Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  Leithen sat in the presbytery in a black depression. The smells of the encampment — unclean human flesh, half-dressed skins of animals, gobbets of putrefying food — were bad enough in that mild autumn noon. The stuffy little presbytery was not much better. But the real trouble was that suddenly everything seemed to have become little and common. The mountains were shapeless, mere unfinished bits of earth; the forest of pine and spruce had neither form nor colour; the river, choked with logs and jetsam, had none of the beauty of running water. In coming into the wilderness he had found not the majesty of Nature, but the trivial, the infinitely small — an illiterate half-breed, a rabble of degenerate Indians, a priest with the mind of a child. The pettiness culminated in the chapel, which was as garish as a Noah’s Ark from a cheap toyshop. . . . He felt sick in mind and very sick in body.

  Father Wentzel made him a cup of tea, which he could barely swallow. The little priest’s eyes rested on him with commiseration in them, but he was too shy to ask questions. Presently Johnny arrived in a bustle. He would leave certain things, if he were permitted, in the presbytery cellar. He had arranged with the chief about dogs when they were wanted, but that was not yet, for it would be a fortnight at least before snow could be looked for, even in the high valleys, and, since they would travel light, they did not need dogs as pack animals. They would take the boat, for a stage or two was still possible by it; after that they would have the canoes, and he had kept the Hares as canoe-men—”for the portagin’ business would be too much for you, mister.”

  He had news of Lew. The two men were not more than a week ahead, for a sudden flood in the Big Hare had delayed them. They had canoes, but no Indians, and had gone in the first instance to Lone Tree Lake. “That’s our road,” said Johnny. “Maybe they’ve made a base camp there. Anyhow, we’ll hit their trail.”

  He had other news. It was the end of the seven years’ cycle, and disease had fallen on the snow-shoe rabbit, upon which in the last resort all wild animals depend. Therefore the winter hunting and trapping of the Hares would be poor, and there might be a shortage of food in their camp. “You tell Father Duplessis that when you get back to Fort Bannerman,” he told the priest. Their own camp, if they were compelled to make one, might run short. “Lucky we brought what we did,” he told Leithen. “If we catch up with Lew we’ll be all right, for he’d get something to eat off an iceberg.”

  They passed one night in the presbytery. While Johnny slept the deep, short sleep of the woodsman, Leithen had a word with Father Wentzel.

  “The two men who have gone before?” he asked. “One is the brother of my guide, and the other is a friend of my friends. How did they impress you?”

  The child-like face of the priest took on a sudden gravity.

  “The gentleman, he was of the Faith. He heard mass daily and made confession. He was a strange man. He looked unhappy and hungry and he spoke little. But the other, the guide, he was stranger. He had not our religion, but I think he had a kind of madness. He was in a furious haste, as if vengeance followed him, and he did not sleep much. When I rose before dawn he was lying with staring eyes. For his companion, the gentleman, he seemed to have no care — he was pursuing his own private errand. A strong man, but a difficult. When they left me I did not feel happy about the two messieurs.”

  4

  Out of the encumbered river by way of easy rapids the boat ran into reaches which were like a Scottish salmon stream on a big scale, long pools each with a riffle at its head. The valley altered its character, becoming narrower and grassier, with the forest only in patches on infrequent promontories. The weather, too, changed. The nights were colder, and a chill crept into even the noontide sunshine. But it was immensely invigorating, so that Johnny sang snatches of Scots songs instead of sucking his pipe, and Leithen had moments of energy which he knew to be deceptive. The air had a quality which he was unable to describe, and the scents were not less baffling. They were tonic and yet oddly sedative, for they moved the blood rather to quiescence than to action. They were aromatic, but there was nothing lush or exotic in them. They had on the senses the effect of a high violin note on the ear, as of something at the extreme edge of mortal apprehension.

