The Silver Darlings

by Neil M. Gunn

  The night that stretched outside, stretched to—his mother. Finn’s mind now was lost, was imprisoned by the boxed bed, was being smothered like the fire. He put out a hand and separated the curtains—and heard low voices in the night. Then a shuffle of footsteps; and the bodies of men filed into the kitchen.

  They spoke in whispers, but he distinguished their voices. Henry and Callum and Rob. All the crew. Clearly they had taken something in with them, for Rob’s whisper asked, “Where’s yours? Ay, now then. Whatever we do we must keep it going. Now!” There came a soft hissing sound, as of one log of wood being rubbed on another. This went on for a long time without a word being spoken. Then Rob’s voice again: “Get your hands on it, Henry. Change!” And for a little time the tempo of the scraping sound increased. Finn was up on one elbow now, and through the widened chink he had left between the curtains could discern the deeper darknesses of the grouped bodies. They were breathing heavily.

  That Rob was master of this mysterious midnight ceremony did not astonish Finn. His old Granny had been a queer one, and many of the more knowing had held her to be a witch. Rob, with his solemn dry earnestness had as many stories about balls of fire, and brownies drinking milk, and other queer happenings as would fill a book. He cut his peats or built a turf dyke when the moon was on the wane so that they would dry into firmness. He lived with his mother and sister, and followed Roddie.

  “Must be damp,” Callum muttered.

  “Hsh! Be quiet!” whispered Rob. “Keep going.”

  Except for the soft sawing, there was no sound for a long time; then suddenly upon the darkness there was a spark of fire, so clear and white and momentary that Finn might have doubted his senses, if Rob’s voice had not called in low triumph: “She’s coming!”

  At that the rhythm of the scraping increased.

  More sparks, obscured by moving dark bodies, and then—flame. A little tongue of flame, dancing flame, whiter than the new moon. Finn could see the congested faces in those new-born wisps of fire, fire paler and brighter than ever he had seen before, dancing in glee like sprites.

  The brightness and whiteness seemed a pure miracle and struck the men themselves indeed with awe. All of them, that is, except Rob, who was always matter-of-fact and soon had the gay tongues leaping up inside a ring of close-standing black peat. Then he hitched the iron pot to the crook.

  “It beats everything!” said Henry. “From the rubbing of two sticks!”

  “You need two things,” said Rob practically, “before you can get a third.”

  They smiled in a benign humour.

  “I certainly never saw a birth so pure and innocent before,” murmured Callum.

  They were in the wonder of mirth beyond laughter. Finn saw the flames dancing on their faces.

  “That’s the whole thing,” Rob nodded. “Fire must be put out and created afresh or it, too, grows old and full of trouble and sin. Did you notice how dark-red, like blood, was the fire over David Sutherland’s house?”

  Roddie broke the silence by saying, “My mother’s father used to do it every year. Then they would make two fires outside and drive the cattle between them.”

  They all, it seemed, knew something of the same kind, as they sat round the hearth waiting for the kettle to boil. But Rob knew most. He made them listen to the new flames in order to catch the quickness of the flap and the happy eagerness. His dark hair was cut short all over except for the fringe on his brow. When he lifted his eyebrows and looked sideways and downward, as in thought, then something special was coming!

  Finn listened with the greatest interest to all they had to say, and felt happy at sight of the new fire. The old and unclean had been destroyed. In the new flame was new life.

  Finn liked the expression on Callum’s face, too. Callum was twenty-five, with a broad, fair face over broad shoulders. Willing and quick, he had plainly put all his force into the rubbing of the wood; and now wonder sat in his eyes ready for any turn of thought.

  Often there was a satiric self-possession in Henry’s dark glance, but now it was a gentle, friendly humour. He was three years older than Callum. Roddie was quiet, with the considering smile playing over his face. He was plainly the skipper, who did not subdue the others but, by his very presence, brought out the best that was in them. Their pleasant manhood so touched Finn’s body that he became aware of the crick in his supporting arm and noiselessly lay back.

