A Book of Death and Fish

by Ian Stephen

  That was my place, at the tiller but I had to look to catch the eye of one man – I suppose you could say he was the skipper though we never called him that.

  This was my lesson. First, if I was worried about anything I just had to catch his eye and he would keep me right.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Second, this is the starboard side. That is the port. You will need to give her starboard helm to go port, port helm for starboard. Do you have that?’

  ‘I do.’

  They tested me when we were still under oars. I had the hang of it.

  Did I know Sgeir a Chaolais? I nodded. Sgeir Linish? I nodded again. Well, when we were under sail we had to give these an even wider berth, in case our way through the water was not as direct as we thought it was. But there was a good keel under this boat. I would learn to trust it. Did I know the transit on The Sail?

  ‘The what?’

  ‘How to line up the marks.’

  ‘The Sail on the point.’

  ‘Well, that should do you for now.’

  Then I got the nod to put her nose into the wind. Where was it coming from? ‘Southerly.’

  ‘Aye, now just you hold her there,’ I was told, ‘and the boys will soon have the lugsail up.’

  They had done that before, I could see. It was still pretty smooth. I was so involved in watching how one was fastening something while another was hauling, that I lost the eye of the man guiding me and was slow to take her off the wind. But we found momentum again all right and I got a look, as much as to say they wouldn’t hold that one against me.

  The old boat really got going then. I was amazed at the way we made under sail. I was to take her as close to the wind as I could without losing power. I was guided into steering her upwind till there was a small shake at the front edge of the sail. Then the skipper on the sheet took in the slack and when I eased her off the wind we heeled a bit. The breeze was on our starboard side, so the sail was out the other way. Nobody said anything but these boys were easing their weight on to the windward gunnel as neat as dancers.

  The sheet was never tied. If that was released, the strain would come off. And the halyard too, the rope that held the sail high on its bending spar, just a few turns. No knots, so it could be let go in a hurry. The friction would be sufficient to hold it.

  We were now further out to sea than I had ever been before. Someone asked, were we making for Sutherland, but one old fellow knew exactly where we were going. To the herring. He talked me through tacking the boat. I had just to take her all the way through the wind, quite smart but nothing sudden. The sail would be dipped round to the other side of the mast and the sheet shifted from one hole in the top plank, across to its opposite number.

  I could tell they were happy with the manoeuvre, pleased with themselves for not losing their touch. The whole boat was smiling. And we were fair shifting, beating into it, with the wind on our port side, now. The sea hadn’t built up yet. Our course was taking us closer to the land again but further down the east coast of Lewis.

  How that man knew they were under our keel, I could not even guess. It might have been his sense of smell, sight, taste or sound – or all of them. Perhaps he just knew where they usually shoaled at that time of year. I had seen the porpoises in the loch but these were dolphins around us, leaping like salmon. Maybe it was their excitement that provided the sign.

  These old boys and myself, we all sent the dorgh over, I could not say with how much faith. The light was just starting to fade. It was a strange feeling. You know when you take a mackerel, the line goes everywhere. A spray comes off the line. Well the herring are not at all like that. They rise to feed on the plankton and must go for the glint on these bare hooks, mouthing softer than whiting. You feel only a shimmer.

  The old boys were wondering if there was fish there or not. They were hauling at speed and shaking them off. It was maybe just my curiosity at work but I was pulling very gently, hand over hand and there they were: five herring for six hooks. Then everyone was into them.

  You think you have already seen a herring. If that fish has come from a trawl, you have not really seen a herring yet. If you have seen one that fell from a drift-net, you have come close to what I witnessed that night. You might think they are silver but that night I could see purple, brown, grey and other colours on the broad scales of the sgadan as they fell into our black boat. I do not know names for these colours, in Gaelic or English.

  One thing was sure, the Minch was thick with fish. We had to ditch some of our ballast of round boulders, over the side. We cast out more, as the weight of fish amassed. We only knew the light had gone when the fish stopped taking.

  There was more than the whole village could eat. It was later in the year you wanted them for salting. The old boys knew there would be a hell of a price in Stornoway, with the wartime shortage. What about the boy? Someone said what they were all thinking. But I said I’d be fine. It was a fair night.

  We were drunk with it, including myself, left on the tiller as Bhalaich Ghriomsiadair set course for harbour. The Stornoway fleet were a long way off. The word was, they were working out off The Butt, these nights. We would be the first to land.

  I was told that you did not run with the wind up your backside. You kept it on your quarter so the sail could not back. Even so, the boys put one reef in the sail, showing me the seaman’s way with the slipknot. So nothing would jam. Where is she coming from now? And I could tell the wind had backed a touch to the east. Not good for fishing but we had all the catch we could carry and a fair breeze to take us to the Market.

  We were creaming in, on the surf out from the beacon off Arnish light. I could feel real weight in the tiller now and I had to lean against it to keep her steady. I can still hear the voice of the man who was directing us.

  ‘Here is a trick for you. Harden her up a bit as you hear one coming. That’s it. Now relax your grip completely when the wave has a hold of us and we will just ride with it. Tighten up again, ready for the next one.’

