Sun Dance (41 page)

A reluctant dawn awaited me on the Sound. To catch slack water I'd left early, the last stars bright enough to give me clear outlines. Once out in the open the morning became darker. A mist through which no sun would penetrate spread high above the Sound. The wind, slight as it was, backed round, I felt it on the nape of my neck and as animals will do, I turned to sniff the weather. It would not be a day to ceilidh too long at the croft of Ach na Mara.

Ella shook my hand at the door, “We're so pleased to hear about the baby,” and with a light dancing in her eye, “aren't you the boy, and Eilidh determined to have the birth on the island.” Proud but a mite embarrassed, I blushed. “Anyway come away in, you'll be needing your breakfast.” Presently Eachan appeared from the byre, together with a fine smell of cattle. He clapped me on the back, “Well, well boy, didn't I say to herself the first day I saw you two together, it won't be….” “Now Eachan,” guessing what he might say, Ella cut off further comment. Not to be outflanked, he went on, “I was going to say, I was the last child to be born on Sandray,” and turning to me for the first time, he told of the rest of his brothers and sisters. We were just a family of five, not a lot for those days, Hector boy. I'd two sisters, one went to Australia, the other to New Zealand, young women, off they went in the thirties' depression. Never came back, my mother never saw them again. The Australian one lost her man in the second world war.”

Not wishing to ask questions, I was pleased when he continued, “My two elder brothers, big strapping boys and only sixteen and seventeen; I might have been two years old, but I can see it as well as telling,” and speaking quietly, “you see the recruiting officer came to the door, on Sandray mind you, kilt and all, he didn't question their ages too much, just offered them glory in the ranks and a silver shilling to fight the Germans. Off to Inverness they went, joined the Seaforth Highlanders. Nineteen fourteen, into the front line, the war to end wars they called it,” and giving a snort, “It was as much to keep England's social order in place,” adding softly. “The trenches of France did for them both before they were twenty, and it finished the cailleach, mentally anyway, ah Dia, how my mother hated the English toffs.”

We sat in to the table but I waited until the porridge plates emptied before telling of the helicopter visit and, for it seemed important to me, I went on to mention the raven's distress. At this last, the old man looked startled. Although he turned to look out of the window, his eyes strayed far beyond the peak of Sandray.Their focal point appeared riveted on the image of some approaching terror.

Ella sat silently, watching him closely. In the overcast light of that morning his face aged with a frightening suddenness. Out of its strange aspect materialised his grandfather, hovering in the form of Eachan, dull in the shadows, an apparition, its presence a trick of mind? I recoiled, shrank into my chair.

Eachan rose. Possessed by another he walked round the table, his eyes burning with intensity. A vision gripped him. I knew it, the room closed about us, suddenly old, as from another existence. A shiver lifted the hair on my neck, playing over me, the stealth of a deathly hand; the coldness of a ripple in the unending curve of space-time where all existences are a stream of particles, and those that once have been, are cold; cold in the vacuum of death.

Crossing behind me Eachan stood starring out of the window, his hands raised, his fingers spread, a patriarchal figure, white of hair and noble of feature, he remained motionless as though fending off a grotesque evil force, and then, in a voice not his own, “The raven of our forebears will return to the land of their ancestors, never again will they breed on Sandray.” His mental anguish, if it can be described as that, passed off as quickly as it had taken him and he sat back at the table; nevertheless his gaunt features had a greyness. Eating very little, he remained silent.

Ella packed a box and with a hug of goodbye and, “Look after Eilidh,” Eachan and I hurried back to the boat without speaking. A tarpaulin covered five bags of seed tatties. He passed them down to me. Not a day for delaying. The wind strengthened from the south. Only then I did I learn his mind as he stood on the pier, rope in his hand, about to cast me off. I glanced up, ready to catch and coil. The man, his eyes unblinking, stared across the Sound to the Hill of the Shroud. I stood, rocking with boat, unwilling to intrude. Lines of gulls circled in from the Atlantic; their metallic screeching carried a warning which roused him.

