By leaning into the cliff-face, almost smothering myself in the thick wetness of ferns and leaves, I got to within a couple of feet of him and reached out my right hand to support him. It was the first knowledge he had of my presence. A splash of urine squirted from him on to the rock, and he gave a startled but grateful look over his shoulder. My hand on his side allowed him to rest his paws, but his whole body was still quivering miserably. I tried to calm him. ‘All right, Jasper, all right, it’s all right.’ But it wasn’t all right. I felt desperately insecure, with one hand holding the dog and the other, my left, clinging to stalks and roots that might give way at any moment. I had little idea what I was going to do. I couldn’t carry him under one arm back the way we had come. The only possibility I could see was to try to turn him, then get enough purchase under his body to push him to safer ground directly above us.
Stones rattled down over us, and from somewhere up there – presumably not far or I wouldn’t have been able to hear her – Lorna called, ‘Can you see him?’ ‘I’ve got him!’ I bellowed back, but my face was pressed into the vegetation and she obviously didn’t hear. ‘Gideon! Can you see him?’ she shouted again. Jasper heard her and restarted his frantic scrabbling. I did my best to calm him, but my right arm was getting tired. I knew we couldn’t stay the way we were for very much longer.
Lorna shouted again. ‘Have you got him? What can I do?’ The faint sound of her voice set Jasper off again, whining and shaking. He lurched outwards, and it took all my strength to hold him back. I summoned what breath I could into my lungs.
‘Lorna,’ I yelled, ‘you’re panicking him. You’ll have to be quiet.’
‘What?’ came her voice, and Jasper howled. ‘Have you got him?’
‘Will you shut the fuck up?’ I screamed, but whether this was directed at Lorna, Jasper, the Black Jaws or our hopeless situation I don’t know. I doubt whether she heard me, but it didn’t matter anyway, because something in the despairing tone of my voice must have penetrated the dog’s brain and made him decide that, however many canine years or minutes were left to him, here was not the best place to spend them. He made a sudden furious scramble up off the patch of rock, into the foliage, and in so doing managed to turn himself to face me. ‘Good boy!’ I said, and my right hand slipped round his rump, along his back and gripped the scruff of his neck. I hauled him up over me, felt his back paws push on my right shoulder and then lift as his front paws found some kind of leverage, and in a second he was away, sending a mini-landslide of loose pebbles, mud and dead leaves down on my head. Some grit got into my eyes and temporarily blinded me. I held on. I was almost certain Jasper had got far enough up the slope to get himself out of danger, but I no longer cared if he hadn’t. I had done all I could for him, and now I had to rescue myself. But a moment later I was beyond rescue.
After years of toying with me, my left arm chose this moment to deliver its coup de grâce. With a sense of helplessness, knowing what the feeling was and that there was nothing I could do to ward it off, I felt the fuzziness coming on, the clouds gathering in my head, the roaring sound of water all around me that was both more and less than the thunder of the river below. I felt the slow spasm of the arm’s independence as it began to shake the grip of my fingers from the foliage. I tried to hang on, but the arm wouldn’t let me, it was pushing me out, away from the cliff. I felt the cliff coming away in my hand. I went through a flailing, swimming motion with my right arm, clawing at anything that might hold, but now my legs were dragging me down faster than my fingers could work while the left arm went into its mad conductor mode. I thought of car crashes. I thought of Batman and Robin as the credits rolled. I thought, this really is it this time, Gideon, and the cliff moved two, three, four feet away from me and I was falling, still clutching bits of greenery in my right hand, my left still urging on its manic orchestra, falling, falling, falling into the black and white frenzy of the waters below.
XXXIV
How to describe what followed? It is not easy. I could tell of these events in the order, as it is clear to me now, that they must have happened, but who would accept the veracity of such a telling? I myself would not have in previous times. Better, therefore, to reveal these strange marvels as they were revealed to me – as the record of memory, accessed after they were over. That they happened is not in question: I have the proof. The only point at issue is what they signify.
