by Andrew Tudor
The group held their collective breath as she neared the house and called out.
“Are ye there, Moira? James? It’s Shona here, and ma boys.”
There was no reply. Finding the door unlocked, she disappeared into the house then emerged a few minutes later.
“It’s all right,” she shouted, waving them on. “The place is empty.”
On that first day, then, they were saved the effort of making camp, instead distributing themselves throughout the house. Other than Ali, who was worrying about her father, they were all cheerful enough when they retired for the night. But the positive mood did not last. The next morning Ravi rose early and went for a stroll, returning to report that he had discovered a recently dug grave. It was marked by a wooden cross and a roughly painted sign which read simply ‘Moira and her daughter Ròisin. Perished from the flu’. Of her husband James and their other child there was no trace. Confronted with that gloomy reminder of Zeno’s perils, it was a much chastened group that set off north that morning.
Although there were no high passes to negotiate, the walking was rougher than it had been the previous day. The track soon ran out and while there was a notional path along the side of the loch, all too often it disappeared. Progress was slow, not helped by the fact that some of the adults were now suffering pain in long-unused muscles. The scenery was magnificent, had anyone been looking. Away to their right loomed the massive snow-capped bulk of Ben Starav while to their left the long wall of Beinn Trilleachan rose above the water. Sadly, none of the travellers was in a frame of mind to appreciate this natural spectacle. They simply trudged onwards, barely raising their eyes from the ground beneath their feet.
It was with considerable relief, therefore, that they finally reached the head of the loch where they were to camp for the night. After they had settled in, at six o’clock Douglas called the Poolewe pair on the radio, one of two prearranged daily time slots. The little radio’s batteries had been sufficiently charged in the day’s sunshine such that he did not need to recruit the willing children to take turns on its wind-up mechanism. When contact was made he explained to Jimmy that they would be at least another four days, probably five, an estimate which brought pained looks from those around him who were already nursing tired legs. An early night was welcome.
As they were having breakfast the next morning, Charley, who had wandered down towards the water’s edge, suddenly cried out.
“Auntie Ali, Auntie Ali. Look.”
She was pointing back the way they had come.
“It’s Pike!” she announced and ran to the dog who was trotting steadily towards them, pink tongue lolling.
“Oh my god,” Ali murmured to herself, following Charley to the oncoming animal.
The three of them met in a tangle of arms, licks and a vigorously wagging tail. Only when this initial greeting was over did Ali turn an anxious face to Douglas.
“You know what this means,” she said. “Something’s happened to my dad. I have to go back.”
Douglas knelt down beside her and the now resting dog. “But…” he began.
“No buts. He needs help. That’s why Pike’s here.”
Douglas shook his head. “Stop and think, Alison.” He took hold of her shoulders and locked his eyes onto hers. “Pike would never leave him unless,” he paused, seeking the right words and finally settling on being blunt, “unless he was dead.”
“No, no.” Ali was determined not to believe him. “I have to go anyway. I have to know what’s happened.”
Douglas continued to look at her intently and then, at last, released her from his gaze. “All right. I’ll come with you,” he said. Then, turning to the others who had gathered around them, “If you could all stay camped here, travelling light we can be there and back inside three days. If we’re not back in four, then you should go on without us. We’ll leave the radio so that you can make arrangements with Jimmy and Kenny.”
“You can’t do that,” Ali protested. “They need you here.”
“And I need to be with you,” Douglas replied. “I’m certainly not letting you go off alone.”
Sarah knelt down close to Ali and spoke softly in her ear. “You should both go, Ali. We’ll be OK here. But you mustn’t go by yourself. That’s the last thing your dad would want.”
The decision made, it took only half an hour to strip their rucksacks down to the minimum necessities and prepare to leave.
“Right, let’s go,” Ali said, decisively turning away from her friends and walking as quickly as she could down the loch-side path, followed by Douglas struggling to keep up. “C’mon Pike,” she called.
The dog pricked up his ears, eyeing her receding back.
“Come on,” she called again, this time louder.
Pike ran after her and Douglas, but when he reached them instead of simply keeping pace he ran past then sat down about twenty metres ahead, barking continuously as they approached.
“Stop it, Pike,” Ali said as they drew level. “To heel!”
He allowed them to pass, remaining seated but turning to watch them as they pressed on. Then he did exactly the same as before, planting himself ahead and barking loudly. Ali swore in frustration, waving an arm to encourage him forward. Again he waited and watched, then once more he overtook them and sat down directly in their path. His barking became even more frantic, now intermixed with angry growls.
Douglas looked at Ali and shook his head in dismay. This time when they reached Pike, Ali sat down and put her arms around the dog who immediately stopped barking and rested his muzzle on her shoulder. Ali began to weep softly.
“You know what he’s trying to tell you, don’t you? About Duncan,” Douglas asked.
“Yes, yes. I know. That he’s gone.” She was whispering between spasms of crying. “I can’t do this, can I? It’s desperately selfish. We all need to go on together today. Not wait about here for days on end.”
