Where the World Ends: Chapters 8–11

The cliffs were blacker—bleaker—without them. The sight of them flying out to sea added to the feeling of being completely abandoned.

They had begun to look like survivors of war or shipwreck, haggard and hollow-eyed.

There were a couple of derelict shepherds’ shelters there—and sheep!—and peat.

It might be as empty of life as Warrior Stac, but its rounder contours promised ease and comfort in comparison with this bestial horn of a rock.

The words were fearful enough to hold them in thrall to a pompous, ignorant man they neither liked nor respected.

“There is one here who does not believe the world has ended! One who has fallen into the black pit of wickedness and is full of lewd thoughts. One whose black soul is caked in witchery.”

Even Quilliam was riveted to know which of them had confessed to, or been accused of, “witchery.”

“There is more. Stand up, loutish boy. Not only have you consorted with the sea-witch, but Kenneth informs me that you have ‘done sins of the flesh’ with the niece of Mr. Farriss.”

“Yes, laddie. We canna let the witch foul our nest, nor sully our minds.”

Somehow he had become Quill the Witch, possessed by demons. In fact he could feel the demons inside him, like burning turf in his guts: Rage, Loathing, the longing to clap Col Cane inside his own church bell and hit it with a peat spade over and over and over until Cane’s teeth fell from his mouth, along with the tartan from his plaid and the smugness from his miserable, sagging jowls...

Somehow he had become Quill the Witch, possessed by demons. In fact he could feel the demons inside him, like burning turf in his guts: Rage, Loathing, the longing to clap Col Cane inside his own church bell and hit it with a peat spade over and over and over until Cane’s teeth fell from his mouth, along with the tartan from his plaid and the smugness from his miserable, sagging jowls...

“I’ve done nothing! I did nothing!” he shouted at the beleaguering storm clouds.

Hour after hour he watched the downpour hammering the sea flat. Noon was dark. Midnight was Stygian.

John’s mother was instantly restored to her, and even Murdo and Quill were momentarily transported to the fireside of her cottage, coveting those boots.

But enthroned on the sack of down—now the “Keepers’ Throne”—wearing the title Keeper of Music, and fed with snatches of half-remembered hymns and laments, he swallowed them down then produced a rich, full rendering of each song.

Momentarily, mothers had supplanted angels in the boys’ minds, and hopes of home had supplanted hopes of heavenly rescue.

Quill thought Murdo would be far too old to be taken in by the daft ruse of dubbing the boys to arrive at “Keeper of this,” “Keeper of that.”

Quill thought Murdo would be far too old to be taken in by the daft ruse of dubbing the boys to arrive at “Keeper of this,” “Keeper of that.”

Quill thought Murdo would be far too old to be taken in by the daft ruse of dubbing the boys to arrive at “Keeper of this,” “Keeper of that.”

Two would have been a boon, especially with the garefowl coming for her daily feed.

One by one, every lad but the pious and obedient Euan had eventually come down to visit Lower Bothy.

“Up top? What, Heaven?”
“Upper Bothy. To keep vigil. And fast. And pray for us all, night and day. You’re to come back up.”

Driven to holy wrath (Cane said) by the everlasting noise and disobedience of sinful boys, he was decamping to the very peak of the Stac, where he would be closer to God and farther away from their bestial ungodliness.

They did not understand what the row was about, but here in the sea cave, drunk on story, memories and song, they had tasted a respite from worry.

In fact they fell into a kind of victory procession—if it is possible to “process” vertically up a slab of tilting rock. Only Murdo outstripped Quilliam.

“Aye. Euan’s the real thing. He’s small fun to be with, but he is a proper wee saint. Cane, he’s a charlatan. Wants to be top man, like the Reverend Buchan. But for why? ’Cos he wants to order us about, tell us: ‘Tuesdays are Sundays now.’ ‘Night’s day.’ ..."

Mr. Don, after weeks of holding his own volatile temper in check, was not about to tolerate temper among the boys.

He knew as well as Farriss that if his injury cankered, he would die of gangrene.

Piling lumps and shards of rock in front of the cave mouth was bruising and backbreaking work.

Euan was after forgiveness for his sins and to be taken back as Col Cane’s altar boy. He was quite ready (he planned to tell the holy man) to face all the privations of a hermit’s life: to fast and pray and freeze and keep silent...

Euan was after forgiveness for his sins and to be taken back as Col Cane’s altar boy. He was quite ready (he planned to tell the holy man) to face all the privations of a hermit’s life: to fast and pray and freeze and keep silent...

The remains of a dozen guga meals strewed the floor, along with the best knife the company possessed.

Euan’s cheeks reddened in the wanton heat of all those candles.

Using Col Cane’s own knife, Euan somehow managed, in his fit of righteous indignation, to saw the legs off the “Minister’s” stained, shapeless trousers dangling in the candlelight. Their sewn-in stuffing of warm feathers cascaded to the floor like a macerated angel.

Using Col Cane’s own knife, Euan somehow managed, in his fit of righteous indignation, to saw the legs off the “Minister’s” stained, shapeless trousers dangling in the candlelight. Their sewn-in stuffing of warm feathers cascaded to the floor like a macerated angel.