Читать книгу Where the Golden Eagle Soars - W E Johns - Страница 4

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The day was hot, even for the Highlands of Scotland, where the midsummer sun, without the smoke of factories to filter its rays, can strike down with a force that may come as a surprise to visitors from the south who have too often seen the lonely hills depicted only in the grip of winter.

The tiny railway station of Tombrecht, deep in its sheltering glen, robbed by towering braes of any breeze that might have brought relief, shimmered in waves of heat that made the platform quiver and sent the boy who had it to himself to seek the meagre shade of some overhanging silver birch.

From this slim haven of retreat, Malcolm Macallan, sixteen, fair, tall for his age, dressed in well-worn home-spun tweeds, an open-necked woollen shirt, hand-knitted stockings and brogues half hidden by heather-spats, gazed with clear blue eyes along the single-line track that accompanied a river on its winding way through the hills as he waited for the daily train that brought the mail, the newspapers, and once in a while a passenger, either to his home, Glenarder Lodge, or to one of the scattered crofts that cling to the braes of Arderside.

The only sound was the constant murmur of the river as it babbled its way to the sea, its note unchanging, as soothing to the ear as a whispered lullaby; which may be why the song is sometimes called, by those who live with it, the husheen.

Vagrant whiffs of warm resin, fir and pine needles, fell gently on the nostrils from woods that stood at intervals, like battalions on parade, along the flanks of the more distant hills. Blending with the faint miasma of burning peat that hung over the station agent’s cottage it produced the aroma that tells a returning Scot he is in Scotland.

Curiously, although the sky was cloudless there was no glare. There were no harsh outlines anywhere. The distant scene was as soft as though sprayed on with an air-brush. The twin rails creeping cautiously through the valley, as if not quite sure of their way, seemed only to enhance an atmosphere of remoteness.

Suddenly, from within the low stone station building, to break the melody of the river with a harsh discordant note, came the jangle of a bell, to be followed, after a pause, by a distant whistle. A minute later, from the direction of the river, came a man of uncertain age, red-haired, his face bronzed and freckled by long exposure to wind and sun, a fishing rod in his hand, sturdy legs, that so often mark a man who seldom walks on level ground, encased in waist-high waders. Leaning the rod against a tree he crossed the rails and joined the boy on the platform.

“Good morning, Mr. Hay,” greeted Malcolm, smiling. “One day you’ll miss the train.”

“Och, it wouldn’a go wi’out me,” was the cheerful answer.

“What would happen if you were in a fish when Willie Grant gave you the whistle to let you know he was coming?”

“Wully’d wait a while, na doot. He’d no expect me to break in a fush,” replied the station agent, picking up from a seat the faded peaked cap that was his badge of office as stationmaster, porter and booking clerk.

“Anything moving?” inquired Malcolm.

“Na. The fush are stale, and stiff as boards. With the river awa’ to nothing and the watter as clear as gin the beasts’ll no move till there’s a starm in the hulls to gie us a spate. I thought mebbe I could pick up a troutie in the white water behind yon rocks. I saw the Lodge brake comin’ doon the brae. Ye’ll be here for the papers, I’m thinkin’.”

“No. I’ve come to meet a friend of mine. He’s going to stay with me for a while.”

The agent cocked a shaggy eyebrow. “A Sassenach?” (Englishman).

“American.”

“Can he fush?”

“Yes, but he’s never caught a salmon. He’s keen to try. He’s the fellow who saved my life last term when I was south at school.”

“Aye, I heard tell o’ that fra’ Donald, who had it fra’ your mother. How did it happen?”

“I was walking by the river near the school when a silly ass came along on a motor bike and knocked me in, unconscious; in deep water, too. Luckily for me a chap saw it happen. He dived in and pulled me out or I wouldn’t be here now. That’s how we came to know each other.”

“What was an American doing there?”

