Tomato Cain and Other Stories Read online

  Poor bastard, how he screamed! A sound I never did like to hear from a man.

  Eh, well, master. So you’ve died. And spoiled my chance to tell you about my merry life; you’d have listened kindly to it, being as you’re a sailor-man. How I sweated in the shipyards before I ran off to sea. And the women I’ve known; now, they would have made a story for you, some of them. And how the yellow jack took me, and I came through it. And how - and how, for instance, ] was seven years aboard the Spaniard galley. In chains.

  Crabber! Come away, you filthy brute!

  END

  Chapter 15

  The Tarroo-Ushtey

  In far-off days before the preachers and the school-masters came, the island held a great many creatures besides people and beasts. The place swarmed with monsters.

  A man would think twice before answering his cottage door on a windy night, in dread of a visit from his own ghost. The high mountain roads rang in the darkness with the thunderous riffs of the bugganes, which had unspeakable shapes and heads bigger than houses; while a walk along the sea-shore after the sun had set was to invite the misty appearance of a tarroo-ushtey, in the likeness of a monstrous bull, ready to rush the beholder into the sea and devour him. At harvest-time the hairy troll-man, the phynodderee, might come springing out of his elder-tree to assist in the reaping, to the farmer's dismay; for the best-intentioned of the beings were no more helpful than interfering neighbours, and likely to finish the day pulling the thatch off the house or trying to teach the hens to swim. What with the little people, the fairies themselves, so numerous that they were under everybody’s feet, turning milk sour and jamming locks and putting the fire out; and with witches waiting at every other bend in the road with their evil eye ready to paralyse the horses, ordinary people led a difficult life. It was necessary to carry charm-herbs, or beads, and to remember warding-off rhymes that had been taught in early childhood.

  As the generations went by and people took to speaking English on polite occasions, the old creatures grew scarcer. By the time that travellers from the packet boats had spread the story about a girl named Victoria being the new queen of the English, their influence was slipping; at night people put out milk for the fairies more from habit than fear, half-guessing it would be drunk by the cat; if they heard a midnight clamour from the henhouse, they reached for a musket, not a bunch of hawthorn. But back hair could still rise on a dark mountain road.

  From the gradual loss of the old knowledge, came dependence on the wise men and women.

  Charlsie Quilliam was one of these.

  He was the fattest man on the island, said those who had travelled all over it and could speak with authority.

  He carried his enormous body with special care, like a man with a brim-full jug; but he still stuck in doors and caused chairs to collapse; and people meeting him on a narrow path had to climb the hedge to let him pass. The right of way was always Charlsie‘s.

  His fatness, coupled with a huge black beard, left little shape to his face, but his eyes were quick. Above them, like a heathery ledge, ran a single, unbroken line of eyebrow, which denoted second sight.

  Whatever question was asked, he would be able to answer it. Even if he said nothing, the expression in his eyes showed that he knew, but considered the questioner would be better in ignorance. It was Charlsie who had had a vision of the potato blight crossing to lreland in a black cloud, but he kept the frightening secret to himself until long afterwards, when the subsequent famine was common talk and nobody could be alarmed by what he had seen.

  Old secret customs; birth-charms and death-charms, and rites for other dark days; Charlsie's big head held them all. Folk in trouble might set out for the minister’s house, think better of it, and go to find Charlsie where he sat on a hump of earth outside his cottage, his thick fingers busy with scraps of coloured wool and feathers.

  Ever since he became too fat for other work, his secret knowledge had supported him; and gifts of food from grateful clients kept his weight creeping up.

  Many a winter night he would be at the centre of a fireside gathering. Charlsie's guttural, hoarse voice could hold a packed cottage in frightened suspense for hours as it laid horror upon horror. Personal experience of dealing with witches was his chief subject. Most of his stories had little point, which made them all the more uncanny and likely. People went home in groups after an evening with Charlsie.

  Apart from the witches, he had only one open enemy.

