“I just can’t believe that Duncan Mòr is dead,” I cried.
I suppose wise men think alike whether they be humble crofters or powerful men high up in the counsels of the nation, because Sir Reginald Gower’s reply was much the same as one that Hector MacLeod had made to me.
“The brave don’t die, Alasdair,” he said gravely. “Their deeds out-live us all.”
Neither of us spoke again, although he walked with me out of the hotel to the waiting car. I was grateful for his silence. I knew that, although he had never met Duncan Mòr, he knew him as well as any man.
Chapter 25
A chill wind blew from the north-west sending the white clouds scudding across the sky and lifting the waters of the Sound in an angry swell. From where I was standing on top of Cnoc an t-Sithein, I could see the waves breaking over Rudha nam Braithrean in drenching clouds of spray.
Not a spade would break the ground in Achmore this morning; not a peat would be stacked, or a blade of grass cut. And it would be the same in all the townships for miles around. It would be the same in Garos across the moor, and Rigg, that lonely township watched over by the Old Man of Storr, and Ellishadder of the little loch.
But I could see people on the road. Some of them in twos; some of them in little groups of three and four. All of them making their way to the house by the river in Mealt. They came from the north and they came from the south. Over an hour ago I had seen some of them coming from the west, tiny black dots on the green of the hill as they made their way through Bealach na Leacaich from the Long Glen.
I scrambled down from Cnoc an t-Sithein and ran back to the cottage. All the men of Achmore were waiting for me, looking strangely unlike themselves in their blue suits and stiff white collars.
Hector MacLeod took a large gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and studied it.
“It is time we were making a move,” he said gravely, and with that we set off.
I shall never forget the sight that met my eyes when we passed through the gate in the dyke at Mealt and looked down to the river. There must have been over two hundred men gathered around Duncan Mòr’s house.
Hector MacLeod led the way through the waiting men, shaking hands here and there when he spotted a familiar face, and we followed him into the kitchen. I sat on the bench, with the men of Achmore on either side of me, looking across at the photograph of the crew of the Empire Rose which hung above the mantelpiece.
Somebody must have tidied the room. There were no old coats draped over the back of the bench and the table under the window had been cleared of snaring wire and tools. The minister, a small, white-haired man, was leaning on the table looking out of the window.
More and more men filed into the kitchen, standing closely shoulder to shoulder, and I could see through the open door that the lobby was also packed with men. Nobody spoke. There was only the sound of breathing and the clearing of throats and an occasional cough.
The minister turned round from the window and clasped his hands, and heads were bowed as he said a prayer in Gaelic. My eyes were still closed when the voice of the precentor, a deep bass, launched into a psalm. The psalm was taken up by all the men in the kitchen and those in the lobby and all those outside. I did not understand a word of it, but I have never felt such sadness as was contained in that psalm. The voices rose and fell, rose and fell; the sound sobbing away like the wind in the dark corries of the Storr, and rose again, like the crash of the sea against the black basaltic rocks.
Then the minister read from the Bible, his voice slow and sonorous, rising and falling; always rising and falling, like the murmur of the everlasting sea. He closed the Bible reverently, and once again the deep voice of the precentor took up the words of a psalm.
The voices slowly ebbed away into silence, and Hector MacLeod urged me to my feet and I followed the rest of the men out of the house. The polished oak coffin was brought outside and laid across two chairs and the men of Achmore took up position on either side of it. All the other men walked up the croft in a column two abreast. After they had gone about twenty yards, the first six men halted and let the column proceed between them. They stood a few yards apart, facing one another, and I saw the same thing happen again and again, until the column was out of sight on the track leading to the main road.
Hector MacLeod took the cord from the head of the coffin and placed it in my hand.
“The son should lead the father,” he said quietly, “and Duncan Mòr was a second father to you, Alasdair Beag. It is right that you should lead him on his last journey.”
And with that the men of Achmore, three on each side, lifted the coffin from the chairs. With myself leading the way, the cord clutched tightly in my hand, we made our way slowly and solemnly up the croft.
When we came abreast of the first six men they relieved the bearers, and the men of Achmore took up their place in front of me, walking two abreast. Another twenty yards and the next six men took over, and so it went on, every man in his turn having the honour of bearing Duncan Mòr.
Down below me, where the ground sloped away from the road, I could see the river surging forward in its eager rush to the sea, and beyond the river the curving line of hills of the Storr Range. Cattle were grazing by the side of the track, and an old woman in black stood outside the door of her cottage on the other side of the river, watching that solemn procession.
And every so often another six men stepped forward to relieve the bearers. Old men and young men, some of them not much older than myself. Men I had never seen before. They came from Aird and Breackry and Culnacnock; from Digg and Ellishadder and Flodigarry. They came from Garos and Hungladder and Idrigil; from Kendram and Linicro and Maligar. They came from North Duntulm and Ord and Portree; from Rigg and Stenscholl and Totescore. They came from Uig and Valtos and distant Waternish. They came to carry Duncan Mòr and no King ever made his last journey like that.
