A draught of cold air touched my cheek and I looked up. The door to the bedroom was open. I turned with a start as something moved in the room behind me. The figure of a man was walking slowly towards the fire, his feet dragging, his long arms swinging loose. His huge body was white with snow and he had his hand to the side of his face and it was blackened as though charred by fire. He stopped in front of the grate, staring at the flames. There was something frightening in his stillness, in his complete absorption in the fire. His shadow flickered on the log walls and pools of water formed at his feet.
I got to my feet and at the scrape of my chair he jerked round. His eyes widened at the sight of me and his lips opened, but no sound came. It was Max Trevedian and naked fear showed in his blackened face. He mumbled something incoherently. His gaze darted past me to the door and he ran blindly towards it, the whites of his eyes showing in the blackened mask of his face. His big hands fumbled clumsily at the latch; then he had lifted it and the wind tore the door from his grasp and flung it wide. A blast of bitter air swept into the room. I had a momentary glimpse of him struggling in a blinding whirl of snow and then the lamp blew out and the flames of the fire flickered redly on the drift that was rapidly powdering the floor.
For a moment he disappeared into the black void of the doorway. But it was only for a moment. He couldn’t stand against the freak force of wind and snow and he staggered in again, bent low, his arms almost touching the ground, a monstrous, shapeless figure shrouded in snow. I flung myself against the door and forced it to. As I turned, panting from ‘the effort, I found him standing facing me, a dark silhouette against the firelight. He was trembling and his teeth were chattering. I can still remember the sound they made, a queer, rodent sound against the roar of the wind. Then he seemed to crumple up, falling on his knees, his lips emitting a gibbering that was only half intelligible:
‘… only a letter. I never hurt you. Never touched you. Max never mean to hurt anyone… like I do with Alf Robens. Not like that. Never hurt you… Please God believe …’ His voice died away in incoherent mumblings. And then quite clearly: ‘You ask Peter. Peter knows.’
I moved a step towards him, peering down at him, trying to see his face, to understand what it was that was scaring him, but he scrambled away from me on his knees like a horribly human land-crab. ‘Go away. Go away.’ He screamed the words out. ‘Dear God believe me. I do you no harm.’
‘Did Peter send you here?’ I asked. My voice sounded hoarse and unnatural.
‘Ja, ja. Peter send me. He tell me you will not rest till all is burned. You kill my father, so I come here to burn this place. I love my father. I do it for him. I swear it. I do it for him.’
‘Who was Alf Robens?’ I asked.
‘Alf Robens!’ I had moved so that I was between him and the fire. A log fell and in the sudden blaze I saw his face. The eyes were wide like two brown glass marbles, his lower lip hung down. It is the only time I have seen a man petrified with fear. His muscles seemed rigid. The sweat glistened on his face and seamed the charred blackness of his skin. Then his mouth began to work and at last a sound came: ‘He was a boy. Older than I was. A lot older. But I didn’t mean to kill him. They used to tie me on to the broncs — for sport. Then they tie me to a bull. And when I am free I get Alf Robens by the throat and beat his head against a stone. But I mean nothing by it. Like it was with Lucie. She make sport with me and when I am roused she is frightened. I do not hurt her, but they’ — he swallowed and licked his dry lips — ‘they try to hang me. I do not want to hurt anyone. I do not hurt you. Please leave me. Please.’ This last on a choking sob of fear.
I stood there for a moment, staring at this childish hulk of a man who was scared of something that was in his mind and feeling a strange sense of pity for him. At length I put my hand out and touched his shoulder. ‘It’s all right, Max. I’m not Stuart Campbell.’ I went over to the desk then and relit the lamp. As I set the chimney back and the light brightened Max got slowly to his feet. His jaw was still slack and his eyes wide. He was breathing heavily. But his expression was changing from fear to anger.
Deep down within me I felt fear growing. Once I showed it I knew I should be lost. The man had colossal strength. The secret I knew was to treat him like an animal — to show no fear and to treat him with kindness and authority. ‘Sit down, Max,’ I said, not looking at him, concentrating on adjusting the wick of the lamp. My voice trembled slightly, but maybe my ears were over-sensitive. ‘You’re tired. So am I.’ I picked up the lamp and walked towards the kitchen, forcing myself to go slowly and easily, not looking at him. ‘I’m going to make some tea.’
I don’t think he moved all the time I was crossing the room. Then at last I was through to the kitchen. I left the door open and went to the store cupboard. There was tea in a round tin. I found cups and a big kettle. There was a movement by the door. I looked round. Max was standing there, staring at me, a puzzled frown on his face.
‘Do you know where my grandfather kept the sugar?’ I asked him.
He shook his head. He had the bewildered look of a small boy. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll find it. You take this kettle and fill it with snow.’ I held the kettle out to him and he came slowly forward and took it. ‘Ram the snow in tight,’ I said. And then as he stood there, hesitating, I added, ‘You like tea, don’t you?’
He nodded his big head slowly. ‘Ja.’ And then suddenly he smiled. It almost transformed his heavy, rather brutish face. ‘We make some good tea, eh?’ And he shambled out.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and stood there for a moment thinking about Max, thinking of the hell his childhood must have been — with no mother, the boys of Come Lucky making fun of him and tying him on to broncs and bulls, having their own cruel stampede, and then the boy killed and a girl crying Rape and the town trying to lynch him. I wondered how his brother had maintained his domination over him during years of absence. His childhood memories must have remained very vivid.
I found some biscuits and some canned meat. We ate them in front of the fire waiting for the snow to melt in the kettle and the water to boil. The wind moaned in the big chimney and Max sat there, wrapped in a blanket, silent and withdrawn. The kettle boiled and I made the tea. But as we sat drinking it I suddenly felt the silence becoming tense.
I looked up and Max was staring at me. ‘Why do you come here?’ His voice was a growl. ‘Peter say you are not to come — you are like Campbell.’
I began to talk then, telling him about my grandfather as he appeared to me, how I had come all the way from England, how I was a sick man and not expected to live. And all the time the storm beat against the house. And when silence fell between us again and I sensed the tension growing because his interest was no longer held, I searched around in my mind for something to talk to him about and suddenly I remembered the Jungle Book and I began to tell him the story of Mowgli. And by the time I had told him of the first visit of Shere Khan I knew I needn’t worry any more. He sat enraptured. Maybe it was the first time anybody had ever taken any trouble with him. Certainly I am convinced he had never been told a story before. He listened spell-bound, the expression of his face reacting to every mood of the story. And whenever I paused he muttered fiercely, ‘Go on. Go on.’
When at length I came to the end the tears were streaming down his face. ‘It is very — beautiful. Ja, very beautiful.’ He nodded his head slowly.
‘Better get some rest now, Max,’ I said. He didn’t seem to hear me, but when I repeated it, he shook his head and a worried frown puckered his forehead. ‘I must go to Come Lucky.’ He clambered to his feet. ‘Peter will be angry with me.’