  This was a Scottish peddler named McRae. The man had lost a leg in the Crimea, and called himself a Calvinist. He sneered at the old beliefs and tried to tell his own war experiences instead; but people were chary of listening, in case Charlsie got to know. They bought Duncan McRae’s buttons and shut the door quickly.

  The little Scot hated it. At hardly a single house in the fat man’s territory could he get himself invited inside for a free meal; even the news he brought from the towns was received with suspicion, when at all, as if he had made it up on the road. He would have cut the district out altogether, except that he sold more elastic there than anywhere else.

  One hot afternoon in the late summer, the peddler sweated up the hill towards the village.

  A dense sea-fog had smothered the sun, the air was close, and his pack wearied him. Time after time he had to rest his wooden leg.

  Duncan McRae had news. A tit-bit he had picked up before he left town particularly pleased him, and had gone down well in two villages already. For once it was an item that people would be able to put to the proof themselves later on.

  A new machine was to be tested on the English side of the channel, less than thirty miles away. It was said to be able to warn ships in fog.

  McRae hastened. He had heard that when the new “fog horn”, as they called it, was tested, people on the island might be able to hear it blowing faintly. To-day’s weather seemed very suitable for such an experiment, but even if nothing happened, surely this story at least had enough interest to call for hospitality.

  At the top of the hill he leaned on a hedge to case his leg. The air was heavy, and the quietness a relief after the clumping of his iron-tipped stump in the grit.

  He held his breath, listening.

  Far away there was a moan. He pulled himself up the hedge and faced towards the fog-blanketed sea.

  The sound came again, faint and eerie; a growl so low-pitched that it could hardly be heard at all. It could only be one thing. Excitedly, McRae slid down the hedge and straightened his pack. Within ten minutes, bursting with news, he had reached the first outlying cottage door. He rattled the latch and pushed it open. “Hallo, there!” he called. “D’ye hear the new invention yonder?”

  There was silence; no one at home.

  He hurried out, and on to the next fuchsia-hedged cabin. “Hallo, missis! D’ye hear the wonders that's going on across the water —?”

  No one to be seen.

  McRae frowned. He was at the top end of the village now, looking down the winding street as it sloped towards the sea. There was nobody moving in it, and no sound. Even the blacksmith's forge was silent.

  The peddler shouted, “Where is everybody? ls there no’ a single body up the day?”

  His voice went quietly away into the mist.

  Charlsie Quilliam had been in his cottage when they came for him. He was threading a dried caul on a neckband as a cure against shipwreck, working indoors because the damp grieved his chest.

  People came clustering around his door, muttering.

  “Come in or go out!” called Charlie. He pricked his thumb. “Devil take it! This caul is like the hide of a crocodile!”

  They saw he did not hear what they heard; he suffered at times from deafness. At last old Juan Corjeag persuaded him to come outside.

  Charlsie was surprised to see nearly all the village assembled at his door.

  “Just listen, Charlsie!” said old Juan.

  The frightened faces seemed to be expecting something from him. “Well, w
hat is it all?” he said after a moment.

  “Oh - listen, do!”

  Then Charlsie heard it. A sound that made have been made by a coughing cow far away on a calm night.

  “Some beast that wants lookin’ to,” he decided. “Is that all? Whatever’s got into everybody?”

  Old Juan’s face was too horrified to express anything. He pointed.

  “Them sounds is from out at sea!” he said. There was a shocked murmur from the villagers at the speaking of the words.

  Charlsie made no move. His little eyes sharpened.

  “Tell us what it is, Charlsie! What we’ve got to do? Oh, an’ it’s far worse down by the water! The twist of the land smothers it here!”

  Without a word Charlie Quilliam turned back into his cottage; the crowd were alarmed by his stillness. When he reappeared, he had a big blackthorn walking-stick in one hand; in the other was a bunch of dried leaves.

  “I’m goin’ down there for a sight,” he said. “Anybody that wants to, can come.”

  He set ponderously off.

  For a little space they hesitated, whispering among themselves. Old Juan licked his lips and went after Charlsie. When he looked round, a few dozen paces down the shore path, he saw the rest following behind him in a body on the sandy track.

