PROLOGUE.
Ever since he became a dweller in the air of Glashgar, Gibbie, mindful of his first visit thereto, and of his grand experience on that occasion, had been in the habit, as often as he saw reason to expect a thunder-storm, and his duties would permit, of ascending the mountain, and there on the crest of the granite peak, awaiting the arrival of the tumult.Everything antagonistic in the boy, everything that could naturally find relief, or pleasure, or simple outcome, in resistance or contention, debarred as it was by the exuberance of his loving kindness from obtaining satisfaction or alleviation in strife with his fellows, found it wherever he could encounter the forces of Nature, in personal wrestle with them where possible, and always in wildest sympathy with any uproar of the elements.The absence of personality in them allowed the co-existence of sympathy and antagonism in respect of them.Except those truths awaking delight at once calm and profound, of which so few know the power, and the direct influence of human relation, Gibbie's emotional joy was more stirred by storm than by anything else; and with all forms of it he was so familiar that, young as he was, he had unconsciously begun to generalize on its phases.
Towards the evening of a wondrously fine day in the beginning of August--a perfect day of summer in her matronly beauty, it began to rain.All the next day the slopes and stairs of Glashgar were alternately glowing in sunshine, and swept with heavy showers, driven slanting in strong gusts of wind from the northwest.How often he was wet through and dried again that day, Gibbie could not have told.He wore so little that either took but a few moments, and he was always ready for a change.The wind and the rain together were cold, but that only served to let the sunshine deeper into him when it returned.
In the afternoon there was less sun, more rain, and more wind; and at last the sun seemed to give it up; the wind grew to a hurricane, and the rain strove with it which should inhabit the space.The whole upper region was like a huge mortar, in which the wind was the pestle, and, with innumerable gyres, vainly ground at the rain.
Gibbie drove his sheep to the refuge of a pen on the lower slope of a valley that ran at right angles to the wind, where they were sheltered by a rock behind, forming one side of the enclosure, and dykes of loose stones, forming the others, at a height there was no tradition of any flood having reached.He then went home, and having told Robert what he had done, and had his supper, set out in the early-failing light, to ascend the mountain.A great thunder-storm was at hand, and was calling him.It was almost dark before he reached the top, but he knew the surface of Glashgar nearly as well as the floor of the cottage.Just as he had fought his way to the crest of the peak in the face of one of the fiercest of the blasts abroad that night, a sudden rush of fire made the heavens like the smoke-filled vault of an oven, and at once the thunder followed, in a succession of single sharp explosions without any roll between.The mountain shook with the windy shocks, but the first of the thunder-storm was the worst, and it soon passed.The wind and the rain continued, and the darkness was filled with the rush of the water everywhere wildly tearing down the sides of the mountain.Thus heaven and earth held communication in torrents all the night.Down the steeps of the limpid air they ran to the hard sides of the hills, where at once, as if they were no longer at home, and did not like the change, they began to work mischief.To the ears and heart of Gibbie their noises were a mass of broken music.Every spring and autumn the floods came, and he knew them, and they were welcome to him in their seasons.
It required some care to find his way down through the darkness and the waters to the cottage, but as he was neither in fear nor in haste, he was in little danger, and his hands and feet could pick out the path where his eyes were useless.When at length he reached his bed, it was not for a long time to sleep, but to lie awake and listen to the raging of the wind all about and above and below the cottage, and the rushing of the streams down past it on every side.
To his imagination it was as if he lay in the very bed of the channel by which the waters of heaven were shooting to the valleys of the earth; and when he fell asleep at last, his dream was of the rush of the river of the water of life from under the throne of God;and he saw men drink thereof, and everyone as he drank straightway knew that he was one with the Father, and one with every child of his throughout the infinite universe.
He woke, and what remained of his dream was love in his heart, and in his ears the sound of many waters.It was morning.He rose, and, dressing hastily, opened the door.What a picture of grey storm rose outspread before him! The wind fiercely invaded the cottage, thick charged with water-drops, and stepping out he shut the door in haste, lest it should blow upon the old people in bed and wake them.He could not see far on any side, for the rain that fell, and the mist and steam that rose, upon which the wind seemed to have no power; but wherever he did see, there water was running down.Up the mountain he went--he could hardly have told why.
