by Russell Kirk
“This week, Duncan? Next month, at the soonest.”
MacAskival’s thick eyebrows lowered. “Hugh Logan, I’ve given you a boost for your firm, now and then. I’m not a man who enjoys being crossed – you know that. Now this business is something that matters to me. Who knows how much longer the old lady will live? I don’t intend to miss this chance, after three years of trying. If you think anything of me, you’ll fly to Prestwick tomorrow; and it will do you good, Hugh: an easy bit of work in a charming quiet place. We can’t delay. Notice the date of that letter. It’s been stuck somewhere en route; and it came by ordinary surface mail, which took a week or more. I don’t want the old lady to change her mind. In my cables, I asked to have Lady MacAskival’s yacht – I suppose she must own something of the sort – put into Glasgow or Greenock for you. You’ve a room reserved at Todd’s Hotel, Glasgow, and Lady MacAskival’s people should get in touch with you there. Will you go, or do I have to send some fool? I want to use your innocence-mask, Hugh.”
“Needs must when the devil drives,” Logan said in his easy way. “Give me those plane tickets. I usually humor madmen. Besides, I mean to find out what that beehive building is.”
“Then it’s my Carnglass.” Duncan MacAskival slapped his hand against the desk. “Here” – he fetched out a manila envelope – “here’s my correspondence with the old lady’s people. And here’s some estimate of what the island ought to cost, kit and kaboodle, that I got from solicitors in London and Glasgow. And this, too – this will interest you, Hugh.”
It was a slim old pamphlet, the covers nearly ripped away. “It’s rare, Hugh. Thin’s of Edinburgh found a copy for me. Take it along to read on your plane.” MacAskival opened to the title page: “A Summary History of the Islands of Carnglass and Daldour, in the Western Isles of Scotland; with some Account of the Traditionary Tales of those Parts. By the Reverend Samuel Balmullo, sometime minister of the Parish of Carnglass and Daldour. 1818.” MacAskival was something of a bookcollector. “I know you’re wanting dinner, Hugh,” MacAskival said, “and I’ll take you to the club in a minute or two, but let me read you a bit of this:
“‘Among the surviving peasantry of Dalcruach village, on the eastern strand of Carnglass, superstition exerts an influence as powerful as it is debasing. In this clachan are said to reside four or five Sgeulaiche, or narrators of traditionary tales of an extravagant character, many of which antedate the arrival of Christian evangels from Ireland in the sixth century. These relations often reflect, and endeavor to excuse, the lingering of heathen and impious practices among this ignorant folk. They speak, for example, of a “Third Eye,” said to appear afresh, from generation to generation, among the inhabitants of Carnglass, whether native-born or newcomers; and such a spot upon the forehead is said to confer amatory powers, and is regarded by these children of the twilight with a respect not far removed from veneration. To labor among parishioners possessed by such delusions is weary work; it has been said that to preach the Gospels among the Pequots or Narragansetts is a facile undertaking by the side of any endeavor to redeem from heathen error these denizens of the furthermost Hebrides.’”
MacAskival turned the page. “The Reverend Samuel Balmullo – he was from the Lowlands, Hugh – tends to be longwinded, but rewarding. Balmullo seems to have been a sour old fellow. He was interested in the MacAskivals, though – give me a moment more.” Duncan MacAskival leafed through the pamphlet.
“‘Indubitably,’” he read, “‘a family of the first antiquity in the Isles, the chiefs of MacAskival, though at present reduced to mean estate, are said to be a sept of the MacDonalds, Lords of the Isles, early parted from their headship by internecine conflicts. These MacAskival chiefs themselves maintain, however – and with some show of reason – that they descend from a stock older still. As their ancestor and the founder of their fortunes, they claim a certain Sigurd Askival, a Viking adventurer, who espoused the Pictish heiress of Carnglass, one Mary or Merin. This noble lady of Carnglass was a woman of remarkable beauty, despite her flowing mane of red hair, which the refined taste of modern days would disapprove. In passing, it is necessary to notice a tale, germane to the genealogical claims of MacAskival, that one Mary or Merin, saint and princess, at a remote period was redeemed from captivity to a bestial creature, described as the Gabharfear, Firgower, or man-goat; and that her rescuer was Sigurd Askival, a Norse freebooter.
