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\u00a0David Betteridge<\/strong> re-tells an old tale, inspired\u00a0by John Berger, Timothy Neat, and Margaret Bennett, with drawings by Bob Starrett<\/em><\/p>\n The Cave of Gold<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n by David Betteridge<\/em><\/p>\n On 23rd February, 2017, in Edinburgh, an event was held by the Royal Scottish Academy, in commemoration of an honorary member who had died a few weeks earlier, on 2nd January, in Paris. That member was John Berger, the Marxist critic, writer, and artist, who was not only honorary, but honoured, and also greatly loved. You only need to read a few of the obituaries that were published at the time to get a feeling for the fact that here was a friend to many, a giver and receiver of goodwill, as well as an artist, critic, story-teller, essayist, poet, dramatist, film-maker, etc. of international reach.<\/p>\n Ali Smith\u2019s obituary, written for \u201cThe Guardian\u201d on 6th January, provides a good example. She concluded that, \u201cA reader coming anywhere near his work encounters life-force, thought-force \u2013 and the force, too, of the love all through it.\u201d Then there is Jacob Brogan\u2019s obituary, written for \u201cThe New Yorker\u201d on 9th January. \u201cIt was hope,\u201d he wrote, \u201cthat allowed Berger to write so beautifully… Hope names a commitment to change the world.\u201d And there is Yasmin Gunaratnam\u2019s obituary, written for \u201cRed Pepper\u201d, on 19th January. \u201cImmersed in his story-telling and stories about him,\u201d she explained, \u201cI saw up-close what he meant by a story-teller\u2019s hospitality, how language and writing can offer a sense of community.\u201d<\/p>\n You will also find voices raised in hostility to John Berger\u2019s memory \u2013 as in Michael Henderson\u2019s obituary, for example, in \u201cThe Spectator\u201d on 4th January \u2013 because, being anti-capitalist and anti-imperialist and fiercely combative all his life, in fact being \u201cPermanent Red\u201d, to quote the title of an early collection of his essays, Berger quite properly made enemies as well as friends.<\/p>\n The Edinburgh event served as the best of obituaries, a multi-disciplinary and multi-genre affair, attended by a multiplicity of friends, including some who had never met the man, or corresponded directly with him, but who felt they knew him through the comradeship of his works, as Gunaratnam described.<\/p>\n One contributor to the event was Timothy Neat (artist, photographer, biographer, poet, historian, teacher, and expert in mushrooms and honey), who screened a film that he had made in 1989, \u201cPlay Me Something\u201d. In this film, John Berger plays a leading role, that of a story-telling Stranger. The story that he tells is one of his own, the last in his \u201cOnce in Europa\u201d collection, about a chance meeting of two lovers-to-be at a Festa de l\u2019Unita on the Venetian island of Giudecca, one of the couple being a cattle farmer from inland, the other a shopworker from the city.<\/p>\n As well as being narrated in Berger\u2019s voice-over, this story is partly dramatised in the film, and is embedded in a second film-drama about strangers meeting on the Hebridean island of Barra. As they sit waiting at the tiny airport for a delayed flight to Glasgow, they get drawn into the Stranger\u2019s story-telling, and, in the process discover unexpected affinities. This latter drama, the Barra one, is acted by a motley selection of players, including the cultural earthquake, Hamish Henderson, and the great folklorist and singer and teacher and publisher, Margaret Bennett. She rounds off the film with a singing of the magnificent Gaelic song, \u201cUamh an Oir\u201d (\u201cThe Cave of Gold\u201d).<\/p>\n At our event on 23rd February, again Margaret Bennett sang this song, and explained to us its significance in Gaelic culture, conveying as it does truths about gifts and debts, beauty and horror, tradition and hope, all in a few minutes of compressed beauty.