Song of Silence

Song of Silence — A novel by: Dr. Ian Prattis


Song of Silence is the eighth book published by Ian Prattis and is his first novel. It was first written in 1975. Soon forgotten, yet rediscovered in 2011. The author dug it out of a filing cabinet where it was gathering dust. Modern technology enabled the yellowing typed manuscript to be transformed into a computer ready document. It required attention to spelling and typos yet surprisingly nothing further – it stands pristine as when it was first written. It is an allegory for the life difficulties experienced by the author at that time. The surprise was how could he have written such a book while in a desperate state of mind? The author was a real mess – with a failing marriage in the Hebrides and trying to keep a career going at Carleton University in Canada. He was not doing a good job with either. 


The novel is set in the Hebrides – an island chain in the North Atlantic off the NW coast of Scotland. It reads like an extended prose poem and reflects the primal forces of nature and of human nature. The focus is on cycles of maturing, downfall and redemption of one family. In particular the struggles of the main character – Callum Mor – a gifted child, master mariner, derelict drunk, who finally gains wisdom from a hard life’s journey. The novel has nature’s harsh and beautiful rhapsody; human failings of epic proportions highlighted by violence, greed, power, rape, murder, abortion and desertion. The failings are topped by the triumph of human decency, preceded by sharp and often grim humour and resilience. 


The author is a retired professor, having taught at Carleton University in Ottawa
from 1970 - 2007. His recent books – of a different genre – are:

Anthropology At The Edge (1997)
The Essential Spiral: Ecology and Consciousness After 9/11 (2002)
Failsafe: Saving The Earth From Ourselves (2008)
Earth My Body, Water My Blood (2011)

His books provided the inspiration for a CD titled "Feed The Machine" released by SLYDE, an up and coming hard rock/blues band. Their keyboardist was a student in his university class on Ecology and Consciousness. The lyrics for SLYDE's CD were inspired by the class text The Essential Spiral: Ecology and Consciousness After 9/11. Who knows what they will do with Song of Silence!


Song of Silence 2nd Edition is available on Amazon Kindle


Key Words: Hero's Journey, Violence, Nature's Harsh Rhapsody, Downfall, Redemption, Awakening, Epic, Wisdom, Transformation


Song of Silence -- Front Cover

This is a story, a piece of fiction.

It springs from the imagination and 

thoughts of its author. It's unfolding

is not a portrayal of people living

or dead. It is a song, an essay, an

acknowledgement of the human spirit. 




Glossary of Terms 
 

ben: mountain

burn: creek, stream

ceilidh: informal social gathering

chippie: carpenter

crack: conversation 

cran: measure of herring

creel: lobster trap

croft: tenanted small holding

fank: fenced area for sheep dipping

fell: valley

fey: mystical

fleet: a series of creels attached to one main rope

gillie: guide for hunting and fishing

gralloched: gutted

lazybed: small cultivated plot of land

lythe: fish species found in North Atlantic

maram: coarse grass

Minch: stretch of water between the Hebrides and the Scottish mainland 

peat: black turf, used for fuel

quadrille: dance

ringnetters: fishing boats

saythe: fish species found in North Atlantic

sloc: inlet

stob: wooden fence post 

wether: sheep 


"Lobster", "No Lobster", "No Lobster", "Crabs", "Lobster", "Crabs", "No Lobster". Like a medieval incantation old Angus sang out as the Lobster creels came over the gunwale one by one.  "Lobster", "No Lobster", "Crab"; uttered with exact same pitch and feeling he intoned a greeting to the creature trapped within. His huge hands deftly unlaced the latticed side of the creel and with a slow rhythm he methodically passed the lobsters to a boy standing on the deck of the boat. The youngster watched in silence, transferring the lobsters from the gnarled hands of Angus to a large wooden box covered with a wet sack. He watched in fascination as Angus tore claws, shell and legs from the living crab to place the breast meat in the creel as bait along with half a salt mackerel.


When the whole fleet of twenty creels were stacked on the deck, the skipper of the boat, Michael Martin, shouted above the noise of the engine to Angus that they were moving. If the old man heard he did not acknowledge but peered bemusedly at the sea as the Atlantic swell rocked the boat in its turning. He looked at the sky noticing the flight of gulls, then to the Atlantic sweeping unremittingly from Labrador to break on his own Hebridean shores. He looked to the water for signs that would tell him if the currents would be stronger or weaker than he anticipated. With a short slow movement of his hand he bade the skipper move closer in to a reef white spumed from the breakers. Then once the spot was chosen he again motioned to Michael to describe a large semicircle as he cast the baited creels one by one back into the sea.


