11
I first heard this lovely story from travellers who were staying near Comrie, Perthshire. I was fascinated by it and tried for years to find out more about it. My search led nowhere, until I was thrown a lifeline by a friend who told me it had been collected in a book. A man from the Borders called Wilson had heard gypsies tell it at a gathering round the campfire. He thought it was such a wonderful story he put it in a collection of tales.
It took me a long time, but eventually I tracked down a copy of his book. Although he had given it a different title, it was almost the same tale. In Wilson’s book it’s called ‘The Maid of Lednick’. My version is called ‘The Head’.
The story that follows is adapted from Wilson with a chunk of my own story thrown in.
At the time of the Battle of Culloden, in the beautiful Strathearn village of Comrie, lived a cotton weaver who had the same name as the village. Widower John Comrie shared his home with his lovely daughter Marion. Although he was a greedy man, known for his hard dealings with other people, he was also truthful and honest. But circumstances have a way of changing people, and our John was about to see just how much...
Marion spent most of her time wondering along the banks of the River Lednick. She was considered a wee bit eccentric, and folks put this down to her being raised by her late granny. This old lady had filled the lassie’s head with tales of the Devil’s Cauldron, a swirling pool formed by a cataract of the river.
The tales Marion’s granny had told her were mainly about the brownies, magical little men who lived in the area and danced around the Devil’s Cauldron, and also of the ‘Spirit o’ Rolla’, a waterfall whose voice roared like thunder in its cascading waters.
When visitors spoke of the area’s beauty they spoke only of what could be seen by the eye, but to Marion the wooded valley and the high windy summits, the flowing river with its many cascading falls, held more interest and importance for her than it would for a mere lover of the view. This was her spiritual home, a little world peopled with imaginary beings, who were all her friends. Her beliefs as a child were woven like threads of gold through her youth and into womanhood. This place was her birthright; ever since those early years she had long since been embraced and enchanted by it.
If you were to sit on the edge of the basin in that mysterious glen, overhung with thick trees and shrubs, amidst the roar of falling water, you would hear the hissing, boiling, labouring Cauldron, lashed into a thousand eddies. It sounded like twisted, agonised serpents, shrieking their eternal hatred against the stream below. Add this to the noise of thunder in the heavens and many a sane person might be forgiven for thinking they had seen or heard something not of this world. In fact they might even start to believe that in the hidden caverns below lived those creatures known as brownies.
Some even went further, and said that the Devil could be heard calling on the Spirit o’ Rolla to send water down for his cauldron. To those not accustomed to the place, it certainly wasn’t somewhere to get lost in. Anybody of a timid disposition was likely to be terrified out of their wits!
To dreamy Marion, however, this was a world of scented blossoms and dreams. Her favourite time was autumn, not summer. The summer brought visitors, and there was less water in the stream, but when autumn with its rainstorms came to her favourite stream, she could once more hear the shrieking voice of the angry spirit as the river flooded dark and swollen.
In her wanderings in those secluded and bewitched places, Marion was generally alone, until one day her favourite cousin, Walter Comrie, began to accompany her. He was a son of a brother of her father’s who had gone abroad and died, leaving a large fortune to Walter, who was placed under the charge of Marion’s father, John.
It had never seemed important to her to have a friend; her secret world of imaginary creatures filled her thoughts with enough companions. Yet Walter Comrie, a handsome and well mannered young gentleman, soon became the love of her life. Seeing their constant companionship and how they held hands, it soon became apparent to all the residents of Comrie that they were sweethearts.
The people of the village would comment as the pair walked along arm in arm staring at each other with devotion, ‘See how they look into each other’s eyes? What a handsome pair they make! We’ll be hearing the wedding bells shortly, no doubt.’
Something else was gossiped about. She was a northern lass, he a fine English gent. ‘But love is a power no man can divide.’ This was the reason many gave for the unusual match of a Scottish woman and English man.
Walter may have had English blood flowing through his veins, but he forgot about it when he heard rumours of the plight of the Young Pretender, Bonny Prince Charlie. Feverish stories were told of how he was the rightful heir to Scotland, and also of how mighty a Highland warrior he was. Walter had no doubts. He decided to carry the Stuart banner and join the Jacobites, the Prince’s army in Scotland.
