The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms)

by Paul Kearney

  He sat in the chair with a dying fire at his side and the rifle propped by the hearth. He wanted to go home, but knew there was no longer anywhere named home for him. He was a misfit wherever he went.

  But his mind was sound. He had seen her; he had heard her fingers panic at the latch. The door had been open when he had followed her through it, but he had not opened it. She was real. He had not been dreaming.

  A gipsy, perhaps? A wanderer, a vagabond? A child abandoned?

  In these mountains?

  He tried to remember her again; her face, what she wore. A vague impression of a dark slip. Bare feet—at this time of year! But the eyes, looking at him. Jenny, staring out at him. Eyes to catch his soul.

  Impossible.

  Perhaps someone from the hotel at the other end of the glen—lost, maybe. He shook his head tiredly. Where had she run to? And he slept, at last, with his chin sunk on his chest, one hand trailing floorwards.

  CRIPPLING STIFFNESS TOOK him the next morning and he hissed and grimaced to stand up, cursing the cold of the bothy and the pallor of the fireplace. He was sick of sickness, sick of being alone, and yet the thought of people made him sick.

  Another grey day.

  Drizzle, and a massed bank of storm cloud. The mountains were about to don their veil again.

  Sick of rain, too.

  He wondered if it would snow. It felt cold enough for snow, though it rarely lay around the sea-level bothy. Perhaps the mountains would receive an icing. Perhaps then the cloud would lift, and he would see some sky.

  A tap at the window spun him round, and staring in at him was the bearded face, smiling. The mouth made words, but he could not hear them. He bent and seized the rifle and threw back the door.

  A momentary glimpse of surprise on the face; awkwardness so swift in passing it was scarcely noticeable.

  ‘I’m sorry. Did I startle you?’

  He followed the other’s eyes down to the rifle barrel, and lowered it, embarrassed; and suddenly ashamed. Hospitality was a tradition in this island.

  ‘Sorry, you made me jump.’ There was a small silence as invisible speculations filled the air between them, but it dissolved in a loud rattle of thunder that split the air above them and wrecked on through the glen. Riven flinched.

  ‘It’s going to be a rough day. I’ve watched the storm come in this morning,’ the stranger said. ‘I think it’ll be a big one.’ His voice was level, low, but the accent was unfamiliar, though Riven was momentarily sure he had heard it before. ‘Could I come in for a moment?’

  And Riven retreated. ‘Yes, sure,’ just as the first rain pocked the ground outside.

  ‘My thanks.’ The latch clicked shut behind him. He wore a rucksack, hiking clothes. ‘I’ve been walking and climbing for the past few weeks. This is my second visit here.’ The rucksack descended to the floor. ‘But it was deserted last time, so I slept in the shed at the back with the machine in it. I thought it might be a summer place for someone. I never expected to find anyone here. You live here?’

  ‘I live here,’ Riven replied. ‘I’ve... been away.’

  ‘Ah. That explains it.’ The rain drumming down outside now. ‘Yes.’ A peer out of the window. ‘The storm caught up with me, all right.’ A peer at his feet. ‘New boots. They’ve crippled my feet. I’ve got blisters like sea pebbles.’ He looked up. ‘Oh, I am sorry—’ A hand, proffered. ‘I’m Bickling Warbutt.’ A dry, firm handshake, the grip stronger than the slender fingers suggested.

  ‘Bickling?’

  A laugh, clear as a sleigh bell. ‘Yes, my parents had an old ancestor they named me after. Most of the time I’m called Bicker.’

  ‘I’m Riven, Michael Riven.’ Had he heard the name before?

  There was something familiar here, like an unremembered dream.

  ‘Pleased to meet you—and grateful you’ve let me in. Would you be minding it much if I stayed in here until the rain eases off?’ The grin again.

  Get a grip, Riven.

  ‘No, of course not.’ He roused himself. The host role. ‘Take your boots off, if you like.’ More thunder, louder this time. ‘I’ll just get the fire going.’ As the stranger, Bicker, fell to his boots, Riven occupied himself at the hearth, but stole glances at his visitor as he did so.

