpipes under his arm. yes, those very bagpipes that are hanging on the wall. Old Flora Diarmid called from the window to invite him to shelter the night, for ’twas full moon that night, and very misty, and for sure the Little hoik ot the Mist would be out. But Malcolm just thanked her, waved his hand, and passed on. “Fallen over a cliff, or down a pit,” said practical Donald.

"No, no, the Mist Folk got him, as you .-hull ! -ur now." ... . "That night a shepherd who bad lost bis way. thought he heard the strums ot Malcolm's pipes, and hurried toward the sound, thinking he would recover his path and have company home. Imagine his fright when he found Malcolm seated in the middle of hundreds of the Misty Folks, playing to them. In his surprise he must have made a sound, for in an ins'tant the air was filled with the little cries of the folk. Then they vanished, Malcolm with them, but lying on the ground were left his bagpipes. Aye, they were his, for there were none like them in the length and breadth of Scotland. As ye have seen, the drones were tipped with mother o' pearl and the chanter with silver. The shepherd fled, and after a while found his road back to the clachen, to tell bis strange tale. He was so scared that he left the pipes behind. That night in Malcolm's home, .about midnight, two girls were awakened by a strange noise. As they came downstairs, they saw. so they swore. Malcolm step through the low window, and place his pipes on the wall where they are banging now. As he did so, he said: “This is where they belong, this is where they shall stay, for ne'er for a long, long while shall I play.” Then a little voice called, “Malcolm, Malcolm, mo chri,” and he answered with a sigh, “I must go. for the Little Folk Call.” He smiled to the girls, and in an instant he was gone, out into the mist of tiie black night. And there the pipes have hung, and will hang till Malcolm comes again for them.” 'Till they rot, you mean?” safd Donald. “No, they won't ever rot, they are enchanted,” said Fiona —"but here are the

caves, aren’t they fine." And a pleasant two hours followed, during which the two children enjoyed the delights of exploration. In the days that followed the story of the bagpipes, a strange feeling of restlessness came over Donald, and often his. eyes would wander to the wall where they hung. One day, sitting alone gazing at the pipes, the desire came so strong, that he went forward and took them from the place where they had rested so long. As he held them, a greater desire than before gripped him. It was a wish to get out On to the open moor. As if guided by invisible haJds, he .strode out of the cottage, with the pipes firmly held under his arm. When he at last halted, and sat on the ground, he found he was in the very spot where it was said Malcolm so long ago had played to the Mist Folk. Raising the pipes to his lips, he tried to. play a little ekirl his grandfather had been teaching him. As he played, he felt himself growing drowsier and drowsier, till, when the last note died away he sank down in a deep sleep, the pipes falling from has lips. ■When he awoke it was night, and a thick mist surrounded him. It swirled around in strange, terrifying shapes, and the air seemed to be filled with strange little cries.

Suddenly, out of the mist there appeared the form of a tall, young Higiilandman. Donald rose, a glad cry on hi.s lips, thinking it was someone from the village who had come to find him. But. looking closer, he noticed that the newcomer was dressed in the Highland costume of nearly two centuries before. His dry lips formed the word, “Malcolm.” The figure nodded. “I am Donald McEagh,” said Donald, becoming a little more confident. "So you are my ancestor, the famous Malcolm.” Malcolm nodded again and smiled. “What have you come for?" asked Donald, wondering at his lack of fear. “Have you come for the pipes?” “Aye. I have, indeed, and thank you, Dhonuil.” said Malcolm, reaching for the pipes. Raising the chanter to his lips, and placing them in position, he gave a long drawn call on them, and then vanished like a flash into the mist. Donald stayed there and made himself as comfortable as he could for the rest of the night, for he realised that to try and get back to the village would be running the risk of falling over a cliff or down a pit. The morning found the sun shining down brightly. He awoke, and looked round anxiously for the pipes, expecting to find them there, perhaps, and the night’s experience a dream. Then he heard the sound of voices. “The little Folk of the Mist have spirited him away, ’tis plain,” said a man's voice. "But he can't have been, for he doesn’t believe in the Little Folk," said Fiona’s voice. "Here I am called Donald. “Oh. Donald. I am so glad to see ye,” then, lowering her voice to a whisper, “Did ye take the pipes? They’ve gone.” He noddl’d, then related his night's experience, finishing up with. “But I suppose it was a dream, or I imagined it." "But the pipes have gone,” said Fiona. "Someone took them. I suppose,” said Donald, “won't grandfather be vexed?” “No one would take them, they are known all over the countryside. It was Malcolm. Malcolm, came for them.” Donald sticks firmly to the idea that it was only a dream, but at the bottom of hip heart he often wonders.