‘I have land to the north of here,’ Robert Wood said thoughtfully.
‘The good thing is you do not need so much space on the ground for her, as for a watermill. But you do want a hill, or else to raise a mound, as high as you can make her. And you must brace her post with quarter beams, that you box in, if you will, with stones, to hold her resolute. Her sails must be removed, and then must be reset, and threaded through with cloths. And she will want millstones, of course.’
‘We have land, and we have trees, and we have men to build her,’ Robert Wood declared. ‘Under your direction, she will be ours. Then you shall have the working of her, Gavan, think of that! Not only those who are in thirlage to the mill, but all the town will come to you – to us. They will come when the mills are stopped by frost and drought, in summer and in winter time, and when the rivers run, then they will come from choice, because they are not bound to us.’
‘They will not come to me, sir.’ Gavan shook his head.
‘What say you, man? Of course they will! They know you for an honest man; an honest miller, too, and that is rare enough.’ Robert Wood laughed mirthlessly.
‘I mean I dinna want her, sir, for I am happy here. The working of the windmill will go to Henry Cairns. You ken it will. He already has the biggest share of business in the town, and the running of three mills. He and his sons, besides, are ingineers.’
‘Henry Cairns is not the sheriff’s brother,’ Robert Wood declared. ‘Well, do as you will. If you will not comply, I must take more in rent.’
‘You canna do that, sir,’ Gavan protested. ‘For I already give you more than we can afford. The sluice gate is rotting, and wanting repair. What little I can make back from the multure barely meets the cost.’
‘Then you know what to do,’ Robert answered bluntly. ‘The trouble with you is that you lack ambition. Do not irk me with your grumbling and complaints. If you are poor, you know how to mend it. Think of your boy, here. Harry, is it not?’ He let his hand rest a fraction above the boy’s head, almost, but not quite, ruffling through his hair. The boy looked up and smiled at Robert Wood, easily and guilelessly. Harry had a smudge of flour across his nose, and Robert Wood dislodged it, with a careless, callous flicking of his thumb. Gavan stiffened, hating him. ‘What is it you are doing, Harry?’ Robert asked.
‘Shifting out the fine flour for the baxter’s riddel,’ the boy answered, rubbing it. ‘The baxters then will sift it. Shifting for sifting.’ He took a childish pleasure in the pattern of the words. And Gavan loved him then, even as he hated Robert Wood. Another cloud flew up, and settled in his hair, a scattering of dust. Robert said, ‘You are a clever boy.’ Gavan willed him not to touch. ‘A boy like that,’ Robert said, ‘could go to the grammar school. He could go on to the college, at the university.’
‘He is a miller’s son,’ Gavan Lang said simply. He imagined Harry, at the grammar school, and at the university, and at the pulpit, thundering, the great book in his hand. He wondered if it could come true, and hated Robert Wood.
Robert answered, ‘Even so.’ His interest had declined to milder irritation, as though he had grown bored. He no longer looked at Harry, though the boy was blinking up at him, anxious still to please. ‘Think about it,’ he advised. Gavan knew that he was angry, though he had not lost control. At the door he paused, to take a parting shot, ‘Have you caught that fish?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I want her,’ Robert warned.
‘Tonight,’ the miller promised. ‘I have made new traps. Tonight, I shall have her, sir, I swear.’
‘See that you do.’ Robert Wood let the door slam behind him. He did not stay to chatter with the customers outside, the baxters and the tenants who were gathered on the bank, to gossip and to wait for the wheel to make their turn.
The boy asked, ‘What’s ambition, Dad?’
‘Ambition is a sin. It is vanity and pride.’
‘Oh.’ The boy took a while to digest this information. He considered everything, always, and so carefully, that Gavan heard the questions turning in his mind. ‘Does the laird have ambition, then?’ he ventured at last.
‘Aye. And he is not the laird,’ Gavan answered shortly.
‘He is to us. He is our landlord. And he seems to do well from it,’ Harry pointed out. Gavan saw the boy was disappointed in him. He saw it in the boy’s eyes, pricking at his heart, and it was more than he could bear.
‘Robert Wood is cross,’ he explained to Harry, ‘because he kens full well he cannot hae the windmill. She will go to Henry Cairns.’
‘But you could have it, if you would. Why to Henry Cairns?’ the boy objected.
‘Because he is the better miller,’ Gavan Lang confessed. It hurt his heart to say it. The boy was close to tears.
