by Neil M. Gunn
Roddie looked on with his detached smile, thoughtfully, until Catrine suddenly faced him and asked, “Where did you find him?”
“Oh, we were just down the road a bit,” he said, nodding backwards with his head. “Can’t Finn and I have a walk together if we like?”
But she was far beyond humour. “Surely,” she gasped, “you hadn’t him at the shore?”
“Not quite, perhaps. But, you see, Finn and I have arranged to sail together, so, you see——” He stopped, before her expression of horror and fear.
“You wouldn’t dare!” she gulped, her breathing beginning to come rapidly again.
“Well, all right. I sort of promised, because—well, never mind.” He smoothed a splotch of dry tar with the ball of a thumb, regarding it with his head slightly tilted.
“Where was he?”
He met her eyes. “As a matter of fact, I found him taking a rest in the House of Peace.”
She stared at him until she saw that what he said was true. Then a swift change came over her face, softening it in a wild glancing way, and immediately she turned and walked hurriedly off, though even in that moment he had seen the glisten of reaction.
Yet Catrine did not break down, did not even weep, though the tears ran down her face, and wen she got into a hidden nook she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand before sitting and taking Finn on her lap. Her shoulder shook two moss-yellow bees out of a purple foxglove, but she hardly heard them. She gave Finn a little secret hug against her breast, and then, lowering her head, said softly, “Tell Mama where you went?”
He would not answer, but buried his face where it had been a moment before. However, in a short time she got him to mutter: “I was chasing God’s fool.”
“What’s that? Who said God’s fool?”
“Roddie. It’s not God’s fool, is it? It’s grey fool? Isn’t it, Mama?” His voice broke, threatening hysteric sobs again.
“Yes, yes. It’s grey fool. Roddie had no right to say God’s fool. That’s an old name—and it’s a sin to use God’s name. It’s grey fool, as Mama told you.”
Feeling comforted, he said, “I saw a little one, a little blue one. It was—it was—lovely. Did—did you ever see a blue one?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In the strath of Kildonan.”
“Was that when you were a little girl?”
“Yes.”
“Long ago?”
“Long, long ago.”
His eyes opened thoughtfully, in silence.
“Did you chase the butterfly?” she asked.
He moved with confusion and muttered, “Yes.”
“Was it chasing the butterfly that took you away from home?”
He picked at the bodice of her dress. “Yes.”
“Tell Mama,” she whispered.
He tried to raise his eyes but failed. Then he said, “I killed the butterfly,” and smothered his sobbing mouth against her.
Though Catrine might have killed many butterflies to save him a scratch, she found herself without words. She caressed his back, and stared over his head at the intermingling of terrors and meanings in life, hidden, but there. Her lips trembled. The meanings had started to take her son away from her. Already the terrible knowledge of good and evil was in him. He had killed the butterfly.
*
Coming up in the late evening of the same day from the sea, Roddie decided to call on Catrine. He would hardly have called at such an hour had he not taken some drink.
But the crew had visited the inn for final instructions and farewell, and Mr. Hendry, in his enthusiasm over opening a station in Helmsdale, had taken the inevitable bottle of “special” from its recess.
It was, in truth, a memorable occasion for Dunster because now for the first time a local boat was leaving its shores to fish from a distant port.
These last few years the prosperity of Dunster had greatly increased. There was hardly a household that did not directly or indirectly make a few pounds out of the summer fishing; and these few pounds, in a simple economy, put the household beyond fear of want. There was an enlivening increase in activity and warmth and life. Out of assurance and hope the natural gaiety and passions of the folk expanded.
Roddie had done particularly well—though, for that matter, no better than the three members of his crew. The debt on the boat had been paid off and, if he liked, he could at any moment now buy out the other three shares. Not that he ever thought of doing such a thing. But he saw that the boat was kept ship-shape and in first-class trim and that each member of the crew was responsible for his own nets. Already he was dreaming of a larger boat, for there were three now in Dunster as big as his own.
He had not been anxious to go to Helmsdale, for he knew the home grounds well, and knew in particular when it was no longer possible to make the river-mouth in a heavy sea. The season before last, five boats had been smashed and many nets lost in a sudden storm, and when all hope for the Morning Star had gone news came that Roddie had sailed her into Cromarty in the wake of a Buckie boat, with every net intact.
Hendry’s reliance on him to lead his new Helmsdale venture to success had touched his spirit and perhaps his pride. He had consented at once and, with reasonable weather, they were to set off to-morrow morning.
In the deep twilight of the summer night Catrine’s home looked quiet and still; indeed everything looked quiet and still, the grey stones and the bushes, the rising ground, the slow lines of the horizon against the remote clear sky. As Roddie involuntarily stood, he heard the sound of the running burn, not consciously but as the sound of waters at a great distance, for his eyes were held by the cottage.
The land, the quiet land, which for ever endures, threaded by women and children, in the bright patterns of their lives. Remote from the sea, from the turbulence of oncoming waves, from the quick movement, the excitement, from the mind of a man like Special, with his flow of silver herring that changed into a flow of silver crowns. There’s money in it, men, money, money.
