In order to celebrate, I shall look back to a poem that was co-authored, years ago, by two members of this household. It tells a local tale (for local people) of death and devilry at an actual location just along the road.
This bit of river, actually.
And this 9th Century Cross, which is in the field on the Penpont side.
The Ballad of Boat Cross
“Our snuff-taker next discoursed to us upon the unknown stone with its sculpturing at Nith Bridge; how it had at one time been the stone to which boats were fixed in the days of ferries, but that on one occasion nineteen persons having taken seats in the ferry-boat were joined by a twentieth, who smelt of sulphur. The consequence was that the boat was upset, and all save the very questionable stranger and the oarsman perished – the stranger never having been seen again. This gratuitous mischief on the part of Diabolus set people anxious, and the first bridge at Thornhill was built.”
From “A Country Schoolmaster”, by James Shaw, published 1899.
In this laybyed land, just a pillar of stone
Raised as a rood so that all may atone,
Now stripped of the strength of its arms and respect
Weathered by ages’ normal neglect.
A mystery worn, leavened by lichen,
I puzzled the point of this grownover icon.
A finger to God? Its message confusing,
Recalling, attending, repenting, accusing?
I laid my head to its layers, secret imprinted,
Still silent stone held some meaning, half hinted.
So I spoke with an old man.
“Across that river fast stretch” his memory replied,
“Since time out of mind, a ferryman plied
His craft: to convey, the heart of his trade
Was balance of need for price to be paid.
Now. Try if you will to think yourself back
To a time when this passing place was unmarked,
Yet day followed night in order. Reason
Had healed superstition like some scabbed scratch.
Then. As one term fair’s eve drew in
The fabric of the day stretched thin
And drawn on ancient dark’s attendance
That night the dog star gained ascendance.
Down the drove road came stragglers trailing,
Belief was fading, belief was failing,
As shadows grew in inverse length
To confidence in stride and strength.
They hailed the boatman, pleading need.
Hard he held his nerve and greed.
“The final crossing’s cost is high,
Your choice, to pay, or stay this night!”
Nineteen souls, all told, accepted.
The painter slipped, the course selected,
When, casting from the parting shore,
A voice intoned, “What price one more?”
The tiller strained, the craft cut back,
A stranger shadowed, cloaked in black
Embarked. Abrupt, as daylight ended,
A stench portending Hell descended.
The stranger stirred the rapid race,
He slipped his mask, revealed his face.
“Place your bids. Time to decide
Your fare to reach the other side.”
Nature twisted.
His bleak dominion,
Madness.
The current bit.
The craft capsized, its timbers shattered,
Lost, debris tossed, cargo scattered,
Their faith in God too small to cope,
The stranger vanished with their hope.
Then, with the master’s whim placated,
The forces spent and storm abated.
At dawn, the damage wrought was clear,
Nineteen bodies by the pier.
The sole survivor, high and dried,
The boatman bought the other side.
The townsfolk mourned the passing roll,
Then built a bridge and raised a toll,
This sacred pillar they erected
To God, and all that He protected:
It stands as testament to that loss
And trust projected in the Cross.
But time erodes all things, and how
Can spirit help but bow, for now
Tradition says the drowned still waken
And cry for why they were forsaken.”
I felt that stone as worn by tears
And knew that souls speak down the years
And caught an echo of some call,
How could we draw our God so small?
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