‘He cannot be.’
‘You see, son, that sometimes . . .’
The boy shook his head. He said fiercely, ‘He cannot be. Because I have telt them that you were the best. I telt them at the kirk, that you would have the windmill, that Robert Wood would have it, because you are the best, and his brother is Sir Andrew Wood the sheriff and the coroner.’
Gavan’s heart was sick with dread. ‘Who did you tell it to, son?’
‘All of them. Tom Honeyman, George Cairns, and Wallie Brooke.’
The baxters’ and the millers’ sons, thought Gavan, miserably. ‘You should not have done that, Harry,’ he said gently. ‘It was wrang of you.’
There were tears, now, and angry ones. The boy rose up to challenge him, ‘Why, then, was it wrang?’
‘Because it was not the truth. And even if it were true, it was wrong to say it. It was boastful bragging, vain and proud.’
‘Is there nothing,’ asked the boy, ‘that makes you proud?’
Gavan looked at him, at the fierce little face, so like his own, the tearful grey eyes, the light tuft of hair that Robert Wood had smudged. ‘There is one thing,’ he said quietly, and turned away.
‘The water is flowing too fast. Come outside, and I will show you how to slow it with the sluice.’ Instantly, the boy was at his side, eager and compliant. He had never been allowed to touch the gates. ‘May I move the catch?’
‘You may. But you must never, ever, touch it by yourself. The flow is fast, and if you lose your step, you will be swept away.’ He lifted the boy up at the sluice, high above the torrent that raged down below, holding him so tightly that the boy began to squirm. Customers were watching them, waiting for their turn.
Someone called out mockingly, ‘Have you not caught that eel yet, Gavan? I saw Robert Wood. And he was not best pleased with you. Outwitted by a fish!’
The boy answered quickly. ‘He will catch the eel tonight. He has a plan.’
The baxter, James Edie, said, ‘She is a wily one. Your Daddie will outsmart her. He is a clever man.’ Gavan nodded gratefully. James Edie bought imported wheat, and brought it to be ground; then Gavan had his share, which always pleased his wife. And though he was particular about the grade of flour, he was well-mannered with it. He did not, like Patrick Honeyman, accuse him of dishonesty, or demand to weigh the tithe the miller was entitled to, or feel beneath the runner stone, for secret ways the miller had of siphoning the flour. He baked white loaves and biscuit bread, and sometimes sugared buns, which he gave to Harry as a gift. Gavan did not know if James Edie had a boy, but he knew how to talk to one, and how to win him round.
The eel had lurked within the mill pond, for the past five months. Though it was more than likely she had lived for years there, hidden in the mud, she had only recently begun to be a nuisance, growing thick and fat, and feeding off the river trout, owned by Robert Wood. Gavan Lang had never understood how a man could come to own a fish, or own the stretch of water that the fish had made his home. It seemed to him like laying claim upon the sky, though Robert Wood would have that also, if he could. The last straw had been a clutch of ducklings, stolen by the eel in early spring, which Robert had expected to be fattened for his board, smo
thered in a sauce of gooseberry or plums. Try as he might, Gavan could not catch the fish. It was a source of some amusement to frequenters of the mill, and a constant disappointment to the boy. The Newmill was dammed from the Kinness Burn, and did not use the mill lade, which ran down to the harbour and emptied at the sea. The eel had found her way from sea to burn to dam, and had settled in the pond, becoming gross and fierce, cut off from the passage to the shore. She was visible at night, in the fullness of the moon, when she emerged from the bottom of the pool, a sleek and limpid yellowbellied green, long and soft and sinuous. Sometimes she slid out onto the bank, and left a silver trail, snaking through the mud. Gavan had set traps, of various kinds, but always, the fish had eluded him. Once, he had almost had her in his grasp, when the boy had coughed; the sound had warned her off, and she had wriggled out of sight. It had not been Harry’s fault. Yet Gavan all but wept with the force of his frustration.
When the day’s work was done, Gavan closed off the sluice, allowing the boy to fasten the catch. He noted, once again, that the bottom rung was loose and in need of some repair. It affected the flow, and control of the wheel, which had vexed him; James Edie’s flour had been coarser than he would have liked. Gavan made a note to begin the repair the next day.
