Shadow Of The Wolf

by Michael Parker

  He bowed his head slightly. "Thank you. Please, we have been sunk. We wish to use a radio or telephone to contact the authorities."

  "What ship?"

  He looked straight at her, his expression fixed. For a moment Maura thought he wasn't going to answer.

  "Balaena," he said at last. "Now please, you have authority here?"

  Maura shook her head. "No, the authority here is Reevel Anderson. He has a radio link with the mainland. I will take you to him."

  He thanked her. "One moment please, I will explain to my crew."

  He turned back to his men and raised his arms above his waist, like a hen gathering the chicks. Maura waited while he spoke to them. He was brief but returned with four men. He bowed his head a little. It was polite; not formal. He said nothing and waited for Maura to take them to the island radio.

  The moon was still throwing sufficient light to see clearly, but Maura switched on her torch. It gave her an inexplicable feeling of comfort in circumstances that had suddenly become quite alien to her. She took the men back up over the cliff path along the grassy moor to follow the track leading towards her cottage. But before reaching it she turned north east, heading along a wide, rising path. It dropped into a hollow and then rose again quite sharply. From its highest point there was a commanding view in daylight over the bay to the north and the picturesque Mullach Bay. In daylight they would also have been able to see the whaling station and natural harbour formed by the cliffs, but at this time beneath a flickering moon and scudding cloud the shapes were meaningless and cluttered.

  Maura kept on the track until it stopped beside the front gate of a large, imposing house. The house stood alone and quite solitary, its white stone reflecting the moonlight.

  "This is what we call the big house," she said. "Wait here while I'll knock Reevel up." She opened the gate and walked up the path to the front door. She was beginning to feel quite uneasy now. She put it down to the uncertainties of war and strange action of the men behind her. She lifted the brass knocker, shaped like a whale and rattled on the door. She listened as the sounds echoed inside the house, waited a short while and knocked again. Soon she heard the sound of movement and a dark voice muttering indecipherably from somewhere above them. Then the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

  Reevel Anderson came to the door as any man would that had been called from his bed in the middle of the night by an insistent knocking on the door. He was still tying his dressing gown around him when he opened the door to Maura.

  He was an impressive looking man. He had a full beard of the purest white which was neatly clipped. His shoulders were square and echoed a strength that was waning with the onset of age. His voice was pitched high when he spoke and carried the soft burr of the Celt.

  "Oh, 'tis you, widow Lucas," he scowled. "And what is it that brings you here at this ungodly hour of the night?"

  Maura turned and pointed towards the men huddled by the gate. She explained everything to him. "And as you are the authority on this island, Reevel Anderson, and have the radio, I brought them to you."

  Reevel peered over her shoulder and called to the men. "You of the Balaena, do you ken the English?"

  The leader stepped forward and walked down the path to stand beside Maura. "I speak and understand English well," he said.

  Reevel frowned at him, unable to see his features and make an assessment of the man. "The widow tells me you want to use our radio, but I have to remind you that there’s a war on, and our radio time is strictly limited."

  The leader nodded. "I understand, but I assure you that I need just time enough for a quick transmission. That is all."

  Reevel acquiesced and stepped back inside from the open door. "Bring your men in. I’ll take you up to the radio room."

  The leader turned and signalled to his men. They came up the path and filed quietly in to the large hallway. Maura followed them in. Suddenly one of them stepped round her, reached for the door and shut it firmly. Then he turned the key and locked the door.

  Revel heard the key turning in the lock and swung round. "What are you doing?" he asked. "There's no need for that." The five men stared at him impassively. He took a step towards them. "I asked you what you think you are doing."

  The group's leader pushed his hand into his jacket and pulled out a Luger pistol. He pointed it directly at Reevel. Maura gasped, putting her hand to her mouth. The others moved swiftly, taking up positions around them. Reevel's mouth opened in surprise. "What the devil ... Who are you?"

  The man smiled. There was no malice in his face. The smile was even and pleasant, and perhaps a little patronising. "Permit me to introduce myself." He said it with a tell-tale click of the heels. "Hauptsturmführer Schafer, Kriegsmarine Sturmabteilung."

