by Neil M. Gunn
Barbara took the child. “Now watch you don’t let him fall,” Roddie cautioned her. “Well, Finn, and how are you? Come away in. We’ve been hearing already that you have had a fair fishing.”
As Finn entered, his mother was standing by the window. She said quietly,” You have got back?”
“Yes,” replied Finn, shaking hands and smiling as he glanced around “And where is himself?”
“He’s keeping to his bed,” answered Catrine. “He hasn’t been too well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Finn.
“That lassie will never stop the bairn crying,” remarked Roddie, hearkening to the row outside.
“Yes, she will. Just leave them,” said Catrine. “And had you a good season?” she asked her son, as if he were a stranger.
“Just fair, I think,” and he addressed Roddie, “that the West is going to be worse before it’s better.”
The two men discussed the fishing and Stornoway in easy tones. Catrine sat still, listening, saying no word.
“Was Bain as large as life?” asked Roddie.
“Larger,” said Finn. “When we came in with the shot that time after the storm——”
“Ay, we just heard you were caught in a bit of a storm,” interrupted Roddie, with a secret wink to Finn, who thus became aware that the news had been kept from his mother until that moment.
“Oh, it wasn’t much,” said Finn. “But as I was saying about Bain …”
Roddie kept putting questions to him, and Finn responded with more and more humour. “Yes, Rob was in good form, but we pressed him hard sometimes. It wasn’t fair. Remember the widow woman who has the public-house?”
“Yes.” Roddie laughed, and then explained the position to Catrine, as if he were an interpreter.
Finn smiled. “There’s something in it.”
“No?” cried Roddie.
Barbara came in with the pacified child and stood near the door.
Amid the amusement he drew from Rob’s indirect courtship of the widow woman, Finn began to open his brown paper parcel. “I’m the great one for the presents,” he said to Roddie humorously.
“You might have a worse fault,” answered Roddie.
“This is for you,” said Finn to his mother, handing her a large brown Shetland shawl, cunningly knitted and light in weight.
“Thank you,” she said. “It’s lovely.” She bent her face over it and smoothed it with her hand.
“And look! What do you think of this for winter footwear?” he asked Roddie. “Remember the old fellow in the shop? …” He handed the boots to his mother negligently, saying, “Now, what do you think of this?” and exposed for Roddie’s critical admiration a small curved horn snuffbox.
“Well, isn’t it a neat one!” declared Roddie.
“I thought you would like it,” said Finn.
“Do you mean it’s for me? God bless me, boy, you’ve been fairly going it!”
“Haven’t I! But I owe you a few snuffs in my time. And talking of snuff, I have an ounce here for the old man himself. Oh, special stuff. There’s some of it in that horn of yours. Try it.”
Meantime Barbara had drawn near to Catrine, anxious to show her own silken present, holding it out in its brown paper for Catrine to unfold. As Catrine lifted her face, the eyes were wet and very bright, and the lower lip held. There was a softness and beauty about the eyes that went straight to Barbara’s heart, a nearness of emotion that made her want to weep.
“Good, isn’t it?” asked Finn.
“Extra special. Fragrant,” agreed Roddie, sniffing with deep appreciation.
“Well, that’s about all,” declared Finn, “except for one small thing.” And now he did not look at any of them, as he lifted an article wrapped in tissue-paper. “You have all,” he said largely, “heard of the horn spoon of our forefathers and of being born with a silver spoon in the mouth. Now, didn’t I happen to see a little horn spoon with silver at the end of the handle—look!—and I thought, well you never know but it might come in handy sometime. And here it is. It’s for the little fellow himself,” and he handed the spoon to his mother. “Do you like it?” he asked practically, picking up the brown paper.
Catrine did her best. She strove hard. But the held breath broke through her nostrils in two terrible sobs and, getting quickly to her feet, she went blindly from the kitchen.
Barbara followed, weeping. And presently the wails of the little fellow rose upon the air.