I remember this: I fell into a roaring mouth that instantly became a cold, wet, hard throat sucking me down and down into itself. Nobody but I knows how apt the name the Black Jaws is for that dreadful place, for nobody else has been devoured by it and lived. I fell, as helpless as the rabbit that had gone before me, and at some point all my senses were smothered in the darkness. I don’t know when this happened, whether I was still in the air or had hit the water, but I have no memory of hitting the water. The last thing I remember thinking was the mundane fact that I had eaten nothing since breakfast.
Then there was a tremendous, freezing pressure all around me, and I was being churned and spun like a sock in a washing-machine, carried along by an immense, frothing, surging force. Something hit me, or I hit it. I was caught for a second, snagged, then I was moving again. This is all I can remember of however long I was in the Black Jaws.
Somewhere in my head was the knowledge that I couldn’t possibly have survived the fall; that even if I had, the river would have killed me; drowned, broken, battered, chilled and crushed me to pulp. I was of the opinion, therefore, that I must be dead.
And yet I remained in the body that had been Gideon Mack. It was as if the essence of me was trapped in that now useless shell, that rudderless vessel spinning like a barrel in the flood. I was moving very rapidly in black water through a long black tunnel. My head kept going under, coming up again. I tried to breathe, but there was no room for breath in my lungs. The tunnel must have been dimly lit because I could see the black rock of its roof and walls, and the horrible, sickly race of the water rushing me along. I tried to see where the light was coming from. I couldn’t possibly swim in such a current, but as I travelled I was turned by it and whenever I was facing in the direction of the flow I saw a tiny speck of yellow far in the distance. This was the light that cast just enough of itself to illuminate the tunnel, and I was moving towards it. The tunnel was very straight, the river more like a mill-lade than a natural river. I felt that I was being propelled along at hundreds of miles per hour.
And yet I did not panic. There was no point in panicking. I could do nothing. Everything was out of my hands. I could only be taken by the water wherever it was going. The water was very cold and did not seem quite real, it was thick and viscous yet at the same time it flowed as freely and fast as a burn; it was both solid and liquid at the same time. And it was carrying me towards the light.
The light grew brighter. My sense of calmness grew with it. I did not want to be calm, I felt I ought to be fighting for my life – but at the same time I thought I was dead. And as this thought intensified, became a certainty, in some indefinite moment the essence of me slipped away from my physical self. And my consciousness was with the essence. I was the kite I had flown in the garden, centuries before it seemed, attached but at a distance, outside, above, looking down on my body as it was swept along the tunnel. I was hovering above it, keeping pace and yet not moving at all. I had a memory of watching myself on the bedroom floor all those years before, the sounds of Jenny working in the kitchen below. Then I had other memories: Elsie and me in that same bedroom making love, me and Buzz arguing in the school playground with part of me outside myself looking on, John and me identifying Jenny at the hospital, my mother watching me sleepwalking, my father’s vicelike grip on my neck in front of the television, my mother kneeling beside my father on the floor, the little pile of yellow vomit at his mouth. These and other images appeared as if I was looking at them in a flicker-book. I thought, this is a ridiculous cliché, my life is flashing in front of me, but it was true and I could
not stop it. And all the while the light was growing brighter.
Soon it was so bright that I thought it would blind me, but it was not like staring directly into the sun, it was more as if sunlight were all around me, illuminating everything with a wonderful clarity. The light changed from yellow to brilliant white. I was sinking into it. Angelic, celestial light. I could see every detail of the tunnel, every ripple and swirl in the racing water, the head of Gideon Mack bobbing up and down in it, Gideon’s limbs as lifeless as the limbs of a rag-doll. I realised that I was on the point of being for ever separated from that body. Its fingers were numb and limp and letting go of whatever filament still linked us. I looked around from my vantage point in the air, and every fissure and bulge and fold in the rock walls was perfectly clear and defined. And it was this that returned me, with a shock, to my physical self, for it made me think of the Stone.
