by Neil M. Gunn
“You go,” murmured Geoffrey. “Then I could catch you if you fall.”
Angus’s vague smile may have been an acknowledgement of the joke. “It’s much steeper than it looks,” was all he said. He began to climb.
Geoffrey saw the feet feeling for holds, the fingers gripping. A little to the right. A step or two up. A little to the left. Was it higher than he had thought? More difficult? He got a crick in his neck and swayed as he lowered his head—and looked below him. The ground sloped very steeply indeed. If Angus dislodged a lump of rock, it would not simply roll down; it would leap and bound and bury itself far below. If his body fell from the rock face, it would get a flying start!
And Angus was having a slight difficulty quite near the top. The rifle, slung to his back, was tending to get in his way. But there he was—up—and over. Good!
Angus faced down. “Don’t try it!” he said, in low earnest tones.
Geoffrey was apparently amused. He caught his staff by its bone ferrule and threw it wildly over Angus’s head, half losing his balance as he did so and grabbing at the earth. The idea that he could not do what Alick had done! That he would have to admit defeat before Angus! He kept himself amused and tackled the rock.
For there was no need to get excited about a thing like this, and certainly absurd to let fear touch the flesh.
Quite absurd. But it was annoying not to be able always to get a proper grip with the hands. It was impossible to look down and study the next hold for the feet. The sheer pressure on the fingers was at times very great. And that damned knee of his—he hardly dared risk giving it the body’s full weight in a straining upward step. Thank God, here at last was a reasonable ledge. When he got both feet lodged on it and one hand with a secure grip, he lay against the rock. But instead of gaining relief, he had the flushing sensation within him of an insidious sickness. He could feel his flesh going weak, dissolving. And in the core of that weakness, panic stirred.
His teeth gritted, he whipped up his will, he looked up, saw that there was barely his own height yet to accomplish, but saw also that the rock appeared to bulge outward. He whipped up his anger to whip his will. His will might last for a couple of minutes.
He heard Angus’s voice, low and intense, stinging him on. Here was the bulge of rock. He could not do it. His left foot scraped against the rock, scrambled wildly for a hold. He was going! God Almighty, he was done! The rushing impact of the spaces below began to assail his senses.…
His foot was gripped.
“Go on, damn it, go on!”
His foot was being heaved upward. His right hand gripped round a small boss of rock. His belly was on the verge. His feet kicked free. Digging his fingers in, he drew himself over the ledge, lay on his face, and let the breath sob in his throat.
From the ledge to which he had climbed down, Angus looked up at the vacant rock, then let his forehead fall against the cold surface. He was feeling a trifle sick himself and very weak. A late night and too much drink didn’t help a temperate fellow! He swore softly to himself. The danger he stood in was a gentle solace. There was no need to hurry.
Geoffrey’s voice wakened him. He looked up and saw the face and knew, deep in his bowels, that he hated it. His body felt light as he heaved upward. Geoffrey stretched out a hand.
“It’s all right,” said Angus, surmounting the verge in his own fashion without help.
“It’s steeper than I thought,” said Geoffrey.
“It’s a bit steep,” said Angus.
Geoffrey was constrained in his mind and sick in his body. His eyes were intolerant. He had conquered the rock. He kept his chin up, his mouth shut. He was going to conquer King Brude. He held himself together, his breath noisy in his nostrils. For a stalker to help his gentleman over difficulties was part of his job. That’s what he was paid for. The gentleman took it for granted. The stalker had the reward of duty well done. And perhaps the real gentleman did not altogether forget it when it came to giving a tip.
Angus sat waiting for Geoffrey. And after a minute or two, Geoffrey turned for the crest.
It was an easy climb, a walk in fact, until the crest was at hand. Then Angus, selecting his spot, crawled up to it, Geoffrey at his heels and the rifle ready. Angus motioned Geoffrey up beside him.
King Brude had got up and was eating towards the boulders on the other side which they had so recently left.