  He had about him a neatness which was more an air than a physical fact. Perhaps that beard and those eyes would always look dapper irrespective of any muck. His hands were the right size, his feet small, his entire frame sturdy as an otter’s, with no limb at a loss as to where to put itself. He was well-dressed for winter, but seemed to have escaped its effects. He did not look as if he could ever have suffered from blisters, tiredness, or anything else. He exuded health like a steel spring, and his ready grin was unconquerable. Riven disliked him for no rational reason, and felt ashamed in doing so, for it was like a sick man distrusting health. But there was something more here that worried him, intangible as peat smoke. If he could only remember!

  The flames leapt up in the hearth, warming him and lending a kindlier glow to the room.

  Too much was happening. Too many things. He did not want company—not now.

  ‘Ah, that’s better.’ Bicker was wriggling his bare toes. Thunder rumbled again, and the rain became a steady rattle at the windows. Riven stared at the glowing peat in the fireplace, lost for a moment.

  ‘I must say, it’s nice of you to invite a perfect stranger over your home’s threshold.’ The dark man stood up, his boots dangling by the laces from one hand. ‘Is there anywhere I should leave these?’

  ‘By the door is fine.’ He poked the fire without looking at his guest, watching the sparks sailing up into the blackness of the chimney.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, but you’re from across the sea, aren’t you?’

  Riven blinked. ‘Northern Irish.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Came over here to forget about the Troubles, I suppose. Don’t blame you. Tragic place.’

  Riven poked the fire savagely. ‘You’ll be hungry, I expect. I’ll fix something.’ He stood, then frowned and remained with his back to the fire and his hands splayed to the heat. Bicker was rummaging in his rucksack.

  ‘Were you on the slopes leading down to the burn yesterday?’

  The other man looked up. ‘Why yes, I was. Did you see me?’

  ‘I think you saw me. You grinned at me.’

  That grin.

  ‘I may have been smiling, my friend, but I don’t remember smiling at you. Mind you, I never look about me much when I’m climbing—tend to be a bit absorbed, don’t you know?’ And Riven, seeing the dark man’s darting gaze, knew he was lying.

  ‘Nice little weapon you’ve got there,’ Bicker went on, nodding to the rifle as he restrapped the rucksack. ‘For hunting, you use it?’

  Riven nodded, and sucked his teeth. ‘You didn’t see a dark girl wandering about the glen, did you?’

  Bicker seemed almost startled, then he appeared to consider the matter. ‘No, can’t say I did. Does she live here?’

  ‘No. I don’t know... where she lives.’ He was uneasy. He felt as though the storm was in the room, breathing on his neck. He wiped his hands on the seat of his trousers.

  Must have got used to being alone.

  He went into the scullery and set about reheating some of the broth to which the local wildlife had contributed. He heard his guest moving about in the main room, and fought a desire to peek round the doorway at him.

  Thunder growled overhead, and a barely noticeable flicker of lightning winked at the window.

  ‘Is it always like this at this time of year?’

  ‘Not always. It’s usually pretty stormy, though.’

  ‘You take the rough with the smooth up here, I suppose,’ Bicker responded.

  Riven stopped what he was doing for a second, forehead gnarled, then began stirring the broth again.

  The storm became more violent as the evening drew in. There was less rain, but the wind grew and whistled like a train around
the sea cliffs and the headlands. Riven occupied himself with some aimless typing—anything so he would not have to make conversation with his guest. Nursery rhymes, poems, anything. One rang in his head with infuriating insistence, and he could not get it out:

  How many miles to Babylon?

  Three-score miles and ten.

  Can I get there by candlelight?

  Yes; and back again.

  If your heels are nimble and light,

  You may get there by candlelight.

  ‘I like that one,’ a voice said. ‘It’s old, isn’t it?’

  It was Bicker, or Warbutt, or whatever ridiculous name it was he called himself by, leaning, as Jenny had used to do, over his shoulder and reading what was being typed. He flared up in anger. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry.’ Bicker retreated with the right amount of contrition. ‘I know it’s an irritating thing to be doing—I dislike it myself.’

  Riven felt like flinging the typewriter at his head, but turned back to his work with a silent curse and a, ‘Doesn’t matter.’ He was not sure if he was angrier at himself or Bicker.

  I can be polite, can’t I, for Christ’s sake? The keys ground to a halt.