This was the fourth fleet of twenty creels to be serviced that September morning. Michael took the boat out to sea then cut the engine. The craft moved up and down with the swell of the sea. The remaining fleets could await their leisurely lunch. Michael glanced fondly at the boy, his nephew. The boy's day had started early, just after dawn. He had risen while his parents slept, drawn by something intangible about the quietness of the morning. Leaving his snoring brother whose bed he shared, he tip-toed past the back room where his elder sister muttered and turned in her sleep. He shivered as he pulled on his sweater and trousers in the cold kitchen. He took a cup of milk from the pitcher by the scullery and left the cup on the table. His mother would notice and know that he had gone. He made up the fire and put a match to it to take the chill from the kitchen for the rest of his family. Then he was drawn to the day.


Closing the croft house door behind him, he stood and marvelled at the beauty of it, The slow aftermath of dawn could be traced in a sky streaked with reds and grays as though a child had smeared pastels on the horizon. He walked from his father's croft house, skirting the bay and climbing the hill that led to a sight of the pier. Here and there a light showed from a croft house but no one was about. This hour of the morning belonged to him and to the sheep. Sheep sleeping in the middle of the road, belching and coughing in the sparse pasture opposite the post office. Their dominance uninterrupted by merchants opening up shop, too early for children to run to school shouting and laughing, too early for the first drunk to take up his station by the lifeboat shed. The sheep commanded this hour of the day and stared diffidently as the boy walked amongst them.


Two ringnetter boats with their crew asleep below, lay at anchor in the lee of the breakwater. The clamour of gulls around them gave vocal testimony to the remains of last night's catch. The boy counted the small boats clustered by the slipway then made his way to the pier. The sea here was calm and flat as glass, scarcely responding to the whisper-like breeze that brushed it. The boy spat into the water and watched the ever increasing number of rings on the calm surface. He spat again, this time to the left so the two sets of rings would collide, fuse, then break on the pier's pilings. Small patches of oil drifted past like multi-coloured jellyfish. In his waiting, he scanned the pier and took in the fishing nets hung on rails and piled in disarray amongst discarded warp lines and fuel drums. Large red containers with "MacAlpines Shipping" as their scutcheon, sat dully amidst the reminders of the island's fishing fleet.


He picked up the noise of a diesel engine and stared out to sea, straining his attention to catch the shape of the boat. He knew the sound of the boat, yet still peered anxiously until the familiar outlines of his uncle's fishing boat could be picked out to the south. His uncle lived on a neighbouring island, yet came to this pier for fuel and stores. The boy willed the boat to come faster, before the village stirred, before his sister Moira with her quiet insistence took him along with herself to school. He had been promised a trip on the boat and today he wanted to go. He looked anxiously to the village, at the first stirrings of life there, at the church clock that showed that he would not be spared Moira's insistence.


The wash at the bow of the boat grew bigger as his figure stood on the pier drawing it closer to him. Then the postmaster, idling by the railings, filling his pipe before his day of commerce began, saw him and waved. The boy reluctantly acknowledged the salute. The merchant's children in a rush descended the pier road and took the shortcut to the school. They laughed and waved good naturedly at the boy's strange figure on the pier. His own brother shouted from the hill to get along to school, and still the boat was far off. Then Moira was before him, an amused quietness in her eyes, and he allowed himself to be pulled into the way of things and reluctantly followed her to school.


He felt his uncle's gaze on him and turned to him with an uncertain smile. Michael looked bemusedly at the boy and then laughed "You're a wee bugger, Callum Mor, jumping school the day. What will your teacher do when she gets hold of you, eh?" 


