The Key of the Chest

by Neil M. Gunn

  I think the word ‘premonition’ is a good one here. The sense of wholeness – an experience of living fully in an accepted universe – although momentary is also timeless, and provides a premonition of a state of being which seems at once essential and perfectly natural. It is a matter of experience, not of theory, and to define it is to miss it.

  For a community, of course, wholeness is an accepted way of life which provides a sense of meaning and fulfilment for its members, and may begin to break up when questioned and analysed.

  Neither Gwynn nor Gunn is advocating a return to the primitive, which would be impossible as well as undesirable, for the realisation of individuality has been the greatest achievement of civilisation.

  The Key of the Chest is based on his knowledge of the Highland community when Gunn was a boy, and of the Highland community in decline, when he was writing the book. It cannot be said to have anything as straightforward as a message. The integration of the individual helps a community to thrive, and one function of a thriving community is to help the individual towards wholeness, towards being able to stand on his own two feet and gain an understanding of the world. But if the individual must attain personal integration and then live in such a way that community is restored, the process will be so long and difficult that before anything is achieved the community itself may be swallowed by history and lost for ever, and if community were to vanish from the world, mankind would vanish with it.

  The book leaves us with a sense that the search for meaning and integration will go on because it’s essential for the human psyche that it does, and that whatever happens to a particular people in a particular place, community will restore itself because the species requires it. There is room for faith as well as hope.

  J. B. Pick

  Contents

  Title Page

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Tineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  About the Author

  Copyright

  CHAPTER ONE

  All day the sea had boomed in the rocks from the storm outside in the ocean. Now the cliff rumbled under his feet and the grey sky flattened still more. Thrusting his red-bearded face over his shoulder, he stared at the approaching horizon. The wind came in a wild scurry among the heather. The lean intelligent black collie with the white star on her chest kept close to heel.

  When next he glanced over his shoulder, the brow of the horizon had lowered and he saw the sea’s teeth whitening in the storm’s mouth. This time he stopped. But his cottage was lost to sight. His features closed in a sardonic twist as he saw his brother putting more peat on the fire and taking out his chanter. No doubt he would lift the tune onto the full stand of pipes now that he was alone. He liked playing to himself!

  A solitary spit of rain hit an eyeball between the narrowed lids. The track was rough but he stumbled rarely, for the moor was native to his feet as a ship’s deck to a sailor’s.

  Another hour, and his eyes focused on Cruime. It was a village or township with a huddle of houses in the middle and others thinning out along the curve of the shore and upon the slopes behind. They were mostly straw-thatched but two or three had slate roofs and a few more the black of tarred felt. Hummocky bents overlooked the sweep of brown sand with its high-tidal marks of old dark tangle. On the near side the strand finished in the low cliff root; on the far side, amid a welter of skerries, a few massive boulders in some olden time had been levered together into a primitive but useful jetty. Nine open boats of about fifteen feet were drawn up well beyond the dark tangle. They stood in a row, supported on even keels, their sterns to the sea and their dumb bows lifting to the land. In that dream they had been for many years, though one or two of them still got a smearing of tar and even a lick of blue paint round the gunnels.

  But lower down, four lay usefully on their sides. Round one of them six dark figures were grouping and heaving. The tide would be high enough to-night on top of the storm, though the stream was falling under a growing moon.

  His eyes swept everywhere with little movement of the head. The more men about the boat, the less of them in the village. The smother of dusk went with him down past the near houses.

  But first one little boy saw him and then another. A woman with a black shawl round her head straightened herself to look at him as he passed. He was on the hard public road and the scattered houses stood back from it, aloof under their brown curved roofs.

  Two boys began whispering together as they followed at a respectful distance. Two little girls joined them, but in a moment stood by themselves, letting the boys go on. Another little boy came rushing up, then another. They began to chatter, but with repressed voices.

  At last the houses gathered more confidently towards the public road, and here was the shop with the slate roof and the name KENNETH GRANT on the long green signboard. It had a large window with shelves of goods, and between the shelves one could look into the shop and see the heads and shoulders of those serving and being served.

  As the man stopped on the middle of the road all the boys stopped. The dusk was thickening quickly under the approaching storm, and the man stood detached and ominous as his low-set head twisted over his shoulder and stared at the window.

  A match was struck inside the shop. The clink of a lamp funnel was thinly heard. A yellowish light pervaded the shop. The man looked round and saw the boys. They stood dead still. There was no one else about and the man went into the shop.

  As the bell tinkled above the door, the shopkeeper paid no attention until he had satisfied himself that the round-wicked lamp, suspended from the ceiling, was burning evenly. Then he turned, blinking a little from the strong light. When he saw his customer, he said in an expressive cheerful voice. ‘Hullo, Dougald, is it yourself?’ He was a well-set-up fellow in his thirties, dark and energetic, with a keenness in his features. Now he was cheerful and friendly, putting his visitor at his ease. ‘And how are things out with you?’

