I stood for a moment quite still. I think I was bewildered. It had all happened so suddenly. But it had lighted me in like a beacon. It was as though God had set forth His hand to guide me. And yet there had been no lightning. There had been nothing to cause the fire. A sudden sense of awe descended on me.
I shivered as the cold gripped me again. Whatever the cause of it the fire had shown me the place I was seeking. I felt my way through pools of melted snow to the main building, felt my way along the warm wood of the log face until I found the door. It yielded to my touch and I stumbled inside, closing it after me.
The place was cold, cold with the griping chill of a room that has had no heat in it for a long time. I fumbled for the torch again and in its beam I saw a big, ghostly room full of shadows. The walls were of log, ceiling and floorboards of split pine planks and there was the gaping hole of a huge stone chimney. On a table stood a lamp. It still had oil in it and I removed the glass chimney and lit the wick. When I set the chimney back the warm lamplight flooded the place. I stood back and stared at a room that might have been constructed by one of the pioneers who had moved into the Fraser River country a hundred years ago.
The place was dominated by the huge stone chimney which broadened out just below the rafters to a big open fireplace. It was built of rocks mortared together and on either side were baking ovens. The grate still held some half-burnt pine logs and a great heap of ash. The beams and rafters that supported the roof were rough-hewn, the marks of my grandfather’s axe plainly visible. Most of the furniture was hand-made, but there were a few small pieces that had been imported. A door to the right led into a kitchen. A small range backed into the rough stone of the chimney and in one corner was a hot-water tank and an old galvanised tin bath. Near it was a lavatory and against the window a sink. A door led through into the undamaged barn, a long, low building full of shadow which the lamp could not penetrate. On the other side of the living-room was a bedroom. There was an old drum stove in one corner with an iron pipe running up through the roof. The bed was unmade. Clothes were strewn around—heavy ski boots, an old pair of jeans, a buckskin jacket beautifully worked with beads, an old and battered stetson, high-heeled cowboy boots of a fancy pattern, a gaily coloured plaid shirt, faded and sweat-stained under the armpits.
I felt as though I were an intruder in a private house, not the sole legatee of a man four months dead come to look over his property. Everywhere I turned there was evidence of my grandfather. It seemed inconceivable that the man himself wouldn’t come in through the front door at any moment.
A pool of water was forming at my feet. There were logs piled in a big bin beside the fireplace, logs brought in by Johnnie and his party when they had returned. There was a box of axe chippings and sawdust. In a few minutes I had a fire blazing in the hearth and had stripped off my clothes. I went through into the bedroom and got some things of my grandfather’s—a pair of jeans, a plaid shirt and a big fur-lined jacket. They were old and had been patched with great care. I stood close against the fire as I put them on. The flames roared, sucked up by the wind that drove across the top of the chimney. The heat of it slowly penetrated to my bones, warming the cold core of my body. The uncurtained windows showed the snow thick in the lamplight. But the only sound was the crackle of the flames in the hearth. The storm was muffled by the snow. It did not penetrate this warm, well-built ranch-house.
I lit a cigarette and went over to the desk. The drawers were full of an indescribable litter of correspondence, bills, receipts, copies of oil magazines, notes on crops, odd pieces of rock, cheque book stubs, some deeds, a few photographs, old keys, part of a broken bit. Some of the letters dated from the early thirties.
It was in the bottom of the empty Bible box lying on the floor beside the desk that I found what I was looking for; rolled sheets of cartographic paper and a black, leather-bound book. The seismograms were quite incomprehensible to me. I rolled them up and put them back in the drawer. Then I opened the book.
This was what I had hoped to find. On the first page was written: An Account of the Efforts of one, Stuart Campbell, to Establish the Truth that there is Oil in the Rocky Mountains. The report was written in ink. It had faded a little with age and the paper had yellowed and become brittle. All the entries were dated. It began with the 3rd March, 1911, and went straight through to the entry made on the 20th November of the preceding year, the same day that he had written me that letter, the day of his death. The writing throughout was clearly recognisable as his own, but it gradually changed, the boldness blurring into the shakiness of age, and different inks had been used.
