Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  “I figure that him” — and he nodded towards Galliard—”and brother Lew has been agreein’ about as well as a carcajou and a sick b’ar. Lew’d gotten into a bad mood and this poor soul didn’t know what the matter was, and got no answer when he asked questions. But he was bound to hang on to Lew or get lost and perish. Pretty nasty time he’s been havin’. Lew’s been actin’ mighty mean, I’d say. But you can’t just blame Lew, for, as I figure it, he don’t know what he’s doin’. He ain’t seein’ his pal, he ain’t seein’ nothin’ except the trail he’s blazin’ and somethin’ at the end of it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The old Sick Heart River.”

  “Then he’s gone mad?”

  “You might say so. And yet Lew for ordinar’ is as sane as you, mister, and a darn lot saner than me. He’s gotten a vision and he’s bound to go after it.”

  “What’s to be done?”

  “Our first job is to get this feller right. That was the reason you come down North, wasn’t it? Every man’s got to skin his own skunk. But I don’t mind tellin’ you I’m worried to death about brother Lew.”

  The attention of both was suddenly diverted to Galliard, who had woke up, turned on his side, and was looking at them with wide-awake eyes — pained eyes, too, as if he had awakened to suffering. Johnny took the pannikin of soup which had been heating on the stove, and began to feed the sick man, feeding him far more skilfully than Leithen had done, so that little was spilt. The food seemed to revive him and ease his discomfort. He lay back for a little, staring upward, and then he spoke.

  His voice was hoarse, little above a croak. Johnny bent over him to catch his words. He shook his head.

  “It’s French, but Godamighty knows what he means. It don’t sound sense to me.”

  Leithen dragged himself nearer. The man was repeating some form of words like a litany, repeating it again and again, so that the same phrase kept recurring. To his amazement he recognised it as a quotation from Chateaubriand, which had impressed him long ago and which had stuck to his fly-paper memory.

  “S’il est parmi les anges,” the voice said, “comme parmi des hommes, des campagnes habitées et des lieux déserts.”

  There was a pause. Certain phrases followed, “Solitudes de la terre”—”Solitudes célestes.” Then the first sentence was repeated. Galliard spoke the words in the slurred patois of Quebec, sounding harshly the final consonants.

  “He is quoting a French writer who lived a century ago,” Leithen told Johnny. “It’s nonsense. Something about the solitary places of heaven.”

  Galliard was speaking again. It was a torrent of habitant French and his voice rose to a pitch which was almost a scream. The man was under a sudden terror, and he held out imploring hands which Johnny grasped. The latter could follow the babble better than Leithen, but there was no need of an interpreter, for the pain and fear in the voice told their own tale. Then the fit passed, the eyes closed, and Galliard seemed to be asleep again.

  Johnny shook his head. “Haywire,” he said. “Daft — and I reckon I know the kind of daftness. He’s mortal scared of them woods. You might say the North’s gotten on his mind.”

  “But it was a craze for the North that dragged him here.”

  “Yep, but having gotten here he’s scared of it. His mind’s screwed right round. It’s a queer thing, the North, and you need to watch your step for fear it does you down. This feller was crazy for it till he poked his head a wee bit inside, and now he’s scared out of his life, and would give his soul to quit. I’ve known it happen before. Folks come down here thinking the North’s a pretty lady, and find that she can be a cruel, bloody-minded old bitch, and they scurry away from her like jack-rabbits from a forest fire. I’ve seen them as had had a taste of her ugly side, and ever after the stink of smoke-dried Indian moccasins, and even the smell of burning logs, would turn out their insides. . . . I reckon this feller’s had a pretty purifyin’ taste of it. Ever been lost?”

  “Never.”

  “Well, it ain’t nice, and it tests a man’s guts.”

  The air sharpened in the night and the little tent with its three occupants was not too stuffy. Galliard never stirred. Johnny had the short sound slumbers of a woodman, waking and rising before dawn; but Leithen slept badly. He had found his man, but he was a lunatic — for the time being. His task now was to piece together the broken wits. It seemed to him a formidable and unwelcome business. Could a dying man minister to a mind diseased? He would have preferred his old job — to go on spending his bodily strength till he had reached the end of it. That would, at any rate, have given him peace to make his soul.

