The Washer of the Ford: Legendary moralities and barbaric tales. Sharp William

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СКАЧАТЬ shepherd? Then, sure, you will guide me through this wood? And what will be beyond this wood?”

      “A river.”

      “And what river will that be?”

      “Deep and terrible. It runs through the Valley of the Shadow.”

      “And is there no ford there?”

      “Ay, there is a ford.”

      “And who will guide me across that ford?”

      “She.”

      “Who?”

      “The Washer of the Ford.”

      But hereat Torcall Dall gave a sore cry and snatched his hand away, and fled sidelong into an alley of the wood.

      It was moonshine when he lay down, weary. The sound of flowing water filled his ears.

      “Come,” said a voice.

      So he rose and went. When the cold breath of the water was upon his face, the guide that led him put a fruit into his hand.

      “Eat, Torcall Dall!”

      He ate. He was no more Torcall Dall. His sight was upon him again. Out of the blackness shadows came; out of the shadows, the great boughs of trees; from the boughs, dark branches and dark clusters of leaves; above the branches, white stars; below the branches, white flowers; and beyond these, the moonshine on the grass and the moonfire on the flowing of a river dark and deep.

      “Take your harp, O Harper, and sing the song of what you see.”

      Torcall heard the voice, but saw no one. No shadow moved. Then he walked out upon the moonlit grass; and at the ford he saw a woman stooping and washing shroud after shroud of woven sunbeams: washing them there in the flowing water, and singing a low song that he did not hear. He did not see her face. But she was young, and with long black hair that fell like the shadow of night over a white rock.

      So Torcall took his harp, and he sang:

      Glory to the great Gods, it is no Sword I am seeing:

      Nor do I see aught but the flowing of a river.

      And I see shadows on the flow that are ever fleeing,

      And I see a woman washing shrouds for ever and ever.

      Then he ceased, for he heard the woman sing:

      Glory to God on high, and to Mary, Mother of Jesus,

      Here am I washing away the sins of the shriven,

      O Torcall of Lochlin, throw off the red sins that ye cherish

      And I will be giving you the washen shroud that they wear in Heaven.

      Filled with a great awe, Torcall bowed his head. Then once more he took his harp, and he sang:

      O well it is I am seeing, Woman of the Shrouds,

      That you have not for me any whirling of the Sword:

      I have lost my gods, O woman, so what will the name be

      Of thee and thy gods, O woman that art Washer of the Ford?

      But the woman did not look up from the dark water, nor did she cease from washing the shrouds made of the woven moonbeams. But he heard this song above the sighing of the water:

      It is Mary Magdalene my name is, and I loved Christ.

      And Christ is the son of God, and Mary the Mother of Heaven.

      And this river is the river of death, and the shadows

      Are the fleeing souls that are lost if they be not shriven.

      Then Torcall drew nigher unto the stream. A melancholy wind was upon it.

      “Where are all the dead of the world?” he said.

      But the woman answered not.

      “And what is the end, you that are called Mary?”

      Then the woman rose.

      “Would you cross the Ford, O Torcall the Harper?”

      He made no word upon that. But he listened. He heard a woman singing faint and low far away in the dark. He drew more near.

      “Would you cross the Ford, O Torcall?”

      He made no word upon that. But once more he listened. He heard a little child crying in the night.

      “Ah, lonely heart of the white one,” he sighed, and his tears fell.

      Mary Magdalene turned and looked upon him.

      It was the face of Sorrow she had. She stooped and took up the tears. “They are bells of joy,” she said. And he heard a wild sweet ringing in his ears.

      A prayer came out of his heart. A blind prayer it was, but God gave it wings. It flew to Mary, who took and kissed it, and gave it song.

      “It is the Song of Peace,” she said. And Torcall had peace.

      “What is best, O Torcall?” she asked, rustling-sweet as rain among the leaves her voice was – “What is best? The sword, or peace?”

      “Peace,” he answered: and he was white now, and was old.

      “Take your harp,” Mary said, “and go in unto the Ford. But lo, now I clothe you with a white shroud. And if you fear the drowning flood, follow the bells that were your tears: and if the dark affright you, follow the song of the Prayer that came out of your heart.”

      So Torcall the Harper moved into the whelming flood, and he played a wild strange air, like the laughing of a child.

      Deep silence there was. The moonshine lay upon the obscure wood, and the darkling river flowed sighing through the soundless gloom. The Washer of the Ford stooped once more. Low and sweet, as of yore and for ever, over the drowning souls, she sang her immemorial song.

      MUIME CHRIOSD

      Note. – This “legendary romance” is based upon the ancient and still current (though often hopelessly contradictory) legends concerning Brighid, or Bride, commonly known as “Muime Chriosd,” that is, the Foster-Mother of Christ. From the universal honour and reverence in which she was and is held – second only in this respect to the Virgin herself – she is also called “Mary of the Gael.” Another name, frequent in the West, is “Brighde-nam-Brat,” that is, St. Bride of the Mantle, a name explained in the course of my legendary story. Brighid the Christian saint should not, however, as is commonly done, be confused with a much earlier and remoter Brighid, the ancient Celtic muse of Song.

      ST. BRIDE OF THE ISLES

SLOINNEADH BRIGHDE, MUIME CHRIOSD

      Brighde nighean Dùghaill Duinn,

      ’Ic Aoidth, ’ic Arta, ’ic Cuinn.

      Gach la is gach oidhche

      Ni mi cuimhneachadh air sloinneadh Brighde.

      Cha mharbhar mi,

      Cha ghuinear mi,

      Cha ghonar mi,

      Cha mho dh’ fhagas Criosd an dearmad СКАЧАТЬ