Lightly Poached Page 10

  The shepherd told too of his experience with an old dog fox. He had been out on the hills one day looking for white heather for some friends of his and feeling rather warm he took off his jacket and left it on a small knoll while he made his way down to the bum for a drink. Having refreshed himself he was about to retrace his path to the knoll when up he saw the old dog fox was there pawing at something. Realising it was his own jacket he shouted and waved his arms at the fox trying to scare it off but the animal only looked at him before resuming his attack on the jacket, pulling it about the knoll until the shepherd was afraid it would be torn. He hurried forward to rescue it and just as he reached the knoll he saw the fox extract a bar of chocolate from one of the pockets. It gave him another leisurely look before loping away with the chocolate still held in its mouth. ‘The look that beast gave me as it went off with my chocolate was kind of uncanny,’ he used to add when he told the story.

  For another mile or so I trudged on, disturbing nothing more exciting than a flock of drowsy sheep and a trio of hill ponies contentedly grazing the short grass while the wind combed their long manes. The ponies pranced away, full of summer energy and sweet mountain grass. It was while I was negotiating a skintight little path between two bastions of cliff which led to a miniature plateau that I came upon the wild goats. Several times previously I had glimpsed the goats but never at such close quarters and from the concealment of the cliffs I was able to observe them without their seeing me. The herd was clustered around the entrance to a cave, the old grey billy to the fore but still fast asleep lying half curled with his nose resting on his flank like a dog. Behind him two young nannies stood steadily cudding and staring out at the sea with tranquil yellow eyes. Behind them again three more elderly nannies lay with the relaxed air of those who are enjoying a morning lie-in while two leggy kids sniffed at each other’s ears and seemed to be consulting with each other as to whether they should lie down again with their elders or begin the day’s gambolling.

  It was said in Bruach that this herd of goats were the descendants of domesticated animals left behind by the crofters during the terrible evictions of the last century when homes and possessions were burned and pillaged by avaricious landlords but whatever their history the goats looked wild enough now with their strong horns and their long shaggy coats so matted and bramble-threaded that the wind could scarcely hustle a way through. I edged back along the path, not wishing to disturb them, and clambered up a rocky gully which brought me to an even loftier sheep-track so that when I came out at last above the corrie I had to slide and scramble down into it. I approached the rock edge cautiously expecting a snatch of wind to buffet me as I came into the open, but I was pleasantly surprised. I had been too engrossed to notice how the wind was dropping and now as I looked towards the sea I realised it was only a stiff breeze that was turning the white bellies of the waves towards the wink of silver above the mainland hills and that the gale I had prepared for would prove to be no more than a morning prank. I lay down, peering hopefully into the deep abyss, impressed as always by the sheer desolation and size of the havoc of barren rocks severed so cleanly from the rest of the land by steep, sharp cliffs that provided footholds for nothing larger than a raven. It was an eerie place and if it was true that there were many fox earths among the boulders I imagined the foxes would continue to live there without fear of molestation.

  For about an hour I lay there enjoying the solitude and silence while ranging the abyss hopefully with my binoculars, without once detecting even a suggestion of movement. Any foxes were either still asleep or already out prospecting for their breakfast. I gave up, aware that I was hungry for my own breakfast and that even if I hurried by the time I reached home again my poultry would be protesting that their feed was overdue. Not wishing to risk meeting or disturbing the wild goats I began to climb, zigzagging my way towards the higher track through mossy gullies that provided easy footholds and over projecting boulders which did not. I was standing on a ledge of rock about to pull myself up and over it when glancing carelessly to my right something caught my eye. Instinctively I froze. For a fleeting second I imagined the tawny, gold shape perched on the plinth of rock above me to be headless but as my excited thoughts steadied I realised I was looking at an enormous golden eagle standing with its head turned away from me and tucked under its wing. It looked to be about three feet high and except for the golden feathers on its back which were being gently lifted by the breeze it was as still as a carving. I gaped at it, astounded by its size and by the great talons, bigger than my own hand, which gripped the rock and I think I forgot to breathe for so long mat I must eventually have let out a gasp. At any rate, some noise I made disturbed the eagle which turned its head quickly and looked straight at me with piercing yellow eyes. ‘You beauty!’ I raved silently. ‘You stupendous, unbelievable beauty!’ My heart thumped as we stared at each other with what seemed like equal incredulity until the eagle spread its great wings, poised itself for a second and without haste allowed the wind to lift it from its perch. I wanted to cry out to it to stay but I could only stand dumbly watchins its trance-like descent on the wind out towards the sea where, levelling off and still without discernible movement of its magnificent wings, it glided on and on until it merged into the mainland hills and no matter how much I peered I could see it no more.

