The Leithen Stories

by John Buchan

  Lew and the Indian spent a day of furious activity. They cut huge quantities of wood and kept both fires blazing. Fire-tending seemed to give Lew some comfort, as if it spelled life in a dead place. He wandered round the outer fire like a gigantic pixie, then, as the evening drew on, he carried Leithen into the cave, and, having arranged a couch for him, stood over him like an angry schoolmaster.

  ‘D’you believe in God?’ he demanded.

  ‘I believe in God.’

  ‘I was brought up that way too. My father was bed-rock Presbyterian, and I took after him – not like brother Johnny, who was always light-minded. There was times when my sins fair bowed me down, and I was like old Christian in The Pilgrim’s Progress – I’d have gone through fire and water to get quit of ’em. Then I got the notion of this Sick Heart as the kind of place where there was no more trouble, a bit of the Garden of Eden that God had kept private for them as could find it. I’d been thinking about it for years, and suddenly I saw a chance of gettin’ to it and findin’ peace for ever more. Not dying – I wasn’t thinking of dying – but living happily ever after, as the story books say. That was my aim, fool that I was!’

  His voice rose to a shout.

  ‘I was mad! It was the temptation of the Devil and not a promise of God. The Sick Heart is not the Land-of-Beulah but the Byroad-to-Hell, same as in Bunyan. It don’t rise like a proper river out of little springs – it comes full-born out of the rock and slinks back into it like a ghost. I tell you the place is no’ canny. You’d say it had the best grazing in all America, and yet there’s nothing can live here. There’s a curse on this valley when I thought there was a blessing. So there’s just the one thing to do if we’re to save our souls, and that’s to get out of it though we break our necks in the job.’

  The man’s voice had become shrill with passion, and even in the shadow Leithen could see the fire in his eyes.

  ‘You’re maybe thinking different,’ he went on. ‘You think you’re dying and that this is a nice quiet place to die in. But you’ll be damned for it. There’s a chance of salvation for you if you pass out up on the cold tops, but there’s none if your end comes in this cursed hole.’

  Leithen turned wearily on his side to face the speaker.

  ‘You’d better count me out. I’m finished. I’d only be a burden to you. A couple of days here should see me through, and then you can do what you like.’

  ‘By God I won’t! I can’t leave you – I’d never hold up my head again if I did. And I can’t stay here with Hell waitin’ to grab me. Me and the Hare will help you along, for our kit will be light. Besides, you could show us the road out. The Hare says you know how to get along on steep snow.’

  ‘Have you any rope?’ Leithen asked.

  Lew’s wild face sobered. ‘It’s about all I have. I’ve got two hundred feet of light rope. Brought it along with the notion it might come in handy and I can make some more out of caribou skin.’

  Leithen had asked the question involuntarily, for the thing did not interest him. The deep fatigue which commonly ended his day had dropped on him like a mountain of lead. Death was very near, and where could he meet it better than in this gentle place, remote alike from the turmoil of Nature and of man?

  But after his meagre supper, as he watched Lew and the Indian repack their kit, the power of thought returned to him. This was the last lap in the race; was he to fail in it? Why had he come here when at home he might have had a cushioned death-bed among friends? Was it not to die standing, to go out in his boots? And that meant that he must have a purpose to fill his mind, and let that purpose exclude foolish meditations on death. Well, he had half-finished his job – he had found Galliard; but before he could get Galliard back to his old world he must bring to him the strange man who had obsessed his mind and who, having been mad, was now sane. Therefore he must get Lew out of the Sick Heart valley. He did not believe that Lew could find his way out alone. The long spout of snow was ice in parts, and Lew knew nothing of step-cutting. Leithen remembered the terror of the Hare in the descent. Mountaineering to men like Lew was a desperate venture. Could he guide them up the spout? It would have been child’s play in the old days, but now! … He bent his knees and elbows. Great God! his limbs were as flaccid as india-rubber. What kind of a figure would he cut on an ice slope?

