by Neil M. Gunn
This was the way in which he had seen Roddie, once when he was at the tiller, upright as if carven, during the storm in the Western Ocean, and again in the moment on the cliff-head, when eternity had put its circle about them, and he had known the ultimate companionship of men, had seen the gentleness, profounder than any crying of the heart, at the core of male strength.
Finn experienced this far more surely than could ever be thought out or expressed in words. Perhaps here was the education that came from no schooling, came from the old stories by men like Hector and Black John and Finn-son-of-Angus, none of whom could either read or write. And the girl, not teaching, but singing the experience of the race of women in tradition’s own voice.
It was enough, anyway, for Finn, even in its symbols, like the swan, as though nothing profound is ever finally and materially clear, but only glimpsed in its symbols; and as certainty stirs delight, delight obscures the symbols, leaving behind the sweetness of delight, as a flower leaves its fragrance.
Opening his eyes, he saw the islands in the Sound of Harris, Presently, getting up, he said to Henry: “I can’t sleep. You go and have a couple of hours. Come on!” He refused to be put off, and at last Henry took Finn’s place and in no time was as fast asleep as Rob and Callum.
Finn now felt completely happy. The sleeping men left him in loneliness to his secret waking thoughts. He kept the stem, the lifting racing stem, on the farthest headland he could see.
As the sun rose, the wind freshened. He was young, and the dark face of Una that had so long and so often haunted his thought came to him with the exhilarating rush of the boat and the glittering lights of the sea. She was fated, like a woman in a story. And if so, he thought … and let the thought rush from him. He could not conquer or hold that thought.
He generally kept it from him, banished it away, and if it came in on him unawares, or was suddenly gnawing out of sight, he could always give it the heel of his temper.
He had said to himself the night before he left that it might look a bit odd if he did not call and see how her brother Duncan was. The real reason for calling was, of course, that it would provide an excellent excuse for meeting her in her own home and showing her that she meant nothing to him, less than nothing.
The visit had been a trifle embarrassing all the same, because he quite forgot the part he had played on the cliff and they hadn’t. There was a meal prepared for a hero, and Una had been rather quiet and pale. Finn himself had talked as if his nerves were full of fun and ignored Una completely. But at the first chance he had got up, pleading the preparations he had to make that night. The mother shook hands with him warmly. Then Una held out her hand and looked at him and, damn him, if his hand, by an unspeakable treachery all its own, hadn’t sort of half-squeezed it. Duncan and his father both accompanied him to the edge of the wood, but he had no memory afterwards of what they had said. He had been extremely angry with his hand. It was the sort of idiotic treachery, the silly trifling little thing, the infernal weakness, of which he was entirely made up. He was a born weakling: that was the whole trouble. Only in the whirling of the wood for the neid-fire did he work the fury out of himself, and remember Una’s pale, strange look.
What the true cause of that look was he did not know, but like the memory of a person under sorrow, it quietened him.
It quietened him still—and made him wonder. Anyway, he thought, if it meant that she was remembering he had helped to save her brother’s life, well, she had had plenty of time to let her memory cool!
The stem of the boat went leaping and plunging over the sparkling sea, and Finn put from him the thought that would not go away and the resolution that had been made without being made. But he had become adept at doing this as far as Una was concerned. High time it was stopped, and, O God, he was going to stop it! Leaning forward, with a smiling, reckless gleam in his eyes, he touched the iron end of the boat-hook. But his body had the last laugh at him, for it was quivering and by no means so bold and certain as Finn might care to make out.
*
Life (according to Mr. Gordon, the schoolmaster) was full of many entrances and exits, but if so, the entrance into Stornoway between four and five o’clock that afternoon took them by surprise—and they had been prepared to make a fair show. Rumour had it that the White Heather had gone down off the Shiants with all hands. A crofter had seen her one moment and not seen her the next. Certainly she had made no known anchorage as far south as Tarbert Harris. And if she had, the weather had not been so bad but that she could have struggled home the day before.
The fishermen were getting ready for sea when word went round that the White Heather was in sight. The word sped up into the town, into shops and private houses, where folk were glad of a bit of excitement at any time, and down they came, crowding the pier.
“It’s the whole of Stornoway,” murmured Callum, and at that their faces took on the cast of indifference. But there were some boys on the outmost edge of the long crowd and, not being trained in reticence, what should they do but let out a cheer when the White Heather came abreast of them. The cheer ran along the wall like quick flame. Not a face but was smiling or laughing. And then, on top of all, the incredible news that the White Heather had arrived with a shot of herring!
Here was Bain, elbowing folk out of his way, lord of the town. He wanted to hold converse with seamen, real seamen.
And there were the four men, quietly and normally bringing their boat to the landing berth, with the remote cold air of the sea about them.
“Welcome back!” shouted Bain.
Henry lifted up his thin, dark face and smiled. “I hope,” he asked,” that we are not too late for you?”
“Late? You’ll never be too late for me!” shouted Bain. Then he let out a roar to his foreman to gather the gutting crews. Anyone would think he was putting the sea off his bows.