Money. The power, the wizardry of it, set a man walking on his own feet. But Roddie was careful at the same time to keep low down towards the burn, because there would be little sense in letting a belated neighbour see him going towards Catrine’s at such an hour. Irked at having to do this, when at last he climbed the slope and went towards the cottage, he walked lightly, strung up against any sound even in himself. At the low end of the house, he paused till his breathing moderated, then went past the byre door to the kitchen window on noiseless feet, careful not to disturb the collie.
Slowly he brought his head past the side of the window. Catrine was sitting beyond the fire, one hand, with elbow resting on knee, stretched towards the peat, arrested by thought or reverie in the very act of smothering the live embers. He saw her features against the red glow, warm and soft, not only with her own beauty, but with all women’s beauty. It was a picture a man might glimpse once in a lifetime, and have a vision of women afterwards in his mind that time or chance, good or evil, would never change. Like the still landscape that had troubled him a moment, when he first looked up at the cottage.
A profound sorrow moved in him and a desire to lift her lightly in his arms and gently.
This emotion must have touched her for she suddenly raised her eyes. He saw her hand grip her chest, heard the strangled intake of breath, and he moved his open hand back and fore quickly to quieten her. She could not know him; he had to tell who he was; something of fear and horror touched him. “Catrine, it’s me, Roddie. Roddie.”
The collie growled and barked.
Her chest began to heave from the deep breaths that went in through her quivering mouth. She got to her feet and came slowly to the window, her fallen hand quietening the dog. The fire now behind her, she was more pale than a ghost against the dim night-light. She withdrew from his words, and in a second or two they faced each other across the threshold.
“I’m sorry I’m so late,” he said. “We’re off in
the morning, and I was wondering if I could take any messages for you to your people.”
“You gave me a fright,” she answered. “Won’t you come in?”
“It’s very late.”
“Who’s there?” called Kirsty, from the middle room.
“It’s Roddie Sinclair,” Catrine answered. “He’s off to Helmsdale in the morning and he’s wondering if we have any messages.”
“What hour is this to come round?” demanded Kirsty, “and decent folk in their beds.”
“We’ve been working late, getting the boat ready,” called Roddie, the relief of humour in his voice. “But if that’s all you have to say to me, I’ll be going.”
“Ah, you, Roddie! But when you go to Helmsdale you’ll come amongst decent people, and if anyone asks for me, you’ll remember me to them.”
“I will that,” cried Roddie. “And I’ll tell them you wouldn’t go back to the Cattach country though you were paid for it.”
“You rascal,” she said. “It’s the good stick you need. And don’t keep that bairn out of her bed.”
“Won’t you wish me luck?”
“No.”
“Why that?”
“Because it’s not lucky,” declared Kirsty. “Don’t forget to say your prayers, and may Himself look after you.”
“Thankyou,” responded Roddie.
“Will you come in?” Catrine asked, smiling now.
“It’s late,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come at all, only I didn’t——”
“Come in for a minute. I was just thinking of bed.”
Roddie followed her. “No, no, don’t touch the fire. I’m going.”
She pressed the peats together and they broke into a bright flame.
“So there he is, quiet enough now.” Roddie looked at Finn’s sleeping face over which the shadows flickered. “He had a day and a half.”
“Yes,” she murmured. Their eyes rested for a little on the child, “It was kind of you to come.”
As his head turned round she smelt the whisky in his breath. He smiled now in his detached pleasant way. “I would have asked you earlier but you were in such a hurry to be off with him to-day that you hardly saw me.”
“That worried me, too. I should have thanked you, but I was all upset. I was sure he was drowned. I was sick with fear. I cannot tell you the awful—awful experience it was. I must have seemed demented.” Her hands and arms started writhing a little as she smiled. Otherwise the horrible memory had left a quietness in her manner.
“Was he away long?”
“Hours and hours. We searched everywhere, the hill, the burn, crying on him…. What was he doing when you found him?”
“He had been asleep.”
Silence fell between them.
“You’ll remember me to those at home if you see any of them. Tell them we’re very well.”
“I’ll make a point of seeing them. Surely. If there’s anything I could do, you know I’d do it.”
“I know.”
Silence came about them again.
“Won’t you sit down?” she asked.
“No. I’ll be going.” He stood quite still. “Well, I’ll be going.”
“Thank you for coming.”
He turned his head and looked into her face. Her smile was open and friendly and her dark eyes glimmered with light. He removed his eyes as if he were doing it thoughtfully. The characteristic smile came to his face, tilting one corner of his mouth a trifle in a light humour. “So long,” he said pleasantly.
She followed him to the door.
“Good-bye,” she said, not offering her hand. “Take care of the sea.”
“The sea!” She saw his face in profile steady against the night. Then he turned upon her a long searching look, drawing something out of her. But before she could feel the discomfort of this he nodded “Good-bye” and walked off.