He told his lovely Marion that when the Highland troops came marching through Comrie on their way to Inverness, led by the gallant James, Duke of Perth, he would join them. Telling her was the hardest thing he had ever done. Marion was a peaceful lass, and carried no banner for any soldier’s cause, regardless of who or what was being fought for. The boiling, rushing waters of the Devil’s Cauldron were enough excitement for her. ‘A weapon is a weapon, no matter whose hand wields it,’ she’d tell anyone who was remotely interested in warfare. She would then add wisely, ‘Death is death!’
It was as they sat close together watching the falling torrents at the edge of the Devil’s Cauldron after a heavy rainfall that he told her of his plans.
Her answer was as he’d expected. ‘What are you thinking of? You cannot leave me to go and fight a battle that has nothing to do with you! I won’t hear of it.’ She turned and gestured with her arms to the Spirit o’ Rolla, whose voice thundered within the roaring waters. ‘Do you hear this fine fellow talking of joining a Highland army, who cannot speak a word of Gaelic?’ She stood up, and if he’d not pulled her back, she would almost certainly have tumbled over into the basin. She was crying and almost inconsolable, but continued pleading with him. ‘And when orders are called, how will you know what they are?’
She held him tightly, sobbing deeply. ‘Just because I believe in the brownies doesn’t mean my heart is not flesh. Can’t you see how it will break into a thousand pieces if you fail to come home to me? Stay and I will ask them to teach you songs and music. Come every day with me and we can delight in their tales. Oh please, Walter, don’t go!’
Then she pushed him away from her and shouted, ‘If you do go, I will ask the Rolla to send an earthquake – one that will open a passage into the brownies’ underworld. They’ll steal you and hide you until the battle is over.’
‘Oh Marion, Marion, why don’t you give up this nonsense? Your little elves may be true to you, but to me, my dear, they are nothing more than imaginings. What would the people of Comrie and Strathearn think of me, a healthy young man, wandering peacefully through these woodlands while a battle for this land rages further north? You are right, I do not speak the language of the Gaels, but my heart speaks it. And it tells me I must desert you and take up arms for the cause. I know Comrie is famous for its earthquakes and fairies, but would it not be better to be known for the fact that a mere Englishman came here and threw his weight on the side of Scotland’s rightful heir?’
‘I don’t care a button who rules Scotland! They will have no say over flowing waters, yellow broom and weeping willow trees. Anyway, what if you never come back? What shall become of me? Am I to wander these places day and night, and torture myself with seeing your reflection in the Cauldron, hearing your dear voice whispering to me through the bushes? Oh please, Walter, again I beg you, don’t leave me.’
But Walter had already decided that his destined path was to join James, Duke of Perth, in fighting for the scion of Scotland’s ancient kings. Marion watched her lover walk off down the winding track, leaving a heart so broken at that moment of her young life that nothing would mend it, not even the magic of the brownies.
The story of Culloden is told throughout the world, and it is no secret that Walter fought gallantly. He certainly put his heart and soul into Bonny Prince Charlie’s cause, but again it is no secret how that unfortunate struggle ended.
News spread throughout the land of the brave men who were now fleeing the wrath of the enemy, and many homes were opened up to hide them and assist their escape. When word reached Comrie that Walter was a survivor of the battle, all wondered how to protect their hero, especially when a proclamation was broadcast, putting a high price on his head as a traitor to the Crown. Many approached John to see if Walter needed help or a place to hide, but he said that no sign or word had so far come from the brave Englishman.
Poor Marion could neither sleep nor eat, and was in constant conversation with her brownies high up at the Cauldron on the hillside overlooking the village.
One night, not long after those events, two men, one called James Robertson and the other Malcolm Baxter, were passing by rocks that rise out of the Cauldron when they heard voices below.