The distance was still no more than about a hundred and fifty yards, but the shot was difficult because the stag was facing directly away from them.
Angus began to whisper: “Get ready. I’ll draw the attention of the toady, if I can. King Brude will then swing round and look this way. Don’t waste time. The only chance before he gets out of range.”
Geoffrey had no sooner got the rifle trained on King Brude, than that guardian of the great, the toady, whose body was three-quarters on, raised his head and looked directly at him. King Brude paid no attention. The toady made a warning movement. King Brude lifted his head over his shoulder; turned slightly to get a better look.
“Now!” breathed Angus.
Geoffrey fired. There was the splash of the bullet in a pool of shallow water beyond. It had gone just over the shoulder.
“Missed!” said Angus.
King Brude took a prancing stride or two. He was still uncertain, and paused an instant, the great head questing them. The rifle cracked.
Then King Brude leapt into action, and went flashing up the corrie after the bounding toady.
“Quick!” cried Angus. “Quick! For God’s sake, fire!”
Geoffrey, on his feet, fired twice, but the shots were wild.
“Give me that!” Angus snatched the rifle from his hands. “Your second got him in the guts.” And, turning from Geoffrey, he began running after the deer.
Geoffrey shouted at him, followed for a few lumbering steps, maddened, then sat down, his teeth showing as the lips drew back.
But he was exhausted. And, anyway, it was the stalker’s duty to follow up and secure a wounded beast. Whatever happened he, Geoffrey, had shot King Brude! The stag would die. Death might be delayed, but death was certain. The bullet, a little too far back, had merely missed an immediately vital part. Geoffrey experienced a slow-spreading satisfaction, for until Angus had spoken he thought he had missed altogether. He watched his stalker until he had disappeared, then lay back for a little rest.
As it happened, Geoffrey’s instinct to trust Angus now was not misplaced. For Angus would follow King Brude, day and night, until one or other of them gave in. And the mood defeated tiredness in his body.
It was a long hunt, for more than once the watchful young stag defeated Angus. King Brude was sick and wanted no more than a quiet place in which to rest.
They crossed the march into Glenan Forest as the late afternoon light threw long shadows. Angus watched them through his glass. If they kept going straight ahead across the moorland, darkness would defeat him that night. But King Brude’s growing sickness was clearly too much for the long expanse and he turned towards broken rising ground on the right that lay north-east of the upper reaches of the Corr. Angus deflected his course to come up wind against this territory of which he knew little beyond its general lie or formation. He had no thought of trespass, for the tradition between neighbouring forests permitted the following of a badly wounded deer across a march.
But again, after a careful stalk, the young stag, moving about restlessly, saw him, for he trotted about with consternation, and Angus, acting on instinct (King Brude was invisible), made a movement with arm and head that in an instant turned consternation into panic. Wheeling on his hind legs, he bolted away at full gallop.
Angus lay dead still for a minute, then went forward on his stomach.
King Brude was lying, his back to the rising slope from which his toady had so ignominiously fled, facing down to open country, instinctively trusting the wind behind and his eyes in front. Angus could not get any nearer. The distance was about two hundred
yards.
Angus fired and hit him, but not fatally. King Brude staggered to his feet, but not to fly.
Angus advanced, the rifle against his shoulder. The light was not too good. When he fired again, he must kill. For he knew now that the hunt was over. King Brude had turned, as he would turn against hounds, against all mortal enemies: King Brude was at bay.
Noble he looked, too; the great head up; the eyes, against the westering light, full of fire. A superb beast, the power streaming forward from the lean flanks. Angus saw him gathering his power into neck and shoulders, as if to meet death in a last wild charge, the head sinking and rising with a slow terrible beauty.
Angus could not fire at that head. He dared not mar its beauty as a trophy. He must shoot him in the neck. His body felt weak and light and tremulous as grass.
At ten yards they faced each other. King Brude’s flanks moved. As he staggered, Angus fired at the neck. King Brude sank to the ground. Angus dropped the rifle and, opening his knife, ran in.