“His father’s a pilot at the United States Air Base not far from school. That gave us something in common right away. I told him my father had been killed flying in the war and after that we got along fine. He’s my own age, and happens to be as keen on natural history as I am. His people gave me a lot of hospitality, so, naturally, when school broke up for the holidays I asked Frank if he’d care to spend a few weeks here with me. Being of Scottish descent, and never having crossed the border, he jumped at the chance. He should be on this train.”

“What might be his name?” inquired the station agent, suspiciously.

“Macpherson. Franklin Macpherson. Frank for short. His ancestor was one of the Inverness-shire Macphersons.”

“Ah weel. The Macphersons are nae sa’ bad.”

Malcolm smiled. “You and your old wives’ tales about the clans. Don’t you dare to tell him that one about the sheep the Macdonalds claim were stolen by the Macphersons.”

“Na-na. I’ll no say a worrd. I’ll admit it happened a wee while ago.”

“I’d call a hundred years more than a wee while. But here comes Willie with the train. I hope Frank made his connection at the junction.”

The train trundled in, the driver leaning out of his cab to call to Malcolm, “Any fush?”

Malcolm made a gesture in the negative. “Have you heard of anything being caught higher up the river?

“Three at Balnalan yesterday.”

“On prawn, I’ll bet,” sneered Malcolm. “That’s no way to kill a fish.”

“They’ll no look at anything else.”

The train with its two coaches crawled to a halt. From the guard’s van was thrown a mailbag and a bundle of newspapers.

“Tombrecht,” called the station agent.

The door of a compartment was thrust open and a boy, dark, and perhaps a little heavier built than Malcolm, scrambled out, carrying in one hand a suitcase, dragging with the other a heavy kitbag while under his arm he held a bundle of fishing rods. He shouted a greeting.

“Take your time; there’s no hurry,” called Malcolm, walking to meet him. “Welcome to Glenarder. Never mind the luggage. Sandy here will put it in the brake.” Having shaken hands he stepped back, looking the visitor up and down with a curious, slightly amused smile on his face.

“What is it?” asked Frank, anxiously. “Something wrong?”

“No, nothing wrong, but I see you’re ...”

“You mean the kilt? Recognize it?”

“Of course. Macpherson hunting tartan.”

“Then why look at me like that? Any reason why I shouldn’t wear it?”

“None at all. Any Scot is entitled to wear his clan tartan, but ...”

“But what? I expected to see everyone wearing a kilt.”

“Not nowadays. You’ll only see kilts on special occasions. I was thinking that not being used to it you won’t find it very comfortable.”

“Why not? It feels swell.”

“You may think so now, but you’ll change your mind if you’re caught on the hill in a storm. When it gets soaking wet, and that’s bound to happen, you’ll think it weighs a ton. When it’s too long, as yours is, and the weight of the water in it drags it down, the bottom will chafe the back of your knees till there’s no skin on them. The first thing when you’re walking these hills is comfort. But we can talk about that later. Here comes Sandy. He’ll have put your gear in the brake.”

“What’s he grinning at—my kilt?”

“No, your shirt, I imagine.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s a bit on the bright side.”

“In our forests at home it’s wise to make yourself conspicuous.”

“For goodness’ sake! Why?”

“If you don’t you’re liable to be shot by another hunter.”

“Well, that won’t happen here because, one, our forests don’t have trees, and secondly, on our ground there won’t be any other hunters. Apart from that, take my advice and don’t wear cotton. Wool’s the stuff. It absorbs the sweat, and you don’t feel the cold if the wind swings to the north, as it may, should you be sitting down having a rest.”

“I seem to have a lot to learn.”

“Everyone in new country has something to learn if he wants to keep out of trouble. No matter. We’ll soon have things organized.”

The station agent came up. Malcolm introduced him. They shook hands.

“His rods are wee bit on the light side for a heavy fush,” advised the agent, looking at Malcolm.

“We’ll get that sorted when we get home,” said Malcolm. “Come on, Frank. Let’s get along. There should just be time for me to show you round the Lodge before lunch.”

