by John Buchan
“I cannot explain,” said Galliard, “for I don’t quite know what happened. . . . I thought that if I found my brother, or at least found out what had become of him, that I should have done the right thing — done the kind of thing my family have always been doing — defied the North, scored off it. It didn’t work out like that. Up there on the Ghost River I was like a haunted man — something kept crushing me down. Yes, by God! I was afraid. Naked fear! — I had never known it before. . . . I had to go on or give up altogether. Then Lew started in about his Sick Heart River. He was pretty haywire, but I thought he was on the track of something wonderful. He said it was a kind of Paradise where a man left his sins behind him. It wasn’t sense, if I’d stopped to think, but I was beyond thinking. Here was a place where one could be reconciled to the North — where the North ceased to be a master and became a comforter. I can tell you I got as mad about the thing as Lew.
“But Lew was no good to me,” he went on. “He forgot all about me. Being mad, he was thinking only of himself. I hurt my foot and had a difficult time keeping up with him. Pretty bad days they were — I don’t want to go through anything of the sort again. Then I lost him and would have perished if you hadn’t found me. You know the rest. Johnny nursed me back to bodily health, and partly to sanity, for he is the sanest thing ever made. But not quite. Lew has come back cured, but not me, though I dare say I look all right.”
He turned his weather-beaten, wholesome face to Leithen, and in his eyes there was an uncertainty which belied the strong lines of mouth and jaw.
“I will tell you the truth,” he said. “I’m afraid, black afraid of this damned country. But I can’t leave it until I’ve got on terms with it. And God knows how that is to be managed.”
3
Leithen found that his slowly mending health was having a marked effect upon his mind. It was like a stream released from the bondage of frost. Before, he had been plodding along in a rut with no inclination to look aside; now he was looking about him and the rut was growing broad and shallow. Before, he had stopped thinking about his body, for it was enough to endure what came to it; now he took to watching his sensations closely, eager to find symptoms of returning strength. This must mean, he thought, a breakdown of his stoicism, and he dreaded that, for it might be followed by the timidity which he despised.
But this new mental elasticity enabled him to reflect on the problem of Galliard — on Galliard himself, who was ceasing to be a mere problem and becoming flesh and blood. For months Leithen had been insensitive to human relationships. Even his friends at home, who had warmed and lit his life, had sunk into the background, and the memory of them when it revived was scarcely an extra pang. His mind had assessed the people he met in New York, but they might have been ninepins for all he cared about them, though for Felicity he had felt a certain dim tenderness. But the return journey from Sick Heart River had wrought a change. His sudden realisation of the mercifulness behind the rigour of Nature had made him warm towards common humanity. He saw the quality of Lew and Johnny, and thanked God for it. Now he was discovering Galliard, and was both puzzled and attracted by him.
A man — beyond question. Leithen saw that in him which had won him an enchanting wife and a host of friends. There was warmth, humour, loyalty. Something more, that something which had made Clifford Savory insistent that he must be brought back for the country’s sake. There was a compelling charm about him which would always win him followers, and there was intellect in his brow and eyes. Leithen, accustomed all his life to judge men, had no doubt about Galliard.
But he was broken. As broken by fear as Lew had been at Sick Heart River, and, being of a more complex make-up than Lew, the mending would be harder. A man of a stiff fibre had been confronted by fear and had been worsted by it. There could be no settlement for Galliard until he had overcome it.
Leithen brooded over that mysterious thing, the North. A part of the globe which had no care for human life, which was not built to man’s scale, a remnant of that Ice Age which long ago had withered the earth. As a young man he had felt its spell when he looked from the Clairefontaine height of land towards the Arctic watershed. The Gaillard family for generations had felt it. Like brave men they had gone out to wrestle with it, and had not returned. Johnny, even the stolid Johnny, had confessed that he had had his bad moments. Lew — Heaven knows what aboriginal wildness was mingled with his Highland blood! — had gone hunting for a mystic river and had then got the horrors of the unknown and fled from it. But he was bred to the life of the North and could fall back upon its ritual and defy it by domesticating it. Yet at any moment the fire might kindle again in him. As for Galliard, he was bound to the North by race and creed and family tradition; it was not hard for the gods of the Elder Ice to stretch a long arm and pluck him from among the flesh-pots.