  Johnny set the camp stirring and was everywhere at once, like a good housewife. Galliard was washed and fed and his wound dressed. Leithen found that he had more power in his legs, and was able to make a short promenade of the shelf on which the camp stood, breathing air which was chilly as ice and scented with a thousand miles of pines. Johnny and the Hares were busy with measurements.

  Leithen, huddled in the lee of the fire, watched the men at work. They were laying out the ground plan of a hut. It was to be built against the hillside, the gravel of which, when cut away, would make its back wall, and it seemed to be about twenty feet square. The Hares did the levelling of the shelf, and presently came the sound of Johnny’s axe from the woods. In a couple of hours the four corner posts were cut, trimmed, and set up, and until the midday meal all three were busy felling well-grown spruce and pine.

  Johnny’s heavy preoccupation lightened a little as they ate.

  “We need a hut whatever happens,” he said. “The feller” — that was how he referred to Galliard—”will want something snugger than a tent when the cold sets in, for he ain’t goin’ to get well fast. Then there’s you, a mighty sick man. And, please God, there’ll be brother Lew.”

  “Is there no way of getting back to the Hares’ camp?”

  “For Lew and me — not for you and the feller. We got to plan to spend the winter here, or hereabouts. We can send the Indians back for stores and dog teams, and maybe we could get out in February when the good snows come. But we got to plan for the winter. I can fix up a tidy hut, and when we get the joints nicely chinked up with mud, and plenty of moss and sods on the roof, we’ll be as snug as an old b’ar in its hole. I’m aimin’ to fix a proper fireplace inside, for there’s the right kind of clay in the creek for puddlin’.”

  “Let me help.”

  “You can’t do nothin’ yet, so long as we’re on the heavy jobs, but I’ll be glad of you when it comes to the inside fixin’. You get into the tent beside the feller and sleep a bit. I’m all right if I wasn’t worried about Lew.”

  Johnny was attending to the bodily needs of the sick man like a hospital nurse, feeding him gruel and chicken broth and weak tea. Galliard slept most of the time, and even his waking hours were a sort of coma. He was asleep when Leithen entered the tent, and presently, to the accompaniment of Johnny’s axe in the woods, Leithen himself drowsed off, for by this time of the day he was very weary. But sleep was for him the thinnest of films over the waking world and presently he was roused by Galliard’s voice. This time it sounded familiar, something he had heard before, and not the animal croak of yesterday.

  Two dull brown eyes were staring at him, eyes in which there was only the faintest spark of intelligence. They moved over his person, lingering some time at his boots, and then fastened on his face. There was bewilderment in them, but also curiosity. Their owner seemed to struggle for words, and he passed his tongue over his dry lips several times before he spoke.

  “You are — what?”

  He spoke in English, but his hold on the language seemed to slip away, for when Leithen replied in the same tongue the opaque eyes showed no comprehension.

  “I am a friend of your friends,” he said. “We have come to help you. I have the brother of Lew Frizel with me.”

  After a pause he repeated the last sentence in French. Some word in it caug
ht Galliard’s attention. His face suddenly became twisted with anxiety, and he tried to raise himself on his bed. Words poured from him, words tumbling over each other, the French of Quebec. He seemed to be imploring someone to wait for him — to let him rest a little and then he would go on — an appeal couched in queer childish language, much of which Leithen could not understand. And always, like the keynote of a threnody, came the word Rivière — and Rivière again — and once Rivière du Cœur Malade.

  The partner of Ravelstons had suffered a strange transformation. Leithen realised that it would be idle to try to link this man’s memory with his New York life. He had gone back into a very old world, the world of his childhood and his ancestors, and though it might terrify him, it was for the moment his only world.

  The babbling continued. As Leithen listened to it the word that seemed to emerge from the confusion was Lew’s name. It was on Lew that Galliard’s world was now centred. If he was to be brought back to his normal self Lew must be the chief instrument. . . . And Lew was mad himself, raving mad, far away in the mountains on a crazy hunt for a mystic river! A sudden sense of the lunatic inconsequence of the whole business came over Leithen and forced from him a bitter laugh. That laugh had an odd effect upon Galliard, for it seemed to frighten him into silence. It was as if he had got an answer to his appeals, an answer which slammed the door.

