Lament for a Maker

by Michael Innes

  I took a deep breath of that chill, dank air. Here surely rather than in Kinkeig was the right haunt for Guthrie’s wrath, fitly attended by the shade of Hardcastle and a scampering wreath of ghostly rats. And though I did not believe that these spirits walked I yet found myself almost yielding to a sudden and powerful impulse of superstition. That afternoon Wedderburn had laid the Erchany mystery to rest: it were better not to agitate it anew, lest worse might befall. So strong was this feeling that I had to summon the abstract principle of my profession – the principle of justice – before I could shake myself free of it and say to my companions: ‘May we go up to the tower at once?’

  In silence we traversed a long corridor and passed through the first of those doors the timely locking of which by Gylby had foiled Hardcastle in any attempt to remove the tell-tale telephone equipment. Then we climbed. The tower, psychologists tell us, is a symbol of ambition – of perilous altitude, like the apex of Fortune’s wheel. And the solid earth – the humble below – is a symbol of safety. And the man who feels a mad impulse to hurl himself from one to the other seeks only to pass from danger to security; he is betrayed by the treacherous logic of the buried mind. No doubt it was Guthrie’s ambition that had obscurely driven him to fix his quarters in this laboriously attained retreat. Might the psychologist’s theory of symbols illuminate what had happened on Christmas Eve? At some deep level of the mind had the ruining plunge held the significance of security gained or granted – of rescue – for Guthrie? Was there here, as it were, a subconscious piece in that biggest of all the jigsaws of which he had darkly announced the completion to Christine Mathers? I docketed the somewhat academic questions for consideration later: we had come to the study door.

  The room has been described and I need add few details. Many towers of the sort have been added to storey by storey – building upwards being the most economical way of getting extra space. But this topmost storey of Erchany was clearly an integral part of the original structure. The walls, being set back some four feet in order to give space for the parapet walk surrounding them, could only be about half the thickness of their immediate foundations: nevertheless I was chiefly impressed by the strength as well as by the isolation of the place. These two rooms – study and adjoining small bedroom – belonged to a period when castles were true strongholds and not mere manifestoes of rank. And they preserved their character of inviolate medieval fastness.

  The study was now embellished with a number of dead rats: otherwise nothing had changed since Gylby first locked the door on it. I had a good idea that Speight, when he had digested the afternoon’s proceedings, would be up and poking about again on the morrow, and I was glad of the opportunity of a quiet survey first. The rifled bureau, the bogus telephone – it was amateur work but a neat and simple job nevertheless – and the books on the desk: I examined them carefully before turning into the bedroom. Here I rummaged about among the lumber in the corner and then returned to the study with the book already discovered by Wedderburn: Flinders’ Experimental Radiology. ‘An interesting book,’ I said. ‘Or rather an interesting fly-leaf. You noticed?’

  But nobody had noticed the fly-leaf and I now laid it open on the desk. Neatly written in ink was this inscription:

  Richard Flinders

  Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons

  Born in South Australia February 1893

  Died at

  Wedderburn stared at this abrupted memorial in considerable perplexity. ‘Dear me! I ought not to have missed that. A most mysterious inscription. Can it be connected with Guthrie’s colonial days?’

  I pointed to the second line. ‘Born 1893. Can we learn anything from that?’

  There was a baffled silence and then Sybil Guthrie spoke.

  ‘Christine told me her uncle came home and inherited Erchany in 1894. Just a year after this person’s birth.’

  I nodded. ‘Good. A significant fact – and one that doesn’t fit! Often the most useful sort of fact. Gylby, will you see if Guthrie’s recent purchases include a medical directory? I rather fancy they must.’

