Four Letter Word

by Joshua Knelman

  ‘I didn’t see a soul

  All day on the hills’ would be a chilling tale if there was Nobody to tell it to.

  If the landscape is not known, not touched by human thought, then it is truly inhuman, and in that sense desolate and forbidding. It is one of the reasons why humans need to name the land, and why, if Gaelic should ever cease to be spoken, Scotland would become in a way alien to its inhabitants, or its inhabitants alien to it. Even now the general massacring of a name like Bidean nam Bian indicates a common loss of intimacy with the mountain that bears it, and a loss of respect for it too. And yet, at the same time, the need to make contact with the land is why walkers are so often guilty of reciting a litany of mountain names, and I suspect the same need lies at the root of the desire to make lists of Munros, Corbetts and Donalds – all those species of Scottish hills – and tick them off. Names signify, and when you know what they signify – have been among these names and on them – they evoke the very best of days, and sometimes, in weather terms at least, the very worst.

  I know, whenever the time comes that I cannot or do not wish to go to the hills, that my own litany will offer a certain compensation. Some folk sneer at the practice of Munro-bagging, but I defend it, because climbing those Munros that I have – along with many other smaller, though not always lesser, hills – has taught me more about the topography of my country, its extraordinarily complex physical composition, its vastness which is also a compact and detailed connectedness, than any lesson or book. And it has given me my own litany, with its own instant mental and emotional associations: simply naming Beinn Dotaidh, for example, calls to mind the weird, creeping sculptures of ice and grass I trudged past on a windy, snowy climb there; I remember the way rock gripped me and I gripped rock on the Aonach Eagach, the notched ridge, in Glencoe, as if we had made a pact (one which, of course, existed only in my imagination) that if I was not foolish it would not throw me to my death; I remember Beinn a’ Bheithir above Ballachulish mainly because the rain and mist were so heavy I never saw more than thirty yards of mountain at any one time; I remember bold sunshine slanting through falling snow on Beinn Udlamain, and a huge herd of deer moving like a dun-coloured shadow below me in the corrie of A’Mharconaich; I remember the long stretch to Beinn Dearg in Atholl, and the ridiculously easy stroll up Meall Buidhe in Glen Lyon; I remember the spectral hares on Ben-y-Hone, the ptarmigan, snow buntings and dotterels that have shared other cloud-thick summits with me; I remember, on the lower slopes of Creag Meagaidh, picking blaeberries so fat and sweet I was, for a while, oblivious to the rain and midges; I remember the arête that snakes like an airy bridge from Carn Mor Dearg up to Ben Nevis, and how I crawled over its narrowest sections because the drops on either side took the courage from my legs, and how I had that vastness of mountain to myself for hours until finally, reaching the top of ‘the Ben’, I found myself among dozens of walkers who had plodded up the so-called ‘tourist route’; I remember seeing the snow-covered Cairngorms, black and white and mysterious and beckoning, from the empty broad back of An Socach above Glen Ey; I remember my first venture into the Cairngorms, a few months later, and how from Beinn a’ Chaorainn I saw the outline of northern Scotland laid out before me, the Moray Firth glinting and grey forty miles to the north. All these and more are in my mind, and will be, like moments from old love affairs, until the mind ceases to function.

  In a poem called ‘One of the many days’, Norman MacCaig once wrote of the multitude of frogs he saw at the back of Ben Dorain – a mountain more famously and expansively praised by the 18th-century Gaelic poet Duncan Ban MacIntyre. MacCaig catalogues how the whole long day released a series of miracles: the river like glass in the sun, wading in Loch Lyon, a herd of hinds that gave the V-sign with their ears before cantering off, and the Joseph-coated frogs amiably ambling and jumping around. That’s what days in the hills always do: release miracles, often small, even insignificant, but always memorable.