  13

  Next day the cold was again extreme, but the sun was out for six hours, and the shelf in the forest was not uncomfortable. Johnny, after sniffing the air, pronounced on the weather. The first snow had fallen; there would be three days of heavy frost; then for maybe ten days there would be a mild, bright spell; then a few weeks before Christmas would come the big snows and the fierce cold. The fine spell would enable him to finish the hut. A little drove of snow-buntings had passed yesterday; that meant, he said, since the birds were late in migrating, that winter would be late.

  “You call it the Indian Summer?”

  “The Hares call it the White Goose Summer. It ends when the last white goose has started south.”

  That day Leithen made an experiment. Galliard was mending well, the wound in the leg was healing, he could eat better, only his mind was still sick. It was important to find out whether the time had come to link his memory up with his recent past, to get him on the first stage on the road back to the sphere to which he belonged.

  He chose the afternoon, when his own fatigue compelled him to rest, and Galliard was likely to be wakeful after the bustle of the midday meal. He had reached certain conclusions. Galliard had lost all touch with his recent life. He had reverted to the traditions of his family, and now worshipped at ancestral shrines, and he had been mortally scared by the sight of the goddess. These fears did not impel him to mere flight, for he did not know where to flee to. It drove him to seek a refuge, and that refuge was Lew. He was as much under the spell of Lew as Lew was under the spell of his crazy river. Could this spell be lifted?

  So far Galliard had been a mere automaton. He had spoken like a waxwork managed by a ventriloquist. It was hardly possible to recognise a personality in that vacant face, muffled in a shaggy beard, and unlit by the expressionless eyes. Yet the man was regaining his health, his wound was healing fast, his cheeks had lost their famished leanness. As Leithen looked at him he found it hard to refrain from bitterness. He was giving the poor remnants of his strength to the service of a healthy animal with years of vigour before him.

  He crushed the thought down and set himself to draw Galliard out of his cave. But the man’s wits seemed to be still wandering. Leithen plied him with discreet questions but got an answer to neither French nor English. He refrained from speaking his wife’s name, and the names of his American friends, even of Ravelstons itself, woke no response. He tried to link up with Chateau-Gaillard, and Clairefontaine — with Father Paradis — with Uncle Augustin — with the Gaillards, Aristide and Paul Louis, who had died on the Arctic shores. But he might have been shouting at a cenotaph, for the man never answered, nor did any gleam of recognition show in his face. It was only when Leithen spoke again of Lew that there was a flicker of interest; more than a flicker, indeed, for the name seemed to stir some secret fear; the pupils of the opaque eyes narrowed, the lean cheeks twitched, and Galliard whimpered like a lost dog.

  Leithen felt wretchedly ill all that day, but after supper, according to the strange fashion of his disease, he had a sudden access of strength. He found that he could think clearly ahead and take stock of the position. Johnny, who was labouring hard all day, should have tumbled into bed after supper and slept the sleep of the just. But it was plain that there was too much on his mind for easy slumber. He sucked at his pipe, kept his eyes on the fire outside the open door, and spoke scarcely a word.

  “How is he getting on?” Leithen asked.

  “Him? The feller? Fine, I guess. He’s a mighty tough body, for he ha’n’t taken no scaith, barrin’ the loss of weight. He’ll be a’ right.”

  “But his mind is gone. He remembers nothing but what happened in the last weeks. A shutter has come down between him and his past life. He’s a child again.”

  “Aye. I’ve known it happen. You see he was scared out of his skin by something — it may have been Lew, or it may have been jest loneliness. He’s got no sense in him and it’s goin’ to take quite a time to get it back. That’s why I’m fixin’ this hut. He wants nursin’ and quiet, and a sort of feel that he’s safe, and for that you need four walls, even though they’re only raw lumber. If you was to take him out in the woods you’d have him plumb ravin’ and maybe he’d never get better. I’ve seen the like before. It don’t do to play tricks with them wild places.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Leithen. “Lew goes mad and terrifies Galliard and lets him lag behind so that he nearly perishes. Galliard has the horror of the wilds on him, but no horror of Lew. He seems to be crying for him like a child for his nurse.”