‘Hold him, John,’ came a distinctive Highland voice which they recognised as a certain lad named Sandy MacNab. ‘Give me the knife and I’ll do the deed. Take care of his mouth – hold his legs and watch he doesn’t kick you. My, what a fuss he makes – grip him! Oh, what a tough devil he is! One of us could not have done the deed. I’m glad there’s the two of us, eh, John?’
‘Yes, Sandy. But look at the hole I’ve put in his head, and he’s not dead yet!’ John continued, ‘He can’t live long now, Sandy.’
The listeners also recognised the second killer by his voice – it was John Comrie. He could be heard hissing through clenched teeth, ‘I wish it were over, for I don’t like death. Look, man, he still moves! Give him another stab, but watch the blood and don’t mark me with it.’
‘That I will,’ answered Sandy.
There was more commotion and Sandy could be heard to shout, ‘Take that, you devil! I had plenty of trouble getting you this night, for you knew we were after you; but you’ve got it now, my fine chap, for giving us such a chase.’
The terrified listeners then heard Sandy tell John, ‘He’s completely dead now, so let go of his legs. He’ll not speak any more of this world. Cut off his head. We will be able to take that and get what he’s worth.’
‘Heads these days are of some value, and this one will fetch a good price!’
‘We’d better get him into the cave, Sandy, and cover him up with grass and leaves.’
The listeners would have stayed to hear more, had a female form, shimmering in a white mist, not frightened the life out of them, sending them running for their lives. To see such an apparition in the dead of night would have spooked the strongest of Comrie’s weaver men, especially one that was hovering at the mouth of the devil from hell’s water spout.
Once James Robertson and Malcolm Baxter were back in the village, thoughts of the murder they were positive had taken place soon filled them to bursting with anger.
‘I think yon two have murdered poor brave Walter,’ said Malcolm.
‘I think you’re right. It was clear bloodthirsty murder that we witnessed. The hand of John Comrie is at work here, my man, it’s plain to see. He gets MacNab to chase Walter, catch and murder him in the coldest blood, then sends him to Perth with Walter’s head to collect the reward for it. John gets his nephew’s thousands, pockets all Walter’s belongings, and nobody would realise he’d a hand in the death. It would be the making of the greedy bisom.’
It did not take much for this pair to conclude that this criminal deed was planned by John, because at one time each of them had been under his employment and were dismissed for theft.
They kept a watch for the return of the two so-called killers. When they appeared, a bulky parcel comfortably tucked under Sandy’s arm, it was obvious that they had the head of poor Walter Comrie.
Three days later Sandy was seen striding through the village on his way to Perth, whistling happily, carrying the same bundle.
Robertson and Baxter paid a man to follow him at a distance. When he got to Perth, he was observed asking various people where the Provost lived.
Once he’d been directed to the Provost’s stately mansion, it didn’t take long before he stood boldly on the steps leading to the front door, the bloodied bundle secured beneath his arm. Several loud thuds on the door brought an angry Provost, asking what his visitor wanted.
‘How are you this fine day, sir?’ asked Sandy, bowing at the waist.
‘What is it you want, lad?’ inquired the Provost.
‘I am here because your honour pays for Jacobite heads. Now can I please have my reward?’
The Provost cast a disapproving eye over the bloodied bundle and said, ‘Whose head is it?’
Sandy puffed out his tweed-covered chest and said smugly, ‘That damned rascal Walter Comrie, who fought like a lion at Culloden.’
The Provost, refusing to get too close to the bundle swathed in bandages asked, ‘How can you prove to me this is the head of Walter Comrie?’
‘To be sure – look, is this not a traitor’s head? Did you ever see eyes like that on a loyal subject?’
The Provost, with quivering fingers, separated part of the bandages, then laughed. The object was so much disfigured that it was not possible to say even if it was a human head.
‘You are a fool. Have you any witnesses to prove this is the head of young Comrie?’
‘I don’t think it needs proof – the thing proves itself. Take it in your hand, smell the gunpowder in it, is that not enough?’
‘Listen, this is sheer nonsense. If there is no witness, there’ll be no reward.’
‘I am a fine honest man and I need no witness. My word to you, sir, should be my bond.’
The Provost had heard enough. He gestured at a grinning town officer who was standing nearby to throw Sandy MacNab and his foul-smelling bundle out of Perth.