  Presently there was a stir in the kitchen and Finn heard Roddie’s voice, “Health to you, Callum. Health to you, Henry.” A smile on his face, he was whisking a few drops of water on them from the black pot: “Health to you, Rob”. “And health to yourself,” responded Rob, dipping his fingers in the pot and sprinkling Roddie. Roddie carried the pot in his left hand and when he had put health on the hearth-stone of the house, he approached the bed. Finn closed his eyes tight and when the blessing fell upon him, continued to breathe on. “He’s tired after the long tramp,” murmured Roddie. Finn had a strong desire to stir and yawn and so appear to awake, for the need to be one of them was powerfully upon him, while at the same time he wanted to deny the silly notion that a day on his feet made him tired. But all this was suppressed in the instinct for harmony.

  He heard them leave the house and pass down to the byre. The beasts would be sained, too. Finn wondered that the old folk had not heard the goings-on. What would have happened if Roddie’s father had come in?

  But here they were, back again. They stood whispering together for a little while, then Rob, Henry, and Callum, in turn took a flaming peat from the fire and quickly left the house. Each would keep his peat alight in the wind of the night until he reached home, where a fireless hearth would be waiting.

  Roddie stood still for a long time looking down into the fire, then carefully he smoored the live embers in the ash and the kitchen went dark. Presently he slipped quietly under the clothes so as not to disturb Finn.

  In the morning, Roddie had hardly got the fire going when his mother hirpled in on a stick. She was a medium-sized woman, and welcomed Finn in a lively, friendly manner. Off went Finn for water to the well, and when he came back she had the hearth swept and the peats standing round in willing company. He got a quick glimpse of her pleasure in the fire, and for a moment wondered if she knew what had happened in the night. Roddie had said that her father … Perhaps Roddie and herself had conspired …

  It was a bright-blowing morning, and Finn felt happy as they went down by the wood. This time Roddie did not leave him to his mother, and voices as they crossed the water in the burn were companionable. If Kirsty was no better, she couldn’t be said to be worse. Finn felt embarrassed in his mother’s company with Roddie present, but when she had gone he turned and waved to her.

  The water in the burn was almost quite clear again after the recent spate, and as they walked by the pools, Roddie’s eyes concentrated in the steely way that turned their blue to grey-green. All at once he stood still without a word, then took out his snuff-box and offered it to Finn. “Do you see him?” he asked. “Yes,” said Finn, taking a pinch. As Roddie moved on again he slowly cast his eyes around the braes and along the horizons. Finn did the same. “He’s a big fellow,” whispered Finn. “About eighteen pounds,” replied Roddie. “Clean run on the last of the spate. We’ll get him to-night, you and me.” The thrill in Finn’s heart was a sweet pain. This was the new life, the life of men. His bright eyes rested on the House of Peace. All at once the place was very old inside him, older than peat-smoke, grey and still in the bright morning. “Do you mean in the dark?” he asked Roddie. “Yes,” answered Roddie. “He’ll lie there now in the fallen water.” Then he smiled. “You wonder how it can be done in the dark? Eh?” He was teasing Finn now. “What I really want,” he added, “is to send a big slab of the fish to Kirsty. I don’t like this loss of her appetite. And I know she has a relish for it.” “For salmon?” “Seamen,” said Roddie, “never care to mention that fish by name.” “Why?” “Why do we do many a thing?” as
ked Roddie.

  A strange world indeed, older than the House of Peace, old as the legendary salmon of knowledge that lay in the pool under the hazel nuts of wisdom, and perhaps older than that, with more mysterious things in it than the mind dreamt of. And how rich the thought of that invisible complexity was on a sunny, wind-bright morning! Everything, even the grey stones, with a hidden life! … Not that he completely believed it, but still …!

  It was the first time that he had ever visited the seashore with a feeling of complete freedom, and despite his quiet movements he was highly exhilarated. No boats had been out the previous night for there had been an ugly swell, and there was still a heavy sea running. The boats had been drawn up, the gutting stations were deserted, and fishermen were attending to nets and gear and doing odd jobs about their craft.

