Island of Wings (24 page)

He woke when he felt a tug on the line, which he had tied to his big toe. He jerked his foot and felt the resistance. The fish had caught, and as he wound it in he waved triumphantly to the other boys, who did not acknowledge his greeting but stood watching grumpily as he pulled in the first catch of the day. It was a beautiful mackerel; its underside was the colour of clouds and the back still wore the colours of the sea, cut through with ribbons of grief.

As the morning wore on, the wind picked up and the fish ran too so that the boys were pulling them out until the bait ran out and they had to start using mackerel flesh on the hooks. The rock around Duncan was slippery with blood and gut, and the puffins gave off their strong smell. A new group of boys had assembled at the point. Clouds were gathering with the wind and would sometimes cover the sun, the sea darkening for a moment into threat. Suddenly Duncan heard a peal of laughter. He stood up quickly – too quickly – to see what was going on. As he stood one of his bare feet slipped on the slimy ledge. He tried to grab hold of the rock above. His hand clawed and grasped, looking for a tuft of grass, a solid piece of the island he had always known and never left. Because he could not believe it was happening, the beginning of his fall was horribly slow. He saw too much; he saw the safe rock falling away from him, the shimmer of minerals in the sun, a clump of violets in a crevice and next to it a cheerful bed of sea-campion, thrift and scurvy grass. He saw, or perhaps he did not, the boys look up at his shrill cry and start running, shuffling amongst the boulders and rocks towards him.

The punishment that inevitably followed the fall was severe and the boy was shocked by the chill of the water as it closed around him. As he bobbed up to the surface Duncan spat out the vile water he had swallowed. He found that he was still hanging on to the rod. Blinking away the cruel salt, he saw his friends on the rocks. They were calling to him but he could not hear. One or two were reaching out their rods for him to catch, but the current around the point had already carried him too far out, and in any case he did not want to let go of his own rod. He clung to it desperately, wide-eyed. The whole thing surprised him; he could not swim and yet he was afloat – how could it be? But none of this was imaginary, and the truth could not be reconciled. But just when disaster presents itself, in that moment when the horror is unveiled, there is a space where you are untouchable, and perfectly safe because it has already happened. The trick, unpreventable perhaps, but still so
unnecessary
, has already been played on you.

Because of this, Duncan was not afraid. He looked calmly at his golden arms that held on to the rod in front of him. Still he was not self-possessed; the adventure was obviously over now and nature had taken charge. He was not in control and the current was tugging at him, nibbling at his legs like dogs of the sea, hungry for the kill. The dead puffins at his belt were still full of air and carried him on the swell, but slowly, one after the other, they started filling with water, sinking as their broken necks were flushed and straightened by the rush of the water forcing itself into the damaged hulls of their bodies. As his life raft gave way, cruelly, slowly, Duncan went under for the first time. But the air in his own lungs saved him, and as he resurfaced he thought he saw the minister on the shore amongst the boys. He focused his eyes on the black figure and thought he saw him cupping his hands around his mouth. The minister was shouting something. What was it? It must be important, Duncan thought, and with all the curiosity and keenness of his age he strained his ears and with his last strength pushed once more out of the water to receive the tuition from his master – surely now he would be told how to swim. ‘Pray, Duncan, remember to pray . . .' Was that really what he called? Was that all? But Duncan did not pray, and this time he sank for good, his eyes still open, staring into the underwater world until his lungs filled, the last pocket of air abandoned him and his eyes burst and saw no more. The spirit left the body it had worn and might have escaped with the last bubble of air that reached the surface. Then the shapelessness of the sea was again unbroken as it closed above the boy.

Lizzie had witnessed the terrible scene from up the slope of Oiseval. She had seen her husband arrive at the shore and she had shouted to him at the top of her voice, willing him to go in after the boy. Distraught, she hurried back to the manse and waited for Neil to return. When he did, she found it hard to look at him, and although she knew the time was not right – that it was too brutal – his dry clothes made her demand of him, ‘Why did you not go in after him? You are the only one here who can swim.' The voice came from somewhere deep and dark inside her.

He looked at her, stupefied.

‘Oh, Neil . . .' Her powerless rage was mixed with pity – she knew the boy had meant a lot to him. Perhaps he had awakened in her husband's heart a memory of a lighter childhood?

‘Can you not see? I would have failed! They would all have watched me fail and they would have lost faith in me.' It was hard for him to speak; her words had skewered him deeply.

A memory of a distant summer's evening surfaced in Lizzie's head. George Atkinson's accusing voice from somewhere outside the open window, saying, ‘. . . as you take authority of their souls and minds they will turn to you as to a God'. She shivered in the hot room.

