Sun Dance (36 page)

The Hilda boat would need to go back to Halasay, slack water was at mid-day but neither of us wanted to relinquish the delight of simply lying side by side. For once the tide could wait. Whatever the future might involve, I certainly had no intention of it involving our being apart, “Eilidh, I won't be separated from you again, it may mean leaving Sandray, I've set my mind on this island but nothing, nothing is more important to me than being with you.” She nodded, and speaking almost shyly, “It's what I want beyond anything.”

Eventually sounding more like herself, Eilidh announced, “I'm finished with London, packing in my job, I've had enough of trying to talk common sense into politicians. I've been heavily involved with research on climate change, especially its impact on the release of methane from the blanket tundras of Canada and Siberia. I can't stand anymore of their petty back biting machinations. The poor natives of Sub-Sahara watch their livestock dying of drought knowing their children will be next. They face a four degree temperature rise and twentyfive percent less rain, fine proud people, and whilst they lead their camels to slaughter, I have to talk to the degenerate objects who struggle to get out of their fancy limousines. I tell you, Hector I'm so sick at heart. “

I took her hand realising that her pent up anger needed a listening ear, it certainly had my full sympathy. I wanted her to talk and ease the fretting which had taken hold. After a little she began again, “There's no leadership from the front, nobody in a position to make decisions who's prepared to set an example, no Prime Minister who'd swallow his pride and drive a little eco-friendly car. No, they're busy building more roads, believing a bigger dose of economic development is what's needed, happy letting bailed out banks loose to fund the pollution of oil extraction from the tar sands deposits of central Canada, I've seen the machine ripping gigantic holes in the ground.” The outburst astounded me. Her eyes were aflame with an unreserved passion.

“Now they decide that all we need are systems of power production which don't emit CO2. They can't grasp the fact it's our escalating energy usage which provides us with a playtime planet to wreck. Even tampering with the earth's crust, never mind the shift of weight distribution due to melting poles and rising sea levels, breaking through the rock strata to bury carbon dioxide or other forms of waste is liable to release more problems than it can ever solve, as for meeting CO2 emission targets, not a hope. The relative stability of our planetary climate during the past twenty thousand years is passing a tipping point of no return; we are heading into multiple uncharted effects, each one re-enforcing the next in a domino collapse.” I nodded, not wanting to her to stop, being so much in agreement with views which had the flavour of one of my rants.

“I feel so helpless, Hector. I've seen the starving pot bellied kids, vultures picking over the carcases of their parents' cattle. The impact on the world's poor will be catastrophic. Affluent Westerners will only abandon their consumer conspicuous lifestyles when the waters lap round their ankles, the wealthy will pull up their drawbridges thinking they're safe. It's the blind, unstoppable greed of financial institutions and the myopia of multinational economics versus an environment which in the end holds the cards, the planet will remain in one piece until it's fried by the sun.”

Poor Eilidh, her concerns tumbled out. She rounded off, “I've had enough of a world where millions waste their day texting and twittering, we're top heavy with talkers. Politics is a media performance with no more substance than a celebrity act, we're being led by ill- informed fools who wouldn't know what a spade looks like and certainly wouldn't want to know. I was booked to address the Climate Change Conference next month, but honestly, Hector, I couldn't stand more hypocrisy.” Shaking a little after her outburst, she snuggled into me again, “anyway, I wanted to be here,” and at last she laughed, “to see what you are up to, my boy.” In spite of being shocked by her distress and deeply sorry, I laughed with her. “Eilidh,” I put a finger on her lips and took her to me.

Although Eilidh had told Ella she would be back by that afternoon, strange to relate we missed the midday tide. Both boats were to go across, Eilidh's which I'd been using and the Hilda. The moon had yet to rise. No light took away the stars, their radiance peopled the treacle blackness of the Sound. Like old Eachan, Eilidh handled the Hilda boat with a confidence in her every action. Ropes came to hand with sureness, the sail's least need trimmed to the faintest of breeze. She sat at the tiller with the lift of a head that welcomed a friend. Legacy of the northlands, the sea was hers.

We turned the Sandray headland, Halasay stood clear against the stars. The tail of The Plough pointed our course. Along the swathing path of the Milky Way we sailed a sleeping Atlantic. Eilidh's form moved with the boat, they waltzed to the motion of the sea, natural as the faraway islands on the edge of a journey. I watched the woman and knew the aching of an immense happiness.

