STORY OF AN OLD HIGHLAND CUSTOM

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXVII, Issue 23850, 28 December 1940, Page 8 (Supplement)

STORY OF AN OLD HIGHLAND CUSTOM

THE wind blew about the small, tiled cottage by the shore, thrusting against the windows and making them rattle like drums. It caught up spray from the high rollers and flung drops like hail upon the glass. The whine of the gale in the eaves was like the voice of a banshee—the invisible ghost which calls out, hungry for death, among the western valleys ol Scotland. John Farquhar, laying the scrubbed kitchen table with more than ordinary care, listened to the wind and sea and smiled wryly. ... • "The weather wasn t in keeping rcith the Christmas tradition—not by a long chalk. Instead of this bleak, clouddarkened, stormy night there ought to have been quietly falling snow, with now and then a blink of moonlight to 'illumine the fairy scene, instead of spray lashing against t' lo windows, there ought to have been flakes of white, purring sortly and making a suitable background to tills season of happiness and goodwill. And vet John Farquhar was not in the least surprised by the weather. He was a tall, broad man ot about fifty, hard as nails, red-bearded, his blue eyes quick and alert as befitted one who followed the calling of the sea. As a fisherman, wresting a meagre wage from the rugged seaboard of Argyll, he knew that more often than not Christmas was a time of rain and wind, and that only on rare occasions did the snow spread a covering upon the black rocks and grey, cold hills. He hoped, however, that the storm would not interfere with the journey of his daughter, who had promised to arrive that night. Mary Farquhar was a typist in the fishing' town of Invercon, eight miles distance across the moor, and her visits to the cottage were the only things winch made life worth living for her widowed father. When her mother died, three years before, she had offered to give up her work in, Invercon and return to the cottage,' but gruff and stern as always, tJohn Farquhar had forbidden her even to think of such a plan. He would manage by himself, he said; and reluctantly, puzzled and somewhat disappointed by his brusque rejection of her idea, she had complied with his wishes. Silent and undemonstrative, he had not explained that in fact he desired her company more than anything else in the world, but that he feared she would become restless and unhappy living alone in the cottage, _with the nearest neighbour more than five miles away. : He stood back from the table and studied his arrangements. There was a warmth in his eyes which his acquaintances seldom witnessed, for, like other Scottish west coast fishermen. he felt it a point of honour to uphold a reputation for hard dourness: and, indeed, when selling his catches, he found this reputation useful to secure a bargain. But in an hour now, if all went well, Mary would be with him, and he permitted himself a feeling of glad anticipation. Everything was ready. He had forgotten nothing. The three places were set: a place for Mary, a place for himself —a place for the stranger. The stranger at Christmas . . . Few would have, suspected in the burly, outwardly hard-bitten fisherman so strong a religious sentiment. But his wife had invariably followed the old Highland custom of preparing at Christmas for the advent of the stranger—a traveller who was stormstayed, a'shepherd wandering far from his home, any waif who sought food and warmth and comfort- —-the stranger who might be our Lord in the guise of a man; and John Farnuhar had which his loved one had begun. Suddenly he started, and though his fee© gave nothing away, his mind was

filled with astonishment, and some apprehension. Above the cries of the storm there sounded a heavy knocking at the front door. Quick thoughts came to him. It couldn't be .Mary—she wasn't due for another hour, and at any rate she would never have knocked. She d have burst into the cottage—singing more than likely—and there would have been no sense of mystery and fear in her arrival. Who was knocking? John Farquhar muttered angrily to himself and strode toward the door, What was the good of allowing an old superstition to affright him!"' At the door he'd probably find the shepherd from the glen, tired of his own company and eager for a drink and a "crack" . . . It wasn't the shepherd. As Farquhar opened the door, he saw, in the dark flurry of the storm, the oilskin-clad figure of Peter Robertson, his implacable enemy. At once, defensively,

his whole body stiffened. When he spoke his voice was as harsh as the wavebursts on the shore. "What do you want?" In the light, streaming from the kitchen Peter Robertson's thin, cleanshaven face was white. He was shorter hy six inches than Farquhar. and his appearance was mean and slight beside the other's burliness. "Let me in, John! I have come from Invercon to ask you a favour." "A favour! From me!" John was incredulous. He remembered the sorry tale of his life-long enmity with Peter Robertson. The fire of hate had been kindled when they were boys at school, bickering over the possession of a certain desk. It had flamed to fever-heat when John married the girl upon whom Peter's youthful love had been squandered. And afterwards it. had glowed steadily in a fierce business rivalry. Everyone in the district knew of it,' and accepted it as something permanent and immutable. Not ful-