‘You sacrificed a child's life, a beloved child's life, in order to keep your command – because you are too proud, too afraid of losing face.'

Her words made him flinch. He held out his hands as if to ward her off.

‘Proud? No. NO!' He shook his head in agony. The grief and the guilt were closing over him like damp earth.

‘What then? Tell me why!' she shouted.

Pushed into a corner, he had to strike back in order to get out. ‘Don't you talk to me about letting children die!'

‘What is that supposed to mean?'

‘You know very well what I mean.'

‘No, you'd better explain it to me.' She was furious.

He didn't have the strength to go on; he knew he was losing ground. ‘No bother,' he muttered weakly.

She tried to calm herself down. ‘No bother – is that all you can say?'

‘Be quiet!'

‘Is this all part of your so-called mission? There are things that must be sacrificed for the cause, is that it?'

‘You don't understand – I am the mission – there is nothing else.'

His words, although made blunt by his grief, cut through her like knives.

‘Living changes us,' he continued. ‘This island changes us – it eats into you and won't leave you alone.'

Lizzie shook her head miserably. ‘It is true that you have changed, but you cannot blame the island. You must try to master your own life rather than the lives of the islanders. That is your main duty to God – and to yourself.' She thought about what Betty had told her a few years previously, that everyone was responsible for coming to terms with their own lives.

A few nights later the moon brought him home and the tide – that lunar mistress – carried him into Village Bay in her swelling arms. The bloated, gas-filled birds were still attached to his waist, like a funeral wreath of wilted white lilies. The village was asleep as the sad hearse settled in the shallows. Everyone slept soundly, exhausted by grief. One or two of the young boys may have woken up during the night. Perhaps they sat up abruptly in their beds, only to realise that the bad dream was not theirs, that they played no part in it. They went back to sleep saddened but secretly relieved. The death of infants was understandable and therefore almost acceptable to the St Kildans, who realised that the death on the eighth day was beyond their control. But the death of a child who had lived and survived the dangerous years of infancy, who was prized and treasured by the entire community . . . The young were their insurance from the end of the world; they were the ones who would make sure the sun rose on another day. They would preserve the age of man that was the time and space of their island world. Duncan's death was unnatural and inexplicable and he was mourned like the other young dead throughout time, with intensity and fear.

Neil MacKenzie knew this and understood that the web holding the past and the present together had been somehow damaged. It was like when you hear a crack in an old pot but the damage is invisible to the eye. In a similar way, Duncan's death seemed to herald a dark downturn of events which made the minister shudder, although he was still unaware of just why. Nor could he make himself recognise the nature of his betrayal.

Just as everything was coming together so perfectly, he thought. The new village was progressing well, the land had been shifted and he had arranged to be picked up – the boat was due any day – in order to travel to Glasgow to collect the furniture and windows for the new houses. And it had been decided that he should travel back with the Rev. Drs Dickson and MacLeod, who were going to inspect the congregation on St Kilda and decide whether any of them were worthy to be taken up in the Church. MacKenzie had been preparing a number of the cleverest islanders for this purpose, and Duncan had been one of his brightest and most promising pupils. For a moment it all seemed hopeless to the minister. And he missed the boy, whose company had been a comfort to him. His young strength and formative mind had been a source of hope to the minister. He remembered the face of the boy as the current pulled him out to sea. How he had looked towards his friends on the shore and never uttered a word as he clung to his rod. No one had jumped in to try to save him as no one on the island could swim. Except for MacKenzie. It had never crossed his mind that he should go in after the boy. His mind darkened as he recalled his wife's accusations. Anyway, Duncan was too far out when he himself had reached the point.
There was nothing I could do
.

Duncan's was not the only ghost that kept the minister awake this night and haunted the blackest, furthest realms of his mind. He had woken up in a sweat after a dream, a memory that kept surfacing these days, horrendous and real in all its detail, of the night, so many years ago, when he had been near death by drowning himself. A terrible storm had overcome them as they had been trying out a new fishing vessel a few hours out of Arran. The boat had not been properly loaded and it did not last long in the heavy seas. They had been thrown into the sea, William and he, and as the vessel was torn to pieces by wave after crashing wave they tried desperately to keep their heads above water. Most of the floating debris was useless to them, but suddenly they spotted a part of the wreck which looked sturdy enough to carry the weight of a young man. They pointed it out to each other, shouting above the roar of the ocean, but even as they did so they realised that the insubstantial raft would carry one man, not two. This undeniable fact must have occurred to them both at the same time and soon the youths, who had competed against each other so many times in the past, always in play, were engaged in their final race. Neil reached the raft first and clung to it, exhausted and spent. From his safe point he watched Will as he looked around in desperation for another piece of wood substantial enough to bear him. Will's frantic splashing was exhausting him, and Neil could see that he was now struggling to breathe above water. At that moment Will turned to look at him and it was those eyes, pleading and hopeless, that Neil kept remembering – that moment that he relived – in his dreams.
What could I have done? I would have died too if I had tried to save him. It was God's will.
THERE WAS NOTHING I COULD DO.