  “That’s so. That’s the way it works. The feller don’t know that his troubles was all Lew’s doin’. He’s gotten scared of loneliness in this darned great wild country, and he claws on to anything human. The only human thing near at hand is brother Lew. But that ain’t all. If it was all you and me might take Lew’s place, for I guess we’re human enough. But, as I figure it, Lew has let him in on his Sick Heart daftness, and kind of enthused him about it, and, the feller bein’ sick anyhow, it has got possession of his mind. You told me back in Quebec that he’d a notion, which runs in his family, of pushing north, and we seen the two graves at Ghost River.”

  “Still I don’t understand,” said Leithen. “He’s frightened of the wilds and yet he hankers to get deeper into them, right to a place where nobody’s ever been.”

  Johnny shook out his pipe.

  “He’s not thinkin’ of the Sick Heart as part of the woods. He’s thinkin’ of it the same as Lew, as a sort of Noo Jerusalem — the kind of place where everything’ll be a’ right. He and Lew ain’t thinkin’ of it with sane minds, and if Lew’s there now he won’t be lookin’ at it with sane eyes. Sick Heart is a mighty good name for it.”

  “What sort of place do you think it is?”

  “An ordinary creek, I guess. It’s hard to get near, and that’s maybe why Lew’s crazy about it. My father used to have a sayin’ that he got out of Scotland, ‘Faraway hills is always shiny.’”

  “Then how is Galliard to be cured of this madness?”

  “We’ve got to get Lew back to him — and Lew in his right mind. At least, that’s how I figure it. I mind once I was huntin’ with the Caribou-Eaters in the Thelon, east of Great Slave Lake. There was an Indian boy — Two-sticks, his name was — and he come under the spell of my Chipewyan hunter, him they called White Partridge. Well, the trip came to an end and we all went home, but next year I heard that Two-sticks had been queer all winter. He wasn’t cured until they fetched old White Partridge to him. And that meant a three-hundred-mile trip from Nelson Forks to the Snowdrift River.”


  “How can we get Lew back?”

  “Godamighty knows! If I was here on my own I’d be on his trail like a timber wolf. Maybe he’s sick in body as well as in mind. Anyhow, he’s alone, and it ain’t good to be alone down North, and he’s all that’s left to me in the family line. But I can’t leave here. I took on a job with you and I’ve got to go through with it. There’s the feller, too, to nurse, and he’ll want a tidy bit o’ nursin’. And there’s you, mister. You’re a pretty sick man.”

  “Go after Lew and fetch him back and I’ll stay here.”

  Johnny shook his head.

  “Nothin’ doin’. You can’t finish this hut. The Hares are willin’ enough, but they’ve got to be told what to do. And soon there’ll be need of huntin’ for fresh supplies, for so far we’ve been living mostly on what we back-packed in. And we’ve got to send out to the Hares’ camp for some things. Besides, you ain’t used to the woods, and what’s easy for me would be one big trouble for you. But most of all you’re sick — godawful sick — a whole lot sicker than the feller. So I say Nothin’ doin’, though I’m sure obliged to you. We’ve got to carry on with our job and trust to God to keep an eye on brother Lew.”

  Leithen did not reply. There was a stubborn sagacious dutifulness in that bullet head, that kindly Scots face, and those steadfast blue eyes which was beyond argument.

  14

  He spent a restless night, for he felt that the situation was slipping out of his control. He had come here to expend the last remnants of his bodily strength in a task on which his mind could dwell, and so escape the morbidity of passively awaiting death. He had fulfilled part of that task, but he was as yet a long way from success. Galliard’s mind had still to be restored to its normal groove. This could only be done — at least so Johnny said — by fetching and restoring to sanity the man who was the key to its vagaries. Johnny could not be spared, so why should he not go himself on Lew’s trail, with one of the Hares to help him? It was misery to hang about this camp, feeling his strength ebbing and getting no further on with his job. That would be dying like a rat in a hole. If it had to be, far better to have found a hole among the comforts of home. If he followed Lew, he would at any rate die in his boots, and whether he succeeded or failed, the end would come while he was fighting.