  Oh, fuck this.

  He was in a savage, tearful mood. That’s what people do for you.

  He got up. Bicker was reading a book with great concentration. Riven could have sworn that his lips were forming the words as he read. He shook his head, then retrieved a bottle of malt and two glasses from the scullery. He clinked one down in front of Bicker, and settled himself opposite him at the fire.

  Might as well redeem his notions of Highland hospitality.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and poured the shining stuff into Bicker’s glass and then his own. ‘I’m not a great host, but I do have good malt on me. It’ll keep the cold out, if nothing else.’

  Bicker smiled; the first real smile Riven had seen on him. ‘My thanks. Shall we have a toast?’

  ‘Slainte.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Slainte. It’s Gaelic for bottoms up. Listen: slonsha. I probably say it in the Irish way. The Scots Gaelic is broader.’

  Bicker raised his glass. ‘Well—slainte, then, and your good fortune.’

  ‘May you be in heaven an hour before the devil knows you’re dead,’ said Riven, and polished off his glass. He poured another, refilling Bicker’s as well. ‘This’ll keep the wolf from the door.’

  Bicker glanced out of the window, then laughed his careful laugh and sipped his whisky.

  ‘Have you lived here long?’

  ‘A fair while,’ Riven replied, watching the fire. ‘I’ve... been away.’

  ‘Ah, yes. You said.’

  ‘Did I?’ He sipped the powerful liquid, feeling warm and logical. ‘I was in the army a while.’ He always said that. It gave people a good excuse to categorise him.

  ‘So you have been a soldier, then?’

  ‘Only four years. Left, and came up here.’ Careful, Riven; that’s enough. Leave the rest.

  ‘What is it you type on your machine, apart from nursery rhymes?’

  ‘The odd book. What is it you’re reading?’

  ‘An odd book.’ Bicker did not volunteer to show him the cover. ‘Do you mean you’re a teller of stories, a writer?’

  ‘Yes. I mean I was.’ Shit. I don’t even know myself.

  ‘Run out of stories?’

  No. The story ran away from me. I never caught up with it. ‘You could say that.’ He listened to the wind, and a great surge of self-pity welled up in him. He stared hard down into his glass and blinked furiously, swearing at himself.

  ‘It must get lonely up here.’ Riven could not answer. ‘I’d have thought you would have had a dog or something to keep you company.’ Bicker’s voice was light, conversational, but Riven knew he was watching him. The whisky mourning fled, and he felt uneasy. Who was this guy?

  ‘What is it you do, Bicker?’

  A swift flash of surprise. ‘Oh, I’m not doing anything of much importance. Just wandering the land in between things.’

  Riven stifled his annoyance. ‘What sort of jobs do you do?’ You’re no bricklayer, that’s for certain.

  Bicker shrugged. ‘Anything that pays, really.’ He set down his glass, and stretched. ‘I know I shouldn’t be the one to say this, but it’s getting late and I’d like to make an early start tomorrow morning. I think I’ll turn in, if you don’t mind.’

  Riven got up, realising he had to leave the main room and the fire to his guest. ‘Hope the floor’s not too hard.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve slept on worse. Good night, and thanks for the drink.’

  Riven waved his hand vaguely and wandered into the dark bedroom clutching the whisky bottle. ‘’Night.’ He closed the door, shutting out the firelight, and sat down on the bed with a yawn. He’s right. It is late. Must be the drink.

  He set the bottle down by the bed, undressed and got in. The familiar pang at lying alone there. He listened to the roar of the wind and the waves, and then slept without a dream.

  BIRDSONG JUST OUTSIDE the window, and sunlight streaming in along with it. He smiled, listening to it and the sea.

  Good morning, Riven. Well, thank you. He could smell bacon frying, and stretched in bed. She’s—

  Dead, Riven. That is your house guest, making himself at home.

  He lay still, listening to gulls and enjoying the sun from the window. He contemplated staying in bed until Bicker had gone, but the civilised side of him would not. Besides, the smell of the bacon was calling.

  Bicker was in the scullery when Riven shambled in, scratching his head and yawning.

  ‘How do you like your eggs?’ he asked him.