  Charlsie stopped for breath. Old Juan caught him up.

  “Ye’re right. It’s clearer down here.”

  Old Juan spoke slowly. “Charlsie, I’m hopin’ it won’t put bad luck on me, but I was the first that heard it.” He swallowed, remembering. “Down in the tide, diggin’ for lug-worms.”

  “Ah?” said Charlie. “Let’s get nearer.”

  As they came over the low brow of the foreshore, where the yellow sandy grass ended and the pebbles began, the sound hit them. It travelled straight in along the surface of the water; still very far away, but plainer to the ear; so unnatural that it shocked everybody afresh. It ended with a throaty gulp.

  Charlsie made his way slowly across the stones, picking his way with the stick among the puddles. They all followed in silence towards the water’s edge.

  There he stood, leaning and listening.

  Again and again and again the distant cry came from the fog, and they shivered. Old Juan made to speak, but Charlsie silenced him.

  “Yes,” said Charsie, turning back casually, “it’s a tarroo-ushtey.”

  A woman screamed and had hand clapped across her mouth. People drew back hastily from the creamy water’s edge.

  “What’ll happen?” whispered old Juan.

  Charlsie’s single bow bent in a frown. “Queer thing for it to come out in the daylight,” he said. “It goes to prove such creatures is no fancy.”

  He turned to the crowd and addressed them.

  “Now listen, all! It’s a tarroo-ushtey out yonder. Hush now, hush! It’s in trouble over somethin’ - maybe lost and callin’ out to another one.”

  “Aye, it’s mate, likely!” said Juan.

  Charlsie ignored him. “For all that they’re not of this world, they can get lost in thick fog like any other creature. It’s a terrible long way off at present; so the best thing to do is be quiet and go home, and do nothin’ to draw it this way.

  “An’ I'll tell ye what he’s like. They look like a tremendous big black bull, but their feet is webbed. An’ in th’ ould days they’ve had many a person eaten. So nobody must come down here to-night, for fear of the fog clearin’ and it seein’ him. There’s no tellin’ what it might do if it got up in the village.”

  He showed the bunch of herbs in his left hand. “Now everybody go home quiet, an’ I’ll see about layin’ a charm on the water. Keep all the childher indoors!”

  He sat on a low rock near the tide as they went.

  Peering back at him, they saw him wave the leaves back and forth in his hand. He seemed to be chanting something. In the sight of old Juan, the last to cross the sandy bluff, he finished by tossing the bunch into the sea and turning abruptly away.

  Charlsie laboured up the track without a look behind. The lowing sounds still continued. He felt satisfied with what he had done, but was checking the rites over in his mind to make sure. Ahead, the last stragglers reached the safety of the village.

  But when he came to the houses, Charlsie found people still talking in small groups.

  “Look here, I told ye to get the childher out of sight!” he said. “An’ it'd be just as well if everybody kept themselves - “

  A commotion was going on farther up the street.

  ‘What the devil is it now?’ Charlsie shouted; he felt privileged to make a noise.

  Old Juan hobbled towards him. “It’s that Scotch peddler!" he said. “He's got some nonsense tale! Oh, ye‘d better give him a word, Charlsie - he'll be puttin’ foolishness in their heads!”

  Charlsie scowled.

  He came ponderously to where Duncan McRae sat on a wooden bench outside a cottage. People parted before him, but he felt that there was a questioning quality in their respect.

  “What's goin’ on here?” he said.

  The little Scot grinned up, hands tucked comfortably behind his head.

  “Och, l've been sitting here wondering if ye‘d all fled awa' into a far country. I was thinking ye had a nice day for it,” he said.

  “What are ye bletherin’ about?”

  “Have ye got a strait-jacket on yon sea monster?” The peddler chuckled. “Look him in the eye, man. That‘s what they say; look him in the eye and put salt on his tail. I’ve a new brand of table salt in ma pack - would ye care to try some?” He began to laugh loudly.