  But the biggest change was in Leithen’s outlook. The gloomy apathy of the Oblate’s presbytery disappeared, and its place was taken by a mood which was almost peace. The mountains were no longer untidy rock heaps, but the world which he had loved long ago, that happy upper world of birds and clouds and the last magic of sunset. He picked out ways of ascent by their ridges and gullies, and found himself noting with interest the riot of colour in the woods: the grey splashes of caribou moss, the reds of partridge-berry, cranberry, blueberry, and Saskatoon; the dull green interspaces where an old forest fire had brought forth acres of young spruces; above all the miracle of the hardwood trees. The scrub by the river, red-dog-willow, wolfberry willow, had every shade of yellow, and poplar and birch carried on the pageant of gold and umber far up the mountain sides. Birds were getting infrequent; he saw duck and geese high up in the heavens, but he could not identify them. Sometimes he saw a deer, and on bare places on the hills he thought he detected sheep. Black bears were plentiful, revelling among the berries or wetting their new winter coats in the river’s shallows, and he saw a big grizzly lumbering across a stone shoot.

  Three long portages took them out of the Big Hare valley to Lone Tree Lake, which, in shape like a scimitar, lay tucked in a mat of forest under the wall of what seemed to be a divide. They reached it in the twilight, and, since the place was a poor camping-ground, they launched the canoes and paddled half-way up till they found a dry spit, which some ancient conflagration had cleared of timber. The lake was lit from end to end with the fires of sunset, and later in the night the aurora borealis cast its spears across the northern end. The mountains had withdrawn, and only one far snow peak was visible, so that the feeling of confinement, inevitable in the high valleys, was gone, and Leithen had a sense of infinite space around him. He seemed to breathe more freely, and the chill of the night air refreshed him, for frost crisped the lake’s edges. He fell asleep as soon as he got under his blankets.

  He awoke after midnight to see above him a wonderful sky of stars, still shot with the vagrant shafts of the aurora. Suddenly he felt acutely his weakness, but with no regret in his mind, and indeed almost with comfort. He had been right in doing as he had done, coming out to meet death in a world where death and life were colleagues and not foes. He felt that in this strange place he was passing, while still in time, inside the bounds of eternity. He was learning to know himself, and with that might come the knowledge of God. A sentence of St. Augustine came into his head as he turned over and went to sleep again: “Deum et animam scire cupio. Nihil ne plus? Nihil omnino.”

  5

  He woke to find himself sweating under his blankets. The weather had changed to a stuffy mildness, for a warm chinook wind was blowing from the south-west. Johnny was standing beside him with a grave face.

  “Lew’s been here,” he said. “He’s left his mark all right. Eat your breakfast and I’ll show you.”

  At the base of the promontory there was a stand of well-grown spruce. A dozen of the trees had been felled, stripped, cut into lengths, and notched at each end. An oblong had been traced on a flat piece of ground, and holes dug for end-posts. A hut had been prospected, begun — and relinquished.

  “Lew’s been on this job,” said Johnny. “You can’t mistake his axe-work.”

  He stood looking with unquiet eyes at the pile of cut logs.

  “Him and his pal put in a day’s work here. And then they quit. What puzzles me is why Lew quit. It ain’t like him.”

  “Why shouldn’t he change his mind?” Leithen asked. “He must have decided that this was not the best place for a base camp.”

  Johnny shook his head.

  “It ain’t like him. He never starts on a job until he has thought all round it and made sure that he’s doin’ right, and then hell fir
e wouldn’t choke him off it. No, mister. There’s something queer about this, and I don’t like it. Something’s happened to Lew.”

  The mild blue eyes were cloudy with anxiety.

  “They’ve back-packed their stuff and gone on. They’ve cached their canoe,” and he nodded to where a bulky object was lashed in the lower branches of a tall poplar. “We’ve got to do the same. We’ll cache most of our stuff, for when we catch up with Lew we can send back for it. We’ll take the Indians, for you ain’t fit to carry a load. Their trail won’t be hard to follow. I’ve been over the first bit of it. Lew pushed on ahead, and the other was about fifty yards back of him and limping. Looks like they’ve quarrelled.”

  6

  The trail led away from the lake shore up a tributary stream towards what looked like the main wall of the divide. The berry-clad, ferny hillside made easy walking, and since the timber was small there were few troublesome windfalls. Johnny carried his .44 rifle, his axe, and a bag containing his own personal effects and most of Leithen’s; the Hares, Big Klaus and Little Klaus, had the heavy stuff, tent, cooking utensils, portable stove, stores; while Leithen had no more than a light haversack about the weight which he had often carried in the Alps. The pattern of his day was now so familiar that he found it hard to fit into it the astounding novelties in his life — his quest for a man whom he had never seen, in the least-known corner of North America — the fact that presently somewhere in this wilderness he must die.