He ate supper in the mill house with his wife and the boy. James Edie had left a loaf of white wheaten bread, and Sally had been pleased, even though he had no tales to tell. He did not care to speak of Robert Wood. The boy was brooding still, and Gavan was aware that he had disappointed him. It was a fault in the boy, he thought, although he knew, deep down, the fault was in himself. He was not the father that the boy deserved.
Sally said, ‘The baxter telt me that ye mean to catch the fish tonight. The sky is clear and bright. Tis likely we will have a frost.’
Her husband nodded. ‘Aye. Tonight will be the night. I am assured of it.’
Sally smiled. She had faith in him, and accepted his humility. He brought her white wheaten bread, and sometimes little almond cakes. And she was touched, and pleased, and did not ask for more. He did not disappoint her, as he did the boy. She helped him weave his traps, of supple willow wands. Gavan had tied the traps around the edges of the pond, before he had come in for supper, for the third hour after darkness was the most auspicious time to catch the eel. The traps were baited with small strips of flesh; the eel was a scavenger, and drawn to scent of blood.
The boy said, ‘Can I come with you?’
‘It is too late,’ Gavan replied. ‘You must go through to your bed.’ He knew that this would hurt the boy, that he would mind it bitterly. In part, it was to punish Harry, for his lack of faith in him, and for having scared the eel away. But mostly, it was fear, that the boy would see him fail again. The boy dropped his eyes, the want of satisfaction clear upon his face.
‘You shall have her fried in butter, on a bannock for your breakfast,’ Gavan promised him. The boy did not reply. Robert would not want to eat the eel. The oily flesh disgusted him, coiled round like a serpent on his plate. He wanted fat pink perch, the muddy flesh of salmon trout, and duck eggs with their yellow yolks, all of which were robbed from him, stolen by the eel. She would feed the miller’s family for a week, smoking in the ashes of the kiln. And the sweeter she would taste, because Gavan Lang had beaten her.
Once the boy had gone to bed, the miller left the house, and climbed down to the Kinness Burn. He had set his traps in stages along the river banks, pegged out in the earth, or trailing from the trees, so that they drifted with the current of the water, and were easily withdrawn. For often in the night the long fish heaved her heavy head and tail above the dam, slinking down the brae towards the moonlit stream. She left her silver shadow trailing in the grass, yearning for the sea. She never found her path, for in the morning light she crept back through the grey mud of the weir, returning to the pond. She had mellowed from the yellow of her youth to the colour of the mud. Gavan imagined her, crackled and charred, her skin scorched and split in the heat of the fire. He examined the traps methodically, working his way back to the dam. The traps were eel-shaped sheaths of wicker, closing at the top, and baited with a sweet, metallic scent. Too often he had found them bitten, by the sharp teeth of the fish, and the eel had slithered off, slick and sated with her heady feast of blood. The eel was sly and cunning, slipping from his grasp. Sometimes, in the cold light of the moon, she did not come at all, and for days he dared to hope that she had gone back to her spawning ground, before she reappeared, to snatch a frog or duckling from its mother’s grasp.
The traps along the Kinness Burn still floated on the surface, empty and untouched. Gavan worked his way back to the weir, upstream of the mill. The millpond was the eel’s habitual haunt, buried in the silt or banked behind the sluice, where the heavy waters gathered for the moment they were drawn. The waters now were still and smooth, stifled by the closing of the gates. Between the millpond and the house were stretched a bank of trees, the willow and the holly bush, the rowan and the sycamore, and though there was no wind, Gavan saw a tremor in the leaves and heard the snap of twigs. He knew at once that it must be the boy. In a low voice, he called to him, ‘I hear you, Harry. Go back to the house. Or I will cut a willow wand, and whip you to your bed.’ There was a rustle in the trees, and then the woods were still. The miller nodded, satisfied the boy had gone. He knew that Harry knew, though it would bring them both to tears, that his father would not hesitate to act upon his word. He knew no other way to keep his child from harm. A boy could slip down in the darkness to the bottom of the weir. God could not be trusted, to keep the whole world safe.
