Old House of Fear - Russell Kirk

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Isles, the chiefs of MacAskival, though at present reduced to mean estate, are said to be a sept of the MacDonalds, Lords of the Isles, early parted from their headship by internecine conflicts. These MacAskival chiefs themselves maintain, however – and with some show of reason – that they descend from a stock older still. As their ancestor and the founder of their fortunes, they claim a certain Sigurd Askival, a Viking adventurer, who espoused the Pictish heiress of Carnglass, one Mary or Merin. This noble lady of Carnglass was a woman of remarkable beauty, despite her flowing mane of red hair, which the refined taste of modern days would disapprove. In passing, it is necessary to notice a tale, germane to the genealogical claims of MacAskival, that one Mary or Merin, saint and princess, at a remote period was redeemed from captivity to a bestial creature, described as the Gabharfear, Firgower, or man-goat; and that her rescuer was Sigurd Askival, a Norse freebooter.

      “‘One single substantial proof of the venerable lineage of MacAskival is reputed to have survived well into the last century: a set of chessmen carven from a blue stone, the “Table-Men of Askival,” exhibiting the weird handiwork of a ferocious epoch, which objects long continued the proudest possession of the chieftain of MacAskival. These, however, no longer are to be found in the Old House of Fear, their asserted repository; nor have they been transferred to the elegant New House by the quay, although the present proprietor made close search for the pieces. According to one fabrication of the aged men of Carnglass, these “Table-Men” were immured in a tomb by the last chieftain, to propitiate the Fiend. Once more the author apologizes to his gentle readers for this trespass upon their hours of serious reflection.’”

      “Old Mr. Balmullo,” Logan broke in, “seems to have taken a fearful joy in recording superstitions. He protests too much.”

      “Yes, I think Carnglass bewitched Samuel Balmullo, Hugh. ‘Glamour’ is an old Scots word, you know. Watch out, boy, that some Hebridean Witch doesn’t catch you: three days in Carnglass might turn the trick.”

      “Never fear, Duncan,” Logan told him, with his slow smile. “The Harding case comes up next month, and I’ll be back for it.”

      “Fear? Why, there’s no danger of any sort in Carnglass, I suppose.” MacAskival turned again to the window overlooking the plant. Now it was dark, and the coke-ovens glowed against the night like the flaming City of Dis. “Danger? Probably Carnglass is one of the few tolerably secure places on earth. Sometimes I think we’ll turn the world into one final hell of a coke-oven, Hugh. There may be some islands, though, left in that fire. And Carnglass, where man began, ought to endure when man has put an end to himself. I hope you can put this MacAskival back into his island, Hugh.”

      “You’re really going to give me dinner at your club, Duncan?”

      Nodding, MacAskival reached for their coats. As they went out of the office, he turned quizzically toward the younger man. “Speaking of witches and bogles and mangoats, Hugh, why hasn’t any woman ever captured you?”

      “Probably because there’s no romance in me,” Logan murmured, straightfaced.

      “Why, there’s a good deal in you, Hugh. You’re canny, but have a certain way with you.”

      “Don’t forget this, though, Duncan —

      “‘You can grave it on his tombstone, you can cut it on his card:

      A young man married is a young man marred.’”

      “Well! Hugh, you’re full of surprises. I thought only aged creatures like me still read Kipling. I can match you —

      “‘Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,

      He travels fastest who travels alone.’

      Which way are you travelling, Hugh, with that innocent face of yours?”

      “Judging by what you tell me of the warlocks of Carnglass, down to Gehenna, Duncan.” Then the elevator came, and the club, and the dinner, and the brandy. That night Logan dreamed of a Carnglass Cutty Sark capering round Carnglass Cross. And the next night he was aboard the plane to Prestwick.

       Chapter 2

      ON A WET AND windy morning, Logan descended from the plane at Prestwick. Once past the immigration officers, he took a taxi across the moors to Glasgow. Now and then they sped past rows of white-harled Scots cottages, some empty and far gone in decay. The heather and gorse by the roadside called to Hugh Logan. He had walked the Pentland Hills, and the Lammermuirs, in his Edinburgh years – sleeping in the open, sometimes, when he had been a university student. The law-office and the courtroom seemed remote in time and space, as he sat in this speeding Rolls; and he indulged the fancy that perhaps he ought never to have taken the bar-examination.

      In some ways, those savage months of pushing northward in Okinawa had been the best of his life. The law was safe, and might make him famous; yet there came hours, now and again, when Logan thought he ought to have settled for a life of risk, a life lived as if every moment might be the last.

      The cab-driver was saying something. “A foul day, sir. There’ll be a storm out tae sea, sir. Spring’s late to Scotland this year.” The driver never had heard of Carnglass, Logan found. Now they were coming into the ugly sprawl of outlying Glasgow council-houses. And then the great grimy city closed upon them, and soon Logan was getting out before Todd’s Hotel in India Street, a building of blackened white granite.

      At Todd’s Hotel, the taffy-haired little receptionist in the tight black dress never had heard of Carnglass. Having left his suitcase in his room, Logan came down again to inquire of the manager. That civil gentleman, indeed, had heard of Carnglass; but he never had known anyone to go there. And no messages from Lady MacAskival or Mr. Lagg were awaiting Logan. He was not altogether surprised: eccentricity and delay were to be expected in that quarter; he suspected that he might have to make his way independently to the island.

      He might telephone or telegraph, though, to learn whether the yacht or launch had been sent for him, and whether he would be welcome at the Old House. It was no use, he soon discovered: the information operator on the telephone, after lengthy consultation with someone at the Glasgow central exchange, informed Logan that there was no cable laid to Carnglass, and that no way of sending messages to the island was known, there being no wireless recorded in the exchange’s books, except by post. Logan called the central post office. Letters and parcels for Carnglass, it appeared, and Daldour too, were sent by MacBrayne’s steamer to Loch Boisdale, in Smith Uist, where they were called for as anyone from those islands, or their agents, might happen to put into Loch Boisdale. How long would an express letter take? It was impossible to say: it might not reach Carnglass for some days, depending upon whether any boat should happen to call at Loch Boisdale. Also, however, letters for those islands sometimes were left with an agent of the Carnglass factor, here in Glasgow, depending upon instructions from Carnglass. Who was this agent of the factor? That information the postal authorities were not authorized to give out.

      But Logan was a patient man. After lunch, he returned to his room and dressed in a heavy suit that had been made for him during his university years: of indestructible Harris tweed, the suit still fitted tolerably well. Rain was coming down heavily now, so this suit was made for the climate. He had with him a thorn stick, a memento also of Edinburgh days; it might be useful for hill-walking in Carnglass, should there be time for that. The little receptionist, who smiled fondly upon Logan, recommended a travel-agent in Argyle Street; so Logan took a cab there.

      Before entering the door of Moore Brothers, Travel Agents, Ltd., Founded 1887, he stopped at a shop adjacent and bought an oilskin cape, which probably would be the thing to wear in Carnglass; he had it sent to Todd’s Hotel. Then he went up to the counter in Moore’s, where an eager youth – with a manner the British call “smarmy” – proceeded to set his hand on a pile of tour-folders.

      But the eager youth had no notion of how a gentleman might find his way to Carnglass. He had special de luxe tours to Iona and Skye to offer; these were much better-known islands than Carnglass, he told the gentleman. No one ever went to Carnglass. Logan asked for the manager.

      This

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