Empty Nets and Promises by Denzil Meyrick Read Free Book Online Page B

a’ that while tae realise things wisna goin’ very well,’ said Geordie, his face a mask of concentration as he drove up and into the pass proper.
    Hamish ignored the driver. ‘The piper wiz standing above him. The Raglan fella jeest screwed up his eyes, no’ at all anxious tae see whoot wiz in front o’ him. It was then he heard it – a voice, a familiar voice.’
    â€˜Was it Jessie the horse?’ asked Hoynes.
    â€˜No, nor Jessie. It was the voice o’ his mother . . .’
    â€˜No’ much o’ a story that, Hamish,’ said Geordie. ‘My mother could get a passable tune oot the pipes. She didna go for the full philibeg costume, right enough, but when it came tae her interpretation o’ “Major MacLeod Leavin’ Harris”, there were few better.’ He started to hum the tune.
    â€˜Aye, but there was one difference. The Raglan shepherd was a man in his sixties. He’d lost his mother many years before – tae consumption, no less.’
    â€˜Och, this jeest gets better and better,’ said Hoynes.
    â€˜What did she say to him?’ asked Bertie.
    â€˜She stood there, a’ white an’ ghostly under the tartan, an’ looked him right in the eye. “You’ll mind taking they few coins off the mantelshelf,” she said, a’ matter-o’-fact, like. The shepherd jeest nodded his heid – sheepishly, whoot wae the profession he wiz in, an a’. “Aye, weel,” said she, “that wiz the rent money for the factor, as you well knew. It’s time tae make amends. If you’re to be spared, every year, on this day, you’ll pay the rents o’ some poor soul in need. The day you don’t is the day you’ll die.” And wae that she jeest vanished, pipes an’ all.’
    â€˜And did he dae whoot he wiz telt, Hamish?’ asked Geordie.
    â€˜Aye, he did that. Every year for ten years until he was a bent old man and could work no more, he saved his coin an’ paid the dues o’ some poor unfortunate soul. He forswore the whisky an’ the baccy in order tae be able tae manage it.’ Hamish looked at the floor of the vehicle and shook his head.
    â€˜And whoot aboot Jessie the horse?’ asked Hoynes.
    â€˜I’m no’ right sure o’ whoot happened tae her. But the story’s no’ finished.’
    â€˜Carry on, Hamish,’ insisted Ralph.
    â€˜This was the days afore the dole an’ that kind o’ thing. The Raglan shepherd had had tae gie up his toil. He wiz in fine fettle, though. Sitting one night wae one o’ his freens enjoying his hospitality.’
    â€˜I thought he’d gied up the whisky.’ Hoynes snorted.
    â€˜He’d gied up buying it himsel’, so he could keep his word tae the ghost o’ his mother. But he wisna beyond accepting a dram when it wiz offered,’ said Hamish with a sniff. ‘Suddenly, oot o’ nowhere, there came the sound o’ the pipes. “Oh!” shouts the Raglan fella. “I’ve nae money tae pay the debts o’ some poor soul. I canna toil any mair. You have to forgive me.” But no, the pipes jeest got louder an’ louder. The Raglan shepherd sat bolt upright in his chair, his eyes jeest staring . . .’
    â€˜And then?’ urged Ralph.
    â€˜That was it, he jeest died on the spot. But the real issue is: do you want tae know how I know how it went?’ Not waiting for a reply, he carried on. ‘The man – his freen sittin’ wae him – was none other than my auld great-grandfaither. Hamish, too, as it turns oot.’
    â€˜You’ve no’ gied them the moral o’ the story,’ said Hoynes.
    â€˜Right enough, neither I have. The moral is this: the piper comes for you and you alone. He, she, it is the moral compass o’ oor souls. The piper is different for everybody. For the Raglan shepherd it wiz his ain mother,