  He had a wee word for us all before we took her in, alongside. There would be none of this dropping the sail and dragging her in on the sweeps. The village boys would take her in under sail.

  I only had to keep watching for that eye and we would be fine. So she turned into the wind for the few souls on the pier to see us arrive, first at the market, our larch kissing the greenheart. The iron traveller slid down the mast. It was gliding on the linseed oil we’d been rubbing in, only a day before.

  We landed these fish and they sold themselves. There was blood in their gills and pearls in their scales. Wads of money started appearing. The share-out would come later. We had to take a dram, only the one, from a clay piggy that was not supposed to be for sale. The boy, that was me, could take a sip. ‘Hold it down now,’ they said. ‘Don’t you go looking green about your own gills.’

  Now the way they said it, afterwards, was this: you learn a thing and you think that is that. But it is not. You think you know a thing but you have to find it out again. Then when you grow old, surely you have made all your mistakes and that is finally that.

  But all these men were boys like me. The signs were there for anyone to see. The sixty and seventy-foot Zulus and Fifies were coming in when we were going out. The big fishing ships were well reefed-down and that is a sight you did not see often, when they were racing to land their catch. A big tide was still ebbing so you got a confused sea, just off the beacon.

  ‘The ebb is good for us,’ they said. ‘The wind is well in the east now so we will have no need to beat against it so hard on the way home. It will not take us long. We will grab the chance before she veers back to the south.’

  We were still making good way with two reefs in but the motion was not good, banging right on our beam. Then I could sense another shift but she wasn’t veering, she was backing further. Even a bit of north in her.

  It was then our skipper put his hand over my own. He nodded back towards Holm Point and I could see dark lo
w clouds. We all knew there would be a blast in these but we were not going to try to fight it. It was too late to turn back to harbour. We were well out the door now. I was to hold my course and they would drop the sail altogether.

  Nothing was being rushed but the whole rig came down as gently as before. A blast of hail hit us with the wind: the edge of the front. You will often get that with the anvil clouds.

  ‘There will be more to come, a bhalaich,’ said himself. ‘But we can take it, with your help. We are in a real seaboat here. This is what they use in the Pentland Firth and they have worse conditions there than anything we might meet tonight.’

  Even so, the smallest scrap of cloth we could show was too much for what was happening on the Minch. So we had just to run, on the bare pole, as they said: steering as before. There was still no hope of coming through the wind to fight back to Stornoway. They left me on the tiller.

  I do not know if it was because my muscles were young and they needed me there or if they were keeping me occupied so I would not be too scared. If these old boys were scared, they did not show it. There was a lot less spoken but it was still all calm in the boat itself. And I still had to catch the eye of himself, with the rest of them slumped all around the boat, snatching some rest.

  My arms were heavy but you found a way of wrapping yourself around the tiller so you were a part of it. The veins were up in my own arm, like the grain of the wood. The cold was something that bit at you. Hail is more fierce in the late summer because you are not prepared for it. The spray that just comes over the tops of the waves is very nearly a pure white. The old boys warned me not to bother looking back. There was no use in seeing these big green ones coming from a distance. I would hear and feel them soon enough. I knew what to do now.

  We were surfing on but that old stick of a mast was our sail.

  ‘We’ve nothing to worry about,’ the old boys said. ‘We have the whole Minch to play with.’

  So we were just responding with the tiller while we still had way, when you felt the surge. He said I was doing just fine.

  You have to be slower or faster than the wave to keep steerage. If the speeds are equal you have no power in the helm. It was that night I learned that the same transit that takes you out away from home, will take you back in again, if you can find it.

  When the squalls were down a bit, I got the message to scan that skyline, coming towards us, up out of the dark.

  ‘Can I borrow your eyes, now?’ himself asked. We had run past our entrance. They reckoned we were well out abeam Loch Erisort. Better that way, further off the land. But I had it, The Sail and then the Gob. None of them could make out the marks but they trusted my younger eyes and sent the smallest, reefed-down sail up the traveller.

  That took us in. There is a huge relief in recognising what you already know: a course well clear of the reefs, nothing fancy, and we were at the narrows. Bhalaich Ghriomsiadair had been sighted. Some figures were running along the skyline. Then, with the old boys awake and drawing on their last reserve, we rowed to the muddy shingle. The whole village was out to meet us.

  My own sense of relief was over when I saw my mother to the fore but a hand went on my shoulder. Now they had trusted me and it was my turn to trust them. This was something they could do for me.

  The man whose eye had taken us through everything, waded ashore first. If he was exhausted, he did not show it. He went directly to my mother and had a quiet word. I could not tell you now what was said. When I came ashore I had first to do as the youngest aboard always did – turn his back as the fry of herring that had been held back from sale was shared into piles. There were five shares, to include the one for the boat. My job was to call out the names, while my back was turned.

  ‘Who is having this one?’

  ‘Murchadh.’

  ‘This one?’

  ‘Iain Mhor.’

  ‘And this?’

  ‘Aonghas Dubh.’

  ‘And this one?’