But in his darkest moments, when his faith and his confidence were failing him, a thought might occur to him: what if I was not chosen? What if I survived merely because I was stronger, because I saved myself and left Will to die? What if there is no afterlife, no heaven for the young dead? What if I have deceived myself.

6

JULY 1838 – TRIAL OF FAITH

They had all been called into the house to get changed; Eliza and her brother James and Jane, who was not much fun yet according to her sister, and Nigel who was sweet but only a baby. Mother and Anna were dressing them in their Sunday clothes, although it was a hot and sticky day just before the Sabbath. The fabric was thick and itchy against Eliza's skin, which had already got used to the cotton summer frock. How hateful, she thought to herself. Jane was crying as Anna tried to pull the tweed dress over her head, and Eliza sighed and shook her head so that the dark curls bounced against her cheeks. What a crybaby! James was eager to get back to his game with the village boys and stood obligingly as Mother pulled on his stiff jacket and combed his fair hair. Eliza did not play so much with James and the boys any more. At six she had started to have secrets, to hide treasures in little caches in the drystone wall and tell stories to the dolls she made out of twigs and discarded wool. In the long, green afternoons she would lie in the high grass behind the glebe wall and smell the violets and chamomile. If you lay on your back and looked up into the sky the birds would make you dizzy so that it was difficult to stand up again. That dizziness was light and pleasant like Anna's kisses. In the mornings she had to sit in the new schoolroom and do the lessons her father set for her and the other children. He was not like Father then and she had to call him ‘Sir' in the classroom. ‘Sir' seemed taller and he had chalk dust on his sleeves and he got cross if you did not sit still. She tried to sit still, but her feet did not reach down to the floor and it was difficult to know for sure if they were swinging or not because sometimes, when she did the lessons, her mind would wander.

Her siblings were such a burden to her, except for Nigel whom she liked to dress in pretty frocks and kiss until he pulled his benign little face away and pushed his chubby hands on her chest. She hated her green Sunday outfit, but Mother insisted that they all had to dress up today as Father was due with the very important people from Glasgow. She hated Mother for making her wear the suit and she hated Jane for her hot red face and James for being so good and getting all the praise from Anna. It was all hateful and she had had quite enough of it. She skipped out of the kitchen, first on one leg, then on the other, and on to the porch. ‘Don't go down to the beach, Eliza, you will ruin your dress,' Mother called after her. ‘No, I won't!' Eliza called back with the conviction of all her years. ‘Wait for me,' cried James, who had finally escaped from Anna's care. Eliza felt the irritation rise as he came running after her. ‘Go and play with your own friends,' she called to him, but he did not seem to mind. ‘Leave me alone, James,' she said furiously to his grinning face. ‘Why?' he leered. ‘Where are you going? I want to come too.' ‘No!' She started running and he followed. As soon as they were out of sight from the manse she stopped short and turned towards James, who came charging after her down the slope. As he reached her she pushed him hard in the chest so that he fell on the grass on his hands and knees. ‘There!' she said, already regretting the violence. She saw that his knees had scuffed on the grass and were green with the kind of dirt that does not wash off easily. She could sense trouble. ‘If you tell Mother and Anna that I pushed you I will kill you,' she hissed, and left him sobbing. She went and hid behind a boulder by the shore.

She had been irritable and frustrated ever since she had seen Duncan's body on the beach that morning at the beginning of the summer. She was not meant to have seen it, she understood;
it was not for children
. At first she had not been quite sure what it was that she was looking at, hiding behind a boulder as the men and dogs gathered at a respectable distance from whatever it was. It took a while for her to realise that it was a boy, but once she did it was too terrible. Had she really seen one of Duncan's feet sticking out of a torn trouser leg, a foot that was blue and black as if it had been alive and beaten? Had she really seen blood around his eyes and nostrils? It had not been at all like the Duncan she used to see every day at school and sometimes in Father's study at night. He had been all fat and a strange colour, like a sheep's stomach filled with fulmar oil. Father had been the one to remove the horrible belt of bird carcasses and lift him up. He had carried him with the horrible puffy baby face resting against his chest, all the way up to the village, where he had left Duncan's body with his mother, who had lost her only child. Duncan's mother had screamed at first and then blubbered in a way that made her look ridiculous, and it had scared Eliza.