  I have my own story of a miracle in the form of a plague of frogs. On this occasion I was with a friend, and we were climbing Stob a’ Choire Odhar and Stob Ghabhar on the western edge of Rannoch Moor. It was a beautiful, blue, cloudless July day when we set out. The ground was dry – parched, even – and when, halfway up Stob a’ Choire Odhar, we came across a single yellow frog panting in the heat, we thought he was in quite the wrong location and that his circumstances could only deteriorate. But by the time we were on the ridge approaching the top of Stob Ghabhar we were reconsidering: a great black canopy of water-laden cloud had formed across the entire sky, and it was clear we were in for a soaking. The canopy ripped apart as we began our descent: the rain fell like tropical rain, hot, solid and unrelenting, as if from a power-shower. Not a centimetre of us remained dry. Later, I wrote,

  We stood beneath the downpour

  and our boots filled up and overflowed.

  Paths became burns; burns boiled to rivers;

  we were like ghosts of sailors

  adrift on a mountainous sea.

  And then, as if this were not transformation enough, the entire hillside erupted: frogs, thousands of them, yellow, brown, green, so many we could not avoid stepping on them. They had been waiting and now they were in the right place at the right time while we, delirious and absurd, trudged and slid, jumping and wading torrents that hadn’t existed ten minutes earlier, back to the day’s starting-point.

  What does this story mean? It means nothing except what it says: that it happened, that we were there, that it will never happen again in quite the same way, and yet that it happens all the time. The story is my story about a particular mountain, but the mountain does not know it, does not give a damn about it. I love the mountain for what it gave me, but the mountain does not love me. I find myself grappling again for other people’s words to explain what I mean. Only this time I am caught between two sets of thoughts: those of the naturalist John Muir, who really loved mountains, really understood them, and those of the poet Hugh MacDiarmid, who knew the futility of such love and understanding. What are we to stones, MacDiarmid asked insistently. What are we to stones? We are nothing. We must be humble, because the stones are one with the stars, however stone-like they may appear to us. It makes no difference to them where they are, on top of a mountain or at the bottom of the sea, in a palace or a pigsty. There are plenty of ruined buildings in the world, MacDiarmid reminds us, but no ruined stones.

  This is from the long poem of 1933, ‘On A Raised Beach’, constructed, as the title suggests, nowhere near mountains but on a stony shoreline in Shetland, but the poem transcends its particular place and time. It is so bleakly beautiful and so true that there seems to be nothing else worth saying, although MacDiarmid remorselessly exposes our fragility further: what happens to us, he says, is of no relevance to the world’s geology; what happens to the world’s geology is of utmost relevance to us. It is not the stones who must be reconciled to us, but we to them.

  What then is the point? What point is there in my going to the mountains if all they throw back at me is my irrelevance and transience? On the February day on which I began this letter, I did get to the top of Beinn a’ Chreachain and then Beinn Achaladair. I spent six hours on them, alone and happy, and when I came down the muddy track through the corrie and back to where I’d parked the car, I caught up with another man who had done exactly the same. We exchanged a few words about the absence of deep snow and climate change, and established that we were kindred spirits, but I doubt he really wanted to talk to me any more than I wanted to talk to him. We were rivals in some obscure sense, as well as allies, and the silences between us spoke at least as eloquently and profoundly as the words we uttered. Each of us was equally aware, after our long hard day alone, of our own irrelevance and transience, and the immovability of the mountains we had been on, and we knew that in the face of these truths our words were meaningless, mere stour in the wind.

  And yet, now, I must try to make them mean something. I think of John Muir, born at Dun
bar on the East Lothian coast, an emigrant to North America who became the great protector of that continent’s wild places, and in particular of the mountains of California. You can open, almost at random, any of his books and find a good reason for going to the mountains. More than half a century before MacDiarmid, Muir recognised the same things in himself and in the world’s geology that MacDiarmid recognised, but he made something different and holy from them. For Muir there was relief and redemption, where MacDiarmid found stones without mercy. ‘The tendency nowadays to wander in wildernesses is delightful to see,’ Muir wrote. ‘Thousands of tired, nerveshaken, over-civilised people are beginning to find that going to the mountains is going home …’