<\/p>\n What, you may wonder, has such an ancient song, from Scotland\u2019s cold Atlantic seaboard, got to do with Berger\u2019s modern story about a workers\u2019 rally on a warm island in a Mediterranean lagoon? Is it not a strange film that sets out to make a unity of such opposites, including such disparate characters? The answer lies in the relevance of the story to our political imaginations. Neat\u2019s film and Berger\u2019s story inside it express an age-old longing for a future that transcends the past, and gives us a pre-echo of dreams come true, even when we know such a thing will be difficult to achieve. \u201cPlay Me Something\u201d celebrates love, hope, and the need to change the world politically to achieve a fully human community : the very values highlighted in the Berger obituaries quoted above.<\/p>\n Berger\u2019s friend and mentor, the Marxist philosopher Ernst Fischer, made a convincing case for such \u201cheart of the heartless world\u201d creations as \u201cPlay Me Something\u201d. He saw them as a necessary complement to cultural creations of the \u201ctell it like it is\u201d sort. He argued for a both-and culture, without which we cannot see the world, and time, and ourselves as we really are, in the round:<\/p>\n … the function of art is to re-create as every individual\u2019s experience the fullness of all that he is not, the fullness of humanity at large. And it is the magic of art that, by this process of re-creation, it shows that reality can be transformed, mastered, turned into play.<\/em><\/p>\n Being a poet as well as a philosopher, Fischer underscored his case in verse, in an elegy:<\/p>\n Deep in the dreams of the world\u2019s morning<\/em> <\/em>(See Fischer\u2019s \u201cThe Necessity of Art: A Marxist Approach\u201d, translated by Anna Bostock, 1963, slightly edited above.)<\/p>\n With these ideas buzzing in my head, I decided to delve into the history of the song that Margaret Bennett sang. There I discovered a Gaelic ur-story, of deep resonance, from which the \u201cUamh an Oir\u201d song sprang, a story which I already knew (in part) under the title of \u201cThe Silver Chanter\u201d, but which I had not realised was kith and kin with the song. It is one of the great stories of the world, from the same deep source as Orpheus.<\/p>\n Inspired by its magic, I decided to try my hand at re-telling it. Here is that re-telling:-<\/p>\n \u201cWE HAVE WORDS…\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n We have words; we have tunes. Having them, we have wings. We can be eagles, or wrens, or swallows, or snow geese, or golden orioles, or any kind of bird we like. Fly with me now. We have a cloudless sky, or can imagine one. Look, below us, there! lying off Scotland\u2019s Atlantic coast, do you see a mountainous island shaped like a riding-boot that has come apart at the top? Zoom in close now! Do you see a high cliff facing West, and at its foot the entrance to a sea-cave? The cave is called Uamh an Oir, the Cave of Gold.<\/p>\n I can tell you four things about this cave. One: it is very deep. Some say it extends as far as Fairyland; others say it extends as far as Hell. Two: somewhere in the cave there is a hoard of gold; or maybe it is the glow of the setting sun falling on the rocks at the cave\u2019s entrance that makes it seem a Cave of Gold. Three: the cave is guarded by a ferocious Green Dog. It hides in the dark, always ready to kill. Four: no-one who has gone into the cave has ever come out.<\/p>\n One day, centuries ago, a piper stood on the cliff-top, in a grassy hollow, out of the wind. He was a tall young man, as strong as a bull leaping. At his feet lay a little grey dog, his constant companion. The young man\u2019s pipes were in his hands, but he was not playing. He was groaning and sighing, despairing of ever mastering the instrument. How he longed to play the music that was in his heart and head, but not yet in his fingers!<\/p>\n A woman appeared at his side, so quickly he didn\u2019t see her coming. \u201cI have watched you,\u201d she said, \u201cover many days and many years. I have seen, and heard, your devotion to the pipes. You deserve to succeed; and you deserve to be helped.\u201d<\/p>\n She was slender, like a birch tree. She wore a velvet cloak the colour of moss. She had bare feet. The young man realised that this woman speaking to him was one of the Fairy Folk.<\/p>\n \u201cAnswer me this question,\u201d said the fairy woman. \u201cThink hard: would you rather be a famous piper, with wealth and honours, but without much skill; or would you rather be a skilful player, the world\u2019s best, but without fame?