I glanced astern. Sandray had vanished. The breeze died, we drifted into a cotton wool fog. It rolled over the Sound, thick and clinging. A tide on the turn curled under the boat. It would sweep us into the Atlantic, perhaps onto the rocks of Sandray head. Neither of us spoke, I slung the outboard on the stern. Eilidh dropped and stowed the sail. In case the engine refused to start she laid out the oars. A couple of pulls and the engine broke a clammy silence. I knew the bearing which should get us across and could just make out the compass needle. Eilidh perched at the bow, a black form in a white blanket, seemed happy to depend on my navigation.

How far had we sailed, more than half way? I allowed a degree for the set of the current and we motored ahead. My eye didn't leave the compass. A single gull banked over the mast; head to one side, it looked down at me. Had the bird had risen from the beach? Eilidh signalled slow, we crept ahead. Fog, once the sailor's dread, now I knew why. To combined surprise and relief, the dark mass of the jetty appeared just yards off the bow. Born sailor, Eilidh was ashore with a rope, laughing down to me, “Well done, skipper!”

The skylight of the byre at Tigh na Mara, beamed up into the murkiness. We walked towards it and pushing open the byre door there was Ella, back to us, sitting in at the milking of their house cow. It looked round, lifted its head and sniffed. The single bulb from amongst a network of cobwebs shone on big round inquisitive eyes. Animal warmth and the rich milky smell of cattle met us. Eachan emerged from the barn under a pitch fork full of the hay and more, he carried the scent of summer days. Before pitching it into the hay rack above the cow's head, quite matter of fact without mention of fog or danger, he winked at me, “Well now you've made it. I didn't look for you until tomorrow,” always a laugh lay behind his words and look, far from unkind; it was his way of comment, polite but with a hint of mischief. I knew it well and blushed.

Ella, lifting milk pail and stool, stood up stiffly, “Now you pair, was there no tide at middle day, unless you missed it?” I knew she laughed inwardly. Eilidh bent and untied the cow's tail from its hind leg. Even by the one bulb I noticed she blushed, “Ach, since this boy's taken to living over there he's lost his sense of time, and don't worry, I'm giving him a hair cut.” They laughed together and Eilidh carrying the enamel milk pail, the two of them headed for house and kitchen.

Taking up the spare hay fork I helped the old man fill the racks above his remaining six cows. I noticed the dung from yesterday lay in the ‘grip' behind the cows. Straightaway I went for the shovel and wheel barrow. Perhaps it could be the light, I thought he'd failed a good deal in the few days since the stress of my rescue. He made to take the shovel from me, “That's my job, Hector boy,” “No, no Eachan it's not a problem to me.” He sat on the milking stool as I worked, the years showed their lines on a face suddenly old. After emptying the barrow on the midden I leant on the wall beside him. “What a fine lassie that is, boat or island,” he commented slowly looking out of the byre door. I guessed his line of thought but then in an abrupt change of thinking he sat up, “By the way, they got a body on the beach up from Castleton; it came ashore on the morning tide.”

The vivid incident of falling seared my mind. Its seconds had stretched horror into slow motion. I realised now that perceptions of time are succeeding frames of experience which can run at different speeds; now the whole sordid business of briefcase and attempted murder seemed surprisingly long ago. I was silent. The sound and smell of the cattle pulling hay from their racks brought back the scent of the hay fields; one arched her back and made water, I watched it trickle down the ‘grip'. The old fashioned style offered a security away from the rampant pace of change.

After a while Eachan said slowly, “That important fellow who races about in his speed boat, aye the one who ferried the man over to Sandray, well he was in at the police station stating his case, identifying the body and so forth. MacNeil the bobby in Castleton a Barraman and plenty Gaelic, he's an OK bloke, if you don't go too far over the score with the car. He looked in this afternoon, I told him not to be coming here inspecting the sheep dipping, that regulation finished here years ago, maybe not in Barra, it's very backward you know. He laughed but wouldn't take a dram, Ella gave him tea. Ach we get on fine, he doesn't take things too seriously. ‘When your relation comes across from Sandray, ask him to give me a call,' was all he said from the car window. Anyway the remains are off on the Glasgow plane.”