  A brief search proved me right and I quickly turned the pages. ‘Here we are – and the sort of long entry they give to very big guns. M.B., B.S., Adelaide; worked there, then in Sydney, then a long spell in the United States. It’s on the strength of that, no doubt, that he has just been appointed emeritus fellow and pensioner of an American learned society. Then back in Sydney, with various short periods in London. A tiptop surgeon, apparently, who turned to experimental work – hence the need, I suppose, of a pension. Two standard text- books, including the one before us. Any amount of communications to journals and about a dozen monographs. Listen. Radiology of the Cardiac Region. Radiology and the Differential Diagnosis of Intestinal Maladies. An Historical Outline of the Medical Use of Radium. Analysis of a Case of Long-term Amnesia. Syringomyelia: the Radiological Approach. The Technique of Rapid Screening: A Contribution to Contemporary Radiology. Radon–’

  Wedderburn interrupted. ‘My dear Mr Appleby, is this really interesting?’

  ‘Interesting? Well, there’s another point that might interest you more. The distinguished Flinders is not merely a big gun; he’s a prodigy.’

  ‘A prodigy?’

  ‘Definitely.’ I pointed to the inscribed fly-leaf. ‘“Born in South Australia February 1893.” If we accept that statement we have to believe that he graduated in medicine at the age of seven.’

  Wedderburn exclaimed impatiently. ‘This is nonsense!’

  ‘On the contrary, it is the first glimpse of the truth. And now we had better aim at the truth all round. Miss Guthrie, I think these developments take you somewhat out of your depth?’

  ‘Indeed they do.’

  ‘Then listen. I give you the same promise about Lindsay that Mr Wedderburn gave. We have the truth of his position in the story. He is out of it. So now let me ask you the question Gylby asked. However did you know Guthrie committed suicide?’

  ‘I didn’t. In fact I saw him sent over the parapet.’

  Wedderburn sighed and fell to polishing his glasses. ‘I think,’ I said, ‘we might usefully go up to the gallery.’

  3

  The faded terrestrial globe stirred, revolved: my finger traced the long route from Australia through Suez to Southampton.

  ‘It’s in the blood, and by the great God he will…!’

  We walked down the gallery, our lanterns and torches playing before us on the long line of dead Guthries. I paused, picked out a sixteenth-century portrait by a Flemish artist, then swung round to a late eighteenth-century laird by Raeburn. It was the same face looked down on us. Softly I said: ‘What for would it not work, man? What for would it not work?’ We stood in silence for a moment. ‘Gylby, can you repeat the end of Dunbar’s poem?’

  And Noel Gylby recited:

  ‘Gud Maister Walter Kennedy

  In poynt of dede lyis veraly,

  Great reuth it wer that so suld be;

  Timor Mortis conturbat me.

  ‘Sen he has all my brether tane,

  He will nocht let me lif alane;

  Of force I mon his nyxt prey be;

  Timor Mortis conturbat me.

  ‘Sen for the deth remeid is non,

  Best is that we for deth dispone

  After our deth that lif may we;

  Timor Mortis conturbat me.’

  There was another and longer silence. ‘Ranald Guthrie,’ I said at last, ‘has a pretty art in turning medieval piety to irony. Death threatens; best so to arrange for it that one continues to live. That’s his reading of Dunbar. And, somewhere, Ranald is alive now. It was his brother Ian – Richard Flinders the Australian surgeon – who died. Ranald’s story we shall piece together. But the whole story of Ian we shall never know.’

  Wedderburn seemed to struggle for words – was forestalled by a startled cry from Sybil Guthrie. There was a scuffle in the darkness; I lowered my lantern and saw that Mrs Hardcastle’s all too potent poison had accoun
ted for yet another rat – a great grey creature that had grotesquely dragged itself to die at our feet. For a moment I thought it was one of Gylby’s learned rats, with its little message attached. Then I saw that it was a rat more learned than that. Clutched in its mouth, as if seized to staunch its final agony, was a small black notebook.

  PART FIVE

  THE DOCTOR’S TESTAMENT

  1

  As consciousness came to me I was aware that the landscape was unfamiliar. And this awareness was for a space like Adam’s in the Garden: I recognized novelty without the aid of any of those contrasting memories which would seem essential to the formulation of the idea. More strangely, I was unperplexed by this. I suppose my mind had vigour only for the business of survival.