“‘One single substantial proof of the venerable lineage of MacAskival is reputed to have survived well into the last century: a set of chessmen carven from a blue stone, the “Table-Men of Askival,” exhibiting the weird handiwork of a ferocious epoch, which objects long continued the proudest possession of the chieftain of MacAskival. These, however, no longer are to be found in the Old House of Fear, their asserted repository; nor have they been transferred to the elegant New House by the quay, although the present proprietor made close search for the pieces. According to one fabrication of the aged men of Carnglass, these “Table-Men” were immured in a tomb by the last chieftain, to propitiate the Fiend. Once more the author apologizes to his gentle readers for this trespass upon their hours of serious reflection.’”
“Old Mr. Balmullo,” Logan broke in, “seems to have taken a fearful joy in recording superstitions. He protests too much.”
“Yes, I think Carnglass bewitched Samuel Balmullo, Hugh. ‘Glamour’ is an old Scots word, you know. Watch out, boy, that some Hebridean Witch doesn’t catch you: three days in Carnglass might turn the trick.”
“Never fear, Duncan,” Logan told him, with his slow smile. “The Harding case comes up next month, and I’ll be back for it.”
“Fear? Why, there’s no danger of any sort in Carnglass, I suppose.” MacAskival turned again to the window overlooking the plant. Now it was dark, and the coke-ovens glowed against the night like the flaming City of Dis. “Danger? Probably Carnglass is one of the few tolerably secure places on earth. Sometimes I think we’ll turn the world into one final hell of a coke-oven, Hugh. There may be some islands, though, left in that fire. And Carnglass, where man began, ought to endure when man has put an end to himself. I hope you can put this MacAskival back into his island, Hugh.”
“You’re really going to give me dinner at your club, Duncan?”
Nodding, MacAskival reached for their coats. As they went out of the office, he turned quizzically toward the younger man. “Speaking of witches and bogles and mangoats, Hugh, why hasn’t any woman ever captured you?”
“Probably because there’s no romance in me,” Logan murmured, straightfaced.
“Why, there’s a good deal in you, Hugh. You’re canny, but have a certain way with you.”
“Don’t forget this, though, Duncan —
“‘You can grave it on his tombstone, you can cut it on his card:
A young man married is a young man marred.’”
“Well! Hugh, you’re full of surprises. I thought only aged creatures like me still read Kipling. I can match you —
“‘Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,
He travels fastest who travels alone.’
Which way are you travelling, Hugh, with that innocent face of yours?”
“Judging by what you tell me of the warlocks of Carnglass, down to Gehenna, Duncan.” Then the elevator came, and the club, and the dinner, and the brandy. That night Logan dreamed of a Carnglass Cutty Sark capering round Carnglass Cross. And the next night he was aboard the plane to Prestwick.
Chapter 2
ON A WET AND windy morning, Logan descended from the plane at Prestwick. Once past the immigration officers, he took a taxi across the moors to Glasgow. Now and then they sped past rows of white-harled Scots cottages, some empty and far gone in decay. The heather and gorse by the roadside called to Hugh Logan. He had walked the Pentland Hills, and the Lammermuirs, in his Edinburgh years – sleeping in the open, sometimes, when he had been a university student. The law-office and the courtroom seemed remote in time and space, as he sat in this sp
eeding Rolls; and he indulged the fancy that perhaps he ought never to have taken the bar-examination.
In some ways, those savage months of pushing northward in Okinawa had been the best of his life. The law was safe, and might make him famous; yet there came hours, now and again, when Logan thought he ought to have settled for a life of risk, a life lived as if every moment might be the last.
The cab-driver was saying something. “A foul day, sir. There’ll be a storm out tae sea, sir. Spring’s late to Scotland this year.” The driver never had heard of Carnglass, Logan found. Now they were coming into the ugly sprawl of outlying Glasgow council-houses. And then the great grimy city closed upon them, and soon Logan was getting out before Todd’s Hotel in India Street, a building of blackened white granite.
