The Silver Bough

by Neil M. Gunn

  “It’s time he was home,” she said quietly.

  “It’s more than time we were all home,” he agreed. But somehow he could not begin his explanation, his excuse for himself. Andie anyhow was muttering, and Grant saw that his face was congested, angry, like a wilful boy’s.

  “Come, Andrew,” she said.

  “Home, Andrew. Off you go!” said Grant cheerfully.

  “Gu—gar—r—r.”

  “But we must. Good night, Mrs Mackenzie.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  Grant found himself walking away. But once out of sight curiosity got the better of him. When he had rounded the shoulder of the slope, he held to his right for some distance and then lay flat. He saw them in the hollow, and mounting the next slope, on their direct way home. Andie was walking with his long uncouth stride behind her, bent, his hands behind his back. For a little while the sky held them in clear outline, then they slowly dropped beyond.

  When he got home he found a telegram from Colonel Mackintosh: “Arrange camping ground for eight student helpers.” As he took off his boots in the sitting room, he heard Mrs Cameron stirring. He went to the kitchen door and called gently, “It’s all right, Mrs Cameron. I was detained in Kinlochoscar and had my dinner there.”

  “I have only just lain down. I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

  “No, no. Please. I’m sorry I could not let you know.”

  She told him of the telegram which had come in the forenoon and of the young men who had called.

  “That’s all right,” he answered. “They saw Mrs Sidbury. I have been with them.”

  “Oh then! That’s fine! It was on my mind.”

  “Good night.”

  “Good night, Mr Grant. I hope you sleep well.”

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Late the following afternoon Andie made a dramatic entrance into the whole company gathered at the cairn. The hour, five o’clock, had been fixed by the Colonel. Blair was in whipcord riding breeches, an open necked khaki shirt and new spectacles. Mr Scott carried flannel trousers of a remarkable slackness, a roll-topped seaman’s blue jersey, a pipe and a rocking gait. Colonel Mackintosh wore plus fours that hung well and baggily, a collar and tie, and pre-war expensive hill boots. Grant had his tweed hat and the knickerbockers that appeared a trifle scraggy about the knees only by comparison with the Colonel’s, so that young Armstrong, a student of such matters, wondered if he had borrowed the idea from Bernard Shaw or found them in the cairn.

  The Colonel was establishing his leadership by making it clear that Mr Grant was the leader in this ploy. He used the words “ploy” and “foray”, and even got as far afield as “the Cattle Raid of Ulster”, thus setting the local simplicities of their present venture over against the classic cultures of the Mediterranean, but with a feel for the words in his mouth that to the discerning suggested he would tolerate nothing but the most careful and earnest work. “With a name like Grant, or even Mackintosh, one finds oneself on one’s native heath, and though dubious names like Scott, or even Armstrong, may have a lower or at least more Lowland connotation, still, if history may be credited, their knowledge of the cattle-lifting foray was hardly less than the Highlander’s and perhaps more thorough.”

  With a decorous “Hear, hear!” Armstrong induced a round of applause. The Colonel blinked and blew through his moustache. The unrehearsed pleasantness of the moment—his simple if sudden intention had been to compliment Grant in a roundabout way—induced such friendly feelings that Colonel Mackintosh decided to cap the occasion with a yarn which might poke these young rascals in the place where it might do them most good.

  “Talking of Highland forays,” he began, “let me illustrate with an example which I am sure you will all appreciate.”

  But he had hardly cleared his throat when the screaming began. It was the high pitched terrified screaming of a young woman who was being murdered. It so shocked and bewildered them that even Scott of the Navy was staggered where he stood. Then the screaming head was seen coming round the bend, the torso, and finally the very short shorts and the flashing legs. A few yards behind came Andie, with bent body, and the springing strides a hillman is inclined to adopt when he is being beaten in a walking competition. Scott only managed five gallant strides before the young woman threw herself solidly upon his protection. From behind the tall monolith, Andie thrust a grinning head.