  And yet what was the alternative? To lie here dying by inches – by feet and yards, perhaps, but still slowly – with Lew in a panic and restrained from leaving him only by the iron camaraderie of the North. His own utter weakness made him crave for immobility, but something at the back of his mind cried out against it. Why had he left England if he was to cower in a ditch and not stride on to the end? That had always been his philosophy. He remembered that long ago in his youth he had written bad verses on the subject, demanding that he meet death ‘with the wind in his teeth and the rain in his face.’ It was no false stoicism, but the creed of a lifetime.

  By and by he fell asleep, and – a rare thing for one whose slumbers seemed drugged – woke in the small hours. Lew could be heard snoring, but he must have been recently awake, for he had stoked both fires. A queer impulse seized Leithen to get up. With some difficulty he crawled out of his sleeping-bag and stumbled to his feet, wrapping a blanket round him …

  It was a marvellous night, cold, but not bitterly cold, and the flames of the outer fire were crimson against a sky of burnished gold. Moonshine filled the valley and brimmed over the edge of the cliffs. Those cliffs caught no reflection of light, but were more dark and jagged than by day; except that on the eastern side, where lay the snowdrifts, there was a wave of misty saffron.

  Moonlight is a soothing thing, softening the raw corners of the world, but suddenly to Leithen this moonlight seemed monstrous and unearthly. The valley was a great golden mausoleum with ebony walls, a mausoleum, not a kindly grave for a common mortal. Kings might die here and lie here, but not Edward Leithen. There was a tremor in his steady nerves, a fluttering in his sober brain. He knew now what Lew meant … With difficulty he got back into his sleeping-bag and covered his head so that he could not see the moon. He must get out of this damned place though he used the last penny-weight of his strength.

  20

  LEW and the Indian had Leithen between them, steadying himself with a hand on each of their huge back-packs. The Hare’s rope had gone to the cording of the dunnage, and Lew’s was in a coil on Leithen’s shoulder. The journey to the snow shoot was made in many short stages, across a frozen pool of the river, and then in the snow-sprinkled herbage below the eastern crags. The weather was changing, for a yellow film was creeping from the north over the sky.

  ‘There’ll be big snow on the tops,’ said Lew, ‘and maybe a god-awful wind.’

  It was midday before they reached the foot of the couloir. The lower slopes, down which Leithen and the Hare had rolled, were set at a gentle angle, and the firm snow made easy going; it was up in the narrows of the cleft that it changed to a ribbon of ice. The problem before him stirred some forgotten chord in Leithen’s mind, and he found himself ready to take command. First he sent Lew and the Hare with the kit up to the edge of the ice, and bade them anchor the packs there to poles driven into the last soft snow. That done he made the two men virtually carry him up the easy slopes. He had a meagre remnant of bodily strength, and he would need it all for the task before him.

  In an hour’s time the three were at the foot of the sunless narrows where the snow was hard ice. There he gave Lew his orders.

  ‘I will cut steps, deep ones with plenty of standing room. Keep looking before you, and not down. I’ll rope, so that if I fall you can hold me. If I get to the top I’ll try to make the rope fast, and the Hare must follow in the steps. He will haul up the kit after him; then he will drop the rope for you, and you must tie it on. If you slip he will be able to hold you.’

  Leithen chose the Hare to go second, for the Indian seemed less likely than Lew to suffer from vertigo. He had come up the lower slopes impassively whi
le Lew had had the face of one in torment.

  ‘Lew’s hatchet was a poor substitute for an ice axe. Leithen’s old technique of step-cutting had to be abandoned, and the notches he hacked would have disgusted a Swiss guide. He had to make them deep and sloping inward for the sake of Lew’s big moccasined feet. Also he had often to cut hand-holds for himself so that he could rest plastered flat against the ice when his knees shook and his wrists ached and his head swam with weariness.

  It was a mortal slow business, and one long agony. Presently he was past the throat of the gully and in snow again, soft snow with a hard crust, but easier to work than the ice of the narrows. Here the wind, which Lew had foretold, swirled down from the summit, and he almost fell. The last stage was a black nightmare. Soon it would be all over, he told himself – soon, soon, there would be the blessed sleep of death.

