The Watcher by the Threshold - Buchan John Canongate Classics

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the waterside fields were clean stripped o’ stooks, and a guid wheen hay-ricks gaed doon tae Berwick, no to speak o’ sheep and nowt beast. But that’s anither thing.

      ‘Weel, ye’ll mind that Airthur was terrible keen on fishing. He wad gang oot in a’ weather, and he wasna feared for ony mortal or naitural thing. Dod, I’ve seen him in Gled wi’ the water rinnin’ ower his shouthers yae cauld March day playin’ a saumon. He kenned weel aboot the fishing, for he had traivelled in Norroway and siccan outlandish places, where there’s a heap o’ big fish. So that day – and it was a Setterday tae and far ower near the Sabbath – he maun gang awa’ up Standlan Burn wi’ his rod and creel to try his luck.

      ‘I was bidin’ at that time, as ye mind, in the wee cot-house at the back o’ the faulds. I was alane, for it was three year afore I mairried Jess, and I wasna begun yet to the coortin’. I had been at Gledsmuir that day for some o’ the new stuff for killing sheep-mawks, and I wasna very fresh on my legs when I gaed oot after my tea that night to hae a look at the hill-sheep. I had had a bad year on the hill. First the lambin’-time was snaw, snaw ilka day, and I lost mair than I wad like to tell. Syne the grass a’ summer was so short wi’ the drought that the puir beasts could scarcely get a bite and were as thin as pipe-stapples. And then, to crown a’, auld Will Broun, the man that helpit me, turned ill wi’ his back, and had to bide at hame. So I had twae man’s work on yae man’s shouthers, and was nane so weel pleased.

      ‘As I was saying, I gaed oot that nicht, and after lookin’ a’ the Dun Rig and the Yellow Mire and the back o’ Cramalt Craig, I cam down the burn by the road frae the auld faulds. It was geyan dark, being about seven o’clock o’ a September nicht, and I keepit weel back frae that wanchancy hole o’ a burn. Weel, I was comin’ kind o’ quick, thinkin’ o’ supper and a story book that I was readin’ at the time, when just abune that place there, at the foot o’ the Linn, I saw a man fishing. I wondered what ony body in his senses could be daein’ at that time o’ nicht in sic a dangerous place, so I gave him a roar and bade him come back. He turned his face round and I saw in a jiffey that it was Mr Airthur.

      ‘“O, sir,” I cried, “What for are ye fishing there? The water’s awfu’ dangerous, and the rocks are far ower slid.”

      ‘“Never mind, Scott,” he roars back cheery-like. “I’ll take care o’ mysel’.”

      ‘I lookit at him for twa-three meenutes, and then I saw by his rod he had yin on, and a big yin tae. He ran it up and doon the pool, and he had uncommin wark wi’ ’t, for it was strong and there was little licht. But bye and bye he got it almost tae his feet, and was just about to lift it oot when a maist awfu’ thing happened. The tackets o’ his boots maun hae slithered on the stane, for the next thing I saw was Mr Airthur in the muckle hungry water.

      ‘I dinna exactly ken what happened after that, till I found myself on the very stone he had slipped off. I maun hae come doon the face o’ the rocks, a thing I can scarcely believe when I look at them, and a thing no man ever did afore. At ony rate I ken I fell the last fifteen feet or sae, and lichted on my left airm, for I felt it crack like a rotten branch, and an awfu’ sairness ran up it.

      ‘Now, the pool is a whirlpool as ye ken, and if anything fa’s in, the water first smashes it against the muckle rock at the foot, then it brings it round below the fall again, and syne at the second time it carries it doon the burn. Weel, that was what happened to Mr Airthur. I heard his heid gang dunt on the stane wi’ a sound that made me sick. This must hae dung him clean senseless, and indeed it was a wonder it didna knock his brains oot. At ony rate there was nae mair word o’ swimming, and he was swirled round below the fa’ just like a corp.

      ‘I kenned fine that nae time was to be lost, for if he once gaed doun the burn he wad be in Gled or ever I could say a word, and nane wad ever see him mair in life. So doon I got on my hunkers on the stane, and waited for the turnin’. Round he came, whirling in the foam, wi’ a lang line o’ blood across his brow where the stane had cut him. It was a terrible meenute. My heart fair stood still. I put out my airm, and as he passed I grippit him and wi’ an awfu’ pu’ got him out o’ the current into the side.