I turned back to the beginning and read with fascination the account of his discovery of oil in the valley of Thunder Creek.
This day, whilst on a visit to my old friend, Luke Trevedian, I was involved in the terrible disaster that overtook the gold-mining community of Come Lucky. It had been snowing heavily for a week and the chinook beginning to blow there began at half-past eight in the morning a series of avalanches high up on the peak of the Overlander. These avalanches developed rapidly into a great slide that engulfed all the mine workings and spread for a whole mile across the flats of Thunder Creek, some of the rocks being of the size of large houses. For the next week everyone laboured for the release of miners trapped in the workings. But it was hopeless. In all forty-seven men and eleven boys missing in the mine and thirty-five people, including eight women and ten children, buried utterly, their dwellings standing in the course of the slide.
There followed more details and then this passage:
. . . 11th March, I was able to push up the valley of Thunder Creek, the snows having largely melted. Geologically a most interesting journey since I was skirting the edge of the slide and could examine rocks that only a little time before had been deep below the surface of the mountain . . . Turning a bastion of Forked Lightning Mountain I got my first view of the falls. Imagine my astonishment on finding that the whole head of Thunder Valley had broken away. Instead of a series of falls from the hidden punch bowl Luke had shown me on my previous visit there was now a sheer cliff of new rock. The whole course of the creek had broken away and spilled forward . . . The awe-inspiring sight of a new cliff face, unmarked by vegetation and standing stark and sheer for hundreds of feet, was most instructive regarding the strata of the country . . . In going down to slake my thirst I saw a black slime on the rocks at the edge of the swollen creek. These rocks were newly broken off and should have had no mark of vegetation. The waters of the creek were running dark and thick with a curious viscosity, and though they were swirling and thundering among the rocks, they did so smoothly . . . It was a river of oil. What proportion was oil and what was water I could not tell, but the deposit on the rocks was undoubtedly crude oil. It was the biggest seep I had ever seen. I made great efforts to climb up the slide to the source of the seepage, but shortly after midday it began to snow. Further falls of rock occurred and I had the greatest difficulty in getting safely down.
13th March: It snowed all day yesterday and I waited with the greatest impatience to take Luke and others up to the oil seep. Today we managed to get through, but alas, fresh falls had occurred and there was no evidence that we could find of any seep, nor could I discover any trace of the original seep though I searched the course of the creek wherever possible. I had great difficulty in convincing my companions that what I had seen two days ago . . .
A draught of cold air touched my cheek and I looked up. The door to the bedroom was open. I turned with a start as something moved in the room behind me. The figure of a man was walking slowly towards the fire, his feet dragging, his long arms swinging loose. His huge body was white with snow and he had his hand to the side of his face and it was blackened as though charred by fire. He stopped in front of the grate, staring at the flames. There was something frightening in his stillness, in his complete absorption in the fire. His shadow flickered on the log walls and pools of water formed at his feet.
I
got to my feet and at the scrape of my chair he jerked round. His eyes widened at the sight of me and his lips opened, but no sound came. It was Max Trevedian and naked fear showed in his blackened face. He mumbled something incoherently. His gaze darted past me to the door and he ran blindly towards it, the whites of his eyes showing in the blackened mask of his face. His big hands fumbled clumsily at the latch; then he had lifted it and the wind tore the door from his grasp and flung it wide. A blast of bitter air swept into the room. I had a momentary glimpse of him struggling in a blinding whirl of snow and then the lamp blew out and the flames of the fire flickered redly on the drift that was rapidly powdering the floor.