  He reached the top with a dozen feet of rope to spare, and straightway tumbled into deep snow. There he might have perished, drifting into a sleep from which there would be no awakening, had not tugs on the rope from Lew beneath forced him back into consciousness. With infinite labour he untied the rope from his middle. With frail, fumbling, chilled hands he made the end fast to a jack-pine which grew conveniently near the brink. He gave the rope the three jerks which was the agreed signal that he was at the summit and anchored. Then a red mist of giddiness overtook him, and he dropped limply into the snow at the tree roots.

  21

  WHEN Leithen came to his senses he found it hard to link the present with the past. His last strong sensation had been that of extreme cold; now it was as warm as if he were in bed at home, and he found that his outer garments had been removed and that he was wearing only underclothes and a jersey. It was night, and he was looking up at a sky of dark velvet, hung with stars like great coloured lamps. By and by, as his eyes took in the foreground, he found that he was in a kind of pit scooped in deep snow with a high rampart of snow around it. The floor was spread with spruce boughs, but a space had been left in the middle for a fire, which had for its fuel the butt-ends of two trees which met in the middle and slipped down as they smouldered.

  He did not stay long awake, but in those minutes he was aware of something new in his condition. The fit of utter apathy had passed. He was conscious of the strangeness of this cache in the snow, this mid-winter refuge in a world inimical to man. The bitter diamond air, like some harsh acid, had stung him back to a kind of life – at any rate to a feeble response to life.

  * * *

  Next day he started out in a state of abject decrepitude. Lew put snow-shoes on him, but he found that he had lost the trick of them, and kept on tangling up his feet and stumbling. The snow lay deep, and under the stricture of the frost was as dry and powdery as sand, so that his feet sank into it. Lew went first to break the trail, but all his efforts did not make a firm track, so that the stages had to be short, and by the midday meal Leithen was at the end of his tether. The glow of a fire and some ptarmigan broth slightly revived him, but his fatigue was such that Lew made camp an hour before nightfall.

  That night, in his hole in the snow, Leithen’s thoughts took a new turn. For long his mind had been sluggish, cognisant of walls but of no windows. Now suddenly it began to move and he saw things …

  Lew was taking shape in his thoughts as a man and not as a portent. At first he had been a mystery figure, an inexplicable Providence which dominated Johnny’s mind, and which had loomed big on Leithen’s own horizon. Then he had changed to a disturbing force which had mastered Galliard and seemed to be an incarnation of the secret madness of the North. And then in the Sick Heart valley he had become a Saul whose crazy fit was passing, a man who was seeking something that he had lost and had reached his desired goal only to find that it was not there. Lew and Galliard were in the same boat, sufferers from the same spell.

  But Lew had returned by way of panic to normal life. For a moment this strong child of Nature had been pathetic, begging help and drawing courage from Leithen himself, a dying man. The splendid being had been a suppliant to one whose body was in decay. The irony of it induced in Leithen a flicker of affection. He seemed, too, to draw a transitory vigour from a creature so instinct with life. His numb stoicism was shot with a momentary warmth and colour. Lew on the trail, shouting oddments of Scots songs in his rich voice, and verses of the metrical Psalms of his youth, engaged in thunderous discourse with the Hare in his own tongue, seemed to dominate the snowdrifts and the blizzards and the spells of paralysing cold. Leithen found that he had won a faint warmth of spirit from the proximity of Lew’s gusto. And the man was as gentle as a woman. His eyes were never off Leithen; he arranged the halts to suit his feebleness, and at each of them tended him like a mother. At night he made his bed and fed him with the care of a hospital nurse.

  ‘This ain’t the food for you,’ he declared. ‘You want fresh meat. It’s time we were at Johnny’s camp where I can get it for you.’

  Half a gale was blowing. He detected the scepticism in Leithen’s eye and laughed.

  ‘It don’t look good for hunting weather, says you. Maybe not, but I’ll get you what you need. We’re not in the barrens to depend on wandering caribou. There’s beasts in these mountains all the year round, and I reckon I know where to find ’em. There’s caribou, the big woods kind, and there’s more moose than anyone kens, except the Hares. They’ll have stamped out their yards and we’ve got to look for ’em.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Stamping the snow to get at the shoots. Yards they call ’em down east. But the Hares call ’em ravages. Got the name from the French missionaries.’