‘He’d better not lay a finger on me, or he’ll get the same as this traitor.’ With that said, Sandy put the head down on the doorstep. It rolled forward before settling at the Provost’s feet. He then defiantly lifted a fist and shouted, ‘Keep the reward. I can see a good man who does his duty is not welcome in the fine city of Perth.’ He then turned to go, leaving the Provost and his officer lost for words.
‘Hey,’ called the Provost, ‘take this thing with you!’ In a second the head came flying through the air after Sandy like a football.
‘Och, you keep it sir. Make soup for your officers’ dinner.’
He seized the head again and hurled it at the Provost, then took flight as fast as his feet could shift themselves through Perth.
After the man who had followed Sandy circulated the news, the tale spread like a heather fire through the folk of Comrie. John Comrie and Sandy Macnab had murdered Walter. Sandy was going to collect a reward, while John would lay claim to the goods and fortune of the deceased man. Some reasonable people said it was a ridiculous tale, because John loved that boy – one day he would be his son-in-law, for goodness sake. However, replies were as easy to find as smoke from a windblown heather fire. Tongues were soon spreading gossip that a son-in-law was one thing, but ten thousand pounds was another. Yes, John did have a love for money, and although he loved his daughter, she was spending more and more time at the Devil’s Cauldron with her elves, so how would she mind one way or the other?
The gossips were consumed with rage, and went on wildly speculating. What if this nephew of his had survived? What would happen to the respectable God-fearing weaver if the Crown soldiers were to seek him out as a collaborator with the rebels? Oh, John had plenty of reasons to dispose of his nephew, no doubt about that. Some even went as far to suggest John had become one those cursed folk who swore allegiance to the crown.
After great discussions behind closed shutters and latched doors, the conclusion of most people was that John Comrie had murdered his own nephew, on the pretext of a love for the reigning monarch, to show that he had nothing to do with Walter joining the Stuart cause.
Strathearn rang with the news. Hatred built up against John and Sandy throughout the area, and people would spit when their names were spoken. These so-called respectable individuals who lived in their midst were informers and a murderers, and crown-lickers to boot.
Soon the heather fire was spreading and a flame of hatred and revenge rose up. They were avoided; no one dealt with them; loud threats to murder them were uttered; old women cursed them with their spite for stealing the breath from Marion’s beloved. In short there was no place of refuge for John and Sandy among the people of the region.
Poor Marion, she hardly could take it in – her own father a killer. But what a crime – her very own lover lost at the hand of the one who had sired and raised her. She was lost and broken-hearted. The only place she could find solace was the Cauldron. Of her father’s guilt she had no doubt, because she too had been there on the night. She had heard the voices and recognised them, almost terrifying the life from Malcolm Baxter and James Robertson when she ran away, frightened and confused.
She had thought over the scene on that awful night a thousand times. She made every effort to convince herself that there must be something which, when explained, would clear up the whole sorry mess. She had also long wondered why her father never shared with her any information about Walter’s fate beyond the facts known to all. Did he keep important facts from her?
Late at night she’d seen him sneaking out of the house. Once she could swear she saw someone of his build and height skulking near the Cauldron edge, but how could it be him? He hated the place, and had told her many times she was mad to go there. A turmoil of thoughts raced inside her head, offering no explanation of the awful events she had witnessed.
Deeply depressed by her fear for Walter’s life and suspicion of John and Sandy’s guilt, she felt that life had nothing left for her but to find solace in the brownies’ dens, beside the Devil’s Cauldron.
Sitting on a ledge of rock overlooking this fearful hole, she began to think more and more about how little she had to live for.
‘How often have I conversed with my invisible friends in this pleasant place? How often have Walter and I laughed at the echoes of our voices as they joined together and sang of our love in the branches of laburnum hanging over the cascade of dancing waters? My heart is sore, and without love I cannot live. Find my soul, and bring me into your world, little men of the forest. Under your spells join me together again with him who was so cruelly murdered.’
She teetered over the brink, but try as she might, the courage to jump to her death failed her.