“God save us, boy, it’s the howling match now! You’ll have a dram,” said Roddie.
“A small one. I’ll be getting down. I can do with a good sleep. Stop!”
“Ach, it’ll do you no harm. We’re glad to see you again.” He hesitated a moment, and about his face came the old remote smile. “I would rather you had done that than a thousand pounds. Well, good health!”
When Finn had paid his respects to the old man, Roddie accompanied him to the top of the wood, discussing the fishing, and what had to be done to-morrow at the shore.
As Finn went on alone, he felt tired and life seemed fairly empty. But the remoteness, the feeling of loneliness, was not altogether unpleasant. He was glad he had done what he had done. A great desire for sleep came over him.
*
A week later, Finn sat alone on the Knoll of Peace. He was feeling tired and wretched, his finger-tips burning from the handling of sun-dried peat. This mood was the more inexplicable because in less than two days now he was going to Wick to bring home his new boat, the Gannet. The thought of this culminating act in the growth towards responsible manhood had so often excited him that perhaps he was now suffering no more than a temporary reaction. Often a person before running a race or starting on some perilous adventure experiences an almost sickly apprehension. In fact, when Finn lifted his mind, he saw the clean green seas running, and knew that freedom was there, and adventure, and the song of man’s strength. He would be all right when he looked at the lifting stem of his own boat. Then would come upon him a freedom that would have in it the gaiety of revenge over all the cluttering doubts and anxieties of the earth.
The earth was very still in those long summer nights that never grew quite dark, still, and full of a peace, a waiting, a green light, queerly alive, like something hearkening. The sea rushed and was tumultuous, or lay glittering in the sun, its waters clear, its depth known. Here was the stillness of mystery, like God’s thought, or the reverie that comes upon a woman with a child in her lap.
Finn wanted his mind to be at peace.
And all the Knoll said to him was that it would not be at peace until he had cleansed it of a certain haunting misery. Cleanse it of that, and all the seven seas are yours. But Finn knew as much himself and did not thank the Knoll. The longer he stayed here, the stronger this knowledge grew, the more pointed its thought, until Finn could not bear it any longer and got up and walked away. It was the first time the House of Peace had failed him.
So completely had it failed him that he could not go home and in a desire to get away altogether from his human kind, he struck up the neighbouring strath and ultimately came out on the moors among the sheep. He took the lonely ways, looking every now and then over his shoulder like a sheep-stealer. As he came down at last upon some scattered croft houses, he began to skulk, and spy, and slip on like a hunted criminal, until, breathing heavily, he gained the shelter of the Birch Wood and threw himself down, out of sight of the path.
His wretchedness now was gall in his mouth, bitter as poison. He shut his eyes and ground his teeth and tried to blot himself out, blot out the burning shame he had of himself for behaving with such utter and appalling weakness. For it was no good hiding the truth from himself any longer. Jim had come up from Wick for the new fishing season. That was all.
This sort of behaviour destroyed a man’s manhood. It destroyed him inside, in the places of his spirit. It made a wretched mess of him, and instead of turning away from it he could not leave it alone; had to turn back, nosing it
out, like a dog.
But there was one positive point, with the prospect of relief in it. Once he was sure, dead sure of a real relationship between Una and Jim, then he could cleanse his mind finally. He could and he would! he swore, the skulking feeling of insecurity heavy upon him. He would finally be rid of the whole damned mess. Deep in the dark centres, he felt unclean and ashamed.
Voices in the distance coming up the path through the wood. He could hear Jim’s laugh.
Jim and Donnie and Meg. Not a fourth voice. Then there was a fourth voice. The voice of Betz, sounding sarcastic and sullen.
“What about going and rooting her out?” asked Jim.
“I’m going home,” said Betz.
“I must say you’re a pleasant one,” declared Jim.
“The same to you,” said Betz. “Stop it! Good night.”