For a moment he disappeared into the black void of the doorway. But it was only for a moment. He couldn’t stand against the freak force of wind and snow and he staggered in again, bent low, his arms almost touching the ground, a monstrous, shapeless figure shrouded in snow. I flung myself against the door and forced it to. As I turned, panting from the effort, I found him standing facing me, a dark silhouette against the firelight. He was trembling and his teeth were chattering. I can still remember the sound they made, a queer, rodent sound against the roar of the wind. Then he seemed to crumple up, falling on his knees, his lips emitting a gibbering that was only half intelligible:
‘. . . only a letter. I never hurt you. Never touched you, Max never mean to hurt anyone . . . like I do with Alf Robens. Not like that. Never hurt you . . . Please God believe . . .’ His voice died away in incoherent mumblings. And then quite clearly: ‘You ask Peter. Peter knows.’
I moved a step towards him, peering down at him, trying to see his face, to understand what it was that was scaring him, but he scrambled away from me on his knees like a horribly human land-crab. ‘Go away. Go away.’ He screamed the words out. ‘Dear God believe me. I do you no harm.’
‘Did Peter send you here?’ I asked. My voice sounded hoarse and unnatural.
‘Ja, ja. Peter send me. He tell me you will not rest till all is burned. You kill my father, so I come here to burn this place. I love my father. I do it for him. I swear it. I do it for him.’
‘Who was Alf Robens?’ I asked.
‘Alf Robens!’ I had moved so that I was between him and the fire. A log fell and in the sudden blaze I saw his face. The eyes were wide like two brown glass marbles, his lower lip hung down. It is the only time I have seen a man petrified with fear. His muscles seemed rigid. The sweat glistened on his face and seamed the charred blackness of his skin. Then his mouth began to work and at last a sound came: ‘He was a boy. Older than I was. A lot older. But I didn’t mean to kill him. They used to tie me on to the broncs—for sport. Then they tie me to a bull. And when I am free I get Alf Robens by the throat and beat his head against a stone. But I mean nothing by it. Like it was with Lucie. She make sport with me and when I am roused she is frightened. I do not hurt her, but they’—he swallowed and licked his dry lips—‘they try to hang me. I do not want to hurt anyone. I do not hurt you. Please leave me. Please.’ This last on a choking sob of fear.
I stood there for a moment, staring at this childish hulk of a man who was scared of something that was in his mind and feeling a strange sense of pity for him. At length I put my hand out and touched his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Max. I’m not Stuart Campbell.’ I went over to the desk then and relit the lamp. As I set the chimney back and the light brightened Max got slowly to his feet. His jaw was still slack and his eyes wide. He was breathing heavily. But his expression was changing from fear to anger.
Deep down within me I felt fear growing. Once I showed it I knew I should be lost. The man had colossal strength. The secret I knew was to treat him like an animal—to show no fear and to treat him with kindness and authority. ‘Sit down, Max,’ I said, not looking at him, concentrating on adjusting the wick of the lamp. My voice trembled slightly, but maybe my ears were over-sensitive. ‘You’re tired. So am I.’ I picked up the lamp and walked towards the kitchen, forcing myself to go slowly and easily, not looking at him. ‘I’m going to make some tea.’
I don’t think he moved all the time I was crossing the room. Then at last I was through to the kitchen. I left the door open and went to the store cupboard. There was tea in a round tin. I found cups and a big kettle. There was a movement by the door. I looked round. Max was standing there, staring at me, a puzzled frown on his face.
‘Do you know where my grandfather kept the sugar?’ I asked him.
He shook his head. He had the bewildered look of a small boy. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll find it. You take this kettle and fill it with snow.’ I held the kettle out to him and he came slowly forward and took it. ‘Ram the snow in tight,’ I said. And then as he stood there, hesitating, I added, ‘You like tea, don’t you?’
He nodded his big head slowly. ‘Ja.’ And then suddenly he smiled. It almost transformed his heavy, rather brutish face. ‘We make some good tea, eh?’ And he shambled out.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and stood there for a moment thinking about Max, thinking of the hell his childhood must have been—with no mother, the boys of Come Lucky making fun of him and tying him on to broncs and bulls, having their own cruel stampede, and then the boy killed and a girl crying rape and the town trying to lynch him. I wondered how his brother had maintained his domination over him during years of absence. His childhood memories must have remained very vivid.