From then on Marion wandered aimlessly, reciting poetry and singing mournful ballads to her imaginary friends. The nice folk of Comrie wept for the poor lassie’s broken spirit, wondering what relief could be found for the sad, unfortunate, mad girl.
Marion was just broken-hearted, however, not mad. One evening, when the moon was shining clear and bright, she tiptoed to and fro, praying and listening for one single sound that would allow her to communicate with her unseen friends. Then she heard something. From the bottom of the dell, where the water was weakest, she heard a voice. Someone was singing a low, sad song. How often had she passed this spot and thought she heard the voices of tiny magical creatures. Now they had come to her in their singing. At last she thought they were reaching out, calling for her to join them. She was riveted to the spot.
‘That is not the Spirit o’ Rolla, the voice is too sweet and soft,’ she called out loud, hoping to get a response.
‘It is not,’ answered the voice. ‘It’s me, my lady, Sandy MacNab. Now, why don’t you go away home and be with people who love you. Your father needs you and the hour is late.’
For a single moment in the midst of her misery she had thought that the brownies were contacting and communicating with her. All her life she had prayed for a word from them, but perhaps folks were right. There were no little men; she was a fool. Without a word, she hung her sad head and directed her steps homeward.
John Comrie had other things on his mind, however. All of Strathearn was baying for his blood. Thinking that if things should turn nasty it might be better for Marion if she was elsewhere, he moved her out of her home and put her under the protection of a neighbouring farmer. He thought it wiser if he too hid from sight until circumstances calmed down. In this he was right, because after he had disappeared, enraged villagers set fire to one of his properties.
Word of these matters soon reached Edinburgh and a letter was sent by the Lord Advocate commanding the Procurator Fiscal to investigate. The commanders of the Government army, anxious to quell remnants of scattered Jacobites who might be eager to start another rebellion, weren’t keen to send soldiers to Comrie, but were told it was their public duty to uphold law and order.
Walter Comrie had been murdered. If it had been because of his involvement at Culloden then that would have been acceptable to the authorities. However it seemed that the crime was committed for no other reason than evil greed on the part of the Comrie weaver named John and his companion MacNab. If the crime of murder was proven against them, then they would face the might of the law and Walter’s wealth and property would be given over to the Crown, which would please the Government.
The Procurator Fiscal set about a court action. It was held in a packed church hall. Malcolm Baxter and James Robertson were examined first; and these bold lads had no hesitation in stating that they had definitely heard John and Sandy kill a man on the night in question. They were witnesses to the fact that his head was cut off, carried through the village in a bag and then taken to Perth to claim the reward.
Sandy was questioned first. ‘Well, Sandy,’ said the Fiscal in a serious tone, knowing how cunning and obstinate this bold lad could be, ‘Is this true?’
‘It is, but there’s little use in speaking about the head now, when the evidence of it being Walter’s is destroyed. It was the bonniest head of a traitor, when I offered it to the idiot Provost, as you could wish to see on a summer’s day.’
‘Aye, aye, but did you take it to Perth and request a reward?’
‘I did say it was Walter’s head, but the Provost called me a liar. He said it could have been anybody’s head. Now that is plain, is it not?’
‘Not to me, Sandy,’ replied the Fiscal. He now saw that Sandy, not having got the reward, wished for some reason he could not well understand, to leave the matter in a convenient state of doubt. ‘But you can surely say whether or not it was Walter Comrie’s head?’
‘I refused to get involved in a debate with a fine gent like the Provost of Perth by saying it was, when he said it might not be.’
‘Look, Sandy, if we can’t say whose head it was, then can you please tell us where you got it?
‘I cannot remember where I got it. It’s a long time ago, and I haven’t a mind going back two days, never mind two months.’
‘Well, was it off or on the body when you got it?’
‘Off, to be sure.’
‘So where was it before you got it?’
‘On the body, where else!’
‘Did you see it on the body?’
‘I don’t remember; but there can be no doubt that it was once on the body, so don’t waste your time asking me again.’
‘Where is the head now?’
‘Where any dead thing should be – in the grave.’
‘Who buried it?’