  Finn was particularly interested in Roddie’s new boat, the Seafoam. She was five feet longer than the old Morning Star. Rob had stuck to Roddie, and Henry and Callum had come in with a full share of nets. Daun had taken over the Morning Star, which was still seaworthy, for Roddie had looked after her well; and Don, the other former member of the crew, had gone into partnership in a new boat with his brother David, now dead, and a first cousin.

  Finn looked at the name Seafoam, in white against black, under the blue of her gunnel, and could see that this was the largest and finest of all the Dunster fleet. She had, too, some special features, such as sockets for two masts, and a pump. The column of the pump rose into the middle of a thick after-thwart, which had runways for the water to either side. “You have to pour in some water first,” Roddie explained, “and then when you start working this handle up and down, she’ll suck out every drop until nothing is left but froth.”

  Finn was deeply interested, and here by the sea Roddie moved in his own element, assured and companionable. The land, with its plague, seemed far removed from the translucent green combers that broke in dazzling foam. The very smell of the sea, through the tangle, was tonic and clean.

  Mr. Hendry appeared and began talking to Roddie and other fishermen, who leisurely gathered around. Very soon Finn found that the inn-keeper was disturbed. “The fishing must be kept going, men, whatever happens. Even if some of the south boats have gone home. And the healthiest place you can work on is the sea. You know that. Wick is going ahead, and the trouble is far worse down there than here….”

  Finn gazed at the fat, broad, earnest face with the small eyes sharp and full of concern.

  “I have my commitments, but it’s in your own interests more than mine to keep Dunster’s reputation to the fore. You know that.”

  “I don’t think that any boat, unless the trouble touches the crew, will stop fishing,” said Roddie. “I think you can rely on that,”

  How quiet Roddie’s voice was compared with the urgency and concern in the voice of the inn-keeper! thought Finn, instinctively aligning himself with the silent fishermen.

  When the talk was over and Mr. Hendry seemed reassured, Finn was struck by a remark one of the older men let drop to a friend as they were walking away: “He would be wondering why we didn’t go to sea last night.” The tone was level, without any emphasis, but its dryness made Finn’s eyes gleam with understanding.

  That evening Finn felt anxious when his mother did not seem to see Roddie and himself by the edge of the wood. They waited a long time, and then Roddie said, “She must have given us up.”

  The shadows were heavy in the wood as they silently went along its steep side and came above the pool where the salmon lay. Their idea was to go with a cut of the fish and cry Catrine’s name outside the window. When they had made certain, after a quarter of an hour, that no human being could command the pool during the two or three minutes Roddie would be in action, Finn kept watch while Roddie stepped lightly down to the edge of the water. He had a few square yards of old net, and now, with the help of a stick, spread it out over the water and let it slowly sink. He could not see the fish from this side, as it lay against an under-water ledge whose face was turned from him. When the net touched the bottom of the pool, Roddie withdrew his stick and, reaching far out, the water past his knees, gave it a sharp, downward thrust. At once there was turmoil, and Finn saw the flashing silver of the salmon as it bent and heaved to clear itself of the net that ever more maddeningly enmeshed it. It took less than two minutes for Roddie to get his hands on the turmoil. Then he walked out of the pool, with the doubling salmon clasped in his arms, and up into the trees.

  Presently Finn led the way back through the wood towards the top corner. The head and gut they buried in a rabbit’s burrow, and then Roddie cut the fish in two. “We’ll take the tail piece,” he whispered; “it’s supposed to be more delicate.” Hiding both parts for the moment in a small thicket of hazel, they emerged from the wood, full of the pleasantest excitement from the short adventure.

  Finn could not see his mother about the house, though now there was a single white cloth on the washing-line near the gable-end, so she must have been out since they went for the salmon. He turned to Roddie to mention this, but did not speak. He had seen that concentrated light in Roddie’s eyes once or twice, but never the face turned to stone. Finn felt the chill of the face freezing the life out of his heart.

  “Kirsty has the plague,” said Roddie. “That’s the sign.”