At night when the light could not protect her, her mind's eye had opened again to the horror it had seen. It had made her wonder and it had kept her awake until she could never go back to sleep and her hands and neck were sweaty and all she could see when she opened her eyes was darkness and the end of life. She could not envisage heaven, and when she tried to think of angels and green pastures there was only dark nothingness and ­loneliness. She panicked as she thought that one day she, Eliza, might not be any more. Could she be dead? Just a name like the little Jane who had died to give way for our Jane, the one who lived (for what purpose Eliza was not sure), and Margaret who had also died without even giving way for another little Margaret. ‘I don't want to die,' she sobbed into the night, her heart racing. When Father went away, shortly after Duncan went over, she cried every night until she dared ask Mother if Father was dead too. Mother just laughed and said that she was a silly girl and of course he wasn't. But how could she be so sure? Eliza wondered. People went away and did not come back; that is how it happens. Death. But it was day now, and during the day she forgot about the night, and Mother had told them that today was the day when Father might be coming back.

At that point Eliza heard shouting from the village, and as she looked out from her hiding place she saw the men come running towards the beach. ‘There is a ship on fire!' they shouted. ‘Bring out the boat. We must assist them!' Eliza stood up and looked towards the sea. Far out on the horizon she saw a cloud of smoke. Suddenly there was a flash followed by a terrible sound, like a giant wave crashing against Dùn in the winter storms. The air seemed to shake as the sound echoed against the rocks. Everyone on the shore was screaming in alarm now. Mothers were collecting their young and ushering them back towards the huts while the men were shouting orders as the boat was launched. The sky was full of gannets and fulmar who had been disturbed by the noise and left their rocks to circle Village Bay. In all the commotion Eliza started running back towards the manse. She entered the kitchen short of breath and had to stop at the door for a second before she could bring the news. James, still red-eyed and snotty, was sitting on the kitchen table, and Anna was kneeling in front of him, nursing his knees. Mother was standing by the window and looking out with the baby on her arm. Eliza could not understand how they could be so calm.

‘Mother, Anna, there is an enormous ship on fire and it shouts like a storm!' she cried with her regained breath. And then a terrible thought hit her: ‘What if Father is on the ship? What if he is being eaten by a monster?' She started crying violently. To her great surprise Mother started laughing. How could she laugh when Father was in mortal peril?

‘Come here, sweetheart,' said Lizzie, and put the baby in his high chair. Eliza hated her mother for laughing when Father was in danger but she could not resist the comfort she offered. She ran over to Lizzie and hid her face in her skirts. At once the familiar smell filled her nostrils. It was the smell of baking and potato peels, of warm wool and something altogether more mysterious which reminded Eliza of the hawthorn bush in spring. This space in her mother's skirts seemed private and wonderful – a secret that bound her and Mother together and excluded the others. As Mother stroked her hair she could not stop crying – she felt so sorry for herself. No one cared about her, and one day she might be dead like Duncan. Would they even miss her? She wished she had died instead of Duncan and they could all have been missing her and thinking: if only we had loved her better while she was alive. She would not have died like Duncan though, and she would not have looked so grotesque. She would have been pale and composed and her hair would have curled prettily around her face and been slightly darker than in life. The tragedy of her thoughts made her cry even harder. ‘Shh, shh,' Mother whispered, and kissed the crown of Eliza's head. ‘Listen to me, Eliza, the ship is not on fire; it is a steamship and it fired its cannon to tell us it is here.' Eliza had almost forgotten about the ship. She did not want to leave her mother's embrace so she cried a bit more, but her eyes were quite dry now and the noises she made sounded a bit artificial, even to her own ears. Anna offered her a glass of milk and then they all went out on the porch and watched the ship as it approached. It was the largest ship any of them had ever seen. It looked new and shone in the sun; the iron hull was painted green and the rigging was brightly polished. As it drew closer, the terror of the villagers gave way to a general sense of amazement as a brass band started playing on deck. The music carried on the summer breeze and made the day somehow seem brighter, as if somebody had opened a window. There were lots of people on deck, some of them in hats and fine clothes.