When we came in sight of the little graveyard above Rudha nam Braithrean, the men formed up in a long, long column on either side of the path. I never saw the faces on either side of me, for my eyes were blinded with tears.
I stood by the side of the grave, no longer conscious of the people around me, the tears streaming down my face. Hector MacLeod took my arm and I did not know what to say when I saw that his cheeks were wet. We stood with heads bowed until it was all over, then we made our way back to Achmore, neither of us speaking.
I left him at his house, and he said, “You will never see his like again, Alasdair Beag; no, not if you roam the length and breadth of the wide world.”
I crept into the cottage and changed my clothes. I could hear my mother and Mairi talking in the kitchen, but I did not want them to see me so I tiptoed across the lobby to the door. Once outside I did not stop running until I had reached Cnoc an t-Sithein.
I lay back on the green turf, shading my eyes against the sun and watching the white clouds go chasing across the sky, for all the world like galleons in full sail. How often I had come to this green mound when I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.
The Hill of the Fairies! If only it were true! If only I could whisper my wish to a little man decked all in green, and have it granted. What would we not do together on a day like this, Duncan Mòr and I. North to the Quiraing, south to the Storr, west to Loch Liuravay. We would go striding through the heather, and if you have never footed it through the Highland heather you have never lived. Not for us the long miles on weary roads, but the joyous tramp over the moors, where the miles are forgotten and there is only the scent of bog myrtle and wild thyme and the spring of the heather forever urging your feet onwards.
But there was no little man in green. He belonged to the peat fire flame and the long winter nights when tales are told.
I got to my feet and made my way across the moor to Mealt. Without any conscious thought on my part, my feet followed the track to the hill. I looked straight ahead into the dark face of Sgurr a’ Mhadaidh Ruaidh, topped by a delicate white circlet of
cloud.
I crossed the river before I came to Loch Cuithir and made my way up the south side of the basin of the loch. All around me towered an immense wall of rock, broken here and there by shelves of green, speckled with the white dots of grazing sheep.
I climbed up the hillside by the banks of a tumbling burn until I came to the Achmore fank. I sat down with my back against the wall of the fank, my arms clasped around my knees, looking across the moor to Achmore with the Island of Rona beyond and the hills of Applecross in the distance.
I thought of the day I had spent at the shearing. There had been laughter that day; the hills had resounded to it, and snatches of song, and the constant bleating of sheep and the steady snip-snip of shears. But now all was silent. The fank was empty and the men were gone; one of them never to return. I looked upwards and my eyes were drawn to the sheer north face of Sgurr a’ Mhadaidh Ruaidh.
It happened like that. One moment I was looking across the moor to Achmore, thinking of making my way back, and the next I had decided to climb the Hill of the Red Fox. Perhaps all the really important decisions are made like that, in as little time as it takes you to turn your head.
I scrambled to my feet and pressed on up the hill. When the ground became too steep for a direct assault, I went on in a series of zigzag paths, as I had often seen Duncan Mòr do. It took the strain off my legs and I made quicker progress for all that.
When I was more than half-way up I paused for breath, and turned to look back. I could see as far as the fertile plain of Staffin with its clusters of white houses and green crofts and Flodigarry Island lying off the coast. Looking across the moor I made out the winding course of Staffin River and followed it with my eyes to the bay. Away to the north I could see the whole serrated ridge of the Quiraing, and from where I was perched Loch Mealt, that tiny loch separated from the Sound by a narrow neck of land, looked like an inlet from the sea.
On and on I went up the steep sides of the hill. It was like climbing up the inside of a gigantic bowl, for the hills swept round in a tremendous, overhanging wall encircling Loch Cuithir. The only way to get to the top of the ridge was through the gap formed by Bealach na Leacaich.
As I got higher the hillside became barer and I had to scramble over patches of scree. Once, hesitating too long to secure a foothold, I slipped and started a miniature landslide. I suppose I only slid down for about fifteen or twenty feet, but I was badly frightened. I watched a boulder I had dislodged go hurtling hundreds of feet down the hillside until it crashed against a massive rock and shattered in fragments.
I went on again, stepping quickly and lightly across the screes, the way Duncan Mòr had taught me. One light toehold, then a few quick steps before the gravel and stone could start to slide beneath my feet. Up and up I went until it seemed that I could go no higher for I was under a protruding lip of bare rock fully twenty feet high.
I glanced down and my head reeled. It seemed impossible that I could have climbed so high. I felt like a fly on a windowpane; if I were to take one foot off the ground surely I must go crashing down. Forcing myself to keep my eyes up, I saw the dip in the ridge of the hill formed by the Bealach. It lay to the south of me, and the only way I could reach it was by scrambling along under the overhanging wall of rock.