  ‘That same way,’ answered Dougald, taking a folded sack from a poacher’s pocket.

  ‘I was east-the-country the day before yesterday,’ said Kenneth, ‘and there’s talk of the lamb sales improving still more.’

  ‘It was about time,’ muttered Dougald.

  ‘It was indeed,’ agreed Kenneth, briskly slapping his hands as if dusting them of the paraffin smell. ‘High time. That was a terrible snowstorm last spring in the high parts of the country. I met one flockmaster who lost fifteen hundred.’

  ‘A terrible loss, that.’ Dougald stood staring before him.

  Kenneth glanced at him. ‘It is. But we must take things as they come, and what may be one part of the country’s loss may be another part’s gain. Not that it would have been all gain for us had it not been for yourself.’

  ‘Och,’ mumbled Dougald, with an abrupt movement of his body.

  ‘All the same, it was enough,’ said Kenneth. ‘Our ground is low-lying and the sea around helps to keep the snow away, but we had it bad enough. A few of the Committee were jus
t saying as much no later than last night, when I was telling them the news.’

  ‘Oh well,’ said Dougald.

  But Kenneth was not deterred, for he fancied that though Dougald could not readily find words, he might like all the same to get what news was going and even a word or two of genuine praise if they could be passed across naturally enough. Besides, it would all help the Sheep Club, of which Dougald was the shepherd.

  Kenneth was secretary of the Club, in which all the crofters had a share. He, himself, had a large croft in addition to the shop, but keener at the moment than his personal interest in his own portion was the thought of a favourable balance sheet for the annual meeting and share-out. Years of debt had given the whole undertaking a gloomy air.

  So he talked on, teased a little, too, by the enigmatic presence before him standing like a slab of red sandstone, a little above medium height, with a short neck. The reddish whiskers were bushy, at the longest no more than two to three inches, but so natural a growth on his weathered face that they might never be trimmed. His eyes, of a greenish blue, were remembered as a glisten of light between narrowed lids. He was forty-five.

  A flurry of rain hit the window panes.

  ‘You could hardly have used your weather lore to-day!’

  ‘I knew it was coming.’ Dougald looked at the laden shelves.

  ‘Well,’ said the shopkeeper, taking a pencil from his waistcoat pocket, ‘we’d better get a move on. Though I’m afraid you’re going to have a nasty night.’

  ‘Four quarters of bread,’ began Dougald.

  Kenneth wrote down on a fold of wrapping paper each item of Dougald’s order. Dougald never hesitated, not even over the final item, which was a brown earthenware teapot.

  ‘Been breaking the crockery?’ asked Kenneth as he cheerfully thumped the loaves on the counter.

  ‘He broke the spout off it,’ mumbled Dougald as he opened the sack and shoved in the bread.

  Kenneth, about to say something, thought better of it. Perhaps Dougald had had a row with his brother Charlie.

  After twisting the neck of the sack, Dougald deftly heaved it over his shoulder. More rain hit the window on a whine of wind.

  ‘Here,’ said Kenneth, ‘I’ll wrap some of the things up for you. Bread and tea—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Dougald, making for the door.

  ‘I’ll give you another sack anyway—’

  Dougald went on.

  ‘Good night,’ called Kenneth.

  ‘Good night.’

  The door rattled against the jambs, the bell tinkled.

  Kenneth stood motionless looking at the closed door for a time. About to move away, he saw the pencilled order on the wrapping paper. He took the day-book from under the counter and began entering up the items.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Outside it was now quite dark. A gust of wind steadied Dougald and then fled past, leaving the sting of rain on his face. The children had gone from the window and there was no one about.

  When he had gone up the road a little way, he paused. The moon would not rise for another hour. Time meant nothing at all, and the habit of calling at Smeorach’s exerted its pull. It was the only house at which he ever did call.

  He stood quite still, until his head turned and lifted slightly in the direction of his home across the moor. Whereupon he left the road and followed the short path to Smeorach’s cottage. There was the groping scratch of his hand for the iron sneck, the thump of his bag against the door as he entered, and in a moment old Smeorach’s voice rising high and thin in welcome:

  ‘Is it yourself, Dougald? And what a night you have brought with you! Come away in, man, come away in. I’m glad to see you.’

  The only light in the cottage came from the peat fire. It was soft and warm on the living faces until they turned from it and created their own shadows. Then the bodies stood up to make room for the stranger whom Smeorach approached in welcome, approached a few steps and then turned back, offering the best chair and talking all the time.

  Smeorach was about eighty, spare and almost quite straight, for he was not very tall, with a white beard and brown living twinkling eyes. His voice was thin and high-pitched but with a clear quality in it like a bird’s. Even when it went husky or ragged, this quality persisted, and no doubt accounted for his nickname, Smeorach, which meant Thrush, though it was old enough now for its origin to be forgotten. It never even occurred to children to wonder what his real name was. He lived all alone and was so full of lore and stories and brightness that men and boys of a night drifted into his house more naturally than into their own.