  Reevel felt his heart pound in his chest at the awful realisation of what the man had just revealed. He clutched at the fabric of his dressing gown and took deep breaths. "I don’t understand," he stuttered. "Kriegsmarine? What is this all about? What in God’s name are you doing here?"

  "I am Captain Bruno Schafer of the Imperial German Navy," he reminded Reevel. "Our stay on the island of yours will hopefully be brief, but only if you cooperate. Now, where is the radio?"

  Reevel felt rooted to the spot. His heart was thumping louder against his ribs. Is this what it must be like? He wondered. Were the stories true about the knock in the middle of the night? The things he had read about Hitler's storm troopers before the war; were they true?

  "Quickly!" Schafer snapped. "I do not have much time."

  Reevel gestured towards the stairs. Schafer beckoned to two of his men. They followed him up the stairs while the others remained on guard below, holding Reevel and Maura.

  They reached the radio room quickly. It was small, but furnished. The radio was on a flat table beside a window looking incongruous against the flowered wallpaper. Schafer immediately sat in front of the radio and put on the headset. His actions were of one who was familiar with such equipment. He switched the set on and moved his hands over the tuning dials, watching as it hummed into life.

  He waited until the set had warmed up, pushed the table microphone to one side and began running his hands over the tuning dials. He listened attentively until he had the frequency he wanted and tapped out the Morse key. A response clattered back and he tapped out a rapid message. Then he leaned back in the chair and switched off.

  Beside the radio lay several manuals. On top of them was a single exercise book. He picked it up and thumbed through it, reading the entries with care. Then he removed the headset, flinging it down carelessly, and went back downstairs.

  "Very commendable." He held the book up. "I see from your log that you contact the mainland regularly." He opened the book. "Wrath Kyle. Each morning." He closed the book and looked directly at Reevel. "You will do so in the usual way this morning."

  Reevel made a dissenting noise, his expression set firm. "If you think I will do your bidding, you are mistaken."

  Schafer handed the log book to one of his men. "You will. Your cooperation is desirable but not essential. It will ensure that no harm will come to any of the islanders, or yourself and the woman." He looked at Maura. "The one you call Widow Lucas. We intend to remain here for a few days, no more. If you do not contact Wrath Kyle in the morning, I will shoot three people."

  As Procurator Fiscal on the island, Reevel Anderson had to deal with few problems. He was regarded kindly by all the other folk and looked on as the ideal arbitrator whenever arguments broke out. Before the war, when Mullach Bay was filled with the noise of whalers, the smell and sweat of the try works, the invasive screech of the sea birds contended with a few drunks to claim the privilege of causing the biggest problem. He was, to all men, the oracle, the arbitrator, the man whose word was law. Only once before had Reevel's placid domain suffered an invidious period. It had been caused by the brutal and callous assault on young Ailie Macdonald. She had been attacked by an itinerant whale man and was unable to identif
y her assailant. The trauma of rape had left her dumb: she had never spoken since.

  Reevel believed he would never again know such appalling shock on the island. He knew now that, with growing abhorrence, it was happening again. He held the German's rock-steady gaze for some moments and knew it would happen. After that, what else? Who else? The islanders looked to him for manifestly sensible decisions in which careful reasoning played an essential part. If he were to rebuff this arrogant Nazi, others would suffer.

  "I am waiting for your decision," Schafer reminded him.

  Reevel did not like looking down the barrel of a Luger and nodded slowly. "I will do as you ask."

  Schafer was satisfied. "Good. At your usual time you wait by the radio. You will ignore all calls at first. Then you will raise Wrath Kyle and explain that you are having trouble with the radio. Something wrong with the aerial perhaps." Something else occurred to him. "Who carries out the repairs on the set?"

  "Marker Mace," Reevel replied. "He's an engineer. He is disabled. No war for him." There was an irony in that statement because it looked now as though Marker would come face to face with the enemy.