  His lips scarcely moved. No expression at all appeared on his face as he gazed steadily at the fatal white signal agreed upon between Catrine and himself.

  Finn had trouble with his breathing and a sickening sensation beset him internally. Upon the world fell a terrible stillness.

  “So it’s come,” said Roddie, and the breath issued from between his narrowed lips in a cold hiss. He looked down to the burn, to the moor, and back to the house, with its death-white pennant. There was no dismay in the face; only the coldness of stone, a coldness of clear anger that would take the utmost danger in life and break it, if only the hands could get a grip.

  “Well, Finn, boy,” he said gently, “we have to face this now.” He did not look at Finn, because he was not yet thinking about him. “Come,” he added. “We’ll go over with the fish.”

  At once he went into the wood, and returned with the tail-piece under his jersey. Finn followed him down to the burn and up the slope to within fifty yards of the house. “You stay here,” commanded Roddie, and he went past the gable-end and up to the kitchen window. Finn heard his voice, saw him lay the tail of the fish on the stone sill, and stand back from the house as if he had been so ordered. His mother came to the door and presently leaned outward and saw Finn standing down below the house. She waved to him, with the quick waggle of the hand she used when she was gay. He could see the smile on her pale face. And at that, the strange unreality that had come upon him, behind the sickening, tremulous feeling and the world’s stillness, gave way, and he clenched his teeth. His mother, his indomitable mother, waving from the door of death. It was like her.

  He kicked the sod idly with his toes, glanced up at them again, and turned away. Though his emotion would have prevented his speaking naturally to his mother, in any case, yet he felt outcast, cut away from them, and somewhere deep in him did not resent this so much as feel futile in himself and therefore empty and forlorn. After all, it was his own mother. Why must he be beyond even what they were saying?

  He moved away a step or two, and when he heard Roddie coming did not turn round, though he knew his mother was waiting to wave to him. He wanted to be alone, not to speak to Roddie.

  “She’s got it all right,” said Roddie, lost in himself.

  If I don’t turn this second, Finn thought, we’ll be out of sight. But he could not turn, and the world went desolate.

  At the burn, Roddie stopped. “I’m going to get some more of that stuff from Hector Bethune. Will you go up and tell them at home, or would you like to come with me?”

  “I’ll go up,” said Finn.

  “That would be better. I’ll have to knock him out of bed. And then …�
� He seemed to be thinking at a distance. “I won’t be long,” he said all at once and set off. There never seemed to be much warm emotion in Roddie. A stone face with narrowed deadly eyes and the voice talking in quiet, friendly tones.

  As he went up by the wood he looked across at his home, and its still desolation stopped his feet. The drooping white cloth glowed like a white fungus in the deepening gloom. The house lay to the gentle slope, with curved back like a patient, doomed animal.

  Finn did not feel much now. His brain was numb. Indeed, for one moment, he had a sensation of being detached from it all, and of being astonished in a mild way, almost ashamed, that it did not affect him more. His mother came round the corner of the house carrying a bucket. With the graip she dug a hole in the manure heap, and there buried whatever was in the bucket.

  As she stood back from the manure heap, she gazed in his direction. He waved an arm. She turned away without any response. He knew she could not have seen him against the dark edge of the wood, yet the disappointment made him more forlorn than ever.

  When he told Roddie’s father and mother the news they stood in an appalled silence, as if an invisible hand had come down from the air upon them.

  “Where’s Roddie?” asked the mother in a small voice.

  “He’s gone to Hector Bethune. I heard at the shore today,” he added, “that a new doctor has come into the county. He’s an expert on the trouble. I’m walking now to Watten to see if I can find him.”

  “To Watten! Now?” asked the old man. It was well over twenty miles away.

  “Yes,” said Finn. “It’s the new half of the moon.” He lifted his round bonnet, shy of meeting their faces, and was turning to the door before they could find words to stop him.

  When, at last, they saw not merely that he was bent on going but that he could not rest in the house even until the dawn, the woman started buttering oatcakes and sticking them together. The boy was touched by fate. “What if he’s not at Watten?”