When the girls had gone, Jim asked, “I wonder why the hell Una didn’t come to-night?”
“I don’t know I’m sure,” said Donnie. “Perhaps she couldn’t get away.”
“Did Meg say anything?”
“No.”
“She did,” said Jim. “I know by your voice. You must …”
As the voices receded, Finn raised his face and the marks of small twigs were bitten deep into his forehead.
He sat up and stared like one whose mind was wandering. Then he went to the edge of the wood and gazed after the two girls, who seemed to be going direct to Una’s house which was the nearest and not very far away.
Round the gable-end came Una and her mother, and Finn heard greetings and laughter. The mother was sent inside and the two girls helped Una to carry some wool dyed a vivid blue over to a low turf wall. But they did not start spreading the wool to dry. Meg had too much to say, and her body swayed every now and then with high laughter. To be working so late—for it was nearly eleven o’clock—to complete a task was nothing unusual at this time of the year. Presumably Una, who had been busy and was now getting the news, had been unable to go with the girls to spend the evening visiting friends.
When the fun was over, Una would not allow the others to soil their best clothes over a job that would take her no time, and after two or three false starts, Meg and Betz actually departed.
Una was down now at the little wall all alone spreading the blue wool. He watched the movements of her hands and arms and saw her dark head. The birds had stopped singing, except for a corncrake in a little field over on the left. The night was very quiet and the light a dim green. Una kept working all the time, with never a sound from her, down there by the little wall. Finn wet his lips and let out a low clear whistle. As Una looked up, he walked out just clear of the trees, stood still, and beckoned.
He saw her face whiten as she started back. He heard the smothered cry. “Una!” he called, loud enough for her to hear. She stopped. He beckoned again. She stood staring at him, looked over her shoulder at her home, around her, and slowly returned to the wall. He beckoned her to come to the wood, come to the wood, where they would not be seen, his body standing still against the darkness of the trees.
She crossed the wall and went up towards him, but slowly, watching him, like a woman in a trance. As she came near and he saw her eyes, he stepped back into the shelter of the trees. She followed him and they met.
“Hullo, Una!” He looked into eyes that were still upon him—not shyly, but in a strange searching manner. Then her expression broke and she glanced away, her body twisting. She smiled. “I wondered who it was,” she said. She began to breathe heavily. “Phew! I’m tired,” and quite deliberately she sat down. She did not seem self-conscious or greatly concerned about his presence. “Oh, I’m tired,” she repeated, and threw herself down and turned over on her face.
Her neck was white beneath her black hair. His eye ran along her body to the blue stains on her bare legs and feet. He was profoundly moved by whatever had happened to her. For in her flesh, in her eyes, even in her awkward movements, there was the warm soft darkness of appeal, of grace, the emanation that haunted him, that would never leave him alone.
He sat down feeling remote from her, not knowing what to do, but so near her that he touched her shoulder lightly, and murmured her name. Then he spoke more firmly. Was she crying? He lay beside her and listened. “Una,” he said into her hair.
“Leave me,” she muttered.
He sat up and waited; and presently, somewhat shamefacedly but not weeping, she sat up beside him. Her face was now hot with blood, her eyes deep. “You gave me a fright. I was not sure who you were.”
“Why, did you think I was someone else?”
At that she turned her head and looked at him, looked into his eyes, with an assessing woman’s look in the midst of her warm emotion, and looked away.
“Why don’t you answer?” asked Finn, losing his bearings.
“I’ll have to go,” she said, as if he had fallen out of her thought. “They’ll be wondering where I am.”
“Answer me: who did you think I was?”
“Why do you question me?”
“Never mind. I’m questioning you.”
“I’m going home.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Who’ll stop me?”
“I will.”
She laughed a queer note or two and got to her feet. But he stood in her way.
“Answer me,” he said.
“I will not answer you.”
“Answer me,” he said coldly, angrily, his expression drawn and inclined to quiver.
