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Authors: L. A. Morse
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knows that tears would only result in further punishment.
Angrily, Sawney Beane throws the gold coins into the darkness outside their circle. His voice hisses. “That is shit. That is nothing. They are important to the things. That is what makes them stupid. That is why we can kill them. That is why we are the hunters.”
He looks around the circle. “Who are the hunters?” In unison, the children chant proudly, “We are the hunters.” Sawney Beane nods.
The second oldest child speaks: “Tell us about the great wolf of the forest.”
Sawney Beane frowns, but the other children, encouraged by the boldness of their brother, clamor for him to tell the story. Sawney Beane is not displeased by the request, but feigns the boredom that comes from having told a story many, many times. The children fall silent. They know the story by heart, but every time they hear it, they feel the same pride and satisfaction.
“My father was the great wolf of the forest. He was a great hunter. Everything in the forest feared him. He would walk the forest in silence. When he came upon a cow or a sheep or a thing, he would attack. He would smell its fear and kill it. He would eat its heart. He was the strongest, the fiercest, the most dangerous creature. The things could not kill the great wolf because their fear was too great. Because he was too cunning. We must be strong like the great wolf of the forest. We must be cunning like the great wolf of the forest. We are the hunters!”
Quietly, almost whispering, the children repeat the last phrase, then sit in silence.
After a considerable time, the oldest child speaks in a small voice. “When will we be able to hunt?” The other children are surprised at this daring question, but the boy continues, before Sawney Beane can reply. “We know the rules. We have seen you hunt. It is time we became hunters. We can do it. Let us hunt with you.”
The other children add their pleas, but Sawney Beane quiets them with an angry glance. He looks around the circle, staring intently into the eyes of each child. He speaks quietly.
“You shall hunt.”
James Weaver is on his way to Edinburgh to join his brother in trade. After life on a farm in the rugged hills of Moorfoot, he is looking forward to the town.
It is a pleasant spring day, and he sings to himself as he walks along. Rounding a bend, he sees a young boy standing in the center of the road. The boy is poorly dressed, very dirty, and very pale, as though suffering from some disease. There is something vaguely unsettling about the child—perhaps his eyes—but Weaver is used to seeing strange people on the road.
The boy cries out to Weaver. “Help! Oh, please, help me! Please help me! Hurry!”
It seems the boy’s father has been hurt, but Weaver has some difficulty understanding just what the problem is. He finally gets the boy calmed down enough to explain.
“We were in the forest. Just over there. Suddenly my father cried out and fell down. He doesn’t answer, and I can’t move him. I’m scared. Please help me!”
Weaver has no hesitation in agreeing to help the boy. “All right, son. Don’t you worry. I’ll see what I can do. Just where is he?”
The boy points to the trees, then starts to run down a narrow path. He stops and looks back, pleading with Weaver to hurry. Weaver follows him into the woods. The boy seems to know where they are going, but the farther they go, the darker and gloomier it becomes.
Weaver grows nervous. “How much farther is it? I don’t like this.”
“Just up ahead. Oh, please, let’s hurry!”
They reach a small open space in the dark woods. A man lies facedown in the clearing, his body curiously twisted. Weaver looks at him with concern.
“Are you all right? Your son brought me to help. What has happened?”
No reply. Weaver stands over the man and repeats his question. The man does not move. Weaver bends down and touches his shoulder. There is no response.
Weaver reaches under
Angrily, Sawney Beane throws the gold coins into the darkness outside their circle. His voice hisses. “That is shit. That is nothing. They are important to the things. That is what makes them stupid. That is why we can kill them. That is why we are the hunters.”
He looks around the circle. “Who are the hunters?” In unison, the children chant proudly, “We are the hunters.” Sawney Beane nods.
The second oldest child speaks: “Tell us about the great wolf of the forest.”
Sawney Beane frowns, but the other children, encouraged by the boldness of their brother, clamor for him to tell the story. Sawney Beane is not displeased by the request, but feigns the boredom that comes from having told a story many, many times. The children fall silent. They know the story by heart, but every time they hear it, they feel the same pride and satisfaction.
“My father was the great wolf of the forest. He was a great hunter. Everything in the forest feared him. He would walk the forest in silence. When he came upon a cow or a sheep or a thing, he would attack. He would smell its fear and kill it. He would eat its heart. He was the strongest, the fiercest, the most dangerous creature. The things could not kill the great wolf because their fear was too great. Because he was too cunning. We must be strong like the great wolf of the forest. We must be cunning like the great wolf of the forest. We are the hunters!”
Quietly, almost whispering, the children repeat the last phrase, then sit in silence.
After a considerable time, the oldest child speaks in a small voice. “When will we be able to hunt?” The other children are surprised at this daring question, but the boy continues, before Sawney Beane can reply. “We know the rules. We have seen you hunt. It is time we became hunters. We can do it. Let us hunt with you.”
The other children add their pleas, but Sawney Beane quiets them with an angry glance. He looks around the circle, staring intently into the eyes of each child. He speaks quietly.
“You shall hunt.”
James Weaver is on his way to Edinburgh to join his brother in trade. After life on a farm in the rugged hills of Moorfoot, he is looking forward to the town.
It is a pleasant spring day, and he sings to himself as he walks along. Rounding a bend, he sees a young boy standing in the center of the road. The boy is poorly dressed, very dirty, and very pale, as though suffering from some disease. There is something vaguely unsettling about the child—perhaps his eyes—but Weaver is used to seeing strange people on the road.
The boy cries out to Weaver. “Help! Oh, please, help me! Please help me! Hurry!”
It seems the boy’s father has been hurt, but Weaver has some difficulty understanding just what the problem is. He finally gets the boy calmed down enough to explain.
“We were in the forest. Just over there. Suddenly my father cried out and fell down. He doesn’t answer, and I can’t move him. I’m scared. Please help me!”
Weaver has no hesitation in agreeing to help the boy. “All right, son. Don’t you worry. I’ll see what I can do. Just where is he?”
The boy points to the trees, then starts to run down a narrow path. He stops and looks back, pleading with Weaver to hurry. Weaver follows him into the woods. The boy seems to know where they are going, but the farther they go, the darker and gloomier it becomes.
Weaver grows nervous. “How much farther is it? I don’t like this.”
“Just up ahead. Oh, please, let’s hurry!”
They reach a small open space in the dark woods. A man lies facedown in the clearing, his body curiously twisted. Weaver looks at him with concern.
“Are you all right? Your son brought me to help. What has happened?”
No reply. Weaver stands over the man and repeats his question. The man does not move. Weaver bends down and touches his shoulder. There is no response.
Weaver reaches under
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