  Before me was a rolling immensity of dark green vegetation, its dull lustre fading into purple distance under a vibrant blue sky. Behind me, I thought, was the roar of breakers, and heat as if the breakers were lava beating up from a subterraneous sea of fire. I struggled round. The sea was an illusion; the reality was a sweeping curtain of veritable flame, a great sickle of flame that reaped the tinder-dry vegetation with a motion perceptible as I watched. For a moment it was a spectacle only; then it realized itself as imminent peril. I got to hands and knees and saw, bounding before the blaze, a scattering of miniature prehistoric creatures – one grotesque form reproduced on every scale from the human to the rodent, like a child’s nest of bricks. Kangaroos and wallabies: with an immense effort my blood-soaked brain gave them their names. And at that much of my local knowledge returned to me; I saw that I was in the path of a bush fire and that I must find a break or be overwhelmed.

  I was crouching where I must have fallen, half-way down an out-crop of limestone rock from which a dry gully dropped to lose itself in the scrub. Here and there the scrub gave place to a sparser growth of ti-tree, prickly bushes and salsolae, which in turn exhausted themselves round arid islands of sand. But nowhere was a denuded area large enough to promise security; my only hope was in a single massive ridge of rock that showed not more than two miles away, in startling isolation amid the low and endless undulations of green. It swayed and quivered as I looked – partly from refraction in the heat, partly perhaps to my own impaired sense – and I could be certain neither of its size nor of the practicability of ascent. It rose in sheer lines accentuated by an occasional perpendicular funnel or cleft. Up one of these I might scramble to safety.

  I got to my feet and found myself – with a sort of detached surprise – not without considerable physical strength. The fire was partly checked by a veering wind; had it been sweeping directly towards me I should have had no chance at all. As it was, it was a grim race and I wasted no time. But before striking down the gully it occurred to me to discover if I had any possessions. There was evidence of a little encampment: a dead fire, an overturned billy, horse-dung. These meant nothing to me. But I found a haversack which I knew to be mine and took up. I knew too that there ought to be a water-bottle. In a swift and desperate search I failed to find it. T

  Then I set out. The scrub was low and, when entered, not actually dense; I got forward without difficulty and with my mark always before me. A mile on I found a water-bottle – mine or another’s – three parts empty. This strange chance gave me a sort of irrational or superstitious confidence without which I should not be alive today.

  By the time I reached the foot of the ridge there were already little fires about me. The heat of the conflagration was attracting a light headwind that blew in my face but through this the main blast was carrying forward showers of sparks that in places kindled flaring outposts of fire hundreds of yards ahead. Once I was nearly trapped by a sudden line of flame that leapt to life in a clump of yaccas about me – stunted spearlike growths of which the resinous butts will kindle with the force and rapidity of an explosion.

  For agonizing minutes I explored the rock-face in vain for cleft or foothold: it seemed that my back, in a most horrible sense, was to the wall. But presently I found a possible chimney and began to climb. It is interesting that in that crisis I commanded all the lore though nothing of the memories of a mountain youth. And perhaps it was because my memory was like a freshly sponged slate that I can recall now with an almost hallucinatory power every step and strain of that desperate ascent. I emerged at length some nine hundred feet above an inferno of fire, and sufficiently shaken to fear that I might only have attained to a species of monstrously elevated grid-iron where I should perish like a martyr in a mad painter’s dream. I was however perfectly safe.

  For over an hour I watched the fire sweep past. Though powerless against the barrier of rock it yet added appreciably to the burning heat of the sun and the scorching breath of the dry north wind that fanned it behind. The climb and the heat and the terror of the scene had momentarily exhausted me; I drank charily from my water-bottle and concentrated all the resources of my will on the next and all-important battle – the battle against mere despair. Many men who have wandered in wild places have found themselves in just such a perilous pass but few, except perhaps in some ultimate stumbling agony, can have experienced my peculiar distress.

  With my senses in fair order and almost unimpaired physical strength, I yet found myself void of all memory of my own identity or of my whereabouts. Below me, I was massively aware, was a landscape not native to me – the landscape of Australia in one of its most appalling manifestations. I had plenty of knowledge – I could have read Latin or recognized the Parthenon or selected a fly for trout – but of knowledge organized round the fact of personality this was my whole store: I was a stranger lost in Australia. Beyond this I found it impossible to struggle. My consciousness of myself had no wavering boundaries which effort could push back: I was imprisoned in ignorance by walls as sheer as the rock up which I had recently climbed.

