Second Sight Page 13

  “We quite understand. He did it for the best.”

  “He should never have left Mr. Smith alone. His duty was to stay by him—or take him with him—but never to leave him alone.”

  “That’s all right, Maclean. Don’t worry about that. Angus found himself in a new position where he had to make a decision. It’s a moment that comes to us all.”

  “Oh well, perhaps it is as you say, Sir John,” he answered politely, but clearly not believing it. Then he went on to tell them of the arrangements he had made, and presently they stood before the plan of the forest in the gun-room.

  Maclean had thought out all the probabilities, but Harry also found himself listening to the Gaelic voice in its pronunciation of the corries and sgurrs and burns and slopes and passes; the liquid l, the aspirated guttural—that utterly un-English sound far back in an open throat—the broad, the narrow, the gliding vowels, the lazy hang-on to diphthongs as the voice rises against a hard consonant,—and falls over, like water over a boulder. Now and then it went harsh and croaked like a raven.

  “I could go with Alick’s party,” Harry said.

  Maclean looked at Sir John. “I am sorry, sir, but Alick has not turned up yet. He came over and told me about Angus last night. Then it appears he went back to the loft and saw Angus to sleep. When Angus awoke he was not there.” Maclean’s brows furrowed. He was being sorely tried by his staff. Harry could see a deep, suppressed annoyance.

  “Did he go home?” Sir John asked.

  “No,” said Maclean. “I have made sure of that. However, we can do without him. Indeed I am beginning to think perhaps we could do without him permanently.”

  “Perhaps we need not go so far as that,” said Sir John with his smileless humour.

  “It’s as you say, Sir John. But—I don’t know.”

  Three parties were formed, and Maclean explained their respective routes, their rate of progress, and how they would try to get in touch when Mr. Smith had been found. A thermos flask was missing, but Angus contrived, through Mairi, that the others should not hear of this.

  Maclean’s party, including Sir John, took the Home Beat, with its direct low-ground approaches to the Lodge. Andrew, with George and three others, set out leftward for the Benuain Beat. Angus, with Harry and Donald, took the righthand stretch of the forest, bounded by the Corr.

  It was seven o’clock before they got properly under way, for Maclean was obviously in no hurry. “We don’t want to miss him,” he said, “if he’s walking home by himself.” The mist was now all white again, but there was no suggestion of wind. It hung about them, dank and heavy.

  “Do you think it will lift?” Harry asked Angus.

  “I don’t know,” said Angus, “but I think it will.”

  Harry could see how keen he was, how internally alive. And he had learned his lesson, for he saw that Harry did not wander far from his side! His voice became confidential, too, and he explained to them how they must cry or whistle to each other to keep in touch at all costs. Harry responded with such understanding that he eased Angus’s responsibility.

  Once the early morning malaise had passed and his body had warmed up, Harry found their expedition full of the weirdest elements, of bodies disappearing and suddenly re-appearing like tall tree trunks, of voices answering out of the mist, smothered and ghostly, of a sudden hill-bird’s cry, high-pitched and anxious, falling away and drowning. Now and then the three of them would stand together and Angus, with fingers in mouth, would let out a prolonged whistle. As they held their breaths, the silence was the silence of death, of an utter nothingness, and once Harry felt it as the primeval silence before life was.

  Progress was slow, for Angus had detours to make to likely spots and shelters, and every burn or watercourse received faithful attention. As time went on, his energy increased, and Harry, trying to keep up with him, often found his brow prickling with sweat and his breath laboured. Once as he pitched over a tussock and his shoulder took the soft moor, he lay for a moment and laughed at himself, a slaver of saliva dribbling over his lower lip. Out of the mist Angus came and picked him up anxiously. Harry, the laugh still on his face, gave him the sort of look Alick had given him yesterday when at last they had come within range of the stag.

  For there was a companionship in all this, something fine and good and full of a friendly humour. The mind was purged and freed. Even tragedy could be felt only as a passing out into freedom. What more could a man expect? We don’t live for ever.

  “All right, Angus,” said Harry. “We’re doing fine.”

  Angus responded with a quick glance, before his eyes moved off and a confused smile came over his own face. So that he became more alive than ever—and more anxious.

  “I’ll tell you what,” he said, with the natural eagerness he might have directed at Alick. “It’s now after ten o’clock. If it’s going to lift to-day it should soon be showing signs. Away up on our left here is the shoulder leading to Benbeg. Now, what I think is that we should take the slope in front of us at an upward slant. But you, Donald, could go straight ahead until you come to the Hags. From there you will follow the old watercourse, with the hollowed peat-banks—you know?—until you come, right up on the far shoulder, to the well. You’ll stop there at Toberuain, whatever happens, until we reach you.”

  As Harry went on with him, he explained that he would like to make sure whether the mist was going to lift or not, and, besides, a man under the impression that he was going the right way was as likely to climb as not. He did not speak again until he stood on the crest of the shoulder, then he turned his damp freckled face with its loose generous mouth on Harry and smiled. “It’s brighter here.”

