The Cone-Gatherers: A Haunting Story of Violence and Love

By Robin Jenkins and Paul Giamatti

The acclaimed novel of brothers working on a Scottish estate during WWII “has a strange haunting poetic quality…a fable of eternal significance” (Iain Crichton Smith).

As World War II rages through Europe, brothers Calum and Neil work to gather pinecones in the grounds of a Scottish estate. Once the forest is cut down to support the war effort, the cones will be used to replenish what is lost. For simple, mis-shapen Calum, who cannot stand to witness the suffering of others, it is an ideal job far from the terrors of war. But when Calum releases two mutilated rabbits from a snare, he comes face to face with Duror, the pitiless and obsessive gamekeeper. In retaliation for Calum’s betrayal, Duror lays a trap for the cone-gatherers.

Having grown more cynical than his brother, Neil prophesizes that forces of evil will eventually encroach upon the harmony of their lives. It is a prophesy that comes true when Duror commits an act so brutal it destroys all sense of humanity in the once thriving wood.

“A masterpiece of concision and terrible pathos,” Robin Jenkins’ The Cone-Gatherers is a haunting story of love and violence, and an investigation of class-conflict, war, and envy (Isobel Murray).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781847675040

Robin Jenkins

Robin Jenkins was born in 1912. He studied at Glasgow University and travelled and worked in Spain, Afghanistan and Borneo. He is the author of over twenty novels, including the acclaimed Fergus Lamont and The Cone Gatherers. In 2003 he was awarded a Saltire Award for Life-time Achievement. He died in 2005. 

Book preview

Introduction

by Paul Giamatti

Since I was a boy I have had a fascination with Scotland, particularly its literature. Stevenson, Scott and Buchan satisfied my yearning for lochs, castles and lonely outlaw warriors. As I grew up, the misty, Celtic-dream Scotland of my youth, land of mystery, adventure and legend, gave way to a more complex, more real Scotland.

But I am still romantic – or naïve – enough to believe that the instinctive visions of childhood are connected to something essential and primal in us. They are pure in their inarticulate expression of prehistoric, truly existential mystery. The book you have before you, this agonised, funny and terribly sad book, is a mature expression of those childhood instincts. It is a profound exploration of the loneliness, fear and heroism hidden in the ancient heart of Man.

I first read this book twenty-two years ago in Seattle in the Pacific Northwest, another somber landscape of mountains and drizzly lakes. Like many of the books that I have loved in my life, I vividly remember the experience: the queer little warren of a used bookstore that I bought it in, a labyrinth of overstuffed shelves; the squinting and silent old man who sold it to me (he grunted his approval of my purchase). And I remember the soft semi-collapsed armchair I read it in. I went clean through it in one long day’s sitting.

I was trying to be a more mature reader, and I had been lucky: I had just read Lanark by Alasdair Gray, a challenging, astounding book, and I was looking for more of this darker, literary Scotland. I took up this book next. Good heavens, what a duo! I was deeply grieved by The Cone-Gatherers, moved by the simple story and the clean prose that reminded me at times of Joseph Conrad. I remember being struck by the line that ends chapter 13, ‘By being born therefore, or even conceived, one became involved’, a notion Conradian in its concision and sentiment. Re-reading the book now, many years later, it is even greater than I remembered. I am awed by it.

The story is simple: two outsiders – Neil and his younger brother Calum, an angelic hunchbacked dwarf – are hired to gather cones on the soon-to-be deforested estate of Lady Runcie Campbell. Most of the men of the estate have left to fight in the Second World War, leaving only those too old to fight, including the pathological gamekeeper Mr Duror. The story follows the course of his irrational and increasingly violent envy of the cone-gatherers – Calum in particular. Mr Duror resists his own madness, and it makes him as tragic a figure as the cone-gatherers themselves.