thirty years had the two men exchanged a friendly word. "Let me in." repeated Peter, and there, was a pica in his voice which could not be disguised. "I want to fell you about my boy—about Duncan, my boy." it was on the tip of John's tongue to tell the other to go to blazes. He ■wanted to slam the door and shut out the hated sight of his enemy. "I hired a car," Peter was saying, desperately, his words tripping over one another as they tumbled out of his tortured mouth. "I came to you. -My son's skiff is out there, drifting on to the Black Rock. You have a boat. You're the only one who can save him. The lifeboat has gone out from invercon, but it won't reach this part of the coast for hours . . . 1 know it's dangerous. I can't blame, you if you refuse. Most men wouldn't risk a boat in this storm. But . . . He broke off, breathing quickly, the. wind whipping his oilskin about his sea hoofs. Slowly the truth dawned upon .John Farqubar. The Black Rock was a high cliff-face across the bay from his cottage, upon which many skiffs had been wrecked. Young Duncan Robertson, Peter's son. must have gone out earlier in the day to fish for herring; he possessed a skiff of his own, John knew. The engine, it was likely, had broken down, and the coastguards at the cliff-head, observing his plight, had telephoned to Invercon for help. But the sea journey from Invercon to the Black Rock, though only eight miles by car, would take hours to accomplish against adverse currents. Now was I us chance to see Peter Robertson bowed and beaten. John Farqubar knew that no one -least of all tbo, fishermen who were acquainted with the treacherous coast —would think it strange if he relused, on such a night, to do as his enemy asked. Now was his chance to gain revenge for all those years of bitterness and strife. He would shut the door presently and put the thing from his conscience. Mary would soon be corning. "John," exclaimed Robertson. "John —you can't refuse. My son's out there and three m< n with him. can t refuse. My God, man, it s life or death. Their lives are in your hands. I'll do anything you ask. I'll grovel on my knees before you —if only you'll save my boy . . . It's Christinas, .1 oh n—'' Christmas. The stranger at Christmas. The lines of the old Gaelic poem ran like fire through Farqubar's mind as lie stood there in the doorway looking down on his enemy. Hail, Kingl Hail, King! Blessed is Hoi Offer to (lio Christmas Stranger all your House. Include stave and stone and beam; Offer again both rods and cloth. Be health to the people therein. _ Hail, King! Blessed is He coming in tho guise of a Stranger. The stranger at Christmas. He had come to the cottage after all, even though it was in the form of an enemy. Christinas. Thai one word brought decision to John Farqubar. "Come inside, Robertson," he said, .gruffly, turning on his* heel and-lead-

ing the other into the kitchen. "Sit down. Here's a dram for ye. Drink it while .1 get into my oilskins." Five minutes later the two men went out into the shrieking darkness. On the table Farqubar had lett a note in case Mary should come during their absence. The wind whipped at their clothes and flung into their faces stinging gouts of spray. Salt gathered on their lips. They said nothing to each other. Far out across the bay, blacker than llic black night, there rose up the Black Rock. Perilously close to its terrible embrace there driited a bright flare. Both men knew that this flare burned on the mast-head of Duncan Robertson's skiff. In a sheltered cove about a hundred yards from tlie cottage they clambered into Farquha r's motor-boat. John 1 tinkered with tho paraffin engine, until it, burst suddenly into a staccato roar, then turned ami slumped down in the stern, crooking bis arm about the tilbr. "Keep an eye on it, Robertson," he muttered. "Ye ken bow it works. Del in the clutch—now." Out into the teeth of the gale swung the little white-painted boat. Once quit of 1 be guardianship of the cove it leaped and dived amid the grey-capped rollers. His body jammed into the angle of the stern, his heavily-booted feet straining on the bottom boards, Farqubar knew that every shred of his skill would be required to prevent the craft from being overturned. Robertson, crouched over the engine, a prayer on his lips, knew it also. One false jerk of the tiller and the raging waters would swallow them up. But since they were fishermen they neither voiced their apprehension nor allowed it to appear on their faces. 'I he sea was the old enemy, and to admit fear of it would spell disaster to their livelihood. The sky above was like a race-track over which there speeded grev, tattered clouds, whisked onward and away by tho wind. Now and then a star would blink from behind the flying shapes, and the sea and the near by land would undergo a momentary illumination. At these times Farqubar and Robertson would peer forward in the direction of the Black Rock. The flare on the doomed skiff's masthead bad now been extinguished, but in the flickering, intermittent starlight the two men could still see the fishing boat heaving up and down, not yet caught by the jagged rocks, but gradually approaching to within a stones throw oi the deathtrap. Would they reach her side in time? The motor-boat thrust her slim prow at the marching waves, twisting as she rose like a steeplechaser at a high fence and slithering down into the trough on the other side with dizzy speed. Once a cross "wave hurled itself against the starboard quarter, sending the. frail craft spinning. A monstrous roller threatened to engulf her, broadside on. Robertson, his hands on the engine controls, half closed his eyes. For one tense moment be thought it was the end. But, almost af once, lunging savagely on the tiller, his companion had brought the boat round to face the danger. In a detached kind of way John Farqubar thought to himself that this was a strange way to spend Christmas Fve. out hero facing death, fighing death shoulder to shoulder with his bitter enemy . . . He wondered if Mary had by this time reached the cottage. Ami then, in that sudden fashion known to seamen, the fishing skiff was before them and the black cliffs were swinging above. Tho sea was calmer beneath the Black Rock and the motor-boat, could bo manoeuvred with less danger. Farqubar swung her round until she was running toward the skiff on a parallel course. "Throttle down!" he to j [.Robertson, and then, as the engine's j