Finally recovering herself, she stood up, fondled Pike’s ears, and with a wan smile to Douglas started back to the camp, the dog now walking obediently beside her. Her friends, who had been transfixed by Pike’s extraordinary performance, greeted Ali with hugs and words of comfort.
“I’m sorry,” she said to them all. “That was stupid and unnecessary. We have to stay together, of course we do. It’s the only way we’ll survive.”
The next few days would remain a blur for Ali, just fragments lingering in her memory. Mostly they were associated with her father. Passing the great pyramid face of Buachaille Etive Mor and looking across to the Kingshouse, she was overwhelmed by recollections of a holiday spent there with her parents when she was a young girl. This was before the hotel had been given its extensive makeover, when it was still a lovely eccentric building echoing its eighteenth-century self. She had been enchanted one morning when her father had called her to the bedroom window to see a family of pine martens who had taken up residence in the roof space. Now, as the group walked on, she realised that with Duncan she had visited so many of the places through which they were passing. They had climbed mountains in Glen Coe and walked together over the Devil’s Staircase. And one lovely summer’s day they had completed the final stage of the West Highland Way, from Kinlochleven to Fort William.
This time, unfortunately, the day was anything but lovely for that part of their journey. It was as dreich as only the West Highlands could be. When the band of refugees finally emerged from the Nevis Forest onto the flat of the glen floor they were chilled to the bone, having spent the entire day in gloom and drizzle. The great mass of Ben Nevis was barely visible when they crossed the river and chose a spot to camp close to the start of the Pony Track. The nearest Kenny and Jimmy were prepared to risk bringing the lorry was to the old North Face car park near Torlundy, and they had advised the group not to continue down Glen Nevis which would take them too near to the town. Instead, the plan was to follow t
he Pony Track up the Ben’s shoulder and descend from there to the car park.
On the next morning, the seventh of their journey, by some miracle the weather had cleared and they could see their path winding up the mountainside. Once more this brought back memories for Ali. Her father had taken her up the track when she was thirteen and introduced her to the art of walking in crampons on the icy summit plateau. Today, as the tired group of travellers neared the halfway lochan, Ali looked at the zigzags leading up and away to the right and remembered vividly her sense of achievement when her father had perched her on the summit trig point and told her that she was now the highest person in Britain. Up there, she thought, the snow would still be lying, metres deep, frozen.
“Where are the snows of yesteryear?” she murmured to herself.
“Eh? What?” asked Sarah who was walking beside her.
“Oh nothing.” Ali shook her head. “Just a line from an ancient poem that my dad liked.”
Fortunately for the weary travellers, snow on their route was limited to patches at an altitude of 600m or so, after which they passed the lochan and began their descent towards the forest and Torlundy. Before reaching the trees Ali stopped to look back at the now distant splendour of the North Face as, one by one, the others overtook her. On her own at last, with only Pike for company, she whispered, “Goodbye Dad – bless you,” then turned and followed her friends.
When finally they reached the track that would take them into the car park, Charley was out in front leading her favourite of the ponies. In truth, it was more a case of the pony leading her as it plodded steadily forward at a pace of its own choosing, the rest of the group strung out behind. Suddenly they heard a cry from Charley.
“The Magic Wagon! It’s here.”
Leaving her pony to fend for itself, she ran towards the lorry and leapt into Kenny’s arms as he stood by the vehicle, an automatic rifle casually slung over his shoulder.
“Kenny,” she said. “We’ve come such a long way. And now you’re here. I’m so happy to see you.”
“And I’m happy to see you too, wee one.” He hugged her then lowered her to the ground. “And all the rest of ye as well.”
Jimmy was already walking out to meet the others as they came down the track, embracing each in turn, obviously hugely relieved that they had arrived safely. Eager to be on their way they made a final effort to load their baggage, themselves and the ponies onto the lorry. Ali volunteered to go in the rear with Pike and the ponies, where she was joined by Sarah, Charley and Hugh who were determined to keep her company, and by Shona who wanted to stay close to her animals. Ali insisted that Douglas remain up front, remembering how he and Jimmy had dealt with trouble together back in Northumberland, and all the rest squeezed into the compartment behind the cab. It was not going to be a comfortable journey.
Nor was it a short one. For the first hour or so Ali sat looking out through one of the ventilation slots that Kenny had made when he adapted the lorry for transporting animals. She could see only partial views of mountains and lochs as they rattled along, unable to get any precise sense of where they were. Then it began to get dark and she lay back on her mattress and dozed, Pike on one side and Charley on the other. At some point she must have fallen asleep because the next thing that she knew was the noise of the rear doors opening and Jimmy shouting.
“All out sleepyheads. We’re here.”
Ali clambered down and was immediately aware of the smell and sound of the sea. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes she realised that there was a full moon, its reflected light fractured and shimmering on the surface of Loch Ewe. She was half conscious of the ponies being walked off the lorry behind her and of doors opening and lamps being lit. But it was the sea that held her attention. She turned to her left, looking north along the line of the coast to where the loch met the open ocean. To the west lay the Outer Hebrides and beyond them nothing but the odd rock until you reached North America. She wondered about her mother somewhere across that huge expanse. Was she even still alive? Ali would probably never know. And she thought of her father and promised herself that she would make a good life here in spite of the dangers and travails that they would face. That’s what he would have wanted from me, she thought, as she turned and made her way towards the lamp lit cottage that was to be her new home.