Henry now looked satisfied, as if this was all that had been worrying him—as indeed it was.
“You have thirty cran?” cried Bain.
“Barely,” said Henry in the slow sea voice. “But they are good herring—the best I have seen here.”
“Where were you shot?”
“We shot last night off North Uist.”
North Uist! A deep murmur ran along the mouths of the fishermen.
The skipper of the Sulaire asked, “Where were you in the gale?”
A smile of humour softened Henry’s features. “Running before it,” he said, “under bare poles.”
“By God!” said Bain.
Then he shouted the crew to come up and have a dram. But Henry said he would like to get the herring out first, and have an hour or two’s drying on the nets.
“You have the whole evening for that,” shouted Bain.
“Not if we’re going to sea to-night,” said Henry.
Bain’s mouth opened, but no word came through,
*
Finn was in great feather now, and the dark girl, Catrine, was as busy as a wren.
“Do you think she was missing me?” he asked.
“I think she was,” said Catrine, nervously merry.
“You fairly fancy yourself,” said the fair one with a toss of her head.
Finn laughed and retreated with the creel.
For in these questions, and others like them, Finn and the dark girl Catrine spoke indirectly to each other, and this was a delightful game.
“Do you think she really cares?”
“She might. You never know,” answered Catrine.
“I wonder how I could find out?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” And the herring flew from her quick hands.
“I’ll have to think it over,” said Finn seriously.
A dark swift glance like an electric spark shot into his eyes and vanished.
He hove away a trifle excited, and remembered Callum’s suggestion that he had better watch himself. But that was always the sort of suggestion people did make. There was a profound humour in this. And, anyway
, how could a prick of conscience produce such a pleasant sensation?
With the herring out and Henry in Bain’s office, Callum had very clear ideas on a pint of beer. His flesh was wrung dry and his mouth like leather.
But Rob was wary. “Where to?” he asked.
“You know fine where to,” replied Callum. “So don’t be wasting time.”
“Well, there’s a place here——”
“There’s nothing of the sort,” said Callum. “You’re a dam’ fine fellow anyway. Have you no thought for the woman who has endured all these nights wondering if you were drowned?”
“If that’s what you mean,” said Rob, stiffening, “I’m not going. And that’s short.”
Callum winked to Finn, who took Rob’s arm. “Come on, Rob, never mind him.”
Rob drew his arm away abruptly. “Will you be quiet,” he said harshly, “and the people seeing us.”
“What do we care for the people?” asked Callum. “We have nothing to be ashamed of. At least—I hope not.”
“Go away!” growled Rob, growing angry. Then he scratched his beard and looked at the sky, so that decent folk might see they were only discussing the weather.
Callum laughed. “If you don’t come, then we’re going, and by the lord we’ll tell her.”
“It’s a good drying wind that,” said Rob, walking on, because one or two youngsters had stopped to listen to the daring seamen whom folk had thought drowned. “I’m ashamed of you,” muttered Rob, “that you don’t know how to behave in a strange place. Black affronted. I’m going home.”
“I hope,” said Callum, “that we know how to behave ourselves as well as you. This way.”
“No. I’m not going,” said Rob. And they stood still again.
“Very well,” said Callum. “If you’re frightened to face the woman, that’s your concern. But——”
“What was I going to be frightened of?”
“Well—why not come?” asked Callum.
“I must say, Rob, to be candid,” admitted Finn, as if more than a little hurt, “that I don’t like you sort of implying that we don’t know how to behave ourselves in a decent woman’s house. I don’t think we deserve that.”
Rob looked at him with a suspicious snort. “I know you,” he said. “And moreover I know both of you.”
“I hope so,” said Callum. “Are you coming?”
“If you say anything out of the way,” threatened Rob, “it’ll be the last that ever I’ll have to do with either of you. Take it or leave it.” And he strode on towards the widow’s public-house.
Callum gave Finn a sharp dig with his elbow and his left eye disappeared completely.
CHAPTER XXV
THE BIRCH WOOD
Their reception on the beach at home was far beyond anything of the kind ever experienced before. One or two of the women started waving and crying in a hysterical. way. The tears streaming down the face of Henry’s wife brought a shamed darkness to her husband’s features. The assumed pleasant indifference of the crew was pierced through at first by awkwardness and then by dismay.
They had not long to wait, however, to learn the reason for this extreme behaviour, for it so chanced that Mr. Hendry was among the crowd and he greeted them with direct words. Indeed his words were in the nature of a short speech of instruction and reprimand. His importance carried off the occasion in some measure, for he was a fishcurer in a large way now and spent much of his time in Wick where, it was rumoured, he would one of these days take up his abode permanently.
But there was some general impatience with him, too, for what cared Henry’s wife whether her husband had written or not, now that he was safe? Or Callum’s wife and children? Or anyone else, for that matter? News had filtered through from Poolewe that they had been caught in a storm off the Shiants and had all perished—and lo! here they were, each one of them, safe, and walking in life.
It was a tremendous moment for those who had gone through days of fear and despair, and why should they restrain a few tears and much enthusiasm and laughter now? It was not every day the beloved dead come home alive.