Peaks and troughs; my father used to say, ‘Happiness is an illusive commodity, you only know it through sorrow.' A chasm opened, I remained silent. Eachan got up from the milking stool, an old man overnight, “Come on, a' bhalaich, you're needing your supper.”

A dram somewhat changed the picture and barely were the dishes being cleared to the sink after roast beef and tatties when the front door opened. “Hello, hello,” in walked Eilidh's brother Iain, followed by a bonnie dark haired woman whom I took to be his wife. Eachan was on his feet at once, “How in the world did you get here in this fog? We lost our way coming in from the byre.”

Iain put a bottle on the table and replied seriously, “We counted the fence posts, and look here, there's two broken at the bottom of the road.” Eachan laughed and admiring the bottle, “We didn't need this.” Iain made to put it back in his jacket pocket, “If you say so.” “You'd better leave it where it's safe on the table, in case you might fall on it,” was the old man's response. Their infectious banter lifted my thoughts. My musical friend of our last encounter pretended not to know me, “Is it yourself, Hector?” I brushed back a mop of hair, laughed for the first time that evening.

At once Eilidh turned from washing dishes and took my hand, “This is Hector,” she said to the dark haired woman, “wait you till I've given him a hair cut. Hector this is my sister in law, Katrina.” Shyly we shook hands. “No ceremonies here, away through.” Ella shooed us to the ‘room' and the warmth of a peat fire. Getting into his stride, Eachan at the dresser poured three ‘bumpers.'

The two men talked cattle prices, trade had risen amazingly at the last Castleton sale. “The croft will pay yet boy. Is that all your calves away?” Only the women folk coming through changed the topic, “Now ladies, what will you be having, gin and tonics or something better?

“How's life on Sandray?” Iain asked me, it was the closest our conversation came to an incident which was gladly drifting out of my thoughts. Eachan called over to the young crofter, “Surely you took the accordion, MacLeod, we'd do with a tune.” No second telling, out to the car, Iain was back in moment. Eachan lifted his fiddle off the top of the piano. A wee tuning session before they burst into ‘Father John MacMillan's Welcome to Barra' and nodding to me, “Come on pianist.” Straight away to the piano, my fingers soon loosened up, I beat out the base notes. Reels and jigs filled the room. Eilidh took a chair to the top end of the piano, could she play! I moved down an octave, the instrument bounced on its casters. “You two'll have that old thing through the floor,” Ella shouted over the racket, clapping time to the beat and hoping it might.

Eilidh and I stopped to draw breath. Not Eachan, he slowed the tempo to a Gaelic waltz. The old man had become young again. He and Iain played softly, drawing out the notes. The richness of the melody came through after each minor note. For a moment I thought of my father's words, happiness and sadness. Ella pushed back the ancient sofa, I took Eilidh in my arms and we danced and danced, there could be no hiding our feelings, our eyes must have shown it all, and I was proud to give away our secret.

Still holding Eilidh, “What was that tune, Eachan” I asked as they let the music slowly fade. He thought and putting it into English, ‘Mary of the Witching Eyes,' he told me, winking at Iain's wife. Seeing my arms were tightly around Eilidh's waist, the pair took up another waltz. We danced together, close and loving; its beautiful melody flowed with us, ‘Lassie of the Golden Hair', and our happiness filled the room.

I could see Eachan was much affected. Ella went over to him and put her hand on his arm He said something to her in Gaelic. “What did he say?” I whispered into Eilidh's ear. She looked up at me, a shadow in her eyes, “Those tunes, Ella, will see me on tomorrow's journey.” I knew what the old man meant and knew a moment's true sadness amongst the night's happiness.

More drams, the fire was dying, Iain put down the accordion and stood staring at the photo of Eachan's grandfather which hung over the fireplace. “You three are as alike as peas in a pod,” shaking his head he dropped his gaze and looked from the photo to Eachan and myself.

The fog had lifted, “Don't let that man drive,” Eachan at the front door spoke to Iain's wife. “he'll only go breaking more fence posts.” Away they went with Katrina waving an arm out of the car window and calling “Don't worry, Eachan I'll send him back to mend the last two he broke!”