Inchbracken: The Story of a Fama ClamosaCleland, Robert
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Inchbracken: The Story of a Fama Clamosa
Cleland, Robert
Historical fiction; Scotland -- Fiction
The night was stormy and black as pitch. Sheets of chilling rain sped
lashing across the glen, driven by the whirling tempest. The burns in
the hills, swollen into torrents, came tumbling down their rocky beds
all foam and uproar, diffusing through the air an undertone of
continuous thunder, that could be distinctly heard in each recurring
interval of the gale. Along the road which traversed the clachan of
Glen Effick and then wandered up the glen and across the hills, the
elements had free scope to work their evil will, and nothing with life
dared venture forth to oppose them. The air was full of hissings and
roarings and crackings and rumblings, as trees and roofs swayed and
shivered to the blast, and the loosened stones rumbled in the beds of
neighbouring torrents. The drowsy lights from the inn door and the
post-office disclosed nothing but a sheet of falling rain and an
overflowing gutter, and the gleams from the round boles in the cottage
shutters were but shining bars across the thick darkness of the night.
The two bright lamps of the stage coach from Inverlyon, descending the
hill road from the east, glowed like the fierce eyes of some monster
of the night, and disclosed something of the scene as they passed
along, trees tossing and writhing in the wind, wayside burns broke
loose from their bounds and foaming across the road, and for the
rest,--slop, slush, and blackness. Within, the tumult out of doors
gave edge to the glow and comfort of the snug peat fire on the hearth.
The wind, rumbling in the rocking chimney, and occasional raindrops
hissing on the embers, seemed but to call forth a ruddier light from
that goodly pile of burning peat and peeled coppice oak. True the
hearth was but clay, and of clay too was the floor of the apartment,
but the flicker and play of the flames hid the one as effectually as
the comfortable Brussels carpet concealed the other. The whitewashed
cottage walls, as well as some outlying yards of carpet, were covered
by bookcases whose tops touched the low ceiling, and big books piled
and heaped one on the other as they best might be to save space.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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