  Ah, yes, going home. The journey I make into you, mountains of Scotland, is just that: a homeward journey. I go, I disappear for a while, I come back, having climbed or not climbed this hill or those – and I have both been, and am still to go, home. I have left a note to my wife on the kitchen table, saying where I am going, and she trusts me to come back. She loves me so much that she lets me go to you even though it fills her with worry, in case one day you should keep me. So I take off my boots, start the car and drive till there is a phone signal, and then I pull over and call her. We are reconnected, in touch again. When I get home I’ll tell her the details of my day; whether or not I have seen another soul, and any small or medium-sized miracles I may have witnessed. And in return I will hear the details of her day. Ten, maybe twelve times a year – enough, but not nearly enough – I will make this journey, and it is indeed a journey of love in both directions. But no matter how often I make it, no matter the quickening beat of my heart as I set off, no matter all these words I have put down here, I know this journey means absolutely nothing to you. To me, on the other hand, driving home in the light of a big yellow moon, beneath the emerging stars that you and your stones are one with, back to her with whom I am one, it means everything.

  ETGAR KERET

  Translated by Miriam Shlesinger

  Happy Birthday to You

  The bus stops, the driver smiles at you, the windows are gleaming, and there’s plenty of small change. In the row of single seats on the left, the last one is vacant as if it has your name on it, your favourite one. The bus pulls out, the lights turn green as it approaches and the guy cracking sunflower seeds gathers up the peels in a brown paper bag.

  The elderly inspector doesn’t ask to see your ticket, just tips his hat and in a very pleasant voice, wishes you a nice day.

  And it will be a nice day. Because it’s your birthday. You’re bright, you’re pretty, and you have your whole life ahead of you. Four more stops and you’ll pull the cord, and the driver will stop, just for you.

  You’ll get off the bus, no one will jostle you, and the door won’t close till you’ve stepped away. And the bus will leave, the passengers will be happy for you, and the guy with the sunflower seeds will keep waving goodbye till he’s out of sight, for no reason at all.

  Who needs a reason, it’s a birthday, and on birthdays nice things happen. And the puppy running towards you now will wag its tail when you touch it. When there’s a special date, even dogs can tell.

  In your apartment, people will be waiting in the dark, behind the beautiful furniture the two of you chose yourselves. When you open the door, they’ll jump out and surprise you. Just the way it should be at surprise parties.

  They’ll all be there, the people you’ve loved. Those closest to you, and the ones who mean the most. And they’ll bring presents that they bought or dreamt up themselves. Inspired presents, and useful things too.

  The funny ones will entertain, the smart ones will enlighten, even the melancholy ones will give a genuine smile. The food will be amazing, then they’ll serve strawberries and top it off with a vanilla milkshake from the best place in town.

  They’ll play a Keith Jarrett disc and everyone will listen, they’ll play a Satie record and nobody will feel sad. And the ones who are on their own won’t feel alone tonight, and nobody will ask ‘Milk or cream?’ because they all know one another by now.

  In the end they’ll leave, and the ones you wanted to kiss you will kiss you, and the ones you didn’t will just shake your hand. And he’ll be the only one who’ll stay behind, the man you live with, kinder and gentler than ever.

  If you want to, you’ll make love or he’ll massage your body with oil, specially bought in an old bedouin shop. You only have to ask and he’ll dim the halogen light, and you’ll sit there embraced, waiting for dawn.

  And on that magical night, I’ll be there too, drinking my vanilla milkshake, and smiling a genuine smile. And before I go, if you want – I’ll kiss you. And if not, I’ll just shake your hand.