I used the word agonised before, and that calls to mind the ancient Greek concept of the agon and the dire, dramatic struggle at the heart of this book. There is a quality of Greek tragedy here, an elemental drama simply presented: an Arcadian setting, a few characters and a terrifying inevitability. We know from the beginning how this drama is going to end: Calum must die and Duror must kill him. But Robin Jenkins is an artist of such power that he maintains a sense of suspense even in the face of fate. He keeps moments of the tragedy truly obscene, in the original sense of the word, ‘offstage’: we never know what Duror does to his unfortunate wife in front of Lady Runcie Campbell, but it is literally unspeakable, and all the more disturbing for it.

The Cone-Gatherers is Shakespearean in scope, in its tragedy and even in its comedy (the Forest of Arden is our novel’s forest, too). In a masterful stroke near the awful climax of the story, Jenkins stops the drama and sends in the wonderful, sardonic clown Graham, and we suddenly find ourselves in the company of a character not at all unlike the Porter in Macbeth. The horror is deferred and we are offered some small relief before the passion and violence and blood explode.

The novel is also steeped in Christian imagery, and situated in a Judeo Christian world: we are in Eden, not only Arcadia. It is the tough, fibrous Christianity of Scottish history, of inescapable sin and damnation – Calvinist, I suppose. But I think this remarkable writer is peering more deeply into the history of the human soul, into the pagan and primitive past that is common to us all.

The source of Duror’s rage and rot lies far back in the blackness of Time; we will never find it. His malice is provoked, in part, by the literal and emotional displacement of the horrifying modern war that provides the backdrop to this tale, but the evil that possesses Duror is unfathomable, ancient and enigmatic. It is the motiveless evil of Iago, the rage of Ajax, the suffering of Philoctetes (another man left out of a war he desperately wanted to fight). He reminds me of the demon-men who materialise in so many works of Scottish literature, in Stevenson and in James Hogg’s The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner; the kind of demon-men that haunted even a gentler novelist like Sir Walter Scott. He becomes the devil of folktale, the smooth-faced fellow met in the woods. Like a twisted Green Man, he is both an integral part of nature and horribly apart from it. He leaves his hoof print on a rock; he is a presence that cannot be articulated, a pre-Christian devil. That .Devil. The real one.

Yet perhaps Mr Duror is merely an actor in an extraordinary tragedy, cast in a role he hardly understands, a role he is surprised to find himself playing so comfortably. I don’t think evil wins at the end of this tale. Jenkins is too sophisticated an artist for that. The Christ, The King, Calum, must die, must be sacrificed, but the demon of the tale has the humanity to kill himself, to blow his own face off, to take off his mask. The stage is left to the conflicted, confused and very human Lady. The possible future is in her hands.

Robin Jenkins was a great artist and a great man, and he has given us a kind of fable: a true fable. It is a dark tale, brutal and truthful, and yet it is also delicate and lovely. It glows darkly. And, after all, it ends mercifully, with these very necessary words:

Pity, hope, joy and heart.

CHAPTER ONE

It was a good tree by the sea-loch, with many cones and much sunshine; it was homely too, with rests among its topmost branches as comfortable as chairs.

For hours the two men had worked in silence there, a hundred feet from the earth, closer, it seemed, to the blue sky round which they had watched the sun slip. Misted in the morning, the loch had gone through many shades of blue and now was mauve, like the low hills on its far side. Seals that had been playing tag in and out of the seaweed under the surface had disappeared round the point, like children gone home for tea. A destroyer had steamed seawards, with a sailor singing cheerfully. More sudden and swifter than hawks, and roaring louder than waterfalls, aeroplanes had shot down from the sky over the wood, whose autumnal colours they seemed to have copied for camouflage. In the silence that had followed gunshots had cracked far off in the wood.

From the tall larch could be glimpsed, across the various-tinted crowns of the trees, the chimneys of the mansion behind its private fence of giant silver firs. Neil, the elder of the brothers, had often paused, his hand stretched out from its ragged sleeve to pluck the sweet resinous cones, and gazed at the great house with a calm yet bitter intentness and anticipation, as if, having put a spell on it, he was waiting for it to change. He never said what he expected or why he watched; nor did his brother ever ask.

