In Touch with Nature Part 19

Bother the bird. His wings too are flapping on the night air, and rustling as they say evil spirits do.

The trees grow more uncanny-looking every minute, and after going on and on for fully twenty minutes more, these ghostly ill-omened pines positively seem to advance to meet me, and wave their gnarled arms in the starlit air as I pa.s.s.

"Tu-whit-tu-whoo-oo-oo."

Horrible!

"Bob, my boy, bark, speak, and scare that awful bird."

"Wowff--wowff--wowff!"

Listen! Hark!

At no great distance we can hear the sharp "Yap! yap! woo-oo" of a shepherd's collie. No mistaking it. It cannot be a fox, and there are no wolves about.

I take my bearings by a star that s.h.i.+nes over the place from which the barking appeared to come, and Bob and I make straight in that direction.

To our great joy and relief, we presently emerge from among the black-branched uncanny trees, and on the moor, at no great distance, see a light streaming from the open door of a hut.

A creature very like a wolf, with hair all on end, comes grumbling and yelping in a most threatening way to meet us.

"Let me settle him," says Bob.

"No, Bob," I reply. "He is watching his master's house. He is right."

But one glance at Bob is enough for the collie. He disappears--goes bounding away over the hill, evidently to seek his master, for when we enter the one-roomed hut we find it deserted.

There is a bright fire on a low hearth, however, and the smoke finds its way up a real chimney, and not through a hole in the roof, as is the case so often in Highland shepherd huts. There is a pot hanging over the fire, simmering away slowly, and raising its lid a little every now and then to emit a whiff of steam, so savoury that Master Bob begins to lick his lips, and seems to wonder that I do not at once proceed to have supper.

I shake my head, as he looks up in my face inquiringly.

"No, no, Bob," I say; "that pot does not belong to me."

"Nonsense," says Bob; at least he thinks it. "Nonsense, master, all the world belongs to you if you could only believe it. You're king of the universe, in my mind at all events."

We sit and look at the pot. There is an old-fas.h.i.+oned wag-at-the-wall clock, tick-ticking away, but no other sound. After a time the clock clears its throat, and slowly rasps out the hour of nine, then goes quietly on tick-ticking again.

A whole hour pa.s.ses. The clock clears its throat once more and gives ten wheezy knocks.

Bob suggests supper more emphatically. I am getting very weary.

Those we left behind us must think we are indeed lost, or swallowed up in a quagmire. The thought makes me very uneasy, and I begin almost to wish my adventure in the weird forest may be all a dream, that presently the peat-fire, pot and soup and all may vanish, and I may wake in bed.

But while thus musing I am startled very much indeed, and so too is Bob, at hearing a cracked and dismal world-old voice close beside me say with a long-drawn sigh:

"Heigho! I wonder what o'clock it is!"

There is no one in the room, not a soul to be seen.

Next moment, from another direction, but whether above or beneath I cannot be sure, issues a low, half-demoniacal laugh of self-satisfaction.

"Ha! ha! ha!"

The great dog starts up. His hair is on end all along his spine. He growls low and glances fearfully round him as if he expected to see a spectre.

Again the mournful old-world voice and the long-drawn sigh.

"Heigho! Will he ever, _ever_ come!"

The dog looks in my face with terrible earnestness. He expects me to explain. I cannot--I feel uneasy. We listen for many minutes, but hear no more, till the rising wind moans drearily round the house and the fire gets low on the hearth.

"Ha! ha! ha!" The demon laugh again! It is a kind of half-ironical chuckle, impossible to describe. Then a voice in pitiful tones of entreaty:

"_Don't_ do it. Don't _do_ it."

I am really getting frightened. I look towards the door, which had hitherto been open, and stare to see it slowly shut as if moved by some spirit hand. The wind howls now like wild wolves outside.

"What is it? What _is_ it? Ha! ha! ha! What _is_ it?"

Then a wild unearthly shriek, and a yell of "Murder!" rises high above the wind. My nerves are quite unstrung. I verily believe my hair is moving under my Highland bonnet.

I would not stay another moment here for all the world.

I open the door, and rush out into the night, Bob at my heels, and shrieks and laughter resounding in my ears.

Out and away--anywhere, to be free of that uncanny hut.

A big round moon is s.h.i.+ning now, and the weird pine-trees are casting weird shadows on the moorland.

Look, though, is that a pine-tree?

No, it is a tall figure, in Highland garb, with a long crook, which it grasps high up, the plaid depending from the uplifted arm.

"Yap, yap, yap--"

That is the collie's bark, and yonder figure is no doubt that of his master. He advances, and the moon s.h.i.+mmers brightly on the pleasant face and snow-white beard of an old man.

"Welcome, stranger. You've lost your way. My dog came to tell me.

Come back and share my humble supper, then I will conduct you home."

I thought it strange to be addressed in such good English. But I was not rea.s.sured. Was this a wizard, or a spectre--the spirit of this haunted wood?

"Back!" I cried, with a shudder; "back among goblins!"

"Ha! ha! ha!" he laughed, and I could not help noticing that his laugh was precisely the same as that I had heard in the hut.

"Pardon me," he said, "but my c.o.c.katoos have been talking to you from behind the scenes. Come back, sir, it is all right. See, our dogs are playing together."

That was true. Bob and the collie were already the best of friends.