Dreams, by Fiona Macleod
||THE HILLS OF RUEL
One night Eilidh and Isla and I were sitting
before a fire of pine logs blazing upon peats, and listening to the snow as it whispered
against the walls of the house. The wind crying in the glen, and the tumult of the
hillstream in spate, were behind the white confused rumour of the snow.
Eilidh was singing low to herself, and Isla was watching her. I could not look long at
him, because of the welling upward of the tears that were in my heart. I know not why they
At last, after a pause wherein each sat intent listening to the disarray without, Eilidh's
sweet thrilling voice slid through the silence:
"Over the hills and far away,"
That is the tune I heard one day.
Oh that I too might hear the cruel
Honey-sweet folk of the Hills of Ruel.
I saw a shadow go into Isla's eyes. So I stirred and
spoke to my cousin.
"You, Isla, who were born on the Hills of Ruel, should sure have seen something of
the honey-sweet folk, as they are called in Eilidh's song."
He did not answer straightway, and I saw Eilidh furtively glance at him.
"I will tell you a story," he said at last simply.
Long, long ago there was a beautiful woman, and her
name was Etain, and she was loved by a man. I am not for remembering the name of that man,
for it is a story of the far-off days: but he was a prince. I will call him Art, and
mayhap he was a son of that Art the Solitary who was wont to hear the songs of the hidden
people and to see the moonshine dancers.
This Art loved Etain, and she him. So one day he took her to his dûn, and she was his
wife. But, and this was an ill thing for one like Art, who was a poet and dreamer, he
loved this woman overmuch. She held his life in the hollow of her hand. Nevertheless she
loved him truly, after her kind: and for him, blind with the Dream against his eyes, all
might have been well, but for one thing. For Art, who was no coward, feared one hazard,
and that was death: not his own death, and not even the death of Etain, but death. He
loved Etain beyond the narrow frontiers of life: and at that indrawing shadow he stood
One day, when his longing. was great upon him, he went out alone upon the Hills of Ruel.
There a man met him, a stranger, comely beyond all men he had seen, with dark eyes of
dream, and a shadowy smile.
"And so," he said, "and so, Art the Dreamer, thou art eager to know what
way thou mayest meet Etain, in that hour when the shadow of the Shadow is upon thee?"
"Even so; though I know neither thee nor the way by which my name is known unto
"Oh, for sure I am only a wandering singer. But, now that we are met, I will sing to
you, Art my lord."
Art looked at him frowningly. This man who called him lord spake with heedless
Then, of a sudden, song eddied off the lips of the man, the air of it marvellous light and
of a haunting strangeness: and the words were those that Eilidh there sang by the fire.
Through the dusk of silence which that song made in his brain, Art saw the stranger draw
from the fawnskin, slung round his shoulders and held by a gold torque, a reed. The man
played upon it.
While he played, there was a stirring on the Hills of Ruel. All the green folk were there.
Art listened to their honey-sweet song, and grew drowsy with the joy and peace of it. And
one there was who sang of deathless life; and Art, murmuring the name of Etain, fell
He was an old, old man when he awoke, and the grey hair that lay down the side of his face
was damp with unremembered tears. But, not knowing this, he rose and cried
When he reached his dûn there was no Etain there. He sat down by old ashes, where the
wind blew through a chink, and pondered. An old man entered at dusk.
"Where is Etain?" Art asked.
"Etain, the wife of Midir?"
"No; Etain, the wife of Art."
The old man mumbled through his open jaws:
"All these years since I was young, Etain the wife of Art has been Etain the wife of
"And who is Midir?"
"Midir is the King of the World; he, they say, who makes sand of women's hearts and
dust of men's hopes."
"And I have dreamed but an idle dream?" Art cried, with his heart breaking in a
sob within him.
"Ay, for if Art you be, you have been dreaming a long dream upon the Hills of
But when Art, old now and weak, turned to go back to the honey-sweet folk upon the Hills
of Ruel, so that he might dream his dream again, he heard Midir laughing, and he died.
"And that is all," ended Isla abruptly,
looking neither at Eilidh nor at me, and staring into the flame of the peats.
But Eilidh smiled no more to herself that night, and no more sang below her breath.