They went out to the brake, a dilapidated Ford V-8 fitted with extra heavy tyres, which in a few minutes was cruising quietly down a narrow road towards a bridge that spanned the river, here about thirty yards wide. The Lodge, Malcolm explained, was on the opposite bank.

Reaching the bridge he brought the brake to a halt in the middle. Not far away, on the bank, a short, stocky, fresh complexioned young man, wearing tweeds and body waders, was standing near a small wooden building pulling the line off the reel of a rod that rested against a rail provided for the purpose. Hearing the brake stop he looked up and made a signal.

“That’s Duncan, our gillie,” informed Malcolm. “He’s caught nothing.”

“How do you know?”

“He signalled. He’s drying his line, which looks as if he’s packing up. It’s often like that at this time of the year. The water gets warm and the fish don’t like it. They pack in the pools like sardines. Just look at ’em down there.”

Frank stared. “Do you mean salmon?”

“Of course.”

“I don’t see any.”

“I can see twenty, at least. You’ll soon get the knack of spotting ’em. Watch for a window and follow it along with your eyes.”

“What’s a window?”

“A piece of flat water that follows a swirl.”

“I can see some long weeds.”

“Those are salmon. There aren’t any weeds in our rivers. The spates don’t give ’em a chance to grow. The bottom is either rock or shingle.”

“The water doesn’t look very deep for fish that size.”

“It’s about twelve feet, where you’re looking.”

“What!” Frank sounded incredulous.

“It’s deceptive because it’s so clear. It can still deceive me, and I know the bottom of this river like I know my own face.”

At that moment a streak of silver a yard long leapt high into the air to fall back with a splash.

“Gee! Did you see that,” cried Frank, excitedly. “What a fish!”

“Not far short of thirty pounds, I’d say.”

“What made him jump like that?”

“They do it all the time. No one really knows why. Some people think it’s to try to knock the sea lice off them—little creatures they pick up in the sea. Others think it’s to get oxygen. Some say it’s because they know there’s going to be a change of weather. You see, those fish are waiting to run up to the spawning grounds, but they won’t move until there’s more water in the river. The dickens of it is, when they’re in this state they won’t look at any lure. But we must stop talking now. I’ll tell you all about it later. If you’re going to fish for salmon you’d better know something about them. We might come down tonight, at about dark, and try for a sea-trout in the tail of the pool.”

Frank looked disappointed. “Trout seem poor game after that beauty we saw jump.”

“You’ve never made a bigger mistake in your life,” declared Malcolm. “If you get stuck in a four or five pound sea-trout you’ll think you’ve hooked a railway train. If salmon fought like sea-trout, size for size, I doubt if you’d land many. I’ll call Duncan and give him your rods. He’ll make them up and put them in the rodbox—that long thing you can see beside the hut—ready for use at any time. I never take mine down.”

“Is that safe? Don’t they get stolen?”

Malcolm looked shocked. “That sort of thing isn’t done here. People leave their things lying beside the road to be collected later, or picked up by someone else. No one would dream of touching them.”

“Say. That’s wonderful.”

“Call it civilized. I’ve heard people from the south say we’re fifty years behind the times. We may be in some respects. We prefer things that way. Anyhow, it doesn’t say much for progress. Cities might do worse than put their clocks back and recover some of the good manners they seem to have lost. The farther away you get from towns the less you’ll hear of robberies.” Malcolm called to the gillie and beckoned.

While they were waiting a flight of a dozen or so fairly large birds, black and white with long, bright orange beaks, came screaming up the river. Reaching the bridge they swept up over it in perfect formation before resuming their straight flight. As they passed, Malcolm’s voice joined in the chorus. “Good morning—good morning.”

“What are they?” asked Frank.