But King Brude was not yet dead, and Angus was very nearly caught in the wild heave of the antlers. The third or tray tine of the right antler grazed his forehead, drawing blood. Death had never been nearer him. King Brude’s spasms were now extremely violent and Angus who, in his own madness, had grasped at the antlers, was thrown about like a bunch of grass. He lost his knife. A sobbing violence came into his throat. There was a wild mad exhilaration in the short battle, before the great head lay sideways and yawed in vomit. Angus retrieved his knife and stuck it to the hilt in the base of the neck above the breast bone. The head jerked and fell for the last time. The blood gushed forth.
Angus sat beside the dead stag, drooping forward, gasping heavily. His right hand came up and wiped blood from his eyes. He had been in at the death of many great stags. He had “blooded” more than one excited gentleman after his first kill. Normally an occasion when the stalker smiles quietly and, after listening to excited speech, offers a word or two of congratulation or praise of the antlers.
Angus’s head drooped lower. He was very tired. His shoulders began to jerk. He lay over on his face. His fingers dug into the heath. He muttered into the earth, “Ah, Christ!” and wept.
After a time his body grew quite still and lay as if it had fallen asleep. Then he stirred and sat up. His face was disfigured with blood and tears. His manner was now very quiet. He arose and picked up the rifle and, instead of gralloching the stag, climbed back to the high ground whence he had first fired and stared across at Benuain.
The shadows of the hills were towards him. He could see no one. A stretch of horizon in the west was all vivid greenish blue light, against which the farthest ridges were black and clear cut. Gateway and pathway to another world. He should put up a smoke. Instead he put two bullets in the rifle and fired one. The echo exploded in Benuain with the noise of a distant peal of thunder. He listened and thought he heard a cry. He laid the rifle across his knees and sat staring before him, his face growing expressionless, the eyes like hazed blue glass.
Chapter Eleven
“There is no need for anxiety,” said Sir John. “If anything had happened during the day, one or other of them would have returned for help long before this.”
“Well, I must confess I think it is rather inconsiderate of Geoffrey,” said Lady Marway, “for he is bound to know that we must be anxious about him.”
The others said nothing. It had been decided a few minutes before not to postpone dinner, and when the bell went, they all got up at once. George was full of ideas at table about the possible nature of Geoffrey’s great kill and suggested they should go out to meet him and bring him home in triumph. He himself would go to the spot where he had dropped Geoffrey in the morning and, turning the headlights over the forest, switch them on and off. “Tic-tac, you know. Geoffrey could reply by lighting matches. How far could you see a match?” This was debated, until Harry suggested they could make an S.O.S. flare with a bunch of old heather. “Of course!” cried George. The other car could take the Corr route. Voices grew animated and broke now and then into laughter. This would be a small adventure, and immediately after dinner there was an exodus to the garage, Lady Marway staying behind.
Harry announced that he would tackle the Home Beat on foot, and, catching Helen by the arm, departed there and then, before discussion could stop them.
The sky was clear and the stars brilliant, and soon the eyes got used to the dark. The dying moon would not rise for some time.
“It is more difficult”, said Harry, “to get talking to a person alone here than it is in London! I did want to get hold of you after we came back from Screesval.”
“So did I,” said Helen. “I kept thinking about it—I mean about the Dean and Colonel Brown.”
“Did you?” said Harry. “I actually looked at my watch at two in the morning and wondered if you were asleep.”
“Why?”
“If I had been sure you weren’t asleep, I might have called on you. Or, alternatively, I thought I might have got up and crept downstairs and outside and round to your window and thrown up something. Would you have come down?”
“I was awake,” said Helen.
Harry stopped. “Helen, would you have come?”
“Let us go on,” said Helen, moving off.
Friendliness was about them and a delicious small excitement.
“Tell me”, she said, “why you were disturbed after Screesval.”
He walked for a little way in silence. “I got an extraordinary feeling there about Geoffrey. Once, when I looked at him, I saw his face. I saw it coldly, in a queer sort of inhuman way. My mind was cold, I mean. Geoffrey’s face was isolated. Just for a moment or so. I didn’t like it.”