The Stone was unfinished business. Elsie was unfinished business. I had left too much unresolved. The calm that had been overwhelming me splintered, and I began to panic, trying to make my heavy arms and legs move, reach, seize. I felt as though I was falling again, banging into things, being hurt: I was back in my own body. The tunnel was no longer a tunnel, but a twisting, jolting chute of crashing white water and black undercurrent. There were branches and pebbles and stones and other debris. Gideon Mack was debris. The constant battering of water and rock felt distant and dull, and I was frozen but I understood that I was being bashed about like a log, and it was only a matter of time before I received a fatal blow to the head or chest.
I was suddenly flushed over a long, smooth rock into a deeper, less turbulent body of water with a head of foam rotating on it. I submerged again and came back up into relative tranquillity. The roar of water seemed much diminished, and I had the sensation of having been washed many feet from the source of that tumult. I could feel no bottom beneath me, but then my feet were too numb to feel anything – I didn’t even know if I still had my walking-boots on. I had the will but not the strength to swim and felt myself sinking again. And at that moment a hand reached to me, pulling me from the water.
A hand, yes. That much is clear. Now comes the tricky part. Picture me, as I slowly pictured myself, my mind gradually infilling blocks of the scene like a clumsy child painting by numbers. I am blinking my way out of darkness. A white background with patches of yellow, grey, blue. The colours blur, separate, overlap. Shapes emerge from them. I am lying in bed in a room full of beds. Linoleum on the floor. Wires and tubes and screens around me. I am aware, vaguely, of men and women coming and going, of kind but brusque attention being paid to me. I come and go too, only without moving. Smells: coffee, sweat, urine, air-freshener, disinfectant. Then comes a time when I stay a little longer. I hear myself breathing. I sense light through my eyelids and open them. My left arm lies peacefully on the covers, extending from the sleeve of a pyjama jacket I do not recognise. My right arm is there too, with something attached to it, a plastic bracelet round the wrist. And on either side of the bed, a shadow that becomes a person, familiar, leaning forward. Voices that say, ‘Hello, Gideon.’
Elsie on the one side, John on the other. John’s hand touches my hand. Elsie stands up and bends to kiss my forehead. I move my head against the pillows, take in the rest of the ward. Three other beds: men of various ages, all grey of complexion, two sleeping, one staring into space. A woman is sitting next to one of the sleeping men, holding his hand.
‘You had us worried for a while there,’ John said. ‘We thought you were never coming back.’
‘I was in the river,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Elsie said. ‘You fell. You saved the dog, do you remember that?’
‘Jasper,’ I said. ‘Yes, I remember it all.’
But of course I didn’t, not then. The real memories, sharp and shining as crystal, came later.
‘You should have died,’ Elsie said. ‘Nobody knows how you didn’t, but you didn’t.’
This is what they told me: that Lorna had raised the alarm, and assorted police, firemen and rock-climbers, and local men who knew the Keldo, hurried to see what could be done. They lowered men on ropes into the Black Jaws as far as they could and found no trace of me. They tried to scramble their way past the raging water from the lower section of the river but couldn’t penetrate to the deepest part of the chasm. They searched till nightfall and in the morning they searched again, but to no avail. The next day’s papers carried the story of the lost minister, who had died rescuing a fellow minister’s pet dog, and whose body would never be recovered from the secret course of the river.
‘They say some nice things about you,’ John said. ‘Generally speaking, the view is that you were a pretty decent kind of guy. Certainly not bad for a minister.’
‘John,’ Elsie said quietly. He threw her a look of disdain, and I realised that they were talking to me as individuals, not as a couple. But something else was puzzling me.
I said, ‘I’m in hospital. Where?’
Elsie said, ‘You’re in Ninewells, in Dundee.’
‘How long have I been here?’
‘A day and a half,’ she said.
‘What day is it?’
‘It’s Wednesday. You’ve been asleep since you came in.’
‘But I only saw you yesterday, at Bill Winnyford’s exhibition.’
‘That was Saturday,’ she said. ‘You saw me at the museum, and then later you went for a walk with Lorna Sprott at the Black Jaws. You were missing for three days, Gideon.’
‘Three days? That’s impossible.’