Still holding the mooring lines, finally he looked down, “Hector a' bhalaich, about the croft, you'll know I'm sure, our family are scattered to the four winds, doing well, the lot of them, Australia, Canada and where ever else, they'll not see crofting, no nor the Highlands, again. I'd like to keep the name Mackenzie on the place, know what I mean. Now then, there's particulars in the house drawn up and agreed by the estate and the Crofters Commission which hands Ach na Mara over to you when I plough my last furrow.”

He spoke in a manner surprising by its unaccustomed bluntness, “The house belongs to me and that will go to Ella. Sandray is more difficult, anyway you have just to agree if that's what you have a mind to do. Think about it, Hector.” He looked down on me, eyes intent, searching mine as they had the night we first met. No words passed to offer my answer, none was needed. My eyes expressed a pledge beyond words.

Home from a threatening sea the herring gulls sheltered in the lee of the dunes. Gusts of wind plucked at their feathers. One by one, stretching necks to the sky, their utterances carried over the bay in snatches of sorrow. Perhaps it was the mood that was on us, but their cries were of another age, another happening, of an undreamed desolation. Tautness came to Eachan's jaw, his thin lips straightened, his voice had strength, “Remember Hector, when my hand is off the tiller, you'll bury me on Sandray, in the grave out on the headland.”

Our eyes met in that understanding which is transmitted by means greater than words. He threw the rope into the bow of the boat, shouting into the rising wind as I pulled away, “There's tide under you now and this south wind'll put up a sea, take the Sandray headland close for the shelter until you have to round it, make out in a trough and cross the crest well off and you can head in along the hollows!” Without more words and judging the sky by a glance, he turned for home. Neither of us had made reference to what passed in the kitchen. I knew no saner man. Was he the unwitting medium of a power beyond this earthly place?

The old boy was far from wrong; once in the Sound wind over tide began to throw up triangular crests. They met with loud clapping sounds, vicious peaks jostling in the conflicting forces, tossing sheets of spray in the air. They stung my eyes. I licked the taste of salt from my lips, it filled my mouth. A big lump of sea sloshed over the gunnel. Tiller below an armpit I bailed smartly, weaving amongst the confused waters. Coming under the Sandray headland, I ran in close. Conditions eased and taking my eye off the seas for a second, I glanced up.

High above me on the cliff edge, Eildh carrying Mullie. her hair blowing in a wild golden mass. She waved down. Past horror sprang at me. Instantly I stood up, signalling- go back from the edge. She vanished. My confidence rose, my woman with me, watching and willing.

Atlantic rollers were passing the point, I ran out along the lee of a hefty one. Clear of land, out of shelter, I sailed the hollow. Ahead its peak began to break. Open boat, a curling top fast unzipping, racing towards me, ready to swamp us. Ride its crest before the curl reaches. I swung the boat, put her shoulder to it, up she climbed, a violent lurch, over its mighty hump we sailed. The crest toppled over behind me. Now, swing in for the bay on its curving back. The boat so small I sat amongst the waves. Man, boat, wind and sea, the glory of a relationship which breeds lasting respect and affection; there is no mastery of the sea, only a joy in being part of its unquenchable spirit.

A glowing Eilidh caught the mooring line. Muille's inquisitive head appeared over the jetty before she scampered back to hide behind Eilidh's legs. I jumped ashore, two minds and four arms entwined; there could be no leaving Sandray. A lovely woman, lucky man and a little dog.

Safe home, that night we lay snug and listening. The tap, tap of slates kept us awake. Out of respect for the old man I hadn't mentioned Eachan's alarming behaviour at the window, yet Eilidh seemed aware I'd been present at a strange manifestation of the Highlander's visionary power. She'd spoken in a hushed voice, “A gift or a curse, who would know? Eachan always had that turn of mind, they said it came from his grandfather, born and died on Sandray, full of poetry,” and with a quiet laugh, “Your great grandfather. You know Eachan sometimes seems possessed by the depths of great emotion, past happenings, tragedies or loss; then again he seems to see into a future few would care to contemplate.” Only then, hiding my surprise, did I tell her.

I waited for the roaring of the gale to abate a little, “I think Eachan's strength of character has saved him, his state of mind may be a form of awareness, an antenna that can sweep the continuum of events which pass into each other, the long past and the what will come to be,” and after a little thought I went on, “he's able to see an over view of the dovetailing of the past and future which defies our belief in an instant of time.” Eilidh's head on the pillow nodded, “Yes,” she whispered, “there is no present.”