What puzzled him was why he himself had escaped. He had had an hour of revulsion at Sick Heart River, but it had passed like a brief nightmare. His mind had been preoccupied with prosaic things like cold and weariness, and his imagination had been asleep. The reason was plain. He had been facing death, waiting stoically on its coming. There was no space for lesser fears when the most ancient terror was close to him, no room for other mysteries when he was nearing the ultimate one.
What had happened to him? Had he come out of the Valley of the Shadow, or had the Shadow only shifted for a moment to settle later on, darker and deeper? He deliberately refused to decide. A sense of reverence, almost of awe, deterred him. He had committed himself to God’s hands and would accept with a like docility mercy and harshness. But one thing he knew — he had found touch with life. He was reacting to the external world. His mind had feelers out again to its environment. Therefore Galliard had assumed a new meaning. He was not a task to be plodded through with, but a fellow-mortal to be helped, a companion, a friend.
4
Johnny and the Hares reached camp when a sudden flurry of snow ended the brief daylight. Lew and the other Indian ran to receive them, and presently Galliard joined the group.
“Queer folk in the North,” Leithen thought. “They don’t make much fuss over a reunion, though it’s three weeks since they parted.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the team of dogs, great beasts, half wolf, half malamute, weighing a hundred pounds each, now sending up clouds of grey steam into the white snowfall. He had a glimpse, too, of Johnny, who looked tired and anxious.
The better part of an hour passed, while Leithen sat alone in the hut mending a pair of moccasins. Then Johnny appeared with a grave face, and handed him a letter.
“Things ain’t goin’ too well with them Hares,” he said. “They’ve got a blight on ‘em like Indians get. They’re starvin’, and they’re goin’ mad.”
The letter, written on a dirty half-sheet of mission paper, and secured between two pieces of birch-bark, was from the priest, Father Duplessis, who had taken Father Wentzel’s place for the winter. It was written with indelible pencil in a foreign pointed script.
“They tell me you are recovering health, my friend, and for your sake I rejoice. Also for my own, for I am enabled to make you an appeal. My poor people here are in great sorrow. They have little food, and they will not try to get more, for a disease has come upon them, a dreadful accidie which makes them impotent and without hope. Food must be found for them, and above all they must be roused out of their stupor and made to wish to live. I wrestle with them, and I have the might of the Church behind me, but I am alone and I am but a weak vessel. If you can come to my aid, with God’s help we may prevail, but if not I fear this little people will be blotted out of the book of life.”
5
That night after supper four men sat in council. Johnny made his report, much interrupted by Lew’s questions, and once or twice the two Hares were summoned to give information. Johnny was a very weary man, for his bandy legs had broken the trail for the dogs through the snow-encumbered forest, and he had forced the pace for man and beast. His pale blue eyes, which ha
d none of Lew’s brilliance, had become small and troubled. One proof of his discomfort was that when he broke off to speak to his brother it was in the Cree tongue. Never before had Leithen heard him use his mother’s speech.
Leithen found himself presiding over the council, for the others seemed to defer to him, after Lew had cross-examined his brother about what supplies he had brought.
“Father Duplessis says there’s trouble in the Hares’ camp,” he said. “Let’s hear more about it. Father Wentzel in the fall was afraid of something of the sort.”
Johnny scratched the tip of one of his bat’s ears.
“Sure there’s trouble. Them gol-darned Hares has gone loony and it ain’t the first time neither. They think they’re Christians, but it’s a funny kind of religion, for they’re always hankerin’ after old bits of magic. Comin’ up in the fall I heard they’d been consultin’ the caribou bone.”
He explained a little shamefacedly.
“It’s a caribou’s shoulder-blade, and it’s got to be an old buck with a special head of horns. They’d got one and there’s a long crack down the middle, and their medicine men say that means famine.”