\u201d<\/p>\n The young man\u2019s answer came swift and sure: \u201cI would rather be skilful,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cIn that case,\u201d said the fairy, \u201cyou will be rewarded not only with skill, but also with fame. Your answer proves that you are worthy of both.\u201d<\/p>\n The fairy then pulled a strand of hair from her head, and took the young man\u2019s pipes from his hands into her own. She wrapped the strand of hair round and round the pipes\u2019 chanter, tying the circlet with a tight knot.<\/p>\n \u201cAs long as that hair remains in place on the chanter,\u201d she said, \u201cyour playing will have in it all the beauty that your heart and head long for; but there is one condition that you must accept: a year and a day from now you must stand before me, in Fairyland, which you will enter through the Cave of Gold, and there you must play for me.\u201d<\/p>\n The young man accepted the condition. Then, as quickly as the fairy had appeared, she disappeared.<\/p>\n For the next year and a day, the young man travelled among his clans-people. He travelled far and near, high and low, playing for them, his little grey dog always with him. Like spring rain and summer sun, the magic of his music refreshed all who heard it. They were happy as never before. They felt vigour and health rise up in them. They made peace with their neighbours, wherever there was conflict. They saw their cattle and their crops grow fat. It was a golden age, still remembered, still spoken of; and the echo of the young man\u2019s playing is still heard in the best of today\u2019s piping.<\/p>\n On the 366th day, the time came for the young man to keep his promise. As the sun began to set over the sea, he went down from the cliff-top by way of a zig-zag path, down to the Cave of Gold, his dog trotting after him.<\/p>\n \u00a0A great number of his clans-people went with him, to wish him well. They were afraid for him, knowing that the cave was a great swallower of lives; but \u201cNo,\u201d the young man reassured them, \u201cI will be back soon, believe me. The power of my music will tame the Green Dog, and any other beast or fairy or person who might wish me harm.\u201d<\/p>\n The piper went into the cave, his dog too. All the while, the piper played; and, as he played, his clans-people plotted his progress, step by step, even after he had disappeared into the dark. You see, there is a kind of speech woven into pipe music. If you listen with understanding, the pattern of the music\u2019s notes and grace-notes speaks to you, and you know all that the piper intends you to know.<\/p>\n After a few minutes, the piper sent this coded message: I\u2019ll be back with you, out of this cave, with a tale to tell, maybe good news. I\u2019ll be back in less time than it takes a singer to start and finish her song.<\/em><\/p>\n On he went, further and deeper. The sound of his playing grew fainter. Then he sent this second message: I\u2019ll be back with you, out of this cave, in less time than it takes a calf to grow to a heifer, and give birth to her own calf.<\/em><\/p>\n On and on he went, towards his meeting with the fairy woman, until the sound of his playing was so faint it could hardly be heard. Then he sent this third message: I\u2019ll be back with you, out of this cave, in no less time than it takes an infant boy at the breast to train as a warrior, and become the chieftain of his clan.<\/em><\/p>\n It was nearly nightfall now. The setting sun showed only its topmost rim over the sea\u2019s horizon. Its golden glow on the rocks at the cave\u2019s mouth was darkening to grey.<\/p>\n Suddenly, there was the sound of a scrabbling of claws on these rocks, and the piper\u2019s dog hurtled out of the cave, its eyes wide with a great fear. All of its grey hairs had been shed. Naked, it trembled in the gloom.<\/p>\n The clans-people standing there strained to hear what next the piper might communicate.<\/p>\n Oh, that I had three hands<\/em> came the young man\u2019s utterance, only just audible, from far underground, maybe from Fairyland, maybe from Hell. Oh, that I had three hands – two hands for the pipes and one for my drawn sword! <\/em><\/p>\n After that, there was only silence.<\/p>\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 ******************<\/p>\n To hear Margaret Bennett\u2019s beautiful and compelling singing for yourself, see here…..<\/p>\n
may the future\u2019s face be mirrored,<\/em>
and may legend become the goal<\/em>
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