  The fire had rolled away – by watching the dropping sun I judged roughly to the south-west. It had left behind it a smoking vastness which would be dangerous to traverse before a night had passed; my only present course was to take what bearings I could, find shade, and rest.

  I estimated my horizon at about fifty miles. And in all that vast circle, save for the eminence on which I stood, was nothing but the empty and featureless bush, scarred by one long and diminishing trail of fire – a rolling and planless dapple of scrub and sand, diversified only by a sporadic growth of timber or by the swell of some undulation slightly more pronounced than the rest. Of clearing or settlement or homestead, white man or black fellow, there was no slightest sign; the scene was void, sullen, and sinisterly waiting in a way that caught and haunted the nerve. Only on the very verge of the southerly horizon lay a single level pencilled line. Long and anxiously I studied it through the treacherous heat. And finally I decided to call it the sea and make it my goal.

  I turned to reckon needs and resources. Tied to the haversack was a hat, the primary need of all. Inside were a shirt, oatmeal, some biscuits, matches and a few personal belongings at which I could only gaze in perplexity. I had no compass. But in my trousers pocket I discovered a watch. And I had a two quart billy-can without a lid.

  In the bewildering country below me I believed that the watch and the sun alone would be useless. I needed the watch roughly set at noon, a clear star-lit sky, country sufficiently open and a surface sufficiently safe to traverse in the cool of the night. I needed water within twenty-four hours, and food within three or four days. These points determined, I found a patch of shade, lay down and was almost instantly asleep.

  I awoke in the brief Australian dusk to see below me a hundred points of smouldering fire. But the main conflagration had disappeared, caught and smothered perhaps in some chance funnel of sand, and I decided to descend and at least test the possibility of beginning my journey that night. The route down the chimney was doubly hazardous in the failing light but I was in the mood for taking chances. The decision nearly cost me my life. It also saved it.

  Before I was half-way down the light had fa
iled badly. Near the bottom the chimney forked; I misjudged a foothold in attempting to take the route by which I had come and fell perhaps fifteen feet down the other branch of the cleft. I lay at once dazed and in a curious agony of calculation: a broken limb or a bad sprain and I was done for. I felt no pain – but pain often comes later. I moved my limbs; they answered my will and a wave of relief passed over me. It was followed by a wave of fear. My legs were soaked in what I thought was blood. It was water. The discovery changed all my plans. I must carry with me every ounce of water that I could, half of it in an open billy. Until the billy was exhausted I must never once stumble. Such a strange variant of the egg and spoon race could be accomplished only in daylight. I judged that the gain in water would outweigh an extra twelve hours’ strain on my food, as also the risk of my not being able to hold a fairly straight southerly course by the sun. This decided, I lay down once more to sleep or rest. The night was cool but without extreme cold or frost. This encouraged me in the belief that I had seen the sea: it was unlikely that I was either at a considerable altitude or islanded in a great land-mass.

  I was up at dawn and, accepting the dubious analogy of the camel, drank a good deal more water than was comfortable. There was a difficult climb from the spring by which I had fallen to the open ground and I found that my mind, though tolerably clear, had alarming blind spots in addition to that of memory. I wearied myself with trying to climb free with a brimming billy before I saw that I could fill the billy in the open from the water-bottle and then return to the spring and replenish that.

  Apprehending this aberration, I spent some bad moments in sheer fear of fear – in panic lest I had discovered in myself a first symptom of that paralysing panic that can come on men who feel themselves bushed. Concentration on the first miles of my egg and spoon race conquered this feeling. The scrub was fairly open and the undergrowth too sparse to be treacherous. I allowed myself a pint of water that day and brought the rest safely to my evening halt. During the march I had eaten a few biscuits; I now kindled a fire and cooked myself a species of oatmeal bannock on a flat stone. I felt far from hopeless.