For Calum the tree-top was interest enough; in it he was as indigenous as squirrel or bird. His black curly hair was speckled with orange needles; his torn jacket was stained green, as was his left knee visible through a hole rubbed in his trousers. Chaffinches fluttered round him, ignoring his brother; now and then one would alight on his head or shoulder. He kept chuckling to them, and his sunburnt face was alert and beautiful with trust. Yet he was a much faster gatherer than his brother, and reached far out to where the brittle branches drooped and creaked under his weight. Neil would sometimes glance across to call out: ‘Careful.’ It was the only word spoken in the past two hours.

The time came when, thrilling as a pipe lament across the water, daylight announced it must go: there was a last blaze of light, an uncanny clarity, a splendour and puissance; and then the abdication began. Single stars appeared, glittering in a sky pale and austere. Dusk like a breathing drifted in among the trees and crept over the loch. Slowly the mottled yellow of the chestnuts, the bronze of beech, the saffron of birches, all the magnificent sombre harmonies of decay, became indistinguishable. Owls hooted. A fox barked.

It was past time to climb down and go home. The path to the earth was unfamiliar; in the dark it might be dangerous. Once safely down, they would have to find their way like ghosts to their hut in the heart of the wood. Yet Neil did not give the word to go down. It was not zeal to fill the bags that made him linger, for he had given up gathering. He just sat, motionless and silent; and his brother, accustomed to these trances, waited in sympathy: he was sure that even at midnight he could climb down any tree, and help Neil to climb down too. He did not know what Neil was thinking, and never asked; even if told he would not understand. It was enough that they were together.

For about half an hour they sat there, no longer working. The scent of the tree seemed to strengthen with the darkness, until Calum fancied he was resting in the heart of an enormous flower. As he breathed in the fragrance, he stroked the branches, and to his gentle hands they were as soft as petals. More owls cried. Listening, as if he was an owl himself, he saw in imagination the birds huddled on branches far lower than this one on which he sat. He became an owl himself, he rose and fanned his wings, flew close to the ground, and then swooped, to rise again with vole or shrew squeaking in his talons. Part-bird then, part-man, he suffered in the ineluctable predicament of necessary pain and death. The owl could not be blamed; it lived according to its nature; but its victim must be pitied. This was the terrifying mystery, why creatures he loved should kill one another. He had been told that all over the world in the war now being fought men, women, and children were being slaughtered in thousands; cities were being burnt down. He could not understand it, and so he tried, with success, to forget it.

‘Well, we’d better make for down,’ said Neil at last, with a heavy sigh.

‘I could sit up here all night, Neil,’ his brother assured him eagerly.

Neil was angry, though he did not raise his voice. ‘Are you a monkey to want to spend all your life in a tree?’

‘No, Neil.’

‘What would you eat up here? The cones?’

Calum laughed. ‘I don’t think so, Neil. They’re not good.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve tried them?’

This time Calum’s laughter was a confession.

Neil would not see it as a joke.

‘No wonder they come and stare up at you, as if you were a monkey,’ he said.

Calum knew he was referring to the boy and girl who lived in the big house. They had only come once, and he had not minded their admiration.

Neil was silent for nearly a minute.

‘But why shouldn’t we be called monkeys?’ he muttered. ‘Don’t we spend most of our lives in trees? And don’t we live in a box fit for monkeys?’

Calum became sad: he liked their tiny hut.

‘Yonder’s a house with fifty rooms,’ went on Neil, ‘every one of them three times the size of our hut, and nearly all of them empty.’

‘But we couldn’t live in the big house, Neil.’

‘Why couldn’t we? We’re human beings just like them. We need space to live and breathe in.’

‘We get lots of space in the trees, Neil, and on the hills.’

‘Like birds and animals, you mean?’

‘We’re just simple folk, Neil. I want us just to be simple folk.’

Neil yielded to the appeal in his brother’s voice, and also to the uselessness of complaint.

‘I ken you do, Calum,’ he said. ‘And I ken too that, though you’re simple, you’re better than any of them. Is to be always happy a crime? Is it daft never to be angry or jealous or full of spite? You’re better and wiser than any of them.’