Lew snorted. “They needn’t have gone to an old bone for that. This year the hares and rabbits has gone sick and that means that every other beast is scarce. The Hares ain’t much in the way of hunters — never have been — but they know all about rabbits. That’s how they’ve gotten their name. Maybe you thought they was so-called because they hadn’t no more guts than a hare. That ain’t right. They’re a brave enough tribe, though in old days the Crees and the Chipewyans had the upper hand of them. But the truth is that they haven’t much sense and every now and then they go plumb crazy.”
“You say they’re starving,” Leithen addressed Johnny. “Is that because they cannot get food or because they won’t try to get it?”
“Both,” was the answer. “I figured it out this way. As a general thing they fish all summer and dry their catch for the winter. That gives ‘em both man’s meat and dog’s meat. But this year the white fish and pike was short in the lakes and the rivers. I heard that in the fall when we were comin’ in. Well then, it was up to them to make an extra good show with the fall huntin’. But, as Lew says, the fall huntin’ was a washout anyhow. Moose and caribou and deer were scarce, because the darned rabbits had gone sick. It happens that way every seven years or so. So them pitiful Hares started the winter with mighty poor prospects.”
Johnny spat contemptuously.
“For you and me that would’ve meant a pretty hard winter’s work. There’s food to be got up in them mountains even after the freeze-up, if you know where to look for it. You can set bird traps, for there’s more partridges here than in Quebec. You can have deadfalls for deer, and you can search out the moose’s stamping grounds. I was tellin’ you that the moose were shifting further north. The Hares ain’t very spry hunters, as Lew says, for they’ve got rotten guns, but they’re dandies at trappin’. Well, as I was sayin’, if it’d been you and me we’d have got busy, and, though we’d have had to draw in our belts, somehow or other we’d have won through. But what does them crazy Hares do?”
Johnny spat again, and Lew joined him in the same gesture of scorn.
“They done nothin’! Jest nothin’. The caribou shoulder-blade had ‘em scared into fits. It’s a blight that comes on ‘em every now and then, like the rabbit sickness. If a chief dies they mourn for him, sittin’ on their rumps, till they’re pretty well dead themselves. In the old fightin’ days what they lost in a battle was nothin’ to what they lost afterwards lamentin’ it. So they’re takin’ their bad luck lyin’ down and it jest ain’t sense. It looks as if that tribe was fixed to be cleaned out before spring.”
Jonnny’s contemptuous eyes became suddenly gentle.
“It’s a pitiful business as ever I seen. Their old chief — Zacharias they call him — he must be well on in the eighties, but he’s the only one that ain’t smit with paralysis. Him and Father Duplessis. But Zacharias is mighty bad with lumbago and can’t get about enough, and the Father ain’t up to the ways of them savages. He prays for ‘em and he argues with ‘em, but he might as well argue and pray with a skunk. A dog whip would be the thing if you’d the right man to handle it.”
Johnny’s melancholy eyes belied his words. They were not the eyes of a disciplinarian.
“And yet,” he went on, “I don’t know, but I somehow can’t keep on bein’ angry with the creatures. They sit in their shacks and but for the women they’d freeze, for they don’t seem to have the strength to keep themselves warm. The children are bags of bones and crawl about like a lot of little starved owls. It’s only the women that keep the place goin’, and they won’t be able to stick it much longer, for everythin’s runnin’ short — food for the fire as well as food for the belly. The shacks are fallin’ into bits and the tents are gettin’ ragged, and the Hares sit like broody hens reflectin’ on their sins and calculatin’ how soon they’ll die. You couldn’t stir ‘em if you put a charge of dynamite alongside of ‘em — you’d blow ‘em to bits, but they’d die broody.”
“Father Duplessis has the same story,” Leithen said.
“Yep, and he wants your help. I guess he’s asked for it. He says it’s a soldier’s job and you and him are two old soldiers, but that he’s a private and you’re the sergeant-major.”
Galliard, who had been listening with bowed head, suddenly looked up.
“You fought in the War?” he asked.