One of Gavan’s traps had broken from its strings, and floated in the centre of the pool. Gavan felt a quiver of excitement. In the thin trail of moonlight he could see the catch was closed. It was likely that the thrashing of the eel had pulled her from her bounds, yet she had not succeeded in biting through the trap. He had no doubt that she was safe enclosed. Enticing and frustrating him, she floated out of reach. He broke a slender willow branch, and tried to fish her gently, but the rod could find no purchase on the willow trap. He was fearful that her movements would release the catch, and she would escape to the bottom of the pond. Stripping to his shirt, he waded through the shallow edges of the pool, where the night hung shadowy and still. The coldness took his breath away. His feet trod thick and heavily through muddy banks of water; he leant across the surface, yearning for the eel. He looked up in the shadow of the moon, and saw a figure hunched above the bank. He called once for his boy, before his mouth was filled and stoppered by the flood.
Gavan Lang was not swept through the sluice, for the bottom of his shirt had snagged upon the wood, so that he rose up to the surface with the gate, with his sark full blown and billowed like a ship in sail. It was clear that he had drowned while hunting for the fish. And when they brought him out, and laid him flat upon the bank above the lade, it turned out he had caught her after all, for the long eel slithered out from the inside of his shirt, twisting about his body with her serpent’s tail. Because she was a scavenger, she had nibbled at his cheek, and left a small black puncture in the miller’s face. Someone fetched a stick to spear her to the ground, but she slithered back into the bottom of the weir, where she rolled her yellow eyes towards the morning sun. Robert Wood called out Giles Locke, to certify the death. And since it was a miller’s death, Giles arrived with Hew. The doctor and his lawyer friend found little to remark upon. The eel trap was recovered from the centre of the pond, and Hew paused to examine it. He noticed that the catch was closed, though no fish was inside, with little understanding, what that might have meant.
‘A simple drowning, nothing more,’ Giles reported sadly, as he closed the miller’s eyes. ‘And I have seen it often so, in millponds and in lakes, where waters may lie still, and people do mistake their deeper treachery. It seems that he went in to try and catch the eel, and found himself ensnared upon this rotten gate, whereupon he drowned.’ He glanced at Robert Wood. ‘The sluice
is in a sad state of repair.’
‘So he did say,’ Robert Wood confirmed. ‘Which sad dereliction has cost the man his life. Hopeless to the last. He did not even manage to bring home the fish.’
A small voice answered, ‘You are wrong. He did.’ Harry stood by watching, hidden in the crowd. Robert’s conscience pricked, for he felt into his pocket and tossed the boy a coin. ‘Take that to your mother. Tell her, I will come and see her by and by, and pass on my condolences. For now, I have to find a miller for my mill. And you will have to find another place to live.’
Hew stared at Robert long and hard, not much liking what he saw.
Chapter 10
A Miller and his Son
The death of Gavan Lang left Robert Wood without a miller for his mill. The first full shower of rain had caused the dam to flood, washing out the hay bales that lined the tenants’ fields, and threatening to submerge the recently sown crops. Because the Newmill was not channelled from the lade, its stopping had no impact on the other mills in town, except, as Robert noted sourly, to increase their share of profits, since his tenants were now free to take their corn elsewhere. He eyed the mill sluice gloomily, spilling out its wastage on his land. The waters had grown thick and stagnant, choked with mud and silt from the bottom of the dam. The old grey eel lay puddled in the thick slime of the pond. There were no duck or plover eggs, no river carp or trout, as the waters settled down into a sallow winter’s dearth.
Robert was resolved, and placed a notice in the market, and in every church, seeking for a miller to restore life to the mill. A wish to work the windmill was a clear advantage, for Robert made it plain he meant to manage both. The notice was pinned up on the kirk door of St Leonard’s, where it was seen on Sunday by the miller Sandy Kintor, tenant of the mill at Kenly Green. The minister was kind enough to read the words aloud, and tell him what they meant. Hew Cullan read it too, for he preferred the quiet kirk, with its plain and simple service, to both the weekly rout and thunder of the kirk of Holy Trinity, and the claustrophobic closeness of the chapel of St Salvator. St Leonard’s linked the college to the countryside, and the scholars in their gowns were flanked by cottagers and tenants, from the farms and scattered villages southwards of the town. The parish stretched as far as Kenly Green, connecting Hew’s estates, and his father’s former home, to the place where he had come to study as a boy. Though Matthew had remained a stranger to reform, his father had been buried here, and laid to quiet rest by scholars of St Leonard’s in the distant shadow of the grey stone kirk. There was a doleful solace in the melancholy psalms, the dullness of the sermon and the lack of fire or flair, that Hew found oddly comforting, reassured, through tedium, that all lay still in place. He left the service settled and refreshed, to find Sandy Kintor waiting by the door.
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