Calum smiled, scarcely knowing what the words meant.

‘But it wouldn’t have hurt them to let us stay in the summer-house,’ cried Neil, with another burst of passion, ‘for all the time we’ll be here. No, we would soil it for them; and as soon as the war’s over it’s to be knocked down anyway. It just wouldn’t do for us to be using what the grand folk once used.’

He paused, and sighed again.

‘What’s the matter with me these days, Calum?’ he asked. ‘Is it I’m getting too old? Am I frightened at something? It just comes over me. Sometimes I think it must be the war. There seems to be death in the air.’

Calum shivered: he knew and feared death.

‘This wood,’ said Neil, ‘it’s to be cut down in the spring.’

‘I ken that,’ whimpered Calum.

‘There’s no sense in being sorry for trees,’ said his brother, ‘when there are more men than trees being struck down. You can make use of a tree, but what use is a dead man? Trees can be replaced in time. Aren’t we ourselves picking the cones for seed? Can you replace dead men?’

He knew that the answer was: yes, the dead men would be replaced. After a war the population of the world increased. But none would be replaced by him. To look after his brother, he had never got married, though once he had come very near it: that memory often revived to turn his heart melancholy.

‘We’d better get down,’ he muttered. ‘You lead the way, Calum, as usual.’

‘Sure, I’ll lead the way, Neil.’

Delighted to be out of this bondage of talk, Calum set his bag of cones firmly round his shoulders, and with consummate confidence and grace began the descent through the inner night of the great tree. Not once, all the long way down, was he at a loss. He seemed to find holds by instinct, and patiently guided his brother’s feet on to them. Alone, Neil would have been in trouble; he was as dependent on his brother as if he was blind; and Calum made no attempt to make his superiority as climber compensate for his inferiority as talker. Every time he caught his brother’s foot and set it on a safe branch it was an act of love. Once, when Neil slid down quicker than he meant and stamped on Calum’s fingers, the latter uttered no complaint but smiled in the dark and sucked the bruise.

It was different as soon as they were on the ground. Neil immediately strode out, and Calum, hurrying to keep close behind, often stumbled. Gone were the balance and sureness he had shown in the tree. If there was a hollow or a stone or a stick, he would trip over it. He never grumbled at such mishaps, but scrambled up at once, anxious only not to be a hindrance to his brother.

When they reached the beginning of the ride that divided a cluster of Norway spruces, Neil threw over his shoulder the usual warning: to leave the snares alone, whether there were rabbits in them half throttled or hungry or frantic; and Calum gave the usual sad guilty promise.

During their very first day in the wood they had got into trouble with the gamekeeper. Calum had released two rabbits from snares. Neil had been angry and had prophesied trouble. It had come next evening when Duror, the big keeper, had been waiting for them outside their hut. His rage had been quiet but intimidating. Neil had said little in reply, but had faced up to the gun raised once or twice to emphasise threats. Calum, demoralised as always by hatred, had cowered against the hut, hiding his face.

Duror had sworn that he would seize the first chance to hound them out of the wood; they were in it, he said, sore against his wish. Neil therefore had made Calum swear by an oath which he didn’t understand but which to Neil was the most sacred on earth: by their dead mother, he had to swear never again to interfere with the snares. He could not remember his mother, who had died soon after he was born.

Now this evening, as he trotted down the ride, he prayed by a bright star above that there would be no rabbits squealing in pain. If there were, he could not help them; he would have to rush past, tears in his eyes, fingers in his ears.

Several rabbits were caught, all dead except one; it pounded on the grass and made choking noises. Neil had passed it without

Reviews for The Cone-Gatherers

[thorold_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A beautiful little rural tragedy, set on an estate in the west of Scotland during World War II and exploring complicated issues of social class, religion, different kinds of relationships with nature, and the way we deal with illness and disability in ways that are both very specific to the time and place and deeply universal. I was expecting it to be a kind of Scottish Of mice and men, and it was in a way, but deep down it reminded me more of someone like Kawabata, in the way the writing forces you to pay enormous attention to small details of social expectation and landscape. The language is important as well, though, very poetic in places, and carefully graded in its Scottishness according to the character who is giving the point of view. Scots words appear in the text in an undemonstrative, matter-of-fact way wherever they do the job better and more precisely than their Standard English counterparts would, and it’s up to the reader to know what they mean. I must read more by this man!