  I pulled myself on to the ledge and walked to where the eagle had stood. I counted only five of my paces. It was staggering! I had actually stood within five paces of a golden eagle and I wanted to scream the fact into the wind if only to convince myself it was really true. I stood leaning against the rock, overwhelmed by my phenomenal good luck and conscious of the deep soul-satisfying elation that filled me and would, I knew, surge through me whenever I recollected my morning’s adventures. ‘People will never believe me,’ I thought and with something of a shock realised that this was perfectly true. No one would believe me. If I mentioned my experience to my neighbours they would undoubtedly appear to accept my story but I knew myself it would sound too implausible. To have got within fifty paces of a resting golden eagle they might just have accepted but a claim to have got within five they would have regarded as pure exaggeration. It would be better to say nothing, I thought, and tried to make the thought a resolution, reminding myself that there were idiots with guns in Bruach who were the avowed enemies of eagles because of their reputation for taking new-born lambs. ‘Say nothing,’ I told myself firmly as I left the place of the eagle’s perch. ‘Say nothing,’ I repeated to myself again and again. And all the time I was bursting with the urge to tell somebody. Just one other person if only to see their reaction.

  Once safely past the goats’ cave I dropped down again to the lower path and as I reached the corrie where I had encountered the hill ponies I saw a figure in cap and oilskins seated comfortably on a boulder and staring out to sea through binoculars. I recognised Donald, Bruach’s shyest bachelor, and would have skirted the corrie so as to keep out of his way had he not appeared to sense my presence the moment I spotted him. Perhaps for a space I had been visible on the skyline while I was on the high path and he had expected me to make for the corrie. He turned and we greeted each other with stiff smiles.

  ‘You’re out early,’ he observed.

  I was surprised. He had always evaded addressing me directly and I had gained the impression he resented me as an intruder in Bruach. This morning, however, he appeared distinctly affable so I told him what had led me to take such an early-morning walk.

  ‘Ach, but that was what we call a tide wind, just,’ he replied, confirming what by this time I already knew. ‘Even this bitty breeze will be away before the tide’s been gone back for more than an hour.’ He looked up at me. ‘You’d best be tryin’ to learn the ways of the wind.’

  I gave a rueful little laugh. ‘I try,’ I told him, ‘and I know more of its ways now than when I first came to Bruach but these, what you call “tide winds”, usually manage to fox me.’ His expression became faintly sup
erior. ‘You’re out early yourself,’ I observed.

  ‘Aye.’ He rose deliberately. ‘I’d best be away back to my house or the cailleach will be shoutin’ I’m starvin’ her hens.’ Donald lived with his testy, chair-bound old mother and did all the housework and cooking as well as the croft work. He seemed disposed to accept my company for the walk home and for once I was at a loss to know whether I should attempt to start a conversation or whether he would prefer it if we continued on our way virtually in silence. For a time I left the initiative to him although I wanted to talk to him very much. Apart from the fact that Donald was supposed to know more than anyone else about the wild life of the area I wanted to ask him why, when he had the reputation of being by far the best shot in the village, he had suddenly and without explanation put away his gun and taken to using binoculars and a camera to observe wild life rather than to destroy it indiscriminately as he once had. He bent, picked up a pebble, and aimed it at a clump of heather below the path. A surprised rabbit peered above the clump and loped unhurriedly away. Donald grunted.

  ‘Did you know it was there?’ I asked him.

  ‘I didn’t know for sure but I felt as if diere should be one there.’ He darted a glance at me. ‘If you’d had a gun now that would have made a dinner for you.’

  ‘I don’t shoot,’ I told him.

  ‘No, I don’t myself now.’

  ‘Not at all?’ I queried.

  ‘Ach, I might get a rabbit if they’re takin’ too much of the corn or if the cailleach takes a fancy for one but I scarcely ever take the gun down from the wall now.’

  ‘And yet people tell me you are easily the best shot in Bruach,’ I encouraged.

  ‘Aye, I believe I might have been once,’ he acknowledged. He tweaked a stalk of grass from beside the path and stuck it in his mouth. I thought it signified the end of the subject but after we had walked another little distance in silence he turned to me, slowing his pace almost to a standstill.

  ‘There was a time once when I’d shoot at almost anythin’ that moved: rabbits, hares, grouse, hoodies, gulls, ach, any bird you’d name an’ just think myself the fine fellow that I had the skill to do it but then the day came, an’ it came all of a sudden, that I was brought to my senses. I grew up as you might say.’