"Why but she saw me and she smiled at me as I took the short-cut to the pier." His teacher had smiled. Callum Mor’s attention had been riveted on his uncle's boat at the pier that he could see from the schoolroom window. He had moved cautiously from desk to desk until he was close to the schoolroom door, an advancement that Miss MacDougall had not been unaware of. Then she gave him his chance by turning to the blackboard, and out of the class slipped Callum Mor, down the brae, through the cut to the pier where Michael and Angus were standing smoking. His classmates giggled quietly, stifling their mirth behind fists over their mouths until silenced by a frown from Miss MacDougall. She walked to the back of the class and looked out of the window that commanded the bay and the pier. The morning sun cast a sheen on the water that was scarcely rippled by the wind coming from the west. Several trawlers had tied up at the pier and their crews were busy taking on ice and sorting their catch. 


Miss MacDougall smiled to herself. It was a day for freedom if anyone would take it. Callum Mor's slight figure had paused at the school gate and as he cast a glance back at the school he caught Miss MacDougall's smile on him. He stood stock still, unsure of retreat or flight. He was no stranger to her ruler across his knuckles and switch on his backside, yet she was there looking at him and smiling. She turned from the window tugging at the chignon at the back of her hair, an unnecessary severity to her features. She was happy for Callum Mor, just as Michael and Angus were happy for him once he presented himself to them at the pier. 


Callum Mor did not understand his teacher. He exulted in his release, knowing of the punishment awaiting him the next day at school. He did not know of the happiness he gave to others, could never know. Michael and Angus stopped in their smoking at the pier and looked at the boy as he shyly stood by them. A small slip of nothing, elf-like and ephemeral, eyes that were too knowing and too vulnerable. There was too much in that small frame and everyone who knew him sensed it and rejoiced in it, yet feared for him. This was why he was called Callum Mor, Callum the Large One. While Michael wondered, old Angus nodded to the boy to get aboard. This was his first time on the boat and as it pulled away from the pier he felt like a bird.


Michael's gaze on the boy was fond. Lunch over, Angus and Michael talked about their catch and where the remaining fleets of creels would be placed. Callum Mor sat quietly looking at them. He had shared their sandwiches, supped from Angus's large mug and listened to their talk of the sea. They did not explain anything to him. He learnt by listening and watching and then doing. His left hand was ugly and red with two large welts suffered from lobster nips. He had borne the pain in silence but his tears had been noticed by the two men. They had said nothing but at their lunch made room for him and treated him with a gentle courtesy that he did not understand but which he shyly treasured. Angus sat on a fish box filling his pipe, his pale blue eyes rarely away from the sea that sustained him. His weathered features and great broad shoulders and hands a contrast to the slight eager faced boy beside him. Michael started the engine and the boat swung south to the islands at the tip of the Hebridean tail. He slowed the vessel as they approached an inlet close to Mieray Island. In the shadow of the soaring cliffs Angus's incantations, sung softly under his breath, seemed almost a prayer. A prayer and a thanks. A thanks and a prayer. 


He had fished these waters for forty years and still was awed by Nature's stark edifice. Stretching sheer from the sea for nine hundred feet or so, the cliffs drew their eyes. It was as if to redefine their apartness, their humanness, that a fleet of creels was set in and around a channel that cut through the soaring grandeur of the cliffs. An act of impudence, almost, to snatch a morsel from the feet of the gods. The boat slowly picked its way through the dark channel, almost totally closed in from the sun. Angus deposited the baited creels into the sea, taking bearings from rocks he had brushed against countless times. All three blinked as they emerged from the grotto and the September sunlight brought them back to life. As Michael piloted the boat northwards their eyes would frequently travel back to the darkness they had with impunity dared, until the cliffs were lost from sight. Angus and Callum Mor busied themselves with securing the catch in wooden boxes that would be floated at a mooring in the bay. The boy's arms and back ached from the lifting of heavy creels and his hand throbbed painfully. Angus put him in the wheelhouse with Michael. The noise of the engine made conversation impossible yet Michael shouted volubly above the roar and Callum Mor could not hear. 


His replies were similarly incomprehensible. Words strung together had no meaning above the noise but the osmosis of the sea and the beauty of the day united them in a way that did not require words. They enjoyed their mutually unintelligible conversation all the way back to the pier. Callum Mor was dispatched home with a large bag of crab claws. Michael and Angus took on some fuel drums and the boy walked along the pier road and up the brae that eventually lead round to his father's croft. He moved the bag of crab claws from arm to arm as its weight told on his small, tired muscles. His sister met him at the rise of the brae, her bright red skirt a counterpoint to the green jersey of Callum Mor. The two colours, his sister now helping in the carrying of the bag, were soon lost to sight and Michael and Angus returned to their own island.