At Todd’s Hotel, the taffy-haired little receptionist in the tight black dress never had heard of Carnglass. Having left his suitcase in his room, Logan came down again to inquire of the manager. That civil gentleman, indeed, had heard of Carnglass; but he never had known anyone to go there. And no messages from Lady MacAskival or Mr. Lagg were awaiting Logan. He was not altogether surprised: eccentricity and delay were to be expected in that quarter; he suspected that he might have to make his way independently to the island.
He might telephone or telegraph, though, to learn whether the yacht or launch had been sent for him, and whether he would be welcome at the Old House. It was no use, he soon discovered: the information operator on the telephone, after lengthy consultation with someone at the Glasgow central exchange, informed Logan that there was no cable laid to Carnglass, and that no way of sending messages to the island was known, there being no wireless recorded in the exchange’s books, except by post. Logan called the central post office. Letters and parcels for Carnglass, it appeared, and Daldour too, were sent by MacBrayne’s steamer to Loch Boisdale, in Smith Uist, where they were called for as anyone from those islands, or their agents, might happen to put into Loch Boisdale. How long would an express letter take? It was impossible to say: it might not reach Carnglass for some days, depending upon whether any boat should happen to call at Loch Boisdale. Also, however, letters for those islands sometimes were left with an agent of the Carnglass factor, here in Glasgow, depending upon instructions from Carnglass. Who was this agent of the factor? That information the postal authorities were not authorized to give out.
But Logan was a patient man. After lunch, he returned to his room and dressed in a heavy suit that had been made for him during his university years: of indestructible Harris tweed, the suit still fitted tolerably well. Rain was coming down heavily now, so this suit was made for the climate. He had with him a thorn stick, a memento also of Edinburgh days; it might be useful for hill-walking in Carnglass, should there be time for that. The little receptionist, who smiled fondly upon Logan, recommended a travel-agent in Argyle Street; so Logan took a cab there.
Before entering the door of Moore Brothers, Travel Agents, Ltd., Founded 1887, he stopped at a shop adjacent and bought an oilskin cape, which probably would be the thing to wear in Carnglass; he had it sent to Todd’s Hotel. Then he went up to the counter in Moore’s, where an eager youth – with a manner the British call “smarmy” – proceeded to set his hand on a pile of tour-folders.
But the eager youth had no notion of how a gentleman might find his way to Carnglass. He had special de luxe tours to Iona and Skye to offer; these were much better-known islands than Carnglass, he told the gentleman. No one ever went to Carnglass. Logan asked for the manager.
This old man with steel spectacles at the end of his nose could suggest only that the gentleman take MacBrayne’s steamer to Loch Boisdale. From South Uist, drifters and trawlers sometimes coasted off Daldour; there was no harbor in Daldour, but he had heard that the islanders – “verra queer folk, sir” – sometimes launched a boat and came alongside a drifter. He did not know how anyone contrived to live in Daldour, it was Ultima Thule. As for Carnglass, he had been told landing never was permitted. Oh, the gentleman was invited? An American? Then no doubt it would be possible. Perhaps the people in Daldour could take him across the sound in their boat. The manager would be glad to sell the American gentleman a first-class steamer ticket to Loch Boisdale, but he could do no more. And a first-class railway ticket from Glasgow to Oban: that was where one boarded MacBrayne’s steamers. This month, ordinarily, there were plane flights three times a week to South Uist; but the weather had been so wretched for the past week that flights had been cancelled, and it might be two or three or four days before they could resume.
Logan bought his railway and steamer tickets. As he turned to go, the manager had an afterthought. “One moment, sir. Meg, d’ye mind the card that man left? The man that spoke with me concerning Carnglass?” Aye, Meg – a stocky red-faced lass in her teens – minded it; she put it bashfully into the young American gentleman’s hand. “Aye, sir, I had near forgot,” the manager said, “but this man came in a month gone and said that should any gentleman inquire after Carnglass, he might put him in the way of a passage.”
It was a soiled card with crumpled corners, cheaply printed, and it read, “James Dowie, Commission Agent. 5 Mutto’s Wynd, Gallowgate.”
“How far is Gallowgate?” Logan asked.
The old manager drew in his lower lip and then protruded it meditatively. “Why, sir, the Gallowgate’s far above the Tron. And it’s late in the day. Would tomorrow do as well, sir?”