  New also in his experience were the weather and his own weakness. The sun was getting low and the days were shortening; each night frost crisped the edges of the streams, and the first hour of the morning march was through crackling pools and frozen herbage. But by noon the sun was warm and it set daily over their left shoulders in a haze of opal and pearl. The morning and evening chills were keenly felt, but the tonic air seemed to soothe his coughing. It was the very quintessence of air, quickening every sense so that he smelt more keenly, heard more clearly, saw things in sharper outline. He had never used spectacles, and he found that his eyes were fully the equal of Johnny’s when he knew what to look for.

  He might have had an appetite, too, had it not been for his fatigue. He was so tired when they made camp for the night that he could scarcely eat, and Johnny had to turn his beans and bacon into a kind of soup before he could swallow them. He would lie in a half-stupor drawing his breath painfully for the better part of an hour, while Johnny and the Hares built the fire. Johnny was merciful, and accommodated his pace to his dragging feet, but the easiest gait was too much for him, and soon he had to have hourly rests. The trail went in and out of the glens, rising slowly to the higher benches, and, but for a few patches of swamp and one laborious passage over a rockfall, it was a road a child could have walked. But except for a very few minutes in the day it was for Leithen one long purgatory.

  He started out in the morning with wobbling legs. After a mile or so, when his blood moved more briskly, he had a short spell of comfort. Then his breath began to trouble him, and long before midday he was plodding like a conscientious drunkard. He made it a point of honour to continue until Johnny called a halt, and, though Johnny did this often, he found himself always near the limits of his strength, and would drop like a log when the word was given. He returned unconsciously to an old habit of his mountaineering days, when he had had a long dull course to complete, counting his steps up to a thousand and walking to the rhythm of “Old Soldiers never Die. . . .”

  At the head of a little pass Johnny halted, though the march had only been going for twenty minutes. The Hares, when they came up, set down their packs and broke into a dismal howling, which seemed to be meant for a chant. There was a big jack-pine with the lower branches lopped off, and some fifty feet from the ground a long bundle was lashed to the trunk, something wrapped in caribou skin tanned white.

  Johnny removed his disreputable hat. “That’s a chief up there. Good old scout he was — name of Billy Whitefish. . . . Passed out last fall.”

  7

  One blue day succeeded another, and each was followed by a colder night. The earth was yawning before it turned to its winter sleep. Leithen, though the days tired him to desperation, yet found the nights tolerable, and could let his thoughts stray from his bodily discomfort. He listened to Johnny’s talk.

  Johnny talked much, for he had lost his shyness of Leithen, and this kind of trip was child’s play to him.

  “This is a pretty good land,” he said, “to them that knows their way about. I guess a man could starve in the barrens, but not in the woods. Why, there’s forty kinds of berries — and a whole lot of different sorts of mushrooms — and rock-tripe — and bark you can boil to make porridge. And there’s all the animals that Noah had in the Ark. And there’s nothing to hurt a body provided the body’s got sense, and don’t tackle a grizzly up-hill.”

  He had strong views on food. “B’ar’s right enough in the fall when he’s fat. A young un’s as good as mutton, but an old un’s plain shoe leather.” He did not care for moose meat, preferring caribou or deer, and he liked best partridge or ptarmigan in half-plumage.

  “What’s here? Grizzly, black b’ar, brown b’ar, moose, caribou, three kinds of sheep — everything except goats. The Almighty left goats out when He stocked them mountains.”

  It was clearly his purpose to picture the land as an easy place even for a sick man to travel in. “Canadians,” he said (he used the word as the equivalent of strangers, embracing everybody except the men of the North-west), “think we’ve got hell’s own climate up here. They’re wrong. We get milder winters than the Prairies. Besides, winter’s a fine time to travel if you know the ways of it. You’ll be snugger in a hole in the snow at forty below than in an apartment house in Winnipeg, and a darn lot healthier.