It was now dark and Callum Mor told the story of his day to his family while the crab claws cooked and split in the embers of the fire. He sat at the large kitchen table with small flecks of crab meat on his chin. His sister Moira demanded repeated tellings of his escape from Miss MacDougall's eyes and at each repetition she became even more convulsed with laughter. At one point she seized her brother and waltzed him around the kitchen until they collided with their mother and tumbled to the floor, all legs, arms and merriment. Annie laughed with her son and her daughter and delighted at Callum Mor's adventure. 


"If you're for dancing the pair o' ye, we'll have it done differently. Donald, fetch your accordion." Donald had watched his brother and sister whirl round the kitchen floor with admiration and not a little envy. He was not given easily to joy, too stolid for one on the verge of adulthood, but his transformation lay in music. With delicate rhythms and chords his fingers brought forth music that directed the energetic scramble of his kin to slow strathspeys, vigorous reels. And when at last the two were intoxicated by their steps they danced solo opposite one another, fiercely competitive now, turning and twisting with the grace of gulls, in a strict determined order. Callum Mor was almost as light of step as his sister Moira, but her grace was something not of this world. Then at last Donald released them from his music. He was now part of them and could join in their animation. 


Annie wove the web of riddles and conversation that tied her offspring to her, feeding them, humouring them and forcing them to grow. The door opened to admit Colin, the old widower from the next croft, who called nightly to fetch a jug of milk. He came with news that Andrew, father of the children and husband to Annie, was negotiating to borrow a bull from the north end of the island and would not return until morning. He knew of Callum Mor’s adventures and stumped into the kitchen with a mock fierceness and demanded that Callum Mor give an account of himself. With a grin the boy started on the retelling and soon the old man was chuckling and slapping his thigh. The retelling was done several times more that evening as other neighbours, drawn by the music and spirit that enveloped the croft house, called in, listened to the boy, feasted on crabs and drank from the bottle of whiskey that had appeared. The large kitchen table was pushed back to make room for the company to wend its way through a reel. Moira was called to dance and Donald's music drew forth delicate and poignant steps from her. 


Colin, the widower, cleared his throat and began to recite a poem. It was received with murmurs of approval as he gave the story of the transportation of Highlanders from their hills and crofts across oceans and ice laden waters to Canada, where a living was carved out of wilderness. He told of their heartbreak at being torn from their nurturing. His epic was received in a silence that was too eloquent. After a long pull at the bottle, old Colin struck up a ribald song about the adventures of a cockerel and the company learned to laugh again. Soon, however, the songs and Donald's music were lost to Callum Mor. He lay fast asleep by the hearth, his small body curled up to catch the warmth of the fire's dying embers. Around him conversation had turned to crops, the sea, the latest catches by the island fishermen, but he was oblivious to it all. Donald gently picked his sleeping brother up and carried him to his bed, unlacing the boy's shoes and drawing off his trousers.


"Good night to you Callum Mor, my brave wee lad". Then he returned to the company, the conversation and gossip that were a prelude to the evening's end, and Callum Mor slept. 


This story has no beginning or middle or end. It simply
has its own cycle. It is the story of Callum Mor, a being
of rare beauty. The observers of his story can laugh,
rejoice and suffer with him but can do naught to change
or alter the drama that overtakes him. They can merely
witness the ultimate triumph of the human spirit.

This is Callum Mor's story.



Callum Mor's song continued

It was never too late for him.

      His knowing crept forth from him

      To shock his people into new awareness 

And they were good people,

A goodness bred of generations

      of adversity and survival.

      that Callum Mor fashioned into creativity,

      by quiet gentle example. 

That could not be denied.

The raw primacy of sea, rock and gale 

let them turn only a little away,

allow them just a lesion

      on that creative body of survival

      that stretched back to

      the time before antiquity.

They came in one's and two's

To that place where Callum Mor 

      and the young ones

      had started their work.

They looked and measured many things 

      in their minds and hearts 

      leaving, only to return in one's and two's.

It was the postman that trimmed the founds

carrying cement on his back 

      from the roadside

      where his bicycle

      lay with a wheel spinning in the wind.