Not looking at him, she strode on. But though she was a well-built girl, Finn pinned her arms and broke her strength. In doing this he grew very excited; he forgot himself altogether, and kissed her hair and her ear. But when her strength was broken, he felt ashamed of what he had done, not only to her but to himself. His loss of self-command increased his deep misery and wretchedness. He let his arms fall. “All right,” he said indifferently, yet with deep underlying enmity and anger. “You can go.”
But she continued to lie against him, breathing heavily.
“Why don’t you go?” he demanded, and put his palms against her shoulders. But she would not be shoved off. She gripped him, hiding her face. He felt its pressure against his neck.
As he gazed over her head, his eyes narrowed in an intense woodland look. Then he gazed at her hair. “Una,” he said in a low voice. She gripped him more strongly as if she felt what was coming. He pushed her head back relentlessly. She struggled against showing what he would find in her face. But he found it and the world went blind against her mouth.
*
Some time thereafter, as they lay side by side on the floor of the wood, they heard her mother cry her name.
“I’ll have to go,” she said. “They must wonder where I am.” The wonder lay warm in her voice and in the soft beauty of her face. She did not stir.
“Never mind them.”
“I must.” She smiled.
“Do you want to go?”
She glanced at him. “You’re a terrible one for questions.”
“You know it’s not that.”
“What then?”
“I cannot believe it. I want to be sure.”
“It was awful of you to think I would come for anyone else.”
“But—you said—you wondered who it was.”
“I wondered—if it-was you.”
“Did you think, then, it was someone else?”
“No.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Una!” called her mother anxiously.
Una watched her two fingers pick amid the little dead stalks. “Once,” she said, “one night, I saw your face at our window. I saw it quite clearly—and then it vanished.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“You must have got a terrible fright. What did you think?”
She did not answer. “To-night, when I heard my name called—and looked up—and saw you standing still against the wood, with only your hand beckoning me�
��—”
A small shiver went over Finn. “And still you came?”
She nodded.
CHAPTER XXVI
FINN IN THE HEART OF THE CIRCLE
“It’s not the best of weather,” said the owner of the shipyard who had handed Finn back a pound as luck-penny.
“But good for her baptism,” answered Finn lightly.
“You’ll tell me how she does?”
“You can rest assured I’ll do that—one way or the other!”
The boat-builder laughed. “You’re a hardy lot out of Dunster. I’ll say that.”
“Nothing but the best for us,” answered Finn. And then with a swift smile, “That’s why I went to you.”
“Well, you didn’t go far wrong, my boy. The best that could be put in her is in her. And sea-knowledge besides.”
“I am well satisfied, thank you.” Finn turned and in the quiet voice of the skipper said, “Give way, boys.”
There was a stiff breeze blowing into Wick harbour, with dark clouds massing. But Finn’s crew were like horses before a race. Up went the sail, and the Gannet, standing aback for a small shuddering moment, then lay over and dipped in salute to the sea, rose, gathered way, increased her way, and was off.
Finn knew that many were watching, for Wick was already stirring into the tumultuous life of the summer fishing. He beat out, and in due course prepared to put her about. Up into the eye of the wind, acknowledging the helm, pressing her weight against it to feel the assurance of Finn’s hand, up in a slowing but steady sweep, up and round and falling over, and again gathering way, increasing her way, reaching out …
Finn’s heart sang in him, sang back to his boat in pride,
The crew made their compliments. Finn replied gravely, “She answers very well.”
But his heart was singing, and when they got outside he put up the mizzen, although there was a fair sea running and smashing on the skerries.
“We’ll see what she can do,” he decided. They saw his eyes gleam through the faint smile on his face that was lifted to the horizon. And he put her into it; he baptized her; he brought the strong spray over her bows; he lay her over until the sea seethed along her lee rail, but whatever he did, she answered him with increase, giving herself to the elements for which she had been created, assured of his hand.