[stubbyfingers_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book would be the perfect pick for a book club. The story isn't adventurous or even particularly exciting, but it's chock full of things to think about. It screams for discussion. When I finished the last sentence I just wished I knew someone else in this world who had read it so I could talk about it with them. Woah, what was that about? The main themes are fairly obviously hatred and innocence, but there's so much depth to it. The story is set on a large Scottish estate during WWII. On this estate is a large wood that is slated to be chopped down in the Spring, it's lumber to be used in the war effort. As such, two men have been hired to climb to the top of the trees and collect cones for seed to replace the forest once it has been felled. All the able-bodied men are off at war so the cone-gatherers are a middle-aged rheumatic and his younger brother, a simple-minded hunchbacked dwarf. The cone-gatherers' low station in society along with the younger brother's deformities inspire hatred and love in those around them. This shares many similarities with Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men, but is also quite different. The depth is amazing and worth the read just for that. The ending, the fate that awaits innocence, is shocking--perhaps foreseeable, but shocking just the same.

[widsith_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The cone-gatherers of the title are two labourers on a Scottish estate during the Second World War, who spend their days gathering pine-cones from the treetops so that the forest can one day be replanted after being cut down for lumber to help the war effort. A job so unexpected and remote from modern-day life that it sometimes felt like reading about men in a sci-fi novel performing some incomprehensible and repetitive task on an alien world.It's very efficiently written, with not a word or comma wasted. The setting is so isolated and self-contained, and the characters so richly symbolic, that the novel teeters on the edge of allegory – and there is also a looming sense of disaster that meant I wasn't quite sure, as I read it, if I was really enjoying the experience. But there are many deep, lapidary sentences in here to mull over, and the layers of symbolism can't fail to set off at least a few interesting chains of thought. As I read the final extraordinary line of the book, I suddenly realised I was extremely moved by it.

[s_mcinally · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I read this book as a teenager and it will always stay with me. It would be in my recommendations to read if I was to ever make a list.

[wendyrey · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Set in the highlands of Scotland during the second world war, two brothers, one with learning difficulties, who are employed by the forestry service, are sent to a highland estate to gather cones for seeds. Although they are accepted by most of the working community the gamekeeper develops a pathological hatred of them and ends up killing one of them. There is also contrast between the accepting attitude of the majority of the community and the prejudice of the estate owner's wife who is in charge while her husband is away in the army.Excellent read (could be a bit less wordy)

[clfisha · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Beautifully written tragedy of class and human infallibility , of idealism and violence, of good Vs evil.WWII and two brothers are brought to gather pine codes, the precious seeds needed when the trees are felled for the war effort. Calum with his physical and mental disabilities has a childlike innocence and deep empathy for all in nature, he is at home here whilst the protective Neil rails against their lot, the dank hut they have been banished to given to them on the say so of the gamekeeper whose hates Calum with a passion, for the disabilities he displays, and becomes slowly and devastatingly sworn to destroy him.Drawing inevitable comparisons to Steinbeck’s of Mice and Men this Scottish classic is a compelling read, not just for the writing that draws deftly its many weighty themes together but also for the story that draws you even though doom overshadows at every point and doesn’t quite follow the path you think. From the tight knots we wrap ourselves from Christian duty to class ridden protocols. From the tragedies which eddy out and break men. From the kindness and hope, not just from childlike Calum but from the conscientious objectors. Endurance and sacrifice are cut to display different facets and whilst the overarching theme of good Vs evil no character falls thinly into either. Underpinning this all is the beauty of the Scottish setting in all its harsh glory: the loch and forest jewels amongst human detritus.It’s a sad mesmerising book, relevant but capturing a lost time & I, for one, highly recommend it.