A shipwright from the sea laboured 

his leave to putting 

      a roof to the place.

Soon

Men from all parts

of the island

found their way to that place 

where men worked in

one's and two's.

They argued

about the size of windows

wrangled about the slope

      of the guttering

      and finally could laugh

when the butcher, barman and pier master 

came with separate

      carefully carpentered doors 

      all for the one doorway.

With the smiles that spread

      to a chuckle and swelled

      to a roar of laughter

The pain from deep within

      the breasts of island men eased

and they became part of it all. 
 

They knew the deep lasting joy

      of being part of a thread of life 

      that ran back to that time

Before Antiquity.

They heard and felt

Callum Mor's song

And rejoiced in their hearts.

"First of all, I loved Song of Silence, so thank you! I can see why your friend cried throughout. I am up close and personal with adversity. The good thing is, I never really give up, so your story just reinforced my resolve. We all go through tough times, but it is hope and love that get us through, and this is the main point that I took from the book. Quite captivating, on so many levels. A strange thing... I had just learned how to pronounce Catriona about a week before I began reading! Towards the end, Callum Mor came home and touched the walls... I am a wall toucher! It started when I was six and had to leave the only home I knew, to move far away... I still do it. I touch everything, somehow trying to get a message or a sense of what has been there before.


I have three criteria for a good book... I don't want it to end, I love the end, and I do not wish to speak to anyone for several hours after I finish it. So, this met my criteria on all these levels! Thank you so much, again."

    Mary Helen Dean, Management Professional, Ottawa, Canada

' "Song of Silence" is a riveting novel chronicling one man's journey through the stages of innocence, darkness, destruction and redemption. The narrative may be applied both individually and universally. Individuals are suffering all over the world from the chaos that life brings, be it violence, imbalance of power, cheating, torture or the destruction that comes with war. Human beings experience their pain as a type of abyss from which there is no way out. At times we exist in darkness with a sense of hopelessness and when this darkness grows it often unleashes itself onto the world, ironically adding even more to the already existing pool of suffering. What is so exquisite about this novel is the tenderness and honesty with which the author deals with the human condition.


Callum Mor draws us in as he demonstrates an intuitive understanding and respect for nature. We are intrigued by his innocence and purity which contrast so strongly with his brother's desire to hunt and kill. When Callum Mor's journey moves him into levels of darkness pushing him even closer to the abyss, the author refuses to "sanitize" his experiences. Rather, they are put out there as graphically and tragically as they occur. The story pulls you in and before you know it, the reader is seduced and becomes Callum Mor - and as he is redeemed, so are we. His joy becomes ours and we come to the end with a sense of catharsis and triumph. Besides the fact that "Song of Silence" is so beautifully written, it is a book that we may all benefit from for its ability to explore thehuman condition in its entirety and honour even the most darkest elements we all experience. The author does this with grace, elegance and compassion – without judgment. As in the song "Wonderwall" by Oasis, Callum Mor shows us that even when "the fire in our heart is out" we can all be our wonderwall. '

    Anita Rizvi, Consultant, Ottawa, Canada

YOU CAN ORDER "SONG OF SILENCE" IN ANY OF THE FOLLOWING WAYS:


Option A:

For a signed copy of "Song of Silence" you can order directly from the author.
The price is $30 shipped to anywhere in Canada; $35 shipped internationally (includes S & H).

Order a copy in any one of the following ways:

(1) Send a cheque or money order made out to Ian Prattis to:
            Ian Prattis
            1252 Rideout Cres.,
            Ottawa, ON.
            K2C 2X7
            Canada

OR

(2) Pick it up directly from the address above for only $15.00 cash.

OR

(3) Use PayPal to Send Money to [email protected] 


Option B:

You can buy the e-book version from Amazon Kindle.


Option C:

Order a hard copy of "Song of Silence" online from one of the following locations:
(1) To order from the publisher, go to Baico.ca then place the title of the book in the Product Search Box 

OR

(2) To order from Chapters, go to Chapters.Indigo.ca then place the title of the book in the Product Search Box 


Option D:

Contact the publisher directly:


    Song of Silence,

    Published by Baico Publishing Inc.,

    284 Albert St, Suite 103

    Ottawa, ON.

    K1P 6E6

    Canada

    (613)829-5141

    [email protected]

    www.baico.ca