  ‘That must be my own, if I’m getting one.’

  ‘Oh you’re getting one all right,’ Murchadh said.

  ‘Well, the last one must be for the boat,’ I said.

  Then we did the same with the folding money. That was also counted into five equal shares.

  Mine was a full share. But the fifth wasn’t given to the owner of the boat. No-one could say who owned it anyway and the only expenses were a bucket of tar, some peats to melt that and a brush or two. No, but the fifth share was given in full to my mother: the herring-girl who had seen how it was done in the Shetlands. My own mother remembered it all, for the boat of the old men.

  Ruaraidh

  Angus, from South Lochs, and my uncle Ruaraidh were the best of mates. That’s what they called each other – a mhate. The Gaelic version. I knew Angus first as my pal Kenny’s uncle. He became our skipper but he never talked about being in the war, with my uncle Ruaraidh.

  There were whispers of what they’d been through. Something in the war, for sure, but neither of them ever talked about it. I think I asked if they’d been in the air force or the navy or in tanks like my own olman but I think they just said they were foot soldiers. Common foot soldiers.

  When they got going, one story sparked off the next. I couldn’t say now which one of them told me this one. I heard it when I was a student, back home visiting. It was my first time out of town for long enough. Angus had his own stock on the croft at Griomsiadair now. Ruaraidh didn’t have much stomach for it, these days. They were pleased to see I could still get my hands dirty even if I wasn’t eating properly.

  By God when you’d had nothing but one slice of bread with jam and the other with spam and you put the two bits together right away before the flies got to them and got it down you when you could, you wouldn’t turn your nose up at food after that. But that’s about the only detail you would get. Same with my father. It was as if the three of them had got together and made a pact. But their non-talking pact held up a lot longer than Adolf and Joe’s non-aggression agreement. I can only remember a couple of hints that maybe Ruaraidh was almost ready to tell it as it was.

  ‘A good job the Nazi-Soviet agreement fell apart. Do you think the Allies could have defeated the Nazis if Hitler hadn’t taken on that mad assault into Russia? Aye and what if there had been no attack on Pearl Harbour? Would the Yanks have been in on it then?’

  They’d talk out these issues all right but it was late on in their lives, when these men knew their number was coming up sooner rather than later. It was only then they’d drop their guard. You’d get a memory, from either of them, sharp and tight enough to steal the wind out of you.

  Maybe some of the experience was in the choice of stories. There were funny ones all right but then you’d get something like the one I’m going to try to tell you. I couldn’t say which one of them told me this. They were like twins when they got going.

  So you walked over the moor today, Peter? You didn’t take the short cut in by the loch? No? Aye, it was probably safer to hug the coast, in case the mist came down.

  Well, you wouldn’t be the first student to take that route to Lochs. There were two students, one time. And they were out gathering birds’ eggs when they should have been studying. Out the Arnish moor, just the way you’ve come. One of them gets to an eyrie first and he’s in luck, he takes the egg. The other is mad because he saw the nest first, and he thought they should share it, there were collectors would pay good money for that. So there was a quarrel. And the one that took the egg smashed it right against the forehead of the other. It didn’t hurt him but he saw red and reached for a stone. His friend had turned round so he went at his head with the stone and that was that.

  He got hold of what he could lay his hands on, some old bleached animal bones, lying there and used them to dig a crude, shallow grave.

  No-one knew they’d gone out there together so the lad that did the deed, he made good his escape. He probably took a berth on a boat and one ship led to another and the year
s passed.

  But after all that time he thought it was safe to return to Stornoway. Maybe he said they’d run away to sea together but then lost touch when they were put on different ships. Sure enough, everything was forgotten. Maybe they all thought the missing lad was making his fortune in the colonies. Or maybe he’d just turn up when his ship berthed in SY.

  And the fellow who did that terrible deed, he was not long back, looking for work and visiting the relatives. Out here like yourself today, out from the town. Some things haven’t changed. They’d make sure and serve up the best they had. And then they’d look to a story from the young man who’d run off to see a bit of the world. They’d want to hear about his travels.

  Except that these people were as poor as you could get. You made use of what you could find. But there was usually fish anyway and maybe some meal. They’d have shown hospitality to their cousin some way. So the former student is sitting and eating and being back in the family. Usually you’d just eat with your fingers but they had a few simple spoons and knives made from staghorn and bone.

  And this rough knife of bone slipped and made a small cut in the young man’s thumb. It started to bleed and it just didn’t stop. Now a rough blade can cut worse than a sharp one and that blood just kept on flowing. They wrapped it as best they could, in this and that, trying to stop it. But the blood came seeping through everything. That night, the cut became infected. By the morning, the hand was looking terrible.

  They sent word and eventually the doctor rode out to them. But the infection had taken a hold. The doctor asked how it all happened. They told him about the bleeding. He asked to see the knife.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ the doctor asked.

  They told the doctor they’d just come across a pile of old antlers and deer bones, when they were out at the sheep, out the Arnish moor. All just bleached clean. So one of the boys had just passed the time carving out the spoons and knives from what he found.