  It was undoubtedly brighter. One could see farther. The mist was thinner. Beyond this world of spectral gloom, the sun still shone!

  “This way,” and Angus was off.

  The shoulder dipped before it rose again into the fairly steep final slope of Benbeg. Harry could have done with a rest on that shoulder, but he never thought of stopping the anxious tireless figure in front, now climbing as if hot on a trail. Presently he lost sight of him, but the mist was thinning, growing irradiated, warm, and then a voice cried from above:

  “The sun!”

  Harry emerged into pure sunlight, under a blue tall sky, on the wide rounded table-top of Benbeg.

  There was a shout of delight in him, but wonder held it in check, for the scene was of unusual beauty. The cone of Benuain was islanded clear before them to the north-west, and mountain-tops and long skerries floated on that white sea far as the eye could travel. A feeling of the marvel of first Creation came upon Harry in an atmosphere, not productive or hectic, but timeless and still. A Creation not being created, but invisibly creating itself from within. Eternity hung over that white sea, hung over all the world, let it dissolve or move as it may in temporary form and formlessness.

  And Harry knew what was under the sea; valleys, roads, transport and houses; Helen looking into the mist, and Marjory with her new ethereal expression looking and wondering, like life in some underground aquarium, their faces against the dim glass.

  “It looks well,” said Angus.

  It was the first time he had ever known a gillie or stalker express appreciation of his surroundings. It was not their business of course! And Angus’s voice was practical enough, adding:

  “It will lift soon.”

  It would lift beyond doubt. It would lift!

  “If you feel tired, we could rest for a bit here by the cairn,” said Angus. “There’s no great hurry now.”

  There was no hurry at all. Harry stretched out his legs, lay full on his back, and stared up at the blue sky. “People look at natural scenery,” he said musingly, “but they forget to look at the sky. Do you ever look at the sky?”

  “Oh yes,” said Angus, taking out his telescope. “One has to, often, for the weather.” Then fixing his telescope against his stick, he began to study Benuain.

  Nothing could be more perfe
ct than such a moment, more divine. Harry did not listen to anything any more. The sun warmed him, dried the sweat in his hair. His wet feet were in a glow. He could hardly remember having looked at the sky himself before—not certainly since he was a boy…perhaps on some drowsy common, with the scent of broom in the air. He was suddenly that small boy and an obscure instinct made him want to move his head and say “Ah-h-h” under his breath.

  The “ah-h-h” of wonder, of drowsiness, of being impersonally alive; wariness forgotten, the everyday self gone, and the happier, simpler self come up to take the air.

  All life had been a training to get him away from that diviner self. Exactly why? Something touched him stealthily. “Hsh!” said Angus, in the softest whisper. “Don’t move. Just turn your head slowly.”

  Harry turned his head slowly and saw a remarkable sight. The leading stag, a magnificent beast, had come clear of the mist and stood with head thrown up, staring directly at him, full in the sunlight. Harry remembered him as some legendary beast out of a dream, for he had only vaguely seen him before in a half-light. Three other stags stood on the edge of the mist, wholly visible, while between those beasts and behind—or below—them, heads, grey-dark as old bog oak, stared unmoving. As Harry’s eyes roved they caught ever more heads, shadowy ghost heads, until he got the impression of a vast herd.

  “King Brude,” whispered Angus. “Don’t move.”

  No legendary beast could have chosen a more suitable moment for his advent! Some wild humour in this touched Harry to a thrilled solemnity. He counted the tines—twelve. He had seen many famous royals on the walls of shooting lodges, but never one like this, carrying in the sweep of its antlers so pure an inspiration.

  No wonder Geoffrey had been led astray!

  And the heads never moved. They stared as if they had been transfixed by a weird charm. The complete absence of movement became uncanny. Harry began to stare himself and his muscles to cramp unnaturally. His mouth grew dry, his throat uncomfortable. He was hardly breathing through an open mouth.

  “Don’t move.”

  From far away came the faint sound of a whistle. King Brude turned his head and sniffed the air, but in a second was looking at them again. He turned his head towards his other shoulder, and looked back once more. Then, his antlers riding high, he bore away into the mist and in a moment all were gone, as they had come, noiselessly.

  “A great beast, isn’t he?” said Angus.

  “I’ll never forget that sight”, said Harry, “until I die.”

  Angus looked pleased. “They have been disturbed”, he explained, “by the whistling and cries. In some forests, they tell me, gillies are sent out round the boundaries to drive the deer into the stalkers. We don’t do that in this part of the country.”

  “Thank God”, said Harry, “for this part of the country.”

  “That was Maclean whistling. They are away off down there in the mist.”

  “Are they?” said Harry, hardly listening, staring out over this strange world.

  Angus indicated a shoulder of a hill coming into view and called attention to the distinct “air of wind”. “It will clear quickly now, except for the lowest places.” His voice sounded eager, but with that undernote of concern which made him wrinkle his eyebrows. “Perhaps we should be going,” he said hesitantly.

  Harry looked at him. “You’re not sure?”