‘No,’ John said, ‘but it’s close to what some folk might call a miracle. We don’t believe in miracles, do we? But the river kept you for three days, and then it spat you out, which is pretty miraculous. A bit like the guy that was swallowed by the whale.’
‘Jonah,’ I said.
‘Aye, him,’ John said. He knew perfectly well who was swallowed by the whale. He was just testing me.
‘Three days,’ I said. ‘Who took the service on Sunday?’
‘Don’t worry about any of that,’ Elsie said. ‘The elders handled it, so I’m told. It was short and simple, and John Gless gave a five-minute sermon, and they prayed for your safe return.’
‘And hey, it worked,’ John said.
‘And Lorna Sprott’s going to cover for you for the next couple of weeks,’ Elsie continued. ‘You can put your mind at rest on that front.’
‘What about her own congregations?’ I asked.
‘Gideon, it doesn’t matter,’ Elsie said. She saw I was not satisfied. ‘She says she has somebody who can look after them. A Reader, is that the term? Anyway, he’s going to take the services at Meldrick, and she wants to come to Monimaskit. She says it’s the least she could do, all things considered. Don’t worry, it’s taken care of.’
I waved a hand to show that I wasn’t that worried.
‘She’s been here too,’ Elsie went on. ‘Yesterday and this morning, but you’ve been asleep. She’s very fond of you, Gideon.’
John made a face. I responded to neither of them. I was trying to fill the gaps.
‘I remember being in the water,’ I said. ‘Being battered about a lot. Somebody fished me out.’
‘That was Chae Middleton,’ John said. ‘Chae the poacher. He was out for one of his strolls up the river and he spotted you floating in the water. Thought you were a dead sheep at first. He waded in and got you up on the bank, saw who you were and phoned for help. You really would be dead if it wasn’t for him.’
‘I’m grateful,’ I said. ‘I mind him getting me out. At least, I think I do.’ But the memory didn’t seem quite right. I closed my eyes. A gravel bank, but before that the sensation of bumping into or being bumped by something. Something that wasn’t Chae Middleton.
‘Gideon,’ Elsie said, ‘we’re going to leave you now. You need to rest. It’s so wonderful that you’re alive. And you’re in good shape too. The doctors are amazed at you. You’ve been incredibly lucky.’<
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Everything else from that Saturday was coming back to me. I didn’t feel that I needed to rest at all. I tried to hold Elsie’s gaze, and she looked away, which was understandable with John right there.
We talked for a few more minutes before they left. My adventure had made quite a splash in the news. 121 George Street had put out a statement expressing delight that I had been returned to continue in the service of the Lord. John was collecting the press cuttings, including a couple of brief obituaries, and would keep them for me. ‘You’re in danger of becoming a celebrity,’ he said, as he stood up to go.
I lay for quite a while after that, wondering about the missing days of my life. It was like waking from a deep and dreamless sleep, and yet I was clutching at some kind of memory from within that sleep. A nurse came and talked to me, made sure I was comfortable. I asked her what had happened to my clothes.
‘They had to cut most of them off you,’ she said. ‘You’ll not be seeing them again. Anything else you came in with is in your locker there – the personal possessions you arrived with. Was there something special you wanted?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what’s there.’
With her help I was able to swing my legs out of bed and sit on the edge of it in front of the locker. I felt pretty good, apart from a lump on the side of my head and a general stiffness in my limbs. My right leg was aching, and the thigh seemed rather swollen. When I pushed down my pyjama bottoms to inspect it I saw it was purple and black with bruises. ‘How did that happen?’ I asked.
‘You were in a raging river getting hit by rocks, that’s how,’ she said. ‘It’s not broken, though.’
‘Oh,’ I said. Some other conversation nudged at my mind. ‘I thought it must be.’
‘You’re a very lucky man,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t even be alive, let alone in one piece.’
My watch was there, its glass bleary and scratched. It had stopped at 3.37 on the sixth day of the month. There were a few coins, and my house-keys, which had apparently been retrieved from my trousers before they were thrown out, but no wallet or paper money. The nurse was about to leave me when I pointed to the bottom of the locker. ‘What are those?’
The Testament of Gideon Mack Page 29