Leithen nodded. His eyes were on Lew’s face, for he saw something there for which he was not prepared. Lew had hitherto said little, and he had been as scornful as Johnny about the Hares. The brothers had never shown any pride in their Indian ancestry; their pride was reserved for the Scots side. They had treated the Hares with friendliness, but had been as aloof from them and their like as Leithen and Galliard. It was not any sense of kinship that had woke the compassion in Lew’s face and the emotion in his voice.
“You can’t be angry with the poor devils,” he said. “It’s an act of God, and as much a disease as T.B. I’ve seen it happen before, happen to tougher stocks than the Hares. Dad used to talk about the Nahannis that once ranged from the Peace to the Liard. Where are the Nahannis today? Blotted out by sickness of mind. Blotted out like the Snakeheads and the White Pouches and the Big Bellies. And the Hares are going the same way, and then it’ll be the turn of the Chipewyans and the Yellow Knives and the Slaves. We white folk can treat the poor devils’ bodies, but we don’t seem able to do anything for their minds.”
No, it was not race loyalty. Leithen saw in Lew and Johnny at that moment something finer than the duty of kinship. It was the brotherhood of all men, white and red and brown, who have to fight the savagery of the North.
His eyes turned to Galliard, who was looking puzzled. He wondered what thoughts this new situation had stirred in that subtle and distracted brain.
“We’d better sleep over this,” he announced, for Johnny seemed dropping with fatigue. . . .
Yet Johnny was the last to go to bed. Leithen was in the habit of waking for a minute or two several times in the night. When his eyes opened shortly after midnight he saw Johnny before the fire, not mending it, but using its light to examine something. It was the shoulder-blade of a caribou, which he had dug out of the rubbish-heap behind the camp. The Hares were not the only dabblers in the old magic.
6
Leithen slept ill that night. He seemed to have been driven out of a sanctuary into the turmoil of the common earth. Problems were being thrust on him, and he was no longer left to that narrow world in which he was beginning to feel almost at ease.
Of course he could do nothing about the wretched Hares. Father Duplessis’ appeal left him cold. He had more urgent things to think about than the future of a few hundred degenerate Indians who mattered not at all in his scheme of things. His business was with Galliard, who mattered a great deal. But he could not fix his mind on Galliard, and presen
tly he realised something which made him wakeful indeed and a little ashamed. At the back of his head was the thought of his own health. The curtain which had shut down on his life was lifting a corner and revealing a prospect. He was conscious, miserably conscious, that the chief hope in his mind was that he might possibly recover. And that meant a blind panicky fear lest he should do anything to retard recovery.
He woke feeling a tightness in his chest and a difficulty in breathing, from which for some weeks he had been free. He woke, too, to an intense cold. The aurora had been brilliant the night before; and now in the pale sky there were sun-dogs, those mock suns which attend the extreme winter rigours of the North. Happily there was no wind, but the temperature outside the hut struck him like a blow, and he felt that his power of resistance had weakened. This was how he had felt on the road to the Sick Heart River.
He was compelled by his weakness to lie still much of the day and could watch the Frizels and Galliard. Something had happened to change the three — subtly, almost imperceptibly in Galliard’s case, markedly in the other two. Johnny had a clouded face; he had seen the Hares’ suffering and could not forget it. In Lew’s face there were no clouds, but it had sharpened into a mask of intense vitality, in which his wonderful eyes blazed like planets. The sight made Leithen uneasy. Lew had shed the sobriety for which he had been conspicuous in recent weeks. He looked less responsible, less intelligent, almost a little mad. Leithen, intercepting his furtive looks, was unpleasantly reminded of the man who had met him at Sick Heart River. As for Galliard, he was neither dejected nor exalted, but he seemed to have much to think about. He was doing his jobs with a preoccupied face, and he, too, was constantly stealing a glance at Leithen. He seemed to be waiting for a lead.
It was this that Leithen feared. For some strange reason he, a sick man — till the other day, and perhaps still, a dying man — was being forced by a silent assent into the leadership of the little band. It was to him that Father Duplessis had appealed, but that was natural, for they had served together under arms. But why this mute reference to his decision of the personal problems of all the others? These men were following the urge of a very ancient loyalty. Perhaps even Galliard. Who was he to decide on a thing wholly outside his world?
