Eric McCormack - Cloud

Johnny’s wife invited him in and sat him down on a three-legged stool at the table near the hearth. She ladled him a bowl of kale soup out of the dark red cauldron on the peat fire.

The soup warmed the traveller’s insides and soon he was ready to continue his journey. But before he left, he asked if he might examine the cauldron containing the soup. In all his travels, he had never beheld a dark red cauldron of this type. Johnny Reed’s wife, with some old dish

rags, moved the hot cauldron off the peat fire and onto the flagstone border of the hearth. Neither she nor Johnny told the traveller about the dream that had led to its discovery.

The traveller perched a pair of wire-rimmed glasses on his nose and looked the cauldron over. He was especially interested in a pattern he discovered around the outer rim, sooty from decades of peat smoke. He rubbed it clean with his kerchief.

“Well, well,” he said. “A Latin inscription. It’s very possible your cauldron is from the period when Romans were here. Let me see:

Sub hoc alia jacet

How very curious. It means

Beneath this, lies another

.”

The English traveller congratulated Johnny Reed and his wife on their unique cauldron. It might not be worth much in terms of money, but it was an archaeological treasure and he hoped they’d look after it. He thanked them for the food and warmth, got on his horse, and headed for the main road as they’d directed him.

As soon as he’d gone, Johnny took his shovel and set off once more to the place where he’d found the cauldron twenty years before. He was in a state of excitement as he picked his way across the dangerous bog to where the skeletal alder bush still grew. He began digging again deeper, much deeper than before.

CLANG!!

Sure enough, Johnny uncovered another dark red cauldron, and levered it to the surface. He inserted the handle of his long-handled shovel into the arch of the lid. The lid turned slowly, metal screeching on metal. With the final twist, Johnny again fell backwards. He rose to his feet and stared into the cauldron.

Gentle Reader:

As of this point of the story, a variety of versions exist. Out of an obligation to truth, I shall include them here for your delectation.

In the version I heard in my childhood, the second cauldron did contain a fortune in ancient gold. But when Johnny, exulting, tried to carry it back to dry land, his foot slipped. His coat snared in the handle of the cauldron and it pulled him down into the bog, where he slowly sank and choked to death. Many springtimes later, the bog heaved up his remains with his arms still encircling the cauldron, which was now quite empty.

In another version, when Johnny unearthed the second cauldron, he found nothing in it, just as before. But although he could neither read nor write, he recognized the Latin words on its brim:

Sub hoc alia jacet

So he dug again and he found another cauldron, again empty, with the same inscription. He dug once more and found another, also empty, with that inscription. He dug up another, then another. He is still digging, still finding cauldrons, all of them empty, all of them inscribed.

In another version, a very different outcome is presented. Johnny did indeed, after the English traveller left, go back up to the bog; he found the second cauldron with nothing in it. But that very night, after coming home disappointed, he dreamt once more about a cauldron. This time, however, it was not buried by the alder bush in the bog. Instead, it was buried deep below the kale patch directly outside his hovel.

When he awoke, he considered his dream for a long time and discussed it with his wife. They decided to do nothing. A dream was, after all, only a dream, and they

had no desire to ruin the little patch of ground where their kale, the food that sustained them, grew to ripeness each summer.

But if only Johnny Reed had taken his long-handled shovel and begun digging in that kale patch, he would certainly have heard that CLANG again. His shovel would have struck yet another dark red cauldron, and this one would have been full of gold. With all that, Johnny Reed would have built a palace for his wife and himself, and for his children and his children’s children. He would have planted tall forests again all through the Uplands, and filled them with birds of paradise and orangutans and other animals and birds from around the world. He would have hired a team of wise men to look for the secret of universal happiness. They would not have disappointed him. He would have instructed them to publish their findings for the benefit of all mankind. Everyone in the world would have lived and loved happily ever after.

When I’d finished reading the story, I wondered why Miriam had chosen it for me. It was certainly ingenious enough, but those variant endings were quite pessimistic: whether a man follows his dream or doesn’t, the outcome isn’t going to be all that great. For me, the additional thought that this little book had last been opened by some poor sailor whose bones were now scattered at the bottom of the sea wasn’t very cheering either.

All in all, aside from entertainment value, An Upland Tale seemed just as depressing in its way as the story of the Tollgate’s Cameron Ross, though definitely without the element of terror. When I saw Miriam tomorrow, we’d have a good discussion about it.

It was now past midnight and the rain was still lashing down. In the square the three soldiers, glistening in the street lights, stared off into the darkness of the hills. Their image remained in my head when I got into bed and switched off the lamp. I tossed and turned for a while and tried to think about Miriam and our future happiness. But tiny waves of uncertainty and even dread occasionally swept over me and it was a long time before I fell asleep.

I slept late, dreaming as usual about the Tollgate, with my parents alive and well. I was grief-stricken on awakening into a reality without them till I remembered Miriam and felt good again. I’d barely got out of bed and into my clothes when there was a knock at the door.

“Who’s there?” I called, buttoning my shirt.

“It’s me. I hope I’m not bothering you.” The high, reedy voice was unmistakable. I opened the door to Sam Mackay, massive and a little out of breath from climbing the stairs. He didn’t waste words.

“I just got back to Duncairn yesterday,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you. Let’s go over to Mackenzie’s for coffee.”

WE WALKED ACROSS the square to Mackenzie’s Café. The three soldiers were dry, for now. But it was another gloomy day and the sky was laden with dark clouds getting ready to disgorge themselves. The wind was chilly for the time of year.

Mackenzie’s dozen tables were mostly unoccupied. I usually sat at a small table by the window where I could look out onto the square, but Sam’s bulk would never have fitted there, so we took a roomier table near the back.

He’d been strangely quiet on our walk over, so I was feeling nervous and talked too much. Between sips of coffee, I told him I couldn’t believe the months had passed so quickly. I assured him that I’d gone over the grammar and composition book a few times and knew its contents quite well now. I assumed this was the kind of thing he wanted to talk to me about.

Sam nodded his head, letting me talk, his coffee cup like a miniature in his huge hand.

“That’s good,” he said.

Since I’d no one else to tell, I also decided to confide in him that something wonderful had happened to me in Duncairn while he was off on his Board of Education business. I’d met a girl and fallen in love with her. In fact, I’d asked her to marry me. She hadn’t said yes, yet, but I knew she would.