  Grant was the first to react. His person began to work as though the tail of a long eel had stuck in his throat on the way down. But he was unobserved, for younger eyes were concerned with the Navy’s expert handling of the occasion.

  “What happened, young woman?” asked the Colonel.

  She straightened herself from a reluctant mooring. “He—he attacked me.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He—he was going to——”

  “But he didn’t actually?” demanded the Colonel like a judge.

  “Hang it, Colonel, you could see what was happening,” said Scott who was thirty-five and knowledgeable.

  “We all observed that part of it, Mr Scott—right to the end,” remarked the Colonel with excellent asperity. Then he turned to the lady. “He didn’t actually lay hands on you, did he?”

  She was trembling but looked at him. “N-no.”

  “Well, let that be a lesson to you,” he said sternly.

  Her eyes opened to the full and a glint of anger shone. She had become aware of the male audience. “I didn’t——”

  “Naturally.” He nodded. “Where’s Arthur?”

  She had finally got some control of herself and with an intolerant mien turned her head as if Arthur might appear out of the blue; which he did.

  “Come,” said the Colonel to her with a small bow, “and we shall hold converse with Arthur touching matters of publicity.” And she went with him like one striving to be unselfconscious in amateur theatricals.

  Upon the watching silence, Armstrong murmured thoughtfully, “As a Highland foray, it had its points.”

  “You pipe down,” said Scott. “Don’t you think, Blair, the Colonel was a bit tough?”

  “I rather suspect,” answered Blair, “that he thought you might have been unequal to dealing with hysterics.”

  “By what warrant?”

  But Grant was walking towards Andie.

  Andie’s embarrassment was that of a good-natured boy who cannot stop twisting and laughing at having been found out in something more unexpected than disreputable. His eyes glinted with light and his swayings and contentions were as remarkable as his laughter.

  “Andie, I’m surprised at you!”

  “He—he—he—e—e——”

  “It’s no laughing matter!”

  “Whu—hu—hu—u——” And though the body doubled, the better to squeeze out the breath, the bright eyes were watching with a cuteness.

  Suddenly a voice behind barked a laugh and Grant, swinging round, observed that three of the young men had come up and that the others were on the way. Jim Dickson had been unable to control himself, though he had had the grace to turn his back. Grant’s eyes ran over the landscape, but there was no sign of the Colonel and the lady, whom happily the cairn concealed. But the other faces were also being affected by Andie’s mirth. Scott stared at it, then he suddenly broke. “You d-dog!” he cried out of a rich fellow feeling, laughing from the diaphragm. He took paces away and paces back; threw his head up. The boys let themselves go.

  “Here—stop it!” Grant yelled. “Sc-c-cott!” Then he gave way also.

  Presently the Colonel came striding towards them. “That’s a fine way to behave, I must say. I expected more from you, Grant.”

  “Huh—he—e—e——” commented Andie, still enjoying the whole splendid performance.

  “And you’re the ringleader!” the Colonel shouted at him.

  “Whu—ho—ha—he—e—e——” His face squeezed itself like a rubber ball at Christmas.

  The Colonel’s nostrils snorted, his stoma
ch abruptly keeping time, then he laughed manfully where he stood.

  Grant saw Andie home. To Mrs Mackenzie he explained that he might be able to engage Andie on the same work as before, the young men, who were from a University, having greatly taken to him.

  Mrs Mackenzie thanked him, said it was very kind of them all, but there was work to do at the stone-breaking for the road and it was more suitable that this should be gone on with.

  He saw that she was troubled and did not wish her son to have anything more to do with them. When he asked her to think it over, she said simply, “No, he is not fitted for your company.”

  “I think you are wrong. We all understand him.”

  “I am his mother,” she said. As though to make it easier for him, she added, “The stone-breaking is what we mostly rely on. We must keep up with it.”

  “I quite understand,” he said. Then he had a helpful thought. “In that case we had better square up for last week.”

  “But we have done nothing——”

  “But that’s not your fault. I didn’t pay you off.” By good luck he had three pounds. in his pocket-book. He placed the money on the table.

