Sun Dance (49 page)

The sheep seemed to know their transport was safely aground, ewes heads went up and the bleating started. “Tomorrow to fresh fields and pastures new,” I wagged a scholarly finger, “for you lot it’s today.” The young Muille dog fixed her eye on her future charges. She and I would need to start training for shepherding duties. “Eilidh, keep her on a rope!” we all three were excited.

Twenty minutes of falling tide and the Hilda lay over in a few inches of water. Not as deft as Iain, I pulled a couple of lambs from amongst what sounded a mutiny. Going by his instruction, I trailed the squirming creatures a little way up the beach. A duet of loud bleating brought anxious replies from the boat. Sure as Iain’s prediction, two ewes scrambled over the side, splashed through the shallow water and cautiously approached to sniff their lambs. Mothering instinct did the trick. Keeping hold of the lambs, I walked a few steps at a time. The mothers followed, a shade suspicious, until, as if by a signal, the boat emptied in one noisy stampede.

Pied Piper style, I drew our flock up through the dunes and onto the machair. Eilidh kept behind them, not too close, the trainee sheep dog firmly on a rope. Still carrying the two lambs by their front legs, very quietly I drew their mothers through my new gateway and set the decoys on their feet. Off they bounded, no ways the worse. The remainder eyed the gateway, their flock mates were already grazing. We stood, not a move. Would they make a break and head for the open hill? Is this another con? First, one vaulted over some suspected booby trap into the field, a moment’s study and the rest, judging it safe, entered with same precautionary leap.

Immediately every ewe’s head bent down and muffled bleats from mouths full of grass called lambs to their sides. We stood at the gate watching them mother up until they became pairs of white dots spreading over the sweet grass of early summer. “The first sheep on Sandray in nearly a hundred years,” Eilidh sounded just a wee bit emotional. “Soon they’ll be checking my fences,” I said with mock concern, and at that we laughed for the sheer pleasure of it all.

“If the bottom line is a healthy lifestyle then a hill shepherd must be on a top salary,” my lightsome comment came as we climbed to the top of the field, neither of us out of breath. Eilidh patted her bump, “And the boy and I are getting all the exercise that’s needed.” Our dawn round of the ewes and lambs, drinking hill air, clean and fresh, as June light pulled islands out of the horizon; if happiness was in a casket, life in the hills held the key.

Still, amidst the contentment I fell to staring down at the old home we were renovating, it can only have been transitory, there was smoke at the lum, people busy scything hay and children ran about, until they faded into nothing and the house crumbled into nettles. Lines written beneath the white Australian sun went through my head, ‘At the shieling was their happiness, only tears remain, and the generations live on song, and doors creak for their return and happiness clings to the winds of their going.’

I became aware Eilidh watched me. Muille stayed at my heel. Bending, I pulled her ear and got a wagging tail in return. Tips on her training were being supplied by Eilidh’s childhood memories of her father’s collies. “Iain will bring his dogs over to gather the ewes for the clipping,” and speaking to the dog, “then Muille you’ll see how it’s done.” My learning curve had to be just as steep, “