A candle stood on the pine dresser. Its yellow light on played on the walls, making dark patterns of our sparse furniture. I watched the wax melting, drip by drip. A drumming on the window pane came and went, loud then softly, twitching at the curtains. Flickering shadows moved on the ceiling, reminding me of Eachan's strangeness, his outstretched fingers. The atmosphere took on a chill, the same uncanny chill which had pervaded their kitchen. I had the claustrophobic sensation of entering a cave without ending.

Our talk had been of Eachan's wish to make over Ach na Mara to me, how much that would change our lives if it were to happen. Once more we returned to his singular behaviour of that morning and why should it happen after I'd mentioned the raven. What ghastly vision beset him, brought about his pronouncement that the birds would abandon Sandray? More worrying was the wish he imparted down at the jetty, “Bury me on the headland.” Neither of us cared to put thoughts into words. Was it a premonition?

The door handle rattled, once, and again. Crash, the door flew open. The candle gutted. Blackness. A cold draught blew over our faces. I reached beside the bed for a torch. Wafting gently in its beam, the door stood ajar. Had somebody entered? I swept the beam round the room. Nobody? Before I could rise to close the door, it slammed shut.

An Atlantic gale seeking out the old house, did its spirit wander the darkness? Suddenly I knew, surely as I saw the dying waves of a receding tide stretch into the emptiness of an ocean blue and immensely empty. Surely I knew.

“Eilidh,” I held her tenderly, “Eilidh,” I said simply, “Eachan is dead.”

She lay still, I listened to her breathing, until stirring a little she said, “I know.” Her soft words reached into the abyss of sadness and sobbing gently she buried her head beneath my chin. The candle burned low, its shadows no longer unearthly and I heard her murmur, “Eachan would have been born in this room. And now he's back and I'm happy for him.”

Rollers pounding the beach sent shock waves through the ground. The House of the Haven trembled. The gale's ferocity, its determination to enter the house, no longer surprised us. An hour passed in the utter desolation of our loss.

Gradually the storm veered into the north, soughing at the gable. Poor Eachan, as fine a man as it had been my privilege to know. An intellect and wisdom which surpassed degrees or narrow cleverness: unassuming, he carried a dignity beyond the squalid interests of money and social station. The sanctity of life in its countless expressions was paramount.

We said little more, the loss too great. Needing the open skies and knowing the tide was on the flood, I whispered, “I'm away down to check on the boat.” At once she made to get up, “You keep the bed warm, I won't be long.” Pulling on shirt and trousers I was out before she could stop me. It wasn't altogether our boat's safety which prompted me to head for the jetty, something made me uneasy. Danger was afoot.

The midnight sky gave little light, only when shredding clouds opened a window of stars did it shine on the flecks of spume dancing over the fields weightless as bobs of cotton wool. The weight of each falling comber shook the earth, a mighty thump and roaring up the beach. They were ravaging the dunes. Though the wind was dropping, tide and gale had done their work. Dunes were collapsing. A massive swell tore at their bases. Huge slices of sand faces were falling, being sucked down the shore, staining the rippling backwash. Another dune toppled. I watched the devastation. It vanished, no more than a child's sand castle.

How obvious that melting ice caps and rising sea levels would obliterate the dunes of Sandray, ultimately take the croft, strip away the soil by which succeeding generations might live. If Sandray, where else? What of the millions of mouths?

Back tracking from the shore I reached the jetty in safety. Our sole life line to the outside world rode safe and comfortable. I'd moored her so that she lay across the elbow of the pier. I checked the ropes for chafe and by way of habit before making for home, walked to the end of the pier to scan the conditions. As I turned, was that a flash of green, far out, a starboard navigation light?

Never, it had to be a star tipping the horizon. Again it blinked, a starboard light, well out from the bay, a vessel of some kind? The colossal swell would account for the pause. A minute passed. Next appearance, green and red, both lights showed for twenty seconds and vanished. No doubting now, the ship had brought her head round, making for the bay, running a lee shore in a gale, every sailor's nightmare.