As soon as the ship reached the bay the village boat came up alongside it and a couple of the men were lifted up on deck. A name was painted with large red letters on the green hull. Mother said it read
The Vulcan of Broomielaw
and that was the name of the ship. She said it was a most appropriate name as a Vulcan created clouds and explosions just like the ship had.

Neil MacKenzie stood by the bulwarks on the quarterdeck and watched as his island home drew closer. He was trying to sort and define his feelings at that moment. He had actually quite enjoyed being away for a couple of months, and this made him feel guilty. His visit to Glasgow had been a success from his point of view, and he felt encouraged. There, in the church meetings and salons, he had been appreciated and revered. Churchmen and scholars had flocked to see him, and even women had shown a keen interest in him. Some of them, he had realised, were very agreeable both to look at and to speak to. Their white smooth faces had beamed at him and their bosoms had heaved in their corsets. The doubts and inadequacies he sometimes felt on the island were removed and he had felt strong and elevated. On the island he never knew if his efforts would be enough but there, in the ­candle­lit parlours of Glasgow's rich and famous, he was encouraged to believe that his work on St Kilda was unique and spectacular.
That he was interesting
. Even during the journey he had been hailed by some of the more distinguished of the passengers as somebody intriguing and admirable. Lachlan MacLean, a young writer who had travelled with the party on the
Vulcan
, had been interviewing him about the island on several occasions. MacKenzie found him rather tedious and affected, but it was clear that the young man's zeal and enthusiasm were genuine. There was a certain Miss Thomson on board who had charmed many of the gentlemen, he believed, and especially Mr MacLean.

His expedition, his errand of mercy to Glasgow, had paid off. With the assistance of the kindly Dr MacLeod and a few generous gentlemen in Glasgow he had secured forty-seven bedsteads (two for every house that paid rent, one for each of the widows), also twenty-four chairs, twenty-one stools, twenty-one tables, twenty-one dressers, twenty-one glass windows, and numerous pieces of Delft ware. The manager of the Glasgow Steam Packet Company, Mr MacConnell, had agreed to warrant the company in advertising a trip, thus providing a commodious steamer for the expedition, if a sufficient number of tourists signed up.

Arrangements having been completed, the steamer
Vulcan
, with about forty passengers, left the Clyde on the twenty-fifth day of July. It had been a rather pleasant journey and Mr MacKenzie had enjoyed the attention that he received from the other passengers, who were curious about St Kilda and her inhabitants. The ship had stopped at several places on the way in order for the tourists to get the full value from their fare. At the Giant's Causeway one of the passengers, a most respectable tradesman, who had manufactured the household articles that were being given to the St Kildans, enquired of Mr MacKenzie, in real sincerity, if there was ‘any history of the date of its construction'. MacKenzie shook his head in exasperation; how could good citizens still believe in giants? But the journey had not been short of wonders, and he had been fairly aghast himself when they cast anchor in Loch Maddy and at the inn he had seen a Negro waiter, who spoke and sang in Gaelic!

He looked up towards the island and suddenly he made out a group of people silhouetted against the whitewashed manse wall. He recognised the outlines of his children and his wife and the maid. He loved his children dearly, he was sure of that, but he had not given them much mind while he was away. Nor had his thoughts lingered on their mother, more than to compare her with the young ladies he had met in the city. But now as he sailed closer he could feel a new sensation rise within him, and he was suddenly very impatient to meet them. He thought with tenderness about how simple and uncomplicated they were in comparison with the beautifully made-up people in town. He watched his family with pride and waved at them. To his amazement they saw him and waved back.

At that moment Dr Dickson came up and stood beside MacKenzie at the railing. He wore a fur hat pulled down over his ears and royal-blue knee breeches with white silk stockings; his stomach was bulging under his coat. His face was rather fat and settled in the haughty beginnings of a smile, which made him look like a statue of some long-forgotten hero.

‘Ah, at last we reach the enchanted island!' This exuberant remark clearly conveyed some relief; the journey had been rough, and the
Vulcan
's passengers had waltzed helplessly around the deck as the Atlantic waves set the steamship rolling. The Rev. Dr Dickson was the minister of St Cuthbert's church in Edinburgh, and his pastoral care rarely brought him outside the capital. He was used to drinking claret in the genteel homes and salons of the New Town and generally mixed with the right sort. Only a few years previously he had had the honour of orchestrating the funeral of Sir Walter Scott. Normally he would not have bothered to undertake
this
kind of journey, but engagement in the Gaelic hinterland had become rather à la mode lately and he wished to stay in touch with current affairs. Besides, he considered it a charitable cause that would benefit them all in one way or another.