  “But I cannot——”

  “And you consider yourself a business woman! I hope you are not so soft with the road surveyor.”

  She was moved. “It’s very kind of you.”

  “Just business. And we’ll be seeing you. So long just now.”

  She did not answer and he was glad to get out.

  When Andie appeared at the cairn the following morning, he received an ovation from the young men. The preliminary work of opening up the passage had just started and Andie, wading in, began to hurl the stones behind him with skilled ease.

  Grant spoke to the Colonel of his interview with Mrs Mackenzie.

  “Uhm,” replied the Colonel. “We don’t need him.” His eye roved. “Though he might have earned his keep,” he suggested in a rather loud voice, “if only by keeping the young women away.”

  It was clear, however, that Colonel Mackintosh did not really want him, that he was all set now to see the work go ahead in an intelligent way, without distractions. The whole affair must be a simple object lesson for these young fellows. When Mrs Mackenzie appeared the position grew complicated. Andie stubbornly refused to budge.

  “Just wait a bit, Mrs Mackenzie,” Grant said to her. “We’ll fix it all right.”

  Meantime some of the young men had been murmuring together and Jim Dickson strolled up to his uncle, the Colonel. “Can I have a word with you and Mr Grant?” The three withdrew.

  “We were talking it over in camp last night,” said Jim. “We understand from you, Uncle James, that the finding of the crock of gold would be of primary archaeological importance. Our feeling was that if we grew very friendly with Andie, then—anything might happen, naturally enough.”

  The Colonel eyed his nephew. “Uhm,” he said. In his dispositions for the actual work, he had forgotten the crock.

  “That is, if it is,” said Jim.

  “If what is?” demanded the Colonel.

  “If the crock of gold is,” said Jim with mild innocence.

  “If is the operative word,” said the Colonel, easing his suspicions.

  “Some of them did rather suggest it was like hunting a fairy story,” his nephew agreed.

  “Hm! What do you say, Grant?”

  “I think he’s right,” said Grant shortly.

  “Very well. Fix the woman—and let the Fool carry on for a bit anyhow. And you, young fellow—no nonsense!” Jim’s face looked hurt, then it smiled.

  A few happy days followed for both Andie and his mother. The lads were fond of him and treated him in a natural happy-go-lucky way. “Hullo, Andie, how goes it?” “Gu—gu——” “Fine!” They shared their sweet ration with him and when Mrs Mackenzie appreciated their astonishment at one basket of two dozen fresh eggs, she made arrangements with her neighbours for a daily collection. They also seemed to be able to drink immense quantities of milk, and did not appear repelled at the notion of a boiled fowl in a great iron pot of broth. They insisted on paying for everything and a price list was agreed upon. There were trials of strength over boulders or great slabs. Mrs Mackenzie had never known her son so happy. Once Grant caught her, with knitting needles arrested, looking over at three of the lads working on a new cutting. One of them had obviously made some sort of joke, for he dug Andie in the ribs with his elbow, as if he were a sly dog. Andie swayed with mirth. Grant knew, by the way Mrs Mackenzie’s body moved upon itself, that she was touched in some deep maternal region where the line between happiness and tears is hardly definable.

  But such extraordinary theories had been pushed upon them by Scott at dinner for four in Kinlochoscar Hotel the other evening that a car driver had had to be knocked out of bed to take Grant home and the Colonel was still suffering from a sort of general indigestion. Among those mentioned in the debate were Tylor, Schliemann, Valerius Maximus (who said the Gauls lent each other money repayable in the next world), Ra-Osiris and his god’s liquid, Leucippus who founded the atom theory in the fifth century B.C., Pythagoras and the Orphic dogma of moral dualism, King Arthur, Robert Kirk, the Arab Avicenna who knew how the human mind could alter objects, and the Presbytery of Dingwall which took action against four Mackenzies for sacrificing a bull on an island in Loch Maree in 1678. And all this as a sort of general disposition of forces by Scott to confuse counsel while he made his main move on the tall monolith, for he had been more attracted by Grant’s suggestion of a phallic symbolism than by his crock of gold. “The phallic has got more to it,” he said, “and to think of it—in these parts!”