The young boy burrowed as deep as he could into the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing. He had been on the run for several days now, his parents dead from the flu, his sister forcibly taken into whoredom, his friends scattered and lost. He knew that he was somewhere on the fringes of the Talladega National Forest, one of Alabama’s surviving reserves, but he was uncertain of precisely where. Earlier he had heard the hounds baying as they followed the scent of some other poor fugitive, as well as the sound of men on horseback. Now the hounds were silent and, amid much shouting, the horsemen arrived in the clearing dragging their hogtied victim. They were robed in white and wearing improbably pointed masks that covered their faces, the regalia of the recently revived and, in the wake of Zeno, now rampant Ku Klux Klan.
They put a noose around the neck of the elderly black man that they had captured then threw the rope over the branch of a tree and hauled him off the ground. Already exhausted from the chase, he did not kick and struggle for long. Disappointed not to derive more entertainment from the lynching, the Klan members consulted among themselves and finally rode away in the direction that they had come. The boy, trembling in his hiding place, watched them go, then emerged and stood staring up at the now dead man. He looked down at the black skin of his own arms, then back to that of the hanged man, and from somewhere he heard the disembodied voice of Billie Holiday, his father’s favourite singer. ‘Southern trees bear a strange fruit,’ she began, and the boy ran, trying in vain to escape the terrible message of the voice in his head.
9
Rowlands, exasperated at Hart’s insistence on leaving Whipsnade before the PeePees’ advance, shifted restlessly in his seat, all the while scowling across the desk at his friend.
“Come on, Jonny,” he demanded. “Why not stay and fight?”
Hart aimed a sympathetic half-smile in his direction. Then he sighed.
“Jerry, I’ve already told you why. You can’t win.”
“But we have a good supply of weapons and people who know how to use them,” Rowlands insisted. “We can defend this place well enough to put anyone off. Even if they do come here, and they may not, we can make things so hard for them that they’ll decide to move on to easier targets.”
“Oh, they’ll come here all right,” Hart said, rubbing his eyes anxiously. “After the business with Jenny we’ll be high on their list. And when they do, they’ll want to destroy us for having the effrontery to put a spy in their midst.”
“So, like I said, we’ll fight them off.”
At this Hart allowed his irritation to show, raising his voice. “There are too many of them, Jerry. How many times do I have to tell you? They’ll just overrun the place by sheer weight of numbers. Remember, these are fanatics. I’ve seen them. They’ll march straight into the guns if that’s what’s required by their prophet and they’ll be happy to do so. For them martyrdom is a direct route to salvation.” He shook his head, calmer now, resigned even. “You can’t win,” he said quietly.
Rowlands leaned his elbows on the desk and put his head in his hands. “I thought they were Christians,” he muttered, then looking up at Hart, “whatever happened to ‘Love thy neighbour’ and all that shit?”
“Oh come on, Jerry.” Hart smiled thinly. “You used to be some kind of Marxist. Remember ‘Religion is the opiate of the people’ – Marx knew how powerful a force religion can be.”
“Yeah, but that was to maintain false consciousness, hide people’s real circumstances from them, offer them consolation for the misery that they faced.”
“And that’s not what the PeePees are doing?”
Hart asked. “They’ve got hundreds of thousands of people believing that the end days are here and that it’s their god-given obligation to convert all those that they can and to punish those that refuse. Only when they’ve created a holy realm in England, or died trying, will they be guaranteed paradise. Zeno and starvation and lawlessness have made people willing to believe any crap that promises to save them, whatever the cost.”
“They can’t be that stupid,” Rowlands protested.
“It’s not a question of stupidity,” Hart replied. “Think about it, Jerry. You studied history at university. Remember all the madness and the murders and the genocide that have been done in the name of religion.” Hart stood up and began to roam agitatedly around the room. “Look at the Christian Crusades. Look at all those weird millenarian sects. Look at the English seventeenth-century witch-finders or the American witch-hunts. Look at the Catholic Inquisition, for fuck’s sake.”
His voice was rising as he became more angry. “And it’s not just ancient history when we like to think that people were more superstitious. It’s modern too. Remember last century’s Bosnian genocide? Religion was a force in that along with ethnic hatred. What about Africa? Religion overlaid all sorts of tribal conflicts there. It fed the Troubles in Northern Ireland, fuelled the violence in Indian partition, set Sunni and Shia Muslims at each other’s throats, and in this century it gave birth to all those Islamic jihadi movements.” Hart was warming to his theme. “And what about the quasi-religions, the ideologies that motivated the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia or the Chinese cultural revolution? All these appalling events were grounded in the absolute belief of people in their misbegotten transcendental causes. Fuck religion, and all totalising belief systems like it. Throughout history they’ve done much more harm than good.”
Hart collapsed back into his chair, exhausted by his tirade.
Rowlands looked at him, astonished. “Bloody hell, Jonny. I’ve never seen you so worked up about something. Not even back in our student days.”