‘The Provost of Perth, when I gave it to him with my compliments.’
‘Thank you, Sandy, you can go.’
At the summing up, the unanimous decision was that Sandy was a wee bit daft, so they let him go. John, however, though he was not in court, was convicted of murder. Walter’s properties were handed over to the Crown. To punish John it was decided all his properties, houses, goods etc would be put up for public auction. Of course no one would dare touch the belongings of a murderer, therefore his effects too would follow Walter’s to the crown. The next step was to commit John to jail.
Throughout all these events no one gave poor broken-hearted Marion a thought. The ruin of her parent, poverty, misery and the loss of her future husband had proved too much. The clouds were ever-blackening – she had to go and find her wee brownies.
Just like the shipwrecked mariner whose eyes scanned the horizon for the sight of a sail, she hoped and prayed that the voice she had heard would sing to her once more from the Devil’s Cauldron. She stood stiff and silent, and just at the same time in the evening as before, a sound of sweet singing drifted up from the chasm to fill her heart with love for the creatures of the forest.
‘Oh, my dear little ones, you call me, you call me,’ she cried, ‘and now in my darkest hour you beckon me. Here I am. What shall I do? Open the secret passage into your world and I shall willingly join you forever.’
She waited, but nothing, no sound followed to help the maiden in her sad plight. Hours she waited, and at last, exhausted, she sat down. As her heart grew ever heavier and her spirit despaired after all that had happened, she whispered to her imaginary friends, ‘You are cruel to me, for all the faith I have had in you. How many times, when at school other children made fun of me and my Walter did too, I have defended you all through my life. But look how you support me! Here I am, left alone with no one. You don’t exist, I am mad! Is it not enough that my joys have been ripped from me, and now, with this flickering smoky flame of life, you take my dreams? All I had left to look forward to was to share eternity with you, my friends, yet you mock me from your mossy caves and briar bushes. Is my soul to fall upon a feather and find no resting place?’
She rose and went back home, where she found officers taking an inventory of the house and its contents. They sealed and locked every desk and drawer. A crowd had gathered to ridicule and laugh at their once trusted friend and neighbour. Many cried that he should be drowned in the Earn. Marion thought that if the mob had found him, it’s certain he would have met a watery grave.
Some days later an advertisement appeared in the village, stating that John Comrie’s effects were to be sold in eight days. In the village square the crowd was informed that the said Comrie had been apprehended in Crieff, and was now in Perth Jail.
That night, round a great bonfire, followers of Charles Edward Stuart danced in delight that Walter’s murderer was caught. An effigy of John Comrie was then paraded and burned.
Marion sought her usual place of consolation, turning her back on bells and trumpets and the rest of the uproar. She looked back only once to see the whole village lighted up by the fire. She was going to leave everything behind to join her friends. This time she would not come back.
Far up on her ledge over the brink of the Cauldron, she whispered in desperation, ‘Oh voice, I beg you to call to me for the last time.’
This time her broken spirit did hear a beautiful sound came from far below. It was not the bellow of the great Rolla cascade or the voice of Sandy MacNab, but a gentle, sweet and melodious singer. ‘Sweet Marion, come and heal up the wounds of your broken spirit. Let us free your mind. Come and dance with us upon carpets of bluebell and soft-blown fern. Be our friend. We can take away the pain that the humans have so hurtfully burdened you with. Dear Marion, what harm have you ever caused anyone? Jump now, pretty lass!’
‘I hear you! Yes, I’m not imagining it – you really speak to me.’ She leaned over the brink of the chasm, searching the swirling waters below for the face of one of her little friends. ‘The fires of Comrie are burning bright, but I know brighter lights wait for me in your palaces. Take me to your home, where there are no consuming fires, no cruel fathers, no murdered lovers, and no more unhappy days.’ Saying these words she flung herself into the boiling cauldron.
Next day, all who knew Marion wept openly at the news of her suicide that was reported to them.