“What did you see in it?”
“I have wondered. I have thought since that you could take three men, a doctor, an artist, and an ordinary man, and each would see something quite different in a face. Remember I was under a certain influence, which the talk of Colonel Brown and the Dean had strengthened. I mean, second sight. You know the common expression: I saw death in his face. Usually that happens when the face has some signs—gone grey or blue or pinched. Geoffrey’s face was anything but pinched! I think I must have had a dream or nightmare I have forgotten. I can see Geoffrey’s face rigid in death at any moment.”
“Harry, how horrible!”
“I know. It shows you what the mind will do once you give it rein. I put no trust in it at all. Only, it left me uncomfortable. Then on the way home, I stopped the car to go up to Corr Inn. It was pure impulse—or pure curiosity. I felt I wanted to see these fellows by themselves, off guard. Remember in the wood when Angus asked Alick to go to the inn that night? I knew they would be there. They were.”
“What were they doing?”
“Nothing much. Just drinking and yarning and laughing. But as I groped my way up, I heard that playing more clearly. It was one of them on the hill-side above the inn, playing to himself in the night above the mist. It had an effect on me. It is the first time that bagpipes ever did have any sort of effect on me, beyond being a loud and unpleasant noise. I thought to myself: what can you make of a fellow who goes up the hill-side and plays like that? Why is he doing it? And oh lord I knew that he was moved, that what he was playing did not come out of his brain but out of his blood. And yet I do happen to know, from reading, that the affair is not a haphazard impromptu business, but a very rigid art, and to become accomplished at it takes a very long time. What do you make of it?”
“When I was eleven I was taken to my first Highland Games. I was then at school and the Morrisons took me. Major Morrison was Chief of the Games. Dad and Mum were in India, of course. I’ll never forget the impression I got of the pipe band as the pipers came marching towards us. They seemed tall and splendid and came marching over the world, tall and proud and marching to that awful music, growing taller as they drew nearer and more terrible in their power. It wasn’t that I was terrified that they would march us down with
out seeing us. I don’t know what it was. But I remember I had to keep my lips tight shut in case I should disgrace myself by crying out. What remains is that impression of tallness and pride, of figures advancing, growing, in that irresistible march.”
“Yes. I know it’s potent stuff to march to. But this crying of the pipes on the hill-side in the dark, not in marches or in lively dance rhythms or anything like that, but like a curlew, or heaven knows what, in pain! Oh I don’t know. It made me feel uneasy. It hurt me in some way—though why or how, I haven’t the foggiest notion. There was no one about. I didn’t want to go in, though if I saw anyone I had some sort of excuse, for I did owe the landlord for a drink. Then I came to a small side window and looked in.
“There must have been a score of men there. Where they came from, Heaven knows. I suppose if the inn had had resident guests, they had departed. Their attitudes were confidential, full of free gestures, and a thick rich mirth. Five or six of them were listening to one oldish man, with a heavy reddish moustache and greying hair. Obviously a character of some sort. Suddenly they rocked back with laughter. There was a heated argument in another corner. These were the people we think of as silent and grave! Young Donald was there with a whole pint of beer, the dark smile on his face, still shy a bit, like a man that has not unfolded. The room was crawling with warm life. I began to get the feeling of being a spy on what was hidden and unauthorised. As it was, I felt uncomfortable. Yet it fascinated me beyond anything I can say. A feeling of life gathered into this room, hidden away. When I think about it now, look at it in my mind, it seems to have something symbolic about it. Oh, I can’t explain. And all the time my eye would go back to Alick. And all the time that pipe music would whirl about my ears, with its notes drawn out, drawn out, and high and tragic. And I knew these notes were getting into the room, too. You could tell it by the jerk of a head, the glitter of an eye. And you had the feeling that even part of a note was enough for these fellows. Angus forced a violin into Alick’s hands. And he started playing.”