  He flushed and his yellow uneven teeth were bared in an embarrassed smile but he was still walking slowly. I reasoned that if he wanted me not to pursue the subject he would have quickened his pace again so I prompted:

  ‘You say the day came quite suddenly?’

  ‘Aye.’ He took the stalk of grass from his mouth and started to pull it into tiny pieces between his fingers. ‘Did you ever see a newly dead grouse?’ he asked, looking at me searchingly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘An’ did you ever notice the markings on its feathers; all its feathers, I mean, not just the wings an’ the brighter coloured ones?’ He moved his fingers as if he were riffling them through the feathers on a bird’s breast.

  ‘Not specially,’ I confirmed.

  He nodded. ‘I’d shot this grouse one day an’ I was just bendin’ down to pick it up when suddenly the sun comes through the clouds like a pointing finger an’ a wee breeze tickled at the bird’s feathers, liftin’ them so that it made me notice the markin’s on them. Beautiful it was, beautiful just. No man could have made a thing like it. I’ve never been able to explain it, least of all to myself, but it was as though somethin’ was behind my shoulder forcin’ me to see what I’d been blind to before an’ what a fearful waste it was to destroy it. I took home the grouse an’ we ate it but for the first time in my life I didn’t enjoy it an’ when I came to put the feathers at the back of the fire an’ I saw their lovely patterns goin’ up in smoke I knew I didn’t want to destroy another living creature. I cleaned the gun that night an’ I put it up on the wall an’ I doubt I’ve taken it down more than two or maybe three times since an’ that’s a good few years back.’ His pace quickened. ‘Ach, I daresay I was daft but that’s the way of it just.’

  I tried to give him an understanding smile but he kept his face averted. All the same I knew now that here was someone with whom I could safely share my secret.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ll believe me,’ I began, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice, ‘but up there on the crag I’ve just stood within five paces of a golden eagle. It was asleep with its head under its wing.’

  He turned to face me. ‘Why wouldn’t I believe you?’ he demanded. There was a wry twist to his mouth.

  ‘Oh, it just sounds too impossible. I’d decided not to mention it at all but I was dying to tell someone. You won’t let it go any further, will you?’ I asked hastily. There was something about the tightening of his lips that made it unnecessary for him to answer.

  ‘Indeed not long before you found me I was watchin’ a golden eagle makin’ over towards the mainland. Likely it would be the one you disturbed.’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ I exclaimed, glad of some corroboration of my story.

  ‘You were lucky all the same,’ he congratulated me. ‘There’s not more than one other person hereabouts that I mind ever got that close to an eagle.’

  ‘You know of someone else?’ I asked tensely.

  ‘Aye, an’ he was my own father.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Indeed. He was salmon watchin’ at the time, livin’ in the bothy, an’ he was comin’ over to collect some fresh milk an’ food. It was about midday, an’ sunny an’ calm. Seein’ he was keepin’ an eye open for his sheep at the same time he didn’t stay on the path. He climbed up to a crag an’ found himself almost on a level with the eagle an’ so close he could touch it. Like the one you saw it had it’s head under its wing so that it didn’t see him. My father was a very honest man, you understand, Miss Peckwitt?’ He looked at me and I nodded. ‘There’s nothin’ that upset him more than bein’ disbelieved but all the same he knew if he came back to the village tellin’ nothin’ but the truth about what he’d seen people wouldn’t be able to bring themselves to believe him just. So, quick as a flash he slipped off his jacket an’ threw it over the eagle an’ held it in his arms. He lifted it an’ carried it all the way down to the village an’ there he started shoutin’ for folks to come an‘ see what he had. When he thought there was enough witnesses he lifted his jacket off the eagle an’ let it go.’ He grinned. ‘They had to believe him then.’

  ‘He must have been even closer than I was,’ I remarked.

  ‘Aye, but I doubt you wouldn’t have had the strength to carry it back even supposin’ you were able to throw your jacket over it,’ he replied. ‘They’re big birds with some weight in them.’

  I laughed, ‘It wouldn’t have occurred to me to try,’ I retorted. ‘It looked enormous and its talons were really fearsome.’

  He grunted again. ‘You’d best be careful who you mention the eagle to,’ he warned. ‘There’s one or two here would be out with the gun if they heard of it.’

  ‘I’ve already decided I’m going to keep quiet about it,’ I assured him. ‘It’s enough that I’ve seen it.’

  We were coming in sight of the village now and he began to move away, gradually making for a track that would take him to the far moor gate. I guessed that he had no wish to be seen in my company.