CHAPTER VI
THE LAND AND THE SEA
With an expert jab of the elbow, Williamson released the brake and the four horses thundered across the bridge, the stage coach swaying as it swung round on the right-hand turn and took the incline on the east side of the river. Some three hundred yards and he drew them to a standstill at the change-house of Tighdubh, on the left of the road. While the strappers got busy, Williamson sat like an emperor looking down over two naturally terraced fields at the sweep of the bay between its cliffs. There was the usual small crowd to watch the great event of the day, and when a respectful interval had supervened an elderly voice asked if there was any news of the fishing in Helmsdale.
“Good fishing to-day,” said Williamson to the bay.
“Any word of Roddie Sinclair?”
“Dunster boat had twenty-one crans.” Without looking at anyone, Williamson climbed stiffly down in the great coat that he wore winter and summer, with the difference that in winter the lapels framed his ruddy face with its clipped, pointed, ginger beard and in summer lay flat. He moved up to the stables to comfort himself, while the horses were being changed.
Kirsty, who had been paying one or two visits—she dearly loved a talk with Granny Gordon about families in the fine old days before the clearances—came home in the first of the evening and told Catrine the news.
“I’m so glad,” said Catrine, standing still and looking away. She saw Dale and Helmsdale, the boats on the sea. Suddenly she ran after Finn, crying, “Where are you going?” He sped on, shouting with laughter and, looking back over his shoulder, stumbled and fell. But he did not cry as she gathered him up. She spoke rapidly to him, laughing and leaning back, and then ran away from his pursuit right round the house. When she felt quite herself again, she came back to find Kirsty already out of her visiting blacks.
“You’re coddling that boy too much,” said Kirsty, who felt that Catrine should not have run off at such a moment but should have hung about her welcoming her back, and asking for all the news she. was bursting to tell. Finn gazed at the drawn visage of Granny, with its straight furrows going down under the chin in a way that made you feel she was going to bark the next word at you—which she sometimes did—and hesitated. Often when she looked harshest she was near to the point of yielding something. Now her right hand went into a deep pocket in her skirt and there was a rustling of paper. “You’re wondering, aren’t you?” she said to Finn, making a face at him. He was not intimidated. On the contrary, his eyes gleamed. And presently the hand emerged with a round hard white sweet which Finn accepted in concentrated silence. “Where’s your manners?” “Thank you,” murmured Finn. “See you don’t choke on it,” added Kirsty. Still without removing the paper-bag from her pocket, she handed one to Catrine.
Catrine asked for Mrs. Gordon. “She’s very well,” replied Kirsty. Catrine asked one question after another, until, mollified, Kirsty at last got down to her news.
Kirsty dealt in facts about living or dead people, and though Catrine might not have known them, still they came out of the background she knew and gave it a movement of colour and life like the lines in a tartan. It was an extraordinary background, too, even tumultuous at times in its far-flung riot of adventurous living. Kirsty’s father had been a leaseholder or tacksman, not on a very large scale, it is true, but yet in the material realm on a more secure and affluent basis than was the ordinary clansman or cottar who had made up the bulk of the population. Often these tacksmen traced kinship to a ruling chief or landlord through a mathematical system of cousinhood, linking up younger sons and daughters in an intricate yet clearly defined pattern. Because of the restricted economic outlet, however (for an acre of land is constant), the large families of these tacksmen had themselves to become cottars or crofters and in this way over untold centuries a feeling of blood-relationship had come to pervade a group or clan, and not only to one another but to the heads or rulers of the clan themselves. For the most part this relationship was so tenuous as to be completely indefinite, and in practical living was forgotten, yet it lived on in the blood, and if, say, a man’s name was
Mackay, he instinctively felt, to the point of fighting for it, that he held the honour of all the Mackays in his keeping.
In the bloody aftermath to the Jacobite Rising of 1745 the clan system was smashed; and what was left of it was swept away by the chiefs themselves in the notorious treachery and brutality of the clearances that began at the end of that same century and continued sporadically for two generations. Yet, though political and economic revolution might come overnight, the pulse of the blood does not change so readily nor the secret paths in tradition’s hinterland get blotted out at a stroke, not generally, anyway.
Again, however, because of the restricted economic outlet, all the members of the tacksmen’s families could not find reasonable holdings amongst the crofters, even if they had wanted to, which they didn’t—so long as any more alluring outlet presented itself. Soldiers of fortune they became rather than traders, and their names, thinly disguised, linger over northern Europe and, at odd times, still come into prominence. As with the tacksmen’s families, so with the crofters’; and in that outer world, where merit and courage had the staying power, many an odd twist was given to fortune’s wheel.
With the clearances came enforced mass emigration, and in Catrine’s short lifetime, boatloads of her own desperate people had been shipped to Canada, where, working through terrors and distress and death, they were building up new generations in a new land. They were emigrating, too, to Australia. Men she could all but remember had fought and been killed in South Africa, and men she could remember had been slaughtered in the terrible battle before New Orleans. Colonizers, explorers, fighters, traders, from Hudson to India, from the plain of Waterloo to the Blue Mountains of the Cape. Such geographic names were familiar on Kirsty’s lips, not in any vague way but connected with someone she knew or knew about.