I found some biscuits and some canned meat. We ate them in front of the fire waiting for the snow to melt in the kettle and the water to boil. The wind moaned in the big chimney and Max sat there, wrapped in a blanket, silent and withdrawn. The kettle boiled and I made the tea. But as we sat drinking it I suddenly felt the silence becoming tense. I looked up and Max was staring at me. ‘Why do you come here?’ His voice was a growl. ‘Peter say you are not to come—you are like Campbell.’
I began to talk then, telling him about my grandfather as he appeared to me, how I had come all the way from England, how I was a sick man and not expected to live. And all the time the storm beat against the house. And when silence fell between us again and I sensed the tension growing because his interest was no longer held, I searched around in my mind for something to talk to him about and suddenly I remembered the Jungle Books and I began to tell him the story of Mowgli. And by the time I had told him of the first visit of Shere Khan I knew I needn’t worry any more. He sat enraptured. Maybe it was the first time anybody had ever taken any trouble with him. Certainly I am convinced he had never been told a story before. He listened spell-bound, the expression on his face reacting to every mood of the story. And whenever I paused he muttered fiercely. ‘Go on. Go on.’
When at length I came to the end the tears were streaming down his face. ‘It is very—beautiful. Ja, very beautiful.’ He nodded his head slowly.
‘Better get some rest now, Max,’ I said. He didn’t seem to hear me, but when I repeated it, he shook his head and a worried frown puckered his forehead. ‘I must go to Come Lucky.’ He clambered to his feet. ‘Peter will be angry with me.’
‘You can’t go down till the storm is over,’ I said.
He crossed to the door. A howl of wind and snow entered the room as he opened it. He stood there for a moment, his body a hulking shadow against the lamplit white of the driven snow. Then he shut the door again and came slowly back to the fire, shaking his head. ‘No good,’ he said.
‘Do you think it’ll last long?’
‘Two hours. Two days.’ He shrugged his shoulders. He was accustomed to the waywardness of the mountains.
‘How did you come up here?’
‘By the old pony trail.’
‘Did you ride up then?’
‘Ja, ja. I ride.’
‘Where’s your horse?’
‘In the stable. He is all right. There is good hay there.’
‘Well, you’d better come down with me on the hoist when it clears,’ I said. ‘I don’t think you’d get far on a pony trail by the time this is
over.’
‘We will see,’ he said and wrapped himself in his blanket and lay down in front of the fire. I went into the bedroom and got some blankets and stretched myself out near him. I felt desperately tired. I was worried, too, about Jeff down there alone at the bottom of the hoist.
I don’t remember much about that night. Once I got up and put more logs on the fire. Mostly I slept in a coma of exhaustion. And then suddenly I was awake. It was bitterly cold, the fire was a dead heap of white ash and a pale glimmer of daylight crept in through the snow-bordered windows. Max was not in the room.
I pulled myself to my feet and stumbled across to the door. It had stopped snowing and I looked out on to a world of white under a grey sky. Footprints led to an open door at the far end of the half-burnt barn. They did not return. ‘Max!’ My voice seemed to lose itself in the infinite stillness. ‘Max!’ I followed the footsteps through deep drifts of new snow to the stable door. The place was empty. The snow was trampled here and the tracks of a horse went out into the driven white of the Kingdom, headed for the cleft.
I went back into the house, rebuilt the fire and got myself some breakfast. The warmth and the food revived me and as soon as I had finished I carried out a quick inspection of the premises. The place was built facing south, the barns spreading out from either side of the house like two arms. Fortunately Bladen’s trucks were in the undamaged barn and it didn’t take me long to find the spools containing the recordings of his final survey. I slipped the containers into my pocket and then I set out along the trail Max had blazed. The snow was deep in places and it took me the better part of an hour to reach the buttress of rock. From the top of it I could see the hoist. The cage was not in its staging. The thought that it might have broken down flashed into my mind. The place was so damnably still. A frozen silence seemed to have gripped the world. There were no mare’s tails on the peaks of Solomon’s Judgment. Not a breath of air stirred.
Campbell's Kingdom Page 14