“No,” said Logan, “I’m usually in a hurry. Surely a taxi could take me there in ten minutes?”
The manager fumbled with his spectacles. “Between ourselves, now, sir, the Gallowgate’s not the place for an American gentleman by himself, with the night coming on. Mind ye, sir, I’ve had no trouble of my own in the Gallowgate. But this Mutto’s Wynd will be some wee vennel or passage, and dark. Ye’ve heard tell of Teddy Boys and such? Aye. Well, if ye must go, take a cab, sir; and make the driver wait for ye. The man that left this card – he would be a bookie, I think. Nothing against him, sir, nothing whatsoever. And the chief constable has done fine work in the Gallowgate and the Gorbals, verra gude work. They were worse when I was a lad. But were I yourself, sir, I wouldna stop in a pub there. In the Gallowgate, the folk think all Americans are millionaires. Would it were true, sir? Ha, ha. Aye, would it were true.”
Going into the washroom at the travel-agency, Logan took out of his pockets his passport, his traveller’s checks, and most of the pound notes he had got at the hotel desk. He put them into the leather money-belt he wore beneath his shirt. Logan had been around, though most people wouldn’t credit it, apparently, when they looked at his face; and he had the thorn stick with him. Then he took a cab to Mutto’s Wynd, in the Gallowgate.
Mutto’s Wynd turning out too narrow for any motorcar, the driver parked the cab at the mouth of the entry. In Mutto’s Wynd, most of the buildings were derelict, and some unroofed, since the Scots pay no taxes on roofless buildings. Even for smoke-grimed Glasgow, Mutto’s Wynd was very black. The dreary little building that was No. 5 stood near the mouth of the vennel, and the cab would be almost within call.
Although the windows of No. 5 seemed not to have been washed in this decade, a freshly-painted sign nailed above the door read “J. Dowie, Commission Agent.” Logan gave the driver a pound note. “Keep the change,” Logan said, “but wait for me.” The driver sighed, looking uneasily down the wynd. Three doors beyond, there projected the sign of a public house, the Dun Stirk. “But stay near the cab.”
“O aye,” the driver grunted, “ye needna teach this auld dog new tricks.” Logan rapped at the battered door of No. 5.
Quite promptly, a heavy-jowled little man in a sagging business-suit and a soiled old cap opened that door. “Come in, mon,” he said. “Ye’ll be thinkin’ o’ the pool?” The little low room – this building, elderly for rebuilt Glasgow, seemed once to have been a stable – contained a decrepit desk and three straight chairs; the walls, long ago, had been painted cream-color. The little man s
poke the thickest Glasgow speech, with its clipped words and rolled r’s.
“Mr. Dowie?” Aye, he was Mr. Dowie. “Mr. Dowie, I’ve been told you might know of a way to get to Carnglass.”
Dowie, sucking in his fat cheeks, looked long and slyly at Logan. “Tak’ a chair, mon. Ye’ll no be frae these parts?”
Logan sat. “I’m an American, Mr. Dowie, with business in Carnglass.”
Dowie leaned against the desk. “An’ what wud that business be?”
“I’m representing my principal.”
“Weel, then, Mr. American, ye’ll no object if I draw the curtains.” Dowie pulled heavy blanket-drapes across the filthy glass; he bolted the door. Logan sat easily on the rickety chair. “If it be Carnglass,” said Dowie, “that ye mean tae see, then ye’ll ken Tam Lagg?”
“The factor. Yes, we’ve corresponded with him.”
“Aye, just so. And ye’ll ken Dr. Jackman?” Here Dowie, stooping slightly, looked Logan in the eyes.
“No, Mr. Dowie, I don’t know any Dr. Jackman.”
“Ye dinna ken Jackman? Noo think o’this, Mr. American: I’m official agent o’ Tam Lagg. Ye’ve no need to keep matters frae me. What might your name be?”
“Hugh Logan. I’m to see Lady MacAskival.”
“O aye. Lady MacAskival. She’s no keepin’ verra weel, ye ken.”
“So I understand.”
“No weel enough for chit-chat, Mr. Logan.” Dowie nodded mournfully. “And noo ye’re in auld Scotland, ye’ll tak’ a trip to Rabbie Burns’ country?”