The crew filtered through the crowd, and here was Meg, running. “Hullo, Finn!” As she shook hands, she looked him over. Yes, he seemed to be in it! “Have you brought me a present from Stornoway?”
“Nothing but myself—if that’s any good to you?”
“That’s all you know!” She lifted her voice in a yell: “Una!”
Una approached, smiling, a little gravely, and shyly. “Welcome home.”
“How polite we are!” exclaimed Meg as the two shook hands.
Finn’s colour deepened and he turned to accept other greetings.
But on the way home, he said abruptly to Donnie, “One minute,” lowered his end of the chest and called “Una!”
The five in Una’s group stopped as Finn walked towards them. “He wants to speak to you,” said Meg quickly, and with the other three moved on.
“I forgot to ask you how Duncan is?”
“He’s fine, thank you,” said Una.
“I’m glad of that,” said Finn. “I just wanted to hear.”
“Yes, he’s fine.”
“That’s good. I just wanted to know.”
“Yes, he’s all right.”
“That’s fine.”
“Yes.”
“You’re all well?”
“Yes, thank you. We’re all fine.”
“That’s good. Well, I’d better be getting up.” And, with the grimace broadening, he glanced at her face.
Beneath her expression there was the movement of the spirit that he had once glimpsed on the cliff-top, a movement that had seemed to him then as profound as tragedy or death, but that now was caught in a strange pallor behind her smile.
“I’ll be seeing you,” he said, with an almost uncouth manifestation of his usual easy manner and turned away with a hearty salute.
“I forgot,” he explained to Donnie largely, “to ask how Duncan was.”
“He must be at the peats, or he would have been here,” said Donnie.
“Yes, the peats,” nodded Finn. “Lord, there are a few things to do! …”
Donnie insisted on coming right to the door of the house, and here was Barbara flying—and Elspet on the threshold.
When the greetings were over and the peat smoke of the kitchen in a swirl, Finn asked, “And how’s everyone?”
“You haven’t heard?” cried Elspet, looking at him shrewdly while Barbara glanced sideways.
“What?”
“That you have got a new brother.”
“A what?”
“Your mother has had a son, a real fine boy, a little treasure.”
“Oh! And is she quite well?”
“They’re both as healthy as trouts. Now, isn’t that fine news for you?”
“It’s news certainly,” said Finn.
“You must go up and see them whenever you’ve had something to eat,” suggested Elspet. “You’ll do that, won’t you?”
“Surely,” replied Finn. “We must inspect the marvel.”
“He’s a little darling,” said Barbara, with a swift rush of feeling that sounded like relief.
“Did you ever hear of a baby that wasn’t?” asked Finn. “However, first things first.” And he began to unrope his chest. “How is Roddie taking it?”
There was a distinct cackle from Elspet. And at that weird sound, Finn laughed.
. . . . . .
Supper over, Elspet reminded him about going to Roddie’s. “Right,” said Finn. “Coming, Barbara?”
Barbara hesitated, but Elspet told her to go.
“I’ll take my present with me,” said Barbara swiftly,
Finn’s mind was kept on its toes by Barbara’s presence. He was fond of her, and she obviously thought no less of him than before. In front of the house Finn saw Roddie lifting a bundle in his hands and gurgling up at it. Barbara’s eyes troubled at the harsh sarcastic sound from Finn’s throat.
Inside, Catrine heard the shout, and, glancing out of the window, beheld Finn and Barbara coming. She went pale and short of breath and pressed a strong palm against her heart. Drawing back a pace from the window in the instinctive movement of one who would not be seen, she remained still, feeling slightly faint.
“Hullo, Finn!” cried Roddie. “Welcome back!”
“Hullo!” answered Finn.
“What do you think of this?” asked Roddie. “Eh? Look at him!”
“So this is him?” said Finn. “Hullo, boy!” And he inspected the child with a critical half-amused look.
“Isn’t he a great fellow?” asked Roddie. “Eh?” Then he spoke to the child. “This is Finn. Yes, this is Finn, back from the sea, far far away.”
The small head waggled in little jerks, the unwinking eyes stared, lifted to the sky, fell to distant vistas of the moor, to Barbara (who thereupon chortled at him) and once more to Finn.
“Ah, he’s beginning to know you!” cried Roddie with triumph.
Finn’s scepticism issued in a soft gust. Roddie, the great seaman, the Viking, carrying on like a silly woman! This sort of behaviour embarrassed Finn at any time, for he had never seen a child of this age that didn’t look like a skinned rabbit. He was always relieved when the thing was taken away.
“Who do you think he’s like?” asked Roddie.
Even that question!
“It’s difficult to say yet,” replied Finn. “But I believe the poor thing is in for it.”
“What do you mean by that?” demanded Roddie.
“There is a certain vague but general resemblance,” said Finn, “to yourself.”
Roddie laughed. Suddenly the tiny features were congested and the mouth opened and yelled.
“Do you hear that?” cried Roddie, lifting the child beyond Barbara’s reach. “Hasn’t he got great lungs? And the strength that’s in him! I can hardly hold him! As sure as death!”