However, on the day before the sale of John’s house and all his possessions, a commotion was heard in Comrie, greater than had ever been experienced before in the memory of that part of Strathearn. Everybody came out on the street apart from the infirm and elderly, and those indoors hung from windows with necks extended like swans. In the midst of the crowd stood none other than Walter Comrie himself, with Marion leaning on his arm, and alongside them was Sandy MacNab waving a paper above his head.
As soon as the crowd could be persuaded to quieten down for a moment, Sandy read from the paper as follows: ‘This here is a pardon from the Government. It says: “A person of the name Walter Comrie of Sherrifbrae, in the county of Lanark, who took part in the late rebellion, having been outlawed, a price was set on his head by a proclamation which contained an erroneous designation of the said Walter Comrie, having described him as an inhabitant of Comrie in Perthshire, where another person of the same name resided. Whereby the said man residing in Comrie suffered great hurt and prejudice. Therefore it is necessary to rectify the error, and to free Walter Comrie of Comrie from further disturbance.” The wrong Walter Comrie was condemned, but now our Walter Comrie is a free man once again and can reclaim his property!”
When this was read, everyone embraced and kissed the two favourites, who had, as it were, come back from the grave. This joy however soon turned to shame and sorrow at the terrible way their neighbour John had been treated. ‘Go to Perth and have him freed,’ was the order given to two strong young men.
In no time John was entering his home village in a fine coach drawn by three good horses.
That night every prominent citizen in Comrie shared a feast in John’s house, and while they were eating dinner it was apparent many had questions that needed to be answered. Mr Moodie, an old friend, was the first to ask, ‘What happened? What caused the mischief, the error, the confusion? And was Walter secreted all the time in caves at the Devil’s Cauldron?”
John replied that when they read the proclamation condemning Walter it was decided to hide him. Sandy and he brought him food every day. They had decided against telling Marion, she being such an eccentric lass, who might have given the game away without meaning to.
A Reverend Brown spoke next. ‘But how did the story of the murder arise, and more, why did Sandy carry a head to Perth saying it was Walter’s?’
‘Och well,’ said Sandy, ‘that’s plain enough. We were afraid to be seen taking meat to Walter, and thought it a better idea to give him a supply that would last him for a while. So I hunted down a young deer and left it for Walter to feed on, not knowing when John and I were wrestling with it that there were people listening to us. I wanted to take its head off to present to a gentleman trophy hunter – they’re always looking for them to hang on their fine walls.’
‘But what of the human head, Sandy,’ asked Mrs Mactavish, a fine upstanding widow-woman of the community, ‘the one you took to the Provost?’
‘Well, I knew that a soldier from Glen Artney who had no relatives had died of a bad wound. So after his funeral, I waited until night before digging down into his grave and cutting off his head.’
‘Oh my, that was a terrible thing to do – the poor soul!’ Mrs Mactavish covered her face with a handkerchief and sniffled loudly.
Sandy smiled broadly and said, ‘Missus, he was a hardy follower of the Stuarts. He’d have given his consent if he could, and I rest easy in my bed knowing that the dead soldier is not wandering around heaven seeking his head. I’m certain he’s been to Perth and been rejoined with it.’
‘Aye, aye,’ replied Mr Moody, ‘But how was Marion saved?’
For the first time Walter spoke. ‘I was in the cave when Marion leapt. Her shriek terrified me. I knew the pool, having spent so long in its vicinity. I had thrown things into it and watched where they rose, every one of its eddies was known to me. When she hit the water, I knew exactly where she’d come up before she was dragged under for the last time. I succeeded in getting her onto the bank. I then took my love to the warm cave where I was hidden, and she remained there until the day that blessed proclamation was issued.’
Thus was everything explained. After the dinner a grand dance was held, in which all the citizens of Comrie took part. The festivities were enjoyed well into the next day.
Walter and Marion duly wed. She became a mother, and it was noticed that she never wandered up onto the banks of the Lednick to stare down into the Cauldron. Her belief in brownies remained firm, however, and although her husband and their children never shared those beliefs, there was something she knew which confirmed her conviction that they were there. It couldn’t have been Walter who sang so sweetly and clearly on that last day when she decided to drown all her sorrows in the Devil’s Cauldron – because he couldn’t sing a single note!