stutter grew quieter, lie put one gnarled hand to the side of his mouth and roared to the men on the skill'. "Throw us a rope. You're safe now, hoys ..." Ho himself didn't think anyone was sale, lit a moment a wave might iitt the motor-boat and hurl it against the side of the skill, smashing it to matchwood. Or the two craft-, drifting together. might suddenly be thrown upon the rocks, lint he acted and spoke as if such dangers were out of the question. Four dark figures could he seen clustered in the well-stern of the skiff. As the motor-boat ran alongside two ropes came hurtling through the dark. Both were caught by Peter Robertson, who, for the moment, had left the engine to look after itself. He made them fast. Hand over hand along these seemingly frail supports came the men from the skiff, sousing in the water as the ropes slackened and tautened. The last of them—Pet<?r Robertson's son. Duncan—scrambled into the motor-boat. "Cut!" shouted Farqubar. wrestling with the bucking; tiller. But vounc; Robertson had already taken out his knife and had hacked loose the trailing ropes. I.'eter Robertson was back again at the engine, coaxing it once more to its utmost power. The motor-boat poised on a wave-top. Beneath her rolled the deserted skiff. For a moment it seemed as if the two craft might collide; but

then, in. a second of time it appeared, the motor-boat swung down and away from the skiff and the Black Rock. "Dear Lord!" muttered Peter Robertson to himself. "You helped us and we've done it. Farqubar and I have done it." He glanced at his son, crouched beside him, safe. He could scarcely believe his eyes. ***** The six soaked and storm-battered men entered John's cottage. They blinked in the glare of the kitchen lamp. There was a sudden cry. and Farqubar turned rather dazedly to see his daughter, Mary, in young Duncan Robertson's arms. Her fair hair fell in dishevelled loveliness on her shoulders. She had no overcoat, but did not seem to feel the wetness of Duncan's streaming oilskins. Her hands cupped his strained, brown face, and she was half laughing, half sobbing. "Oh, Duncan, my dear —you're safe! I heard—l heard you were in danger before ! left Invercon. 1 cycled out hero. The storm couldn't stop me. I got my father's note on the table. I knew he would —would bring you back. 1 knew God would answer my prayers ..." Duncan bowed his head, and in front of them all he kissed her, at first tenderly, and then so fiercely that John Farquhar's mouth opened in amazement.

Ho to Peter Robertson. He couixhed. His lace became stern. "Did you—did von know of this?", Robertson shook his head. "No. L—L expect they were keeping it secret because u.-> . . . Outside the storm was "slackening. The wind which for so long had shrieked about the cottage had taken on a deeper, more sonorous note. The waves still rumbled and crashed, .but soon they. too. would spend their terror and whisper softly on the sand. In the kitchen was a tense silence. All at once the attention of everyone became focussed upon the two old fishermen —the two men who hated each other. They stood face to face ia the middle of the floor. Mary and Duncan, their arms about each other, moved hack into a corner of the room and. with a sudden realisation of what they had given away, looked half fearfully at their parents. Duncan's crew of three stood awkwardly by the door. Peter Robertson and* John Farquliar seemed oblivious of their surroundings and of the presence of others. Their glances met and held. The seconds passed. Then Robertson spoke. "I have to—to thank you, John. This is Christmas, and—" Farquhar blinked something from his eyes. The words of the poem were pounding through his head: Hail, Kintr! Blessed is He coming: in the puise of a Stranger. Brusquely he held out his hand. He was going to shake hands with the stranger at Christmas. . . .