The Way to Babylon (Different Kingdoms) (12 page)

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.

B
IRDSONG 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

I
T 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.’

Bicker put away the map. ‘I can see I won’t be needing this,’ he said with his ready grin.

Riven turned back to the view before him. He rubbed his legs absently. They were sore and stiff, but he thought they would carry him to Glenbrittle well enough. It was the climb to the plateau that would really test them. He stood up, knowing that the best things are better not savoured too long, and turned away from the view to the path ahead. It was early afternoon. They had made slow time around the coast, mainly because of his own weakness. He had a grudging respect for Bicker’s fitness; the dark man could probably have been in Glenbrittle now if he had been on his own. He had a curious habit, Riven noticed, of taking out the map and staring at it with eyes that were unfocused, elsewhere; as though he were not really paying it any attention.

They laboured on round the steep coast, disentangling their way through the strip of stunted oaks. It was a hot and awkward business, made worse by the packs they carried. Riven was a great believer in packing everything which might possibly be needed when he went walking. He even had a length of gaudy nylon rope in his rucksack, though he knew he would never again let himself get into a situation where he might need it. A strange thing is habit.

‘There’s the waterfall,’ said Bicker breathlessly, as they cleared the last of the trees. They were close to where Riven had seen the otter. He stared out to sea, but there was nothing in the waves today, not even a fishing float.

They stopped for a moment so Riven could get his breath back.

‘They call the land beyond Glenbrittle
Minginish
,’ Bicker was saying, ‘and Skye itself is called Eilean something-or-other. Island of the Mists.’

‘More like island of the drizzle,’ Riven retorted, short-tempered because of his physical inadequacy.

‘Strange names. They don’t all sound Gaelic, either.’

‘They’re not. The Vikings colonised these islands off and on. A lot of the names come from the Norse.’

‘Vikings!’ Bicker seemed amused. ‘You mean blond giants with horned helmets and axes from the far north?’

‘They weren’t like that,’ Riven replied testily.

‘I thought they came from beyond the sea, not Scotland.’