Moby Jack & Other Tall Tales (44 page)

‘Just a minute then—and thanks.
You lead the way.’

I followed his lead. The path was obviously not well used and I imagined he spent his time in and around his croft, for even in the moonlight I could discern no other tracks incising the soft shape of the hill.

We reached his dwelling and he opened the wooden door, allowing me to enter first. Then, seating me in front of the fire, he poured me a generous whisky before sitting down himself. I listened to the wind, locked outside the timber and turf croft, and waited for him to speak.

He said, ‘John, isn’t it? They told me on the wireless.’

‘Yes—and you’re Samuel.’

‘Sam. You must call me Sam.’

I told him I would and there was a period of silence while we regarded each other. Peat is not a consistent fuel, and tends to spurt and spit colourful plumes of flame as the gases escape, having been held prisoner from the seasons for God knows how long. Nevertheless, I was able to study my host in the brief periods of illumination that the fire afforded. He could have been any age, but I knew he was my senior by a great many years. The same thoughts must have been passing through his own head, for he remarked, ‘John, how old are you? I would guess at twenty.’

‘Nearer thirty, Sam.
I was twenty-six last birthday.’ He nodded, saying that those who live a solitary life, away from others, have great difficulty in assessing the ages of people they do meet. Recent events slipped from his memory quite quickly, while the past seemed so close.

He leaned forward, into the hissing fire, as if drawing a breath from the ancient atmospheres it released into the room. Behind him, the earthen walls of the croft, held together by rough timbers and unhewn stones, seemed to move closer to his shoulder, as if ready to support his words. I sensed a story coming. I recognised the pose from being in the company of sailors on long voyages and hoped he would finish before I had to leave.

‘You’re a good-looking boy,’ he said. ‘So was I, once upon a time.’ He paused to stir the flames and a blue-green cough from the peat illuminated his face. The skin was taut over the high cheekbones and there was a wanness to it, no doubt brought about by the inclement weather of the isles—the lack of sunshine and the constant misty rain that comes in as white veils from the north. Yes, he had been handsome—still was. I was surprised by his youthful features and suspected that he was not as old as he implied.

‘A long time ago,’ he began, ‘when we had horse-drawn vehicles and things were different, in more ways than one...’

A sharp whistling
note
—the wind squeezing through two tightly packed logs in the croft—distracted me. Horse-drawn vehicles? What was this?
A second-hand tale, surely?
Yet he continued in the first person.

‘…
gas
lighting in the street. A different set of values. A different set of beliefs. We were more
pagan
then. Still had our roots buried in dark thoughts. Machines have changed all that.
Those
sort of pagan, mystical ideas can’t share a world with machines. Unnatural beings can only exist close to the natural world and nature ’s been displaced.

‘Yes, a different world—different things to fear.
I was afraid as a young man—the reasons may seem trivial to you, now, in your time. I was afraid of, well, getting into something I couldn’t get out of.
Woman trouble, for instance—especially one not of my class.
You understand?

‘I got involved once. Must have been about your age, or maybe a bit younger since I’d only just finished my apprenticeship and was a journeyman at the time. Silversmith. You knew that? No, of course you didn’t.
A silversmith, and a good one too.
My master trusted me with one of his three shops, which puffed my pride a bit, I don’t mind telling you. Anyway, it happened that I was working late one evening, when I heard the basement doorbell jangle.

‘I had just finished lighting the gas lamps in the workshop at the back, so I hurried to the counter where a customer was waiting. She had left the door open and the sounds from the street were distracting, the basement of course being on a level with the cobbled road. Coaches were rumbling by and the noise of street urchins and flower sellers was fighting for attention with the foghorns from the river. As politely as I could, I went behind the customer and closed the door. Then I turned to her and said, “Yes madam? Can I be of service?”

‘She was wearing one of those large satin cloaks that only ladies of quality could afford and she threw back the hood to reveal one of the most beautiful faces I have ever seen in my life. There was purity to her complexion that went deeper than her flawless skin, much deeper. And her eyes—how can I describe her eyes
?—
they were like black mirrors and you felt you could see the reflection of your own soul in them. Her hair was dark—coiled on her head—and it contrasted sharply with that complexion, pale as a winter moon, and soft, soft as the velvet I used for polishing the silver.

‘“Yes,” she replied. “You may be of service. You are the silversmith, are you not?”

‘“The journeyman, madam. I’m in charge of this shop.”

‘She seemed a little agitated, her fingers playing nervously with her reticule.

‘“I...” she faltered, then continued. “I have a rather unusual request. Are you able to keep a secret, silversmith?”

‘“My work is confidential, if the customer wishes it so. Is it some special design you require?
Something to surprise a loved one with?
I have some very fine filigree work here.” I removed a tray from beneath the counter. “There ’s something for both the lady and the gentleman. A cigar case, perhaps? This one has a crest wrought into the case in fine silver wire—an eagle, as you can see. It has been fashioned especially for a particular customer, but I can do something similar if you require...”

‘I stopped talking because she was shaking her head and seemed to be getting impatient with me.

‘“Nothing like that.
Something very personal.
I want you to make a collar—a silver collar. Is that possible?”

‘“All things are possible.” I smiled. “Given the time of course. A torc of some kind?”