  “But you’ve got to watch your step in the Northland,” he would add. He would tell experiences of his own to show the cruelty of the wilds, though he was always careful to explain that his misfortunes were due to his own folly. He was a white-water man, though not of Lew’s class, and above all things he hated towing a boat with a long trackline. “The thing’s just waitin’ to murder you,” he said, “trip you over a cliff, or drown you, or get round your neck and saw your head off. . . .”

  He had been near starvation. “I can go three days without food and not feel it, and I’ve done it pretty often. I reckon Lew could go five. But there’s never been no reason for it except my own dam’ folly. Once I lost all my kit in a river, including my knife which I had in my teeth, and I had to make shift with flint-flakes to kill and skin. I once lived for a week on berries and one porcupine.”

  He had had his accidents, too, as when a pine he was chopping down split with the cold and sent a sliver through his shoulder. He had once walked twenty miles to find a bottle of pain-killer which he had cached, his throat choking with laryngitis. But his worst adventure — he seemed shy in telling it — was when he was caught without snow-shoes in an early fall blizzard, and crossed unknowingly a bottomless half-frozen sphagnum swamp which heaved under his tread and made him vomit up his soul.

  He would talk, too, about the secret lore of the woods. He could make the crows speak to him, and the squirrels, but not the whisky-jacks, because they were fools with only a cry and no speech. Lew could make anything talk.

  It was always Lew, the mentor, the magician. But he never spoke his brother’s name, or so it seemed to Leithen, without an accent of disquiet. He followed unerringly Lew’s blazing of the trail, and often the blazes were so small that only a skilled woodman could have noticed them. He studied carefully every bivouac. Sometimes in marshy places he found the moccasin tracks still fresh, and then his anxiety seemed to increase.

  “Lew’s settin’ a terrible pace,” he said, “and the other’s laggin’. They’re still messin’ together at night, but the other must be getting in pretty late, and he can’t be having much sleep, for each morning they starts together. . . . I don’t like it somehow. I wonder what
brother Lew’s aiming at?”

  8

  The trail wound intricately along the slopes of deep parallel glens, now and then crossing from one to another by a low pass. Johnny had been over it before, and was puzzled. “Them rivers run down to the Yukon,” he told Leithen. “But Lew swears the Sick Heart don’t do that, and we’re over the divide from the Mackenzie. I reckon it can’t have nothin’ to do with the Peel, so it must disappear into the earth. That’s my guess. Anyhow, this trail ain’t going to get us nowhere except to the Yukon.”

  The celestial weather continued, wintry in the small hours of the night, but in the sun as balmy as June. Leithen had fallen into a state which was neither ease nor mal-ease, but something neutral like his bodily condition at the end of a hard term at the Bar, when he was scarcely ill but assuredly not well. He could struggle through the day and have a slender margin for the interests of the road.

  There was one new thing — the wild animals were beginning to show themselves, as if they were stretching their legs for the last time before the snows came. One morning he saw the first moose — well up the hillside in a patch of dwarf spruce, showing against the background like elephants.

  “Them beasts ain’t happy here,” Johnny said. “They want the hardwood country, for they ain’t like caribou that feed on moss — they likes the juicy underbrush. I guess they’ll come down before the snow to the bottoms and stamp out a ravage so as to get to the shoots. I’ll tell you a queer thing. The moose is pushin’ further north. I mind the day when there wasn’t one north of the Great Slave Lake, and now Lew has seen them on the Arctic shore east of the Mackenzie. I wonder what’s bitin’ them?”

  The caribou had not yet appeared, being still on the tundras, but there were birds — ptarmigan and willow grouse — and big Arctic hares just getting into their winter coats. Also there were wolves, both the little grey wolves and the great timber wolves. They did not howl, but Johnny — and Leithen also — could hear them padding at night in the forest. Sometimes dim shapes slipped across a glade among the trees. One night, too, when Leithen could not sleep, he got up and watched the northern heavens where the aurora flickered like a curtain of delicate lace wrought in every tint of the rainbow. It lit up the foreground across which stalked a procession of black forms like some frieze on a Greek urn.