  "You will say that Herr Mace will work on it," Schafer told him. "One of my men will be standing beside you as you transmit. He speaks English fluently. If you are stupid enough to try anything that will alert the authorities to our presence here, you will be shot." He looked beyond Reevel's shoulder. "What is through there?"

  Reevel did not have to turn round to know what Schafer was talking about. "It is the council room. The island council hold their meetings there."

  "That will do admirably," Schafer said, nodding. Then he held his arm forward to usher Reevel and Maura through into the room. It was furnished splendidly, which surprised Schafer. In the centre of the room was a large, beautifully polished, oval table. Around it were twenty, high back mahogany chairs. The walls were furnished with cabinets containing all manner of silver and glassware. Fine china dinner sets graced one cabinet alone. Another housed exquisite examples of whalebone carving, looking like delicate ivory. There were beautifully bound books, and gilt-framed oil paintings. It was most impressive.

  "I must congratulate you, Herr Anderson," Schafer said. "You are obviously a man of taste and obvious wealth."

  "None of it is mine," Reevel replied. "I am merely custodian of the island's wealth. The house is mine but the contents belong to the people of North Cape Island."

  Schafer spent some time inspecting the works of art. At length he spoke to one of his men. "Kretschmer, go back to the beach and ask Lieutenant Brennecke to bring the men up."

  When the man had gone Schafer asked Reevel and Maura to sit at the table. Then he pulled something from his pocket and laid it on the table before them. It was a copy of an aerial photograph of North Cape Island. Reevel and Maura exchanged glances.

  Schafer sat down at the end of the table. "I want you both to write down the names of all the islanders. There are not many, I know that." He pointed to the copy on the table. "I want you to mark accurately on there the dwellings of these people. Please do not make any mistakes. I also want you to point out the schoolroom. When we have assembled everybody inside the school, my men will begin a search of every single building on this island. If you leave anyone off that list and we find them inside a building when we make the search, they will be shot."

  He said it in such a manner that it left no doubt in their minds he was ruthless enough to carry out the threat.

  They worked carefully for thirty minutes, each checking from time to time with the other. They completed a list of the islanders and identified the cottages and houses by numbers relating to the order on the list.

  Kretschmer returned with Lieutenant Brennecke as they were completing the list. Schafer instructed Brennecke to guard them. He briefed them on his orders to Reevel with regard to the radio transmission. Before he left the room he stopped at the door and spoke to Reevel.

  "Do you speak Gaelic?" he asked.

  Reevel looked at him curiously. "I do."

  Schafer smiled. "Then please remember that if you use that language when transmitting, or any other that Lieutenant Brennecke does not understand, you will be signing your own death warrant." He bowed, dipping his head in that short, Aryan manner, and left them sitting stunned and quite afraid.

  *

  On the mainland young Billy Lucas turned and waved a farewell to the lorry driver who had just dropped him on the road leading to the village of Wrath Kyle. It was a small fishing community that clung doggedly to the inhospitable coast round Cape Wrath. From his position above the harbour he could see out over the grey waters of the North Atlantic. He hoped to catch a glimpse of North Cape Island but he was to be denied; the scudding cloud and dull sea washed out the horizon, and the sight of his home was lost to view. He crossed his fingers and allowed himself a small wish, hoping he could make it there before nightfall. Then he hoisted his kitbag on to his shoulder and set off down the hill towards the tiny harbour.

  The road down which Billy was walking gave him a picture postcard view of Wrath Kyle, with its small port and the boats anchored alongside the quay and bobbing up and down in the water alongside small buoys. He could see the smoke houses where the herrings were turned into succulent kippers, and the small cottages that lined up alongside the harbour. Billy followed the road as it curved gradually towards the stone quay. He could see some of the larger fishing smacks were tied up. Billy knew some would be out fishing. Had it not been for the war, the harbour would have been empty. He walked along the quay to an old, stone building that he figured would be occupied. If boats were at sea, this small harbour office would be second home to old Kyle Luke, octogenarian and purveyor of countless stories to whoever was willing to listen. Billy had once counted himself among Kyle's most voracious listeners, recalling some of the most ambitious stories the old man had been happy to tell.