      ‘But now I found that a waur thing still was on me. My left airm was broken, and my richt sae numbed and weak wi’ my fall that, try as I micht, I couldna raise him ony further. I thocht I wad burst a bloodvessel i’ my face and my muscles fair cracked wi’ the strain, but I would make nothing o’ ’t. There he stuck wi’ his heid and shouthers abune the water, pu’d close until the edge of a rock.

      ‘What was I to dae? If I once let him slip he wad be into the stream and lost forever. But I couldna hang on here a’ nicht, and as far as I could see there wad be naebody near till the mornin’, when Ebie Blackstock passed frae the Head o’ the Hope. I roared wi’ a’ my power; but I got nae answer, naething but the rummle ο’ the water and the whistling o’ some whaups on the hill.

      ‘Then I turned very sick wi’ terror and pain and weakness and I kenna what. My broken airm seemed a great lump o’ burnin’ coal. I maun hae given it some extra wrench when I hauled him out, for it was sae sair now that I thocht I could scarcely thole it. Forbye, pain and a’, I could hae gone off to sleep wi’ fair weariness. I had heard o’ men sleepin’ on their feet, but I never felt it till then. Man, if I hadna wars tied wi’ mysel, I wad hae dropped off as deid’s a peery.

      ‘Then there was the awfu’ strain o’ keepin’ Mr Airthur up. He was a great big man, twelve stone I’ll warrant, and weighing a terrible lot mair wi’ his fishing togs and things. If I had had the use o’ my ither airm I micht hae taen off his jacket and creel and lichtened the burden, but I could do naething. I scarcely like to tell ye how I was tempted in that hour. Again and again I says to mysel, “Gidden Scott,” say I, “what do ye care for this man? He’s no a drap’s bluid to you, and forbye ye’ll never be able to save him. Ye micht as weel let him gang. Ye’ve dune a’ ye could. Ye’re a brave man, Gidden Scott, and ye’ve nae cause to be ashamed o’ givin’ up the fecht.” But I says to mysel again: “Gidden Scott, ye’re a coward. Wad ye let a man die, when there’s a breath in your body? Think shame o’ yoursel, man.” So I aye kept haudin’ on, although I was very near bye wi’ ’t. Whenever I lookit at Mr Airthur’s face, as white’s death and a’ blood, and his een sae stelled-like, I got a kind o’ groo and felt awfu’ pitiful for the bit laddie. Then I thocht on his faither, the auld Lord, wha was sae built up in him, and I couldna bear to think o’ his son droonin’ in that awfu’ hole. So I set mysel to the wark o’ keepin’ him up a’ nicht, though I had nae hope in the matter. It wasna what ye ca’ bravery that made me dae’t, for I had nae ither choice. It was just a kind o’ dourness that runs in my folk, and a kind o’ vexedness for sae young a callant in sic an ill place.

      ‘The nicht was hot and there was scarcely a sound o’ wind. I felt the sweat standin’ on my face like frost on tatties, and abune me the sky was a’ misty and nae mune visible. I thocht very likely that it micht come a thunder-shower and I kind o’ lookit forrit tae’t. For I was aye feared at lichtning, and if it came that nicht I was bound to get clean dazed and likely tummle in. I was a lonely man wi’ nae kin to speak o’, so it wouldna maitter muckle.

      ‘But now I come to tell ye about the queer side o’ that nicht’s wark, whilk I never telled to nane but yoursel, though a’ the folk about here ken the rest. I maun hae been geyan weak, for I got into a kind o’ doze, no sleepin’, ye understand, but awfu’ like it. And then a’ sort o’ daft things began to dance afore my een. Witches and bogles and brownies and things oot o’ the Bible, and leviathans and brazen bulls – a’ cam fleerin’ and flauntin’ on the tap o’ the water straucht afore me. I didna pay muckle heed to them, for I half kenned it was a’ nonsense, and syne they gaed awa’. Then an auld wife wi’ a mutch and a hale procession o’ auld wives passed, and just about the last I saw yin I thocht I kenned.

      ‘“Is that you, Grannie?” says I.

      ‘“Aye, it’s me, Gidden,” says she; and as shure as I’m a leevin’ man, it was my auld grannie, whae had been deid thae sax year. She had on the same mutch as she aye wore,

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