  Next day the stages were short and difficult. There was a cruel north-east wind, and the snow was like kitchen salt and refused to pack. The Hare broke the trail, but Leithen, who followed, often sank to his knees in spite of his snow-shoes. (‘We need bear-paws like they use down East,’ Lew proclaimed. ‘These northern kind are too narrow to spread the weight.’) An hour’s march brought him to utter exhaustion, and there were moments when he thought that that day would be his last.

  At the midday meal he heard what stung his sense of irony into life. Lew had placed him in the lee of a low-growing spruce which broke the wind, and had forgotten his presence, for while he and the Indian collected wood for the fire they talked loudly, shouting against the blast. The Hare chose to speak English, in which he liked to practise himself.

  ‘Him lung sick,’ he said. There could be no doubt about his reference.

  ‘Yeah,’ Lew grunted.

  ‘Him soon die, like my brother and my uncles.’

  The reply was an angry shout.

  ‘No, by God, he won’t! You chew on that, you bloody-minded heathen. He’s going to cheat old man Death and get well.’

  Leithen smiled wryly. It was Uncle Toby’s oath, but Uncle Toby’s efforts had failed, and so would Lew’s.

  That night, since the day’s journey had been short, his fatigue was a little less than usual, and after supper, instead of falling at once into a heavy sleep, he found himself watching Lew, who, wrapped in his blankets, was smoking his short pipe, and now and then stirring the logs with the spruce pole which he used as a poker. His eyes were half-closed, and he seemed to be in a not unpleasant reverie. Leithen – to his surprise, for he had resolved that his mind was dead to all mundane interests – found his curiosity roused. This was one of the most famous guides in the North. The country fitted him as a bearskin fitted the bear. Never, surely, was man better adapted to his environment. What had shaken him loose from his normal life and sent him on a crazy pilgrimage to a legendary river? It could not have been only a craving to explore, to find out what lay far away over the hills. There had been an almost mystical exaltation in the quest, for it had caused him to forget all his traditions, and desert Galliard, and this exaltation had ended in a panicky rebound. When he had met him he had found a strong man in terror, shrinking from something which he could not name. It must have been a strange dream which r
esulted in so cruel an awakening.

  He asked Lew the question point-blank. The man came out of his absorption and turned his bright eyes on the questioner.

  ‘I’ve been trying to figure that out myself,’ he said. ‘All my life since I was a callant I’ve been looking for things and never findin’ ’em.’

  He stopped in some embarrassment.

  ‘I don’t know that I can rightly explain, for you see I’m not used to talking. When I was about eighteen I got kinda sick of my life, and wanted to get away south, to the cities. Johnny was never that way, nor Dad neither. But I reckon there were Frizels far back that had been restless too. Anyway, I was mighty restless. Then Dad died, and I had to take on some of his jobs, and before I knew I was deep in the business of guiding and feeling good about it. I wanted nothing except to know more about pelts than any trapper, and more about training than any Indian, and to keep my body as hard as whinstone, and my hearing like a timber wolf’s, and my eyesight like a fishhawk’s.’

  ‘That was before the War?’

  Lew nodded. ‘Before the War. The War came and Johnny and me went overseas. We made a bit of a name as snipers, Johnny pretty useful and me a wee bit better. I enjoyed it right enough, and barring my feet, for I wasn’t used to wearing army boots, I was never sick or sorry. But I was god-awful homesick, and when I smelt a muskeg again and saw the pointed sticks I could have grat with pleasure.’

  Lew shook out his pipe.

  ‘But the man that came back wasn’t the same as him that crossed the sea. I was daft about the North, and never wanted to leave it, but I got a notion that the North was full of things that I didn’t know nothing about – and that it was up to me to find ’em. I took to talking a lot with Indians and listening to their stories. And then I heard about the Sick Heart and couldn’t forget it.’