Malcolm answered, laughingly: “Oyster catchers. I love the oyster catchers. To me they’re part of the river. They’re harmless, cheerful, friendly folk, and always so spotless that they look as if they’d just come home from the cleaners. When the river freezes up in winter they go down to the sea, and their return, shouting their heads off as if they were tickled to death to be back, is one of our first signs of spring. And that means something here, I can tell you, to everybody and everything. I always throw my cap in the air when the advance party comes tearing up the river. I do the same when I see the first skein of wild geese flying high, heading north. That’s a great thrill. I feel sorry for the people who live in cities and miss such moments, although, to be sure, the weather means more to us than it does to them. Here, our long brutal winter is public enemy number one, and we’re glad to see it on the way out. Of course, the country can look beautiful under a blanket of unbroken snow, but that’s a poor compensation for the hardships it imposes.”

“I guess so.”

“Which reminds me,” went on Malcolm. “If you hear an unholy din in the middle of the night, as if ten thousand witches were arriving on broomsticks, it will only be the oyster catchers having an argument. Scores of them roost on a stony island in front of the house. The din starts at a definite signal and ends just as abruptly. Like a tap being turned on and off. I don’t know why they do it. Some people think it’s the moon rising that starts them off, but I believe it’s when they’re disturbed by an otter. We’ve a wonderful lot of bird life here, both by the river and on the hill. I’m never tired of watching their intimate habits. One is always learning something new and there are always mysteries of why they do certain things to be solved.”

“That suits me fine,” said Frank, warmly. “I guess a lot of your birds will be different from ours back home in the States so you’ll have to tell me about them. One of the things I’ve missed since I’ve been over here, living where we do, has been birds.”

“If you’re interested in birds you’ve come to the right place,” asserted Malcolm. “After the south you’ll find them surprisingly tame—that is, except those that are on the official Black List for the mischief they do. It’s queer, when you think of it, that men should take it upon themselves to decide what should live and what should die. But there it is. We can talk more about that later. Here’s Duncan.”

The gillie came up and touched a cap festooned with flies of many colours and sizes. Malcolm did the same.

“Duncan,” he said, “meet my friend, Frank Macpherson. I’m going to show him how to grass his first fish.”

“They’re awful stiff the day.”

“I’m afraid they will be till the river grows a bit. Here, take Frank’s rods, make them up and put them in the box. I’m thinking of bringing him down tonight to try for a sea-trout in the tail of the pool, so you might make up a fly rod with a seven-five cast and a small black gnat.”

“Fine. Don’t harass them by starting too early. They’ll no take till the light’s off the water.”

“I shall wait till the bats come out. Now we must push on or we shall be late for lunch.”

“Did you notice the big beast?”

“No. Where does he lie?”

“Behind the Pulpit Rock.”

Malcolm took a few paces and looked down. He whistled through his teeth. “Phew! What a giant! How long’s he been here?”

“He wasn’t there yesterday so he must have run in during the nicht.”

“He must go close on fifty pounds.”

“Nearer forty.”

“We must have him.”

“I doubt you’ll do it. He lies deep, and you can no get a fly near him on account of the bridge.”

“How about spinning a minnow?”

“You’d never get one down to him in that weight of water, with the bridge in the way.” The gillie’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “There’s only one way you might make him mad enough to take hold.”

“A prawn?”

“Aye.”

“He’s a cock fish so perhaps it wouldn’t matter. Do you happen to have one?”

“Na, but I know where I could get one.”

“Then get it, and make up a prawn tackle. We’ll have a try in the morning.”

“The only way to get down to him would be to drop it off the bridge.”

“Well?”

“If he does lay hold you should have some fun,” said Duncan, grinning broadly.

“Be here in case I need help.”

“I wouldna’ miss it.”

“Ten o’clock?”

“Fine.”

“Now we must go.”

The two boys got back into the brake, which continued on its way up the thickly wooded brae.

“What a joke it would be if you started off by landing a forty pounder,” said Malcolm.

Frank looked startled. “Do you mean you want me to drop that prawn?”

“Why not? It should be an experience.”

The brake went on.