Robert Louis Stevenson — Heather Ale (Ballad), read by Velvichia Wolf
Robert Louis Stevenson — Heather Honey (Ballad)
A drink made from heather
Long forgotten.
But it was sweeter than honey,
Drunker than wine.
They brewed it in cauldrons
And drank it with the whole family
The little mead-makers
In caves underground.
The Scottish king came,
Merciless to his enemies,
He drove the poor Picts
To the rocky shores.
On a heather field
On a battlefield
The living lay upon the dead
And the dead upon the living.
Summer has come to the land,
The heather is blooming again,
But there is no one to prepare
Heather Honey.
In their cramped graves,
In the mountains of their native land,
The little mead-makers
Found shelter for themselves.
The king rides down the slope
Above the sea on horseback,
And seagulls soar nearby
Along with the road. The king looked sullenly:
"Once again in my land
The honey heather is blooming,
And we drink no mead!"
But then his vassals
Noticed the two
last mead-makers,
Remaining alive.
They emerged from under the stone,
Squinting at the white light—
An old hunchbacked dwarf
And a boy of fifteen.
To the steep seashore
They were brought for interrogation,
But neither of the captives
Spoken a word.
The Scottish king sat,
Still in the saddle.
And the little people
Stood on the ground.
The king said angrily:
"Torture awaits us both,
If you don't tell us, devils,
How you made mead!"
Son and father were silent,
Standing at the edge of the cliff.
The heather sang above them,
Rocks rolled into the sea. And suddenly a small voice rang out:
“Listen, Scottish king,
Let me speak with you
Face to face!
Old age fears death.
I will buy my life with treason,
I will reveal my cherished secret!”
The dwarf said to the king.
His sparrow-like voice
was sharp and clear:
“I would have revealed the secret long ago,
If my son hadn’t interfered!”
The boy doesn’t grudge his life,
Death is nothing to him.
I would be ashamed to sell my conscience
in his presence.
Let them bind him tightly
And throw him into the depths of the waters,
And I will teach the Scots
How to make ancient mead!”
The mighty Scottish warrior
tied the boy tightly
And threw him into the open sea
From the coastal cliffs.
The waves closed over him.
The last cry died away...
And the old father answered him like an echo
From the cliff. "I spoke the truth, Scots,
I expected trouble from my son.
I did not believe in the fortitude of youths
who never shave their beards.
But I fear no fire.
Let my sacred secret die with me—
My heather honey!"