  Charlsie’s face was purple. “Is the feller crazy or what? Shut up, will ye!” He seized the little man by the hair and shook him violently. “Stop laughin’!” Haven't I ordered quiet!”

  The peddler squealed as he tried to escape; his wooden leg skidded, and he thrashed about.

  The staring villagers broke into explanation.

  “He’s got a tale that the noises is from a machine, Charlsie!”

  “A warnin’ of fog, for the ships!”

  “That's what he said.”

  There was dead silence, apart from the spluttering breath of the dazed peddler. Charlsie slowly released him.

  They were all tense, watching Charlsie's face. It showed no expression; he might have been thinking, or working something out, or studying his victim, or listening. “Juan,” he said at last, pointedly.

  “Yes, Charlsie?”

  “Can ye still hear it?”

  They all waited, listening. The noise at sea had stopped.

  “No, Charlsie. No! It's gone!”

  It was Charlsie’s moment. He glowered down at the wretched peddler, and took a chance.

  “It’s gone because I stopped it,” he said. “I put a charm on the water to send it away. Now tell me somethin’, me little Scotchman! Could I ha’ done that if it was only some kind of a steam-engine across the water?”

  He felt the awe all round him.

  “Ye poor ignorant cuss, ye‘re not worth mindin'! I pity ye!” said Charlsie kindly.

  "Och, look here! You go down to the town, and they’ll tell ye there —“

  Charlsie gave a laugh. It began deep inside him, where there was plenty of room, and rose in a throaty bellow.

  “In the town! Oh - oh, my!” Charlsie was overcome. “Ye’d better stick to sellin‘ buttons, master! He heard it in the town! An’ he believed it! In the town! - where they're washin' themselves from mornin’ to night, an’ where they have to give each other little bits of cardboard to know who they are, an’ get special knives out for t’ eat a fish! There was a feller in the town thought he was Napoleon of the French! Oh, yes, the town! That’s where they know everythin’! I’m sure!”

  There was a howl of laughter.

  It was a complete victory. The peddler protested and raged against their laughter, but he could do nothing to stop it; only Charlsie could do that, by a finger to his lips and a warning nod at the sea.

&nb
sp; Charlsie watched McRae go stumping away in a fury without selling anything. His face was dark and thoughtful.

  “Juan,” he said, loudly enough for others to hear, and with great conviction, “this has given me an idea! Ye know, the sound of a tarroo-ushtey's voice would be a good thing t‘ imitate, as a warnin’ to the ships; it needs a frightenin‘ sort of a noise. I've a mind to suggest that to th’ English government! In fact I will; l’lI send the letter now. An‘ describe how it can be done.”

  He went indoors, where he felt weak now that the crisis was over; praying for the silence to continue, but ready to make another journey to the beach with a bunch of herbs. His luck held.

  The foghorn did not sound again that day, or again for more than a week.

  When at last it did, Charlsie reassured the village and bade them observe the sound: they would find, he said, that it was copied from the cry of the tarroo-ushtey, according to a simple invention of his own. They listened, and it was so.

  He was often to be seen after that, sitting outside his home on foggy days, listening to the far-off hooting with a critical expression. When he went indoors, they said it was to write to the English government again, advising them.

  Charlsie’s fame as an inventor spread. He was rumoured to be working on a device for closing gates automatically, and another to condense water from clouds. Even strangers came to the village to have their ailments or troubles charmed away, or to undergo his new massage treatment.

  But Duncan McRae did not sell another inch of elastic in the whole district.

  END

  Chapter 16

  Curphey’s Follower

  It began one night in the gradual quietness that follows closing-time.

  Lot Curphey was on his way home from Ballaroddan village, not quite solid on his feet, and with little crumbs of song still coming out of his mouth; too cheerful to swear at the faintness of the starlight.

  He was a small man, chiefly from shortness of the legs, with a tufty hairiness about the face. Warm, now, inside a huge old yellow coat given to him by John James Quilleash, his employer. Under its long skirts his left leg limped from an injury by a ploughshare years before; now and then the thick cloth dipped in the dust.