‘“No, you misunderstand me.” A small frown marred the ivory forehead and she glanced anxiously towards the shop door. “Perhaps I made a mistake...?”

Worried, in case I lost her custom, I assured her that whatever was her request I should do my utmost to fulfil it. As the same time I told her that I could be trusted to keep the nature of the work to myself.

‘“No one shall know about this but the craftsman and the customer—you and I.”

‘She smiled at me then: a bewitching, spellbinding smile, and my heart melted within me. I would have done anything for her at that moment—I would have robbed my master—and I think she knew it.

‘“I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have realised I could trust you. You have a kind face.
A gentle face.
One should learn to trust in faces.

‘“I want you—I want you to make me a collar which will cover my whole neck, especially the throat. I have a picture here, of some savages in Africa. The women have metal bands around their
necks which
envelop them from shoulder to chin. I want you to encase me in a similar fashion, except with one single piece of silver, do you understand? And I want it to fit tightly, so that not even
your
...” She took my hand in her own
small gloved
fingers. “So that not even your little finger will be able to find its way beneath.”

‘I was, of course, extremely perturbed at such a request. I tried to explain to her that she would have to take the collar off quite frequently, or the skin beneath would become diseased. Her neck would certainly become very ugly.

‘“In any case, it will chafe and become quite sore. There will be constant irritation...”

‘She dropped my hand and said, no, I still misunderstood. The collar was to be worn permanently. She had no desire to remove it, once I had fashioned it around her neck. There was to be no locking device or anything of that sort. She wanted me to seal the metal.

‘“But—” I began, but she interrupted me in a firm voice.

‘“Silversmith, I have stated my request, my requirements. Will you carry out my wishes, or do I find another craftsman? I should be loath to do so, for I feel we have reached a level of
understanding which
might be difficult elsewhere. I’m going to be frank with you. This device, well—its purpose is protective. My husband-to-be is not—not like other men, but I love him just the same. I don’t wish to embarrass you with talk that’s not proper between strangers, and personal to my situation, but the collar is necessary to ensure my marriage is happy—a limited happiness.
Limited to a lifetime.
I’m sure you must understand now. If you want me to leave your shop, I shall do so, but I’m appealing to you because you are young and must know the pain of love—unfulfilled love. You are a handsome man and I don’t doubt you have a young lady whom you adore. If she were suffering under some terrible affliction, a
disease which
you might contract from her, I’m sure it would make no difference to your feelings. You would strive to find a way in which you could live together, yet remain uncontaminated yourself. Am I right?”

‘I managed to breathe the word “Yes” but at the time I was filled with visions of horror. Visions of this beautiful young woman being wooed by some foul creature of the night—a supernatural beast that had no right to be treading on the same earth, let alone touching that sacred skin, kissing—my mind reeled—kissing those soft, moist lips with its monstrous mouth. How could she? Even the thought of it made me shudder in revulsion.

‘“Ah,” she smiled, knowingly. “You want to save me from him. You think he is ugly and that I’ve been hypnotised, somehow, into believing otherwise? You’re quite wrong. He’s handsome in a way that you’d surely understand—and sensitive, kind, gentle—those things a woman finds important. He’s also very cultured. His blood...”

‘I winced and took a step backward, but she was lost in some kind of reverie as she listed his attributes and I’m sure was unaware of my presence for some time.

‘“…
his
blood is unimpeachable, reaching back through a royal lineage to the most notable of European families. I love him, yet I do not want to become one of his kind, for that would destroy my love...”

‘“And—he loves you of course,” l said daringly.

‘For a moment those bright eyes clouded over, but she replied, “In his way. It’s not important that we both feel the same kind of love. We want to be together, to share our lives. I prefer him to any man I have ever met and I will not be deterred by an obstacle that’s neither his fault, nor mine.
A barrier that’s been placed in our way by the injustice of nature.
He can’t help the way he is—and I want to go with him. That’s all there is to it.”

‘For a long time neither of us said anything. My throat felt too dry and constricted for words, and deep inside me I could feel something struggling, like a small creature fighting the folds of a net. The situation was beyond by comprehension: that is, I did not wish to allow it to enter my full understanding or I would have run screaming from the shop and made myself look foolish to my neighbours.

‘“Will you do it, silversmith?”

‘“But,” I said, “a collar covers only the throat...” I left the rest unsaid, but I was concerned that she was not protecting herself fully: the other parts of her anatomy—the wrists, the thighs.

‘She became very angry. “He isn’t an animal. He’s a gentleman. I’m merely guarding against—against moments of high passion. It’s not just a matter of survival with him. The act is sensual and spiritual, as well as—as well as—what you’re suggesting,” there was a note of loathing in her tone, “is tantamount to rape.”

‘She was so incensed that I did not dare say that her lover must have satisfied his need somewhere, and therefore had compromised the manners and morals of a gentleman many times.

‘“Will you help me?” The eyes were pleading now. I tried to look out of the small, half-moon window, at the yellow-lighted streets, at the feet moving by on the pavement above, in an attempt to distract myself, but they were magnetic, those eyes, and they drew me back in less than a moment. I felt helpless—a trapped bird—in their unremitting gaze of anguish, and of course, I submitted.