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Authors: Iain Crichton Smith
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voices which without the benefit of a committee had come to a predestined conclusion as if he himself did not exist, as if he were simply a vessel. His face flushed and he would have almost wanted his decision all over again, for like twin railway lines it pointed to a future converging at the horizon in one fixed choice. He looked at the four men, astounded. Had the world begun from tiny drifting molecules so that this committee should be held in this particular room in this particular village? Had Judas been programmed to do as he had done, as Annie had suggested? And why should he, when imminent death should have given him largeness of vision, have denied the hall to the children? But no, in spite of approaching death, there was a heritage to maintain, a gift that flowed through him.
And now it was all over. Scott and Macrae wouldnât hold it against him, he knew that. On the other hand, did he want allies like Drummond and Macfarlane, those echoes of the fundamentalist platitudes?
He knew instinctively that his wife would be against him, for she was on the side of the young. She would have won Murdo and Drummond over to her side: he didnât have the sensitivity or the bonhomie for dealing with people. He rose from the table wishing above all things that he could sit by his fireside and read a book. But, no, he couldnât do that. The real world was always where one was, the kingdom of heaven was at hand. In all decisions great or small the kingdom of heaven was at hand. His stomach felt distended and poisoned. At any moment he was going to be sick.
Murdo waited behind for him as if he wished to be congratulated on the stand he had taken but the minister didnât wish to speak to him. Was Murdo right? Was the Apocalypse near, the wild white horses raging like billows. Were the signs of Sodom and Gomorrah misdirected letters and tappings on windows at night?
âWell, so thatâs that, Murdo,â was all he said as he went out into the sunshine where the gravestones leaned against each other in the slanting light. He saw Mrs Berry bending down, placing a bunch of flowers on her husbandâs grave. How long since he had died now? Twelve years? Fourteen? And then there was Morag Bheag. He would have to enquire about her son. Mrs Berry straightened and waved to him. Her daughter waited in her yellow car.
The grey gravestones reminded him of the Covenanters, of their determination to worship as they wished. The words stood up in front of his eyes as if engraved on stone:
Blows the wind today and the sun and the rain are flying
blows the wind on the moors today and now
where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,
my heart remembers how.
Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
standing stones on the vacant wine red moor,
hills of sheep and the homes of the silent vanished races,
and winds austere and pure.
He had hardly thought that he knew the words so well. The yellow car, a bright bubble in the day, drew away. The land stretched in front of him, the houses, the gardens, the rivers, the mountain. On such a mountain, but perhaps less green, the tablets had been handed down from a cloud of smoke.
Let me know You again, he prayed, let me hear You speak again. Speak to me out of the fire, the committee meeting, out of the grass at my feet. But, as he looked, the smoke from the different chimneys seemed to twist in different directions like snakes. Where were the martyrs now? In Ireland perhaps where the assassin gunned down the man with the rosary or the fanatic sprayed the policeman with bullets. And in this little place so serene and flowery what could he do? He watched Murdo as he made his way down the brae. He would be happy tonight, the decision would make his day for him. But had he himself made the right decision? He didnât know. Had he really made a decision at all or had he simply responded to the programmed voice of his ancestors, severe and plain, that
And now it was all over. Scott and Macrae wouldnât hold it against him, he knew that. On the other hand, did he want allies like Drummond and Macfarlane, those echoes of the fundamentalist platitudes?
He knew instinctively that his wife would be against him, for she was on the side of the young. She would have won Murdo and Drummond over to her side: he didnât have the sensitivity or the bonhomie for dealing with people. He rose from the table wishing above all things that he could sit by his fireside and read a book. But, no, he couldnât do that. The real world was always where one was, the kingdom of heaven was at hand. In all decisions great or small the kingdom of heaven was at hand. His stomach felt distended and poisoned. At any moment he was going to be sick.
Murdo waited behind for him as if he wished to be congratulated on the stand he had taken but the minister didnât wish to speak to him. Was Murdo right? Was the Apocalypse near, the wild white horses raging like billows. Were the signs of Sodom and Gomorrah misdirected letters and tappings on windows at night?
âWell, so thatâs that, Murdo,â was all he said as he went out into the sunshine where the gravestones leaned against each other in the slanting light. He saw Mrs Berry bending down, placing a bunch of flowers on her husbandâs grave. How long since he had died now? Twelve years? Fourteen? And then there was Morag Bheag. He would have to enquire about her son. Mrs Berry straightened and waved to him. Her daughter waited in her yellow car.
The grey gravestones reminded him of the Covenanters, of their determination to worship as they wished. The words stood up in front of his eyes as if engraved on stone:
Blows the wind today and the sun and the rain are flying
blows the wind on the moors today and now
where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,
my heart remembers how.
Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
standing stones on the vacant wine red moor,
hills of sheep and the homes of the silent vanished races,
and winds austere and pure.
He had hardly thought that he knew the words so well. The yellow car, a bright bubble in the day, drew away. The land stretched in front of him, the houses, the gardens, the rivers, the mountain. On such a mountain, but perhaps less green, the tablets had been handed down from a cloud of smoke.
Let me know You again, he prayed, let me hear You speak again. Speak to me out of the fire, the committee meeting, out of the grass at my feet. But, as he looked, the smoke from the different chimneys seemed to twist in different directions like snakes. Where were the martyrs now? In Ireland perhaps where the assassin gunned down the man with the rosary or the fanatic sprayed the policeman with bullets. And in this little place so serene and flowery what could he do? He watched Murdo as he made his way down the brae. He would be happy tonight, the decision would make his day for him. But had he himself made the right decision? He didnât know. Had he really made a decision at all or had he simply responded to the programmed voice of his ancestors, severe and plain, that
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