  He reached the old building and pushed the door open to a world that was as familiar to him as his cottage on North Cape Island. The warmth from the pot-bellied stove that burned through winter and summer alike rushed out to greet him and draw him in. The smell of Kyle's pipe was as pungent as ever.

  The old man glanced up from a book he was reading. An old flat sailor's cap sat on his head. He moved his head back slightly and took his pipe from his mouth. There was recognition there but with an awakening disbelief. He rose slowly from the old leather chair, its cushions permanently pressed into a shape that had never changed despite the years.

  "It's young Billy Lucas," he said. "My God if it isn't young Billy himself."

  He stood quite still, his eyes trying to take in the enormous figure that stood before him. "You must be seven feet tall lad."

  Billy laughed. "Nearer six than seven, Mr. Luke." He dropped his kitbag to the ground, his hand like a great maw round the neck of the canvas. "How are you?"

  "Young Billy Lucas," the old man repeated. "I don't believe it. Come in, come in."

  Billy closed the door behind him. Kyle took him by the arm and looked him up and down. "I haven't seen you for a twelve month lad. You were growing fast then but in heaven's name ..."

  Billy grinned self-consciously and shook the old man’s hand. "Do you have some of that tea you were always making?" he asked.

  Kyle made tea, each movement punctuated by a look at Billy and a shake of the head. Billy took the time to look round the room. The walls were exactly as he remembered them: stained brown from years of tobacco smoke. There were old news-clippings and photographs pinned to the walls where they’d always been; yellowing with age. The tide tables were prominently displayed, as were sea charts, names and telephone numbers of the volunteer lifeboat crews. He smiled as he caught sight of old, curling posters. On those walls there was a mine of information of use to no-one but the fishermen of Wrath Kyle. Beneath the window that faced out on to the Atlantic was a pair of binoculars, beside them a telescope on a brass tripod. Billy stooped towards the telescope and brought his e
ye to the eyepiece.

  "You'll no see North Cape awhile young Billy," the old man warned him. "Perhaps in an hour or so maybe. The glass is rising. It looks set to be a fine day." He poured Billy's tea and handed him the mug. "What are you doing home, leave is it?”.

  Billy nodded. "Aye, a few days, no more."

  "I didna’ think you were allowed leave," he said, frowning.

  "Aye, we’re not. But I’ve been given forty eight hours, no more."

  "Does your mam ken?" There was a conspiratorial twinkle in his eyes.

  Billy smiled. "No." He is eyes brightened as he looked at Kyle over the top of his mug.

  The old man sat down. The cushions barely moved. "What ship you on Billy?"

  Billy sipped his tea keeping his eye on Kyle over the lip of the mug. He said nothing. The old man took his pipe from his mouth and waved the smoke aside.

  "I understand. You are not at liberty to say." He changed tack. "What about a girl, do you have a lass yet, Billy?"

  For all his maturity, Billy was a little embarrassed by the old man's question. He looked down into the mug. "Not yet, sir." He couldn't say that his kind of war gave him little time or choice, particularly with little or no shore leave. The Atlantic convoy duty offered the Royal Navy little respite.

  Kyle waved his pipe at him. "You're sweet on that young lassie though: Callum's girl. Am I right?"

  Billy cocked an eyebrow. "Ailie?" He nodded. "Aye, I am too."

  Kyle was satisfied. "Thanks be for that." He laughed and jammed the pipe back into his mouth and crossed one leg over the other.

  Billy recalled that as a sign that old Kyle was about to reminisce. "Could you call up Reevel Anderson?" he asked quickly. "He'll send a boat I'm thinking."

  Kyle uncrossed his legs and swivelled in the chair. He reached for the headset. The radio was never switched off which meant he could transmit instantly. He tried to call several times and eventually looked over his shoulder towards Billy. "I don't think I can raise them." He began calling the island again. Each time he released the transmit key there was nothing but static coming out of the speaker.