  “Why particularly in these parts,” asked the Colonel.

  “Because they had more time for it—obviously,” replied Scott. “In the comparative absence of mere distractions like culture and its rituals, which still astonish any honest man——”

  “But you can raise a culture on anything—”

  “Exactly! That’s my whole point. Here they had something to raise it on, something that still remains even more fundamental, thank God, than an ideology.”

  At 1.30 a.m. Scott had put his helm over and headed for the main objective. “At least we can have a shot at this: let us dig down to the base of the monolith. Supposing we find, for example, that it has been shored up in order to cast its shadow at the given moment into the exact spot! Wouldn’t that suggest something? Once we are certain of the levels, the original levels . . . . “

  And now this afternoon, as Grant turned away from his vision of maternal emotion, he heard the Colonel say, “For God’s sake, keep that thing still.”

  Scott relaxed his grip on the handle of the pickaxe, which he had essayed to swing as a Highland athlete swings the sports hammer, and said, “Why not now? The chambers have been detailed and the levels taken. The boys are back at donkey work and——”

  “I don’t consider excavation donkey work. At least it should be supervised. Besides, as I said, when we have completely finished with the cairn——”

  “But look, Colonel. I could get down to this thing myself in a couple of shakes. Blair is lost in the northern radial incision. You are both, Grant and yourself—aren’t you, Grant? What do you think?”

  “We believe in order,” said Grant.

  “Exactly! But what’s order without inspiration? Assuming we establish a phallic significance, the effect on these youngsters will be noticeable in an added zest. It will give them an eye for everything. I have always maintained that archaeology should be cheered on.”

  Scott knew he could make the Colonel laugh in the end, even if he had to stand on his head, which he had already done on three separate days. He had even laid level half crowns with Blair that he could get Andie to manage it yet.

  Before the Colonel and Grant knew rightly where they were they were before the monolith. The Colonel stopped and looked at the stone. Then an astonishing thing happened. His face quickened, his eyes opened. �
�Mighty Osiris, I’ve got it!” The voice was not loud; it was husky and intense.

  The other two glanced at him in astonishment and closed in.

  “The shoulders—look!—quite distinct—and see these lines, that upper whorl—it’s the man in the stone,” declared the Colonel. “It was meant . . . . Here, dammit, don’t push me, Scott. What time is it?” He pulled out his gold watch. Then he kicked abrasions in the turf to mark the exact spot on which he had been standing, as sheer reactions from his scientific training.

  Grant had got this queer “look” of the thing more than once, though he had been at pains to generalise it. Now Scott swore he saw it, got behind the monolith, and swung his pickaxe.

  The Colonel did not care much for this brutal and amateurish attack, so when Andie appeared he asked gruffly, “What are you doing here?”

  “The very man!” cried Scott. “Here, Andie, give us a heave.”

  Andie’s excitement was stupendous. Scott and he collided like rams as they strove for foot room and a conjoint grip on what was either a great boulder or solid rock. Andie’s neck and face so swelled that Grant thought they would burst. Nothing moved except Andie, from whose feet the ground had to retire.

  “Wait,” said Scott. “Wait, my boy. We’ll have to get more of his clothes off.” And he swung his pick. He paused and yelled, “Hey, Jim, bring that shovel and crowbar!” When they were brought, Andie scooped out the loose stuff. In the end, with Jim’s help, the great slab was eased away from the monolith and tilted over.

  “Stop!” cried the Colonel commandingly. “Come out of that!”

  Scott gave him one look and immediately stopped operations.

  “It might fall over,” said Colonel Mackintosh. “Many of them are not so deep as supposed. It was a damned silly way to set about it anyhow.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Scott reluctantly but with the utmost good nature. He scratched himself. “I’ll tell you what, Colonel. We can cut down three of the laird’s pine trees and use them as shoring battens. That would make everything as safe as a church and would let us see——”