  MANDY SAYER

  Dear miss starling

  You havent seen me this month because my dad is keeping me home to look after my baby sister. I miss my friends and the footy after school. My handwriting is getting better. At home we don’t have a dicksionary so I cant look the words up like you told us to. I live out of town on the old ghost gum road the grey house with the broke down truck out the front. Mum said I was borned hear because I came out to quickly but my sister was borned in town. Its not so far from wear you live. We dont have a fone. Mum used to say its like in the olden days. People must be poor in the olden days like in the movies but for real. You could visit us one day miss starling and I could show you my rabbits. We eat them but never Charlie. He is all mine and his fur is brown like your hair and real soft. He sleeps with me in bed and never poos when he sleeps with me. If you visit us I coold show you the house I made out the back its in a tree mum used to call a weeping fig. I dont know why the fig is called that because trees dont cry but mum did a lot. Somtimes she went away to town to the hostipal the one wear my sister was borned. You told us in class to discribe things in writing to paint a picture that you can see. We have lots of other trees but they are to high for a house gum trees youcaliptus and the willow bye the creek and I like to swing on the branches. My house is made from things I found down the creek bits of wood and sheet metal and this rusty car door when you turn the handel the window still goes down. I pretend its a real house I have shelvs for my rocks and cars and a cup I have water and packets of chips on the shelvs. I have a blancket and a pillow and Charlie likes it up hear. You can look out the window and see for a long way. You can see purrple mountins and the waterfall and you can see the fruit bats in the sky when the sun goes down. You can see cows and sheep chooing grass. You can see the creek down the back wear they all dump there old cars. The top of the church in town the spire is what you call it. You can see the black stumps made by the bushfires on the next hill last summer. They look like little graves in a cematary. All of the animals were killed last summer the posums the bats the snakes the goanas I know I found them after the fire went out they were all black and smoky and I buryed them. From up hear you can see whose driving down the road towards your house and if its your fathers car you can even tell if hes drunk by the way he swerves all over the place and you can hide from him long before he gets home. Not in the tree house but. He knows to look hear. And down the back shed wear the chooks lay eggs. One day miss starling you dropped a hanky in the playground and I picked it up. It wasnt dirty but. It smelled like you like rarsberrys or cherries like the colour red. I have it hear in my pocket. If you come and visit us I could give it back to you. I could give you fresh eggs me and dad have lots. Dad shoots kangaroos and if you like the skins I could give you one of them to. He sells them to a man in brisbane and he says he makes a lot of money but I dont think so unless hes maybe saving up for something I dont know about like a fone maybe. Dad says there are to many roos anyway and thats why he shoots them. You look a bit like my mum before she stopped breathing. Her hair is brown like yours. All her dresses are still hear and I bet they would fit you. But your even more prettier than her. Like someone in a movie or on the tele. Like tracey on neighbours. When dad is out shooting roos I watch tele. When my baby si
ster cries I give her chips. She poos more than Charlie and dad makes me clean it up. Since mum went nobody comes to visit. At night the wind is really loud and makes me scared. Louder than when dad snores. Louder than when he punches the wall. The police came around three times but they never found out what really happend. I never said a word. My baby sister doesnt talk just baby ga ga and crying a lot. Dad told me if I told anyone the same thing woold happen to me and no one woold ever miss me. Woold you miss me Miss Starling. Woold you tell the police I was gone. My baby sister woold miss me but she cant talk. When you come to visit we can watch Oprah and you can learn how to loose ten pounds in two weeks and be normil like doctor phil. And how to live like a movie star even when you dont have any money. You can try on my mothers dresses and her shoes are size 9. They woold fit you miss starling and you can have them all. She has a fur coat but she told me it wasnt real but you can have that to if you want. Dad told me it was all my fault and thats why he did what he did to her. When the men from the school came around he told them I was sick and thats why I wasnt at school. I had to make out like I was sick and I had to coff a lot. If I didnt coff a lot in front of the men dad woold give me a big belting he told me. Miss starling your my favourite teacher in the hole world. When you were in the paper the other day for your prize I cut out your picture and stuck it on the wall of my treehouse you can see it when you come to visit. Sometimes I pretend the picture is real and you are hear already and you and me are talking to each other and where having a good time. Your wheering my mothers green dress and shoes and her real golden earings. Nobody is hear but us not even my baby sister. Where watching Oprah and eating chips. Where laughng at cartoons and then you put your arm around me and I start to feel all warm. I know wear you live miss starling its the pink house on mundeys farm I followd you home after school one day and climed a tree and watched you walk around in your nightie in the kitchen. You looked really pretty in your nightie it was a short one I coold see even more than your nees. You dont have a husband miss starling I know I never saw a man in there. Do you get lonly with no husband. Tomorow Ill push this inside your pink letterbox and wait until after school and watch you read it from the tree again and if I see you smile I know you woold come. Please please come soon miss starling. Where waiting for you. Its the grey house with the broke down truck out the front. The only one on ghost gum road. Come before dark before dad gets home he will get mad if he sees you hear. My mother now looks like a bad skinned rabbit and she is starting stink worst than before in the basement but please dont tell any one or else Im in big trouble.