  “If it lifted quickly, we could spy all round us with the glass. But perhaps we should be going on?”

  “In that case, we’ll wait for a little.”

  “Do you think we should, sir?” He was full of indecision and eagerness. Harry could see the excitement in his hands.

  “Yes,” said Harry.

  “All right, sir,” said Angus. But with the mist obviously beginning to lift, he could not rest. “I’ll go along and give a shout to Donald at the well.”

  “Do,” said Harry.

  Angus started off but after going twenty yards came back. “Ach, it doesn’t matter,” he said. “Donald can wait.”

  “You’re not going to leave me,” said Harry.

  Angus smiled and flushed.

  “Sit down,” said Harry, “and let us watch the world being born.”

  He was in the mood for a spectacle of the kind. If Geoffrey was dead, he was dead. Nothing more could be done about it now. Nothing more could be done about anything. God sat on his creative hill-top, and inside his immutable laws things happened thus and thus—as they happened to gnats before the eyes, pursuing and pursued, round the tiny heather trumpets blowing their purple colour, blowing their honey fragrance, round the green stalks, the dark stalks, to the roots, where the damp rotting moss and mire made a soft swarming breeding bed. The eyes watched the gnats with understanding, with gentleness, with detachment—with no need or desire to interfere.

  A movement came upon the face of the mist. The top fins, the long black ridges, of the backs of primeval beasts cut the upper surface of the white sea. The rock of Benuain grew taller. And rocks far away. And rocks close at hand, down which the mist-cataracts poured into seething cauldrons. The white tide ebbed from the distant reefs. The valleys were being born. The glens. The corries. The passes.

  Known places—born out of memory—out of.… A surge of feeling came over Harry drowning something he could not grasp, could not know, and leaving him quivering like an instrument struck by a beauty that was triumphant and somehow poignant, too.…

  Angus, with his glass, let out a low, Gaelic exclamation.

  Harry turned on his right side and looked at him. Angus brought his eye from the glass and, in a gulp, said, “They’re coming.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Smith and Alick.” He was trembling. “Look!”

  It took a little time before the two figures walked into the round eye of the telescope. But there they were, unmistakably, and, oh sweet heaven, how characteristically! Geoffrey in front, limping steadily on, staff in hand, doggedly, and Alick a good six yards behind. There was no intercourse between those two figures! Harry could feel Geoffrey’s mood.

  He brought his eye from the glass, his whole face shining.

  “Yes, there they are!” He began to laugh.

  Angus laughed, too, and jumped to his feet and waved his cap and shouted. It was a spontaneous action, and he covered it by saying, “You never know: some of them may have a glass on us.” Then he controlled himself and, putting four fingers in his mouth, let loose three piercing whistles, in quick succession. Whereupon he got hold of his telescope again and directed it at the two figures.

  “Will you move about and wave a hand?” he said to Harry.

  Harry did this, shouting and jumping and moving his hands. His teeth were clicking. He had not realised how cold he had got. “Hurrah!” he shouted. “Good old Alick! Stick it, Geoff!” I’ll soon get warm at this rate! he thought, and laughed all over again. Then he saw Angus, while still contriving to look through the telescope, make a formal salute of recognition.

  “They’ve seen us,” he said. “It’s all right.” A treble whistle reached them, like a far echo of their own. “That’s Maclean, away under the shoulder of the Druim.”

  “What about the other party?” Harry asked him.

  Angus took a thoughtful moment.

  “I think,” he said, “that I better cut across and—get in touch with them.”

  Now that Mr. Smith had been discovered, Angus had no desire to be in at the rejoicings! His look was so innocent, that Harry could not help smiling. “All right,” he said, “You don’t mind my smiling, do you?”

  Angus’s brows wrinkled. “Someone must stop them.”

  “Of course,” said Harry. “I was only pulling your leg.”

  “We can go down towards the well and pick up Donald, if you like,” said Angus in the same tone. “It’s——” Donald came up over the crest and joined them, saying, “I heard you.”

  Angus told him the good news.

  When they reached the path, down in the
base of the glen, they paused. They could see Geoffrey and Alick coming slowly on about three-quarters of a mile back. Angus said, “I think I better whistle again.” This time response from the Maclean party sounded much nearer. Angus continued to listen. There was no third response. Harry saw that he was waiting for orders and discussed the matter solemnly with him. “Very good, sir,” said Angus, and started off to find George’s party.

  Harry looked after him. The relationship between gillie and gentleman had been restored! A likeable fellow, careless probably in the smaller things of life, generous, and touchy, too! With great drive and strength, for so lean a body.

  “We’d better go to meet them,” he said to Donald.

  Harry became a trifle self-conscious as he drew near Geoffrey, for he was not at all certain of his humour. He hailed him from a little distance, but beyond pausing for a moment, Geoffrey did not respond.

  “Congratulations!” he said, and shook Geoffrey’s hand with a genuine warmth.

  Geoffrey smiled and said, “Thanks,” drily. Pardonably enough, he was not in a hilarious mood. His face was grey and puffy-looking, his brows drawn.