The Courier & Advertiser (Perth and Perthshire Edition)
Of Stone And Sky Episode 1
We are gathered here today on the shore of Loch Hope in the presence of God, in the worshipful company of birds and beasts, on the hallowed ground of the Earth, to give thanks for the life of Colvin Munro.
We do not know that he is dead, and without certainty and without a body we cannot perform last rites or lay him to rest. But we must release him and we must lay ourselves to rest. There is a time to bind, and a time to let go.
But where to begin when it goes back so far, and where to finish when there is no end?
In truth, this is the story of us all, for we knew and loved Colvin, and we drove him away. Ah yes, we have been haunted by that fear, haven’t we? Was it me? Was it my fault? And through these years you hoped I would say, in soothing pastoral tones, “No, of course not. It was nobody’s fault – certainly not yours. Be at peace.”
But we could not find peace, could we? Because we were hiding behind shame and half-lies when what we needed was to get to the heart of the matter: The truth, if you will. And I do not presume to know the whole truth, but I do know this story.
I know it for I am part of it and because you have told me your parts. Slowly, painfully, in these seven years since Colvin disappeared, you have spilled your tales, mainly over drinks at the Ferryman, swilling sorrows into your beer, sighing regrets on whisky breath, confessing sins in the sipping of wine.
And as the truth has come out, like bits of shrapnel from a wound, I have tried to piece it all together, to understand. Some of it will never make sense this side of the Promised Land, but of one thing I am certain: Colvin Munro is still alive.
Sign 1: Knife
The day Colvin disappeared, I found his knife. It was lying in the in-bye field, where the May grass is rich and speckled with flowers, and old dry-stone dykes form the rectangles of a sheep fank.
On one of the gates, a length of plastic twine flipped in the breeze where Colvin had tied a ewe by her horn so he could check later if the lambs were feeding well, as her teats were so large. She was the last to birth and he had made two cuts in her horn.
As every shepherd round here knows, ewes that are barren or need help with delivery get one cut, and if either event occurs another year, a second. But big teats warrant two cuts straight away, and two cuts mean a difficult mother not worth the effort. She will be sold for mutton.
This particular ewe – now marked for death and perhaps resenting it – must have broken free from her tether and stormed off, her two frantic lambs chasing that bursting bag, while Colvin must have forgotten his knife. A sharp snap-blade with a bone handle, it had been made by his Traveller grandfather, handed down to his mother and then to him, and he carried it everywhere.
So strange for him to leave it behind. He was born on the farm, in the shed, on a cruel night in April 1955. Aye, without a doubt the cruellest month, April, wooing you with her bright face and warm breath till you are in her arms, puckering for a kiss, and she slaps you. Hard.
Never more cruel than in the Highlands, neither, where our daffodils can be slashed by hail or our Easter eggs buried in snow. A Pentecostal month, if ever there was one, swinging from ecstasy to exorcism at the spirit’s whim.
The night of Colvin’s birth was wild with sleet as his mother, Agnes, struggled out in the field with a bulky jacket over her nightie and a torch strapped to her head. She was helping a ewe. The wretched beast was caught in a barbed-wire fence and bleating into the storm. Agnes pulled her father’s knife from her pocket, cut away the tangled fleece and guided the ewe into the shed, laying her on her side.
Pushing a hand into the tight wet of the birth canal she came at once on the hooves of a lamb and drew them down slowly, feeling for the head, tugging and twisting, till the slimy creature squeezed forth, trailing afterbirth.
With a scruff of fleece from the ewe’s flank, she wiped his black face, put him to the mother’s nose, and as pain surged up her own belly, reached in again.
The second one came quicker, sliding on to the straw with a sneeze and a dribble of bloody waters, his useless legs tucked under him, face smooshed to the floor.
While the ewe lumbered to her feet for the first lamb to suckle, Agnes rubbed and prodded the second one till he tottered to his mother’s face and also got a welcome slurp. Our shepherdess then lumbered to her own feet, stomach tightening like a belt of steel, and after washing her hands in the freezing water at the corner tap, she made a cut in the ewe’s horn. The storm outside was a blizzard by now, blocking any return to the house, so she lit a fire in an iron trough and stomped around to keep warm and fight the pain.
She was a practical woman, Agnes: Traveller’s daughter, shepherd’s wife, angel unawares. Her jacket pockets held not just the knife and matches, but also twine, a fresh hanky, work gloves, some pegs, hair pins, a couple of nails, a pen that didn’t work, one that did, shop receipts, scraps of paper, a small telescope, a letter from the council, coins, a dog whistle, dried-up sprigs of heather, a mouth organ and a crumbling bit of flapjack.
While waiting for the baby, she cut a length of twine, sterilised the knife in the fire and set them down on the hanky. Her own family had never gone to hospital for anything and she had helped with several of her mother’s deliveries, as well as years of lambing; she was calm and breathed deep, groaning through her teeth, till she finally brought our Colvin into the world on a bed of straw.
Slowly, in these seven years since Colvin disappeared, you have spilled your tales, mainly over drinks at the Ferryman...