  ‘Eh? Oh, fried.’ He stopped. ‘I haven’t got any eggs. Or bacon, come to that.’

  ‘I had some stowed away. Thought I’d make use of myself in return for the night’s lodging. You don’t mind?’

  Riven filled the kettle. ‘No, that’s... fine. Sure. Go ahead. I’ll have two eggs, thanks.’ Oh, wake up, you slob.

  He stretched, then went outside to be met with a sweet breeze tasting of salt and a spangle of sunlight off the sea.

  Now that’s more like it. More like spring, perhaps. Jenny’s season.

  ‘Breakfast is ready,’ Bicker called.

  He remained staring at the sea for a moment, the familiar words biting into him. Good morning, my lass. I hope you can feel the sun, wherever you are.

  ‘It’ll get cold.’

  He went inside quietly to a fried breakfast.

  ‘What a day, eh?’ Bicker grinned, bright as a squirrel. His enthusiasm was almost infectious. That, and the sun flooding the room. Riven smiled, feeling a tinge of the old restlessness.

  ‘It is, isn’t it?’ He began to think that Bicker was not such a bad bloke after all. Especially after he had tasted the food.

  ‘I’m going to walk the coast path to Glenbrittle today,’ Bicker was saying. ‘It’s about fourteen miles, but it should be possible. I’ve already done the bit round the memorial hut. It’s the Bad Step I’m a mite worried about.’

  Riven gulped his tea, filling up with bonhomie. ‘Oh, that’s no problem in good weather like this. You just have to be careful. I did it in a gale once, when the rock was wet and I was carrying a sixty-pound bergen.’

  ‘Really?’

  Riven stopped. I bet this guy has climbed the Eiger, and is secretly laughing his socks off at me.

  ‘I thought I might stay in the hostel at Glenbrittle, and then pit my skills against the Red Mountain—Sgurr Dearg, it is called.’

  Riven put down his mug. ‘You must be careful on that mountain. You know what else they call it?’

  Bicker shook his head.

  ‘The Inaccessible Pinnacle.’

  ‘I see—yes,’ Bicker said thoughtfully. ‘I had heard that there was someone killed on it last year.’ Riven began to butter his toast. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’

  Riven looked up, startled. ‘Eh?’


  ‘Come round the coast with me. You can be my guide. It’s a fine sort of day, and you don’t seem to be too busy here at the moment, if you don’t mind me saying so. I was going to walk on to the Sligachan Hotel and stay there a few nights. Come with me. I owe you a return for the hospitality you’ve shown.’

  ‘The Glenbrittle hostel is closed this time of year,’ Riven said, but he knew he was fighting a rearguard action.

  ‘Well, I have a... tent.’ Bicker seemed to choose the word carefully. Riven was silent. The gulls were loud outside. Probably fighting over the seal.

  ‘Yes, why not?’ he said at last. ‘It’ll do me good. But I’m not climbing on Sgurr Dearg.’ Bicker shot him a strange look, but before he could say anything Riven stood. ‘If you clean up, I’ll chuck a few things in a rucksack. I won’t take long.’

  He entered the bedroom before Bicker could reply.

  SIX

  IT WAS WHAT Jenny would have called a glorious day. From the slopes of the headland they could see Soay in the sunlit sea. Farther off were the dark cliffs of Rhum; Muck and Eigg were somewhere behind it. Riven sat down, breathed in the clean, bright air, and smiled. He had been right: this was what he needed. A blowing away of cobwebs. A new perspective.

  I love this place.

  Bicker was studying the map. ‘This is Ulfhart Point,’ he said. ‘The cape of the wolf’s heart. The hardest part is over us now. It’ll be well after dark by the time we get to Glenbrittle, though.’

  Riven was hardly listening. He wanted to drink in the view, store it away in his mind like a jewel.

  It’s worth it, Jenny. As long as I can remember things like this, it’s all worth it. He turned to his companion.

  ‘If we go on this way for a little while, we come to a small strip of oaks on the side of the mountain. Through them, then we start climbing up on to the plateau. There’s a place there where the way is less steep, and a waterfall flows down to the sea; when we see that, we make our way to the plateau. Then it’s flat and boggy nearly all the way round to Loch Brittle, but easy enough going, even in the dark.’