It was easier crossing the screes now that the angle of the hill was so acute, for I could balance myself with my right hand. I was afraid to look down, but I carried on doggedly, sliding on to my knees now and then, but always moving forward.
At last I came out through the Bealach, leg weary and sweating for all the cold wind that whistled around my ears. I was on top of the ridge of hills. On the west side the ground fell away in a gentle slope to Glenhinisdale. I sat on top of an old drystone wall and not even stout Cortés could have gazed around with more wonderment than I.
I was facing south and on my right lay the long valley of Glenhinisdale, cut by the silver ribbon of the River Hinisdal. I could see Loch Snizort and Loch Snizort Beag, Loch Greshornish, the slender chain of the Ascrib Islands, and even distant Waternish Point. In the far distance I made out the flat tops of MacLeod’s Tables and Loch Bracadale.
I looked round to my left, across the Sound of Raasay, and saw the blue hills of the Outer Isles topped by a long roller of white cloud. The full range of the Quiraing curved away to the north.
For all my tiredness I tramped swiftly across the green springy turf on the ridge. The wind cut through my thin clothes like a knife, chilling and invigorating me at the same time. There were sheep grazing on the ridge and they lifted their heads and gazed at me, then wheeled round and galloped off as I drew near. Two black hooded crows circled slowly overhead then winged their way south.
The ridge narrowed as I neared the summit of Sgurr a’ Mhadaidh Ruaidh, and on the north side there was a gigantic cleft in the rock. I crawled forward on my hands and knees and lay flat on my stomach looking down the gap in the rock. It was as if it had been split with a giant axe, and I gazed down a sheer precipice to Loch Cuithir over a thousand feet below. I crawled back to the south side of the ridge, where there was a gentle slope to the moors, before I went on again.
I ran the last few yards to the summit of the Hill of the Red Fox and threw myself face down on the close cropped turf. The whole of Trotternish was spread out below me. I could see the River Mealt winding through the flats on the start of its long journey to the sea, and all the townships for miles around.
I don’t know how long I lay there. The sky was clear when I reached the summit and the mist was settling on the Storr when I turned to go. All I know is that I no longer felt lonely and miserable. I had climbed the Hill of the Red Fox, just as Duncan Mòr had said I should, and I felt a wild, unreasoning surge of joy.
It happened when I was making my way down the south side of the ridge. People say that the light plays strange tricks with your eyes in the hills, that the shadows falling on the bare rock can take on the shape of a man. Perhaps what they say is true. I only know that I suddenly lifted my eyes and saw him.
He was standing on a ledge a little way above me, the wind rippling his grey hair. I saw the flash of his teeth as he smiled and the sweep of his arm as he waved to me. I shouted his name and started forward, and then the sun came through the clouds and the shadows lifted and I was gazing at the bare rock above the ledge.
I knew then that wherever I went in Skye the shadow of Duncan Mòr would always be by my side.
Glossary
a bhalaich: oh boy
a Chruthaidhear: oh Creator
a dhuine dhuine: oh man man
a Thighearna bheannaichte: oh blessed Lord
Alasdair Beag: Little Alasdair
Alasdair Dubh: Black Alasdair
an duine bochd: the poor man
bodach: old man
cailleach: old woman
ceilidh: a gathering in a house for entertainment
Ceud mile failte agus slainte mhath: A hundred thousand welcomes and good health
Cnoc an t-Sithein: Hill of the Fairies
Co tha’n sud? Who is there?
Domhnull-nam-Faochag: Donald of the Whelks
Duncan Mòr: Big Duncan
Failte do’n duthaich: Welcome to the country
feadan: chanter
Iain Ban: Fair John
ist: quiet
Murdo Ruadh: Red Murdo
Oidhche mhath, Eachann: Good night, Hector
Oidhche mhath mata: Good night then
port-a-beul: mouth music
Ruairidh: Roderick
Ruairidh the Leodhasach: Roderick the Lewisman
Rudha nam Braithrean: Brothers’ Point
Seall, Alasdair: Look, Alasdair
Sgurr a’ Mhadaidh Ruaidh: Hill of the Red Fox
strupag: a snack, usually consisting of a cup of tea, bread and jam, scones, and biscuits
Thigibh an so: Come here
Tormod: Norman
truaghan: poor creature
Copyright
&n
bsp; Kelpies is an imprint of Floris Books
First published in 1955 by William Collins, London
First published in Kelpies in 1984
This eBook edition published in 2014
Second printing 2009
Copyright © 1968 Allan Campbell McLean
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the prior permission of
Floris Books, 15 Harrison Gardens, Edinburgh
www.florisbooks.co.uk
The publisher acknowledges a Lottery grant from the Scottish Arts Council towards the publication of this series
British Library CIP Data available
ISBN 978–178250–087–2
The Hill of the Red Fox Page 22