  When Dougald had dropped the bag by his chair and sat heavily down, Smeorach, whose voice had never stopped, said he must get the lamp lit,

  ‘Don’t light the lamp for me,’ said Dougald in a voice that was like a gruff order.

  ‘Och,’ said Smeorach hospitably, ‘it will brighten the room a bit.’

  ‘It’s bright enough,’ said Dougald.

  ‘Very well, then,’ agreed Smeorach, ‘very well. Perhaps, like myself, you find the peat fire more friendly. For it’s a strange thing, and indeed it’s a strange thing, and I’ve noticed it often, that the steady light of the lamp will empty the mind and hide away from a man what he had been wanting to find. But you’ll have a cup of tea, for it’s a long road—’

  ‘I had my tea before I left,’ said Dougald. ‘You’ll put no water in the kettle for me.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Are you quite sure now, because it will be no bother at all but only a pleasure?’

  ‘I am. I’ll be going with the moon.’

  Smeorach withdrew his hand from the kettle. ‘I’m thinking you’ll be lucky if you find the moon this night.’

  ‘There’ll be enough,’ said Dougald.

  ‘Very well,’ said Smeorach. ‘And how did you leave your brother Charlie?’

  ‘He’s all right,’ answered Dougald flatly.

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Smeorach. ‘That’s good.’

  As he sat down, the storm broke over the roof. There were three other men in the house and two of the boys who had followed Dougald to the shop. One of the three said, ‘It’s as well we got the boats up, I’m thinking.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Murdo, a quiet man.

  The storm blew two other men into the house. They came in dark and tall, shedding the storm from them.

  ‘Phew! that’s going to be a night,’ said one, smiling and jovial. ‘Is it yourself, Dougald?’ he cried. ‘By the lord, you’ll catch it to-night, boy!’

  Dougald did not answer.

  ‘Eh?’ continued William, making a joke of it. ‘What brought you east to-night?’

  ‘The same,’ answered Smeorach, ‘as would bring yourself: food.’

  ‘There’s something in that,’ agreed William, aware that Dougald had not answered.

  There was a shifting of bare wooden chairs and stools. The two boys were chaffed by William for keeping so far back from the fire, but they did not speak.

  When they were all seated, one or two took out their pipes, and Smeorach courteously accepted a roll of black twist tobacco from which he cut a few flakes before handing it back.

  They began discussing the storm. They had known all day it was ‘outside’ and spoke of the signs.

  ‘It would have been pretty bad off the Point to-day?’ said Murdo to Dougald.

  ‘It was,’ answered Dougald. ‘It was restless yesterday.’

  His tones, being almost easy, brought every eye upon him and faces lightened. He sat hunched on his chair, his eyes on the fire. The momentary silence pulled his head round and Smeorach at once started talking about the worst storm he had ever known.

  They all knew the story and its dread marvels, but, as the wind howled round the house, it might have been quite new to them. Indeed the far years gave to its moving parts a dark and legendary body.

  Their mood soon became fully attuned to the st
orm, and as the rising whine carried beyond the house, they were stirred as by the sea itself, the thresh of it on the black rocks, and the scream of the harrying spinning wind. Deeds of the past were like flotsam tossed, and the dark flotsam had faces and bodies, which fate overtook. All this had happened to them or to their kindred, and pressed in upon the gable-end and the roof.

  The more their spirits swung with the elements the more they became aware of that solid hunched figure by the fire, dumb as an outcrop of rock on his own moor. In a strange almost perverse way his presence excited them, urging them to tell more tales, so that they could ignore him, forget him.

  Storms and wrecks and dead bodies washed up by the ocean, lonely old women living in cottages by the tide, foreign sailors, theft, and voices in the night.

  Smeorach produced the curious fantastic incident of the black man. A stormy night in the dead of winter and a voice shouting outside his father’s window in a strange tongue. They were in bed, the fire smoored. He himself was only a lad of six. Then came the thundering of bare fists on the door. His father got up and cried, ‘Who’s there?’ The wild voice outside jabbered in a way that sounded full of threats and terror. His father took the iron tongs from the fire and approached the door. ‘What do you want?’ he called through the door in a fighting voice. At that there was silence. He slid the bar and pulled the door open. Outside a whole moon was driving against a rushing sky and there, standing back from the door, was a big man with a face black as hell’s soot. The white cloth tied about the black neck made no doubt of the blackness. No doubt in this world or any other. It staggered his father for one terrible moment, then he gripped the tongs hard and with a yell advanced. The figure let out a queer screech enough – God between us and all harm – and took to his black heels. ‘For nearly a mile my father pursued him, and he was a good runner as any in the place, but he was not so good as the black fellow. And at last my father stopped, and he came home. Well do I remember that night in the kitchen. But the black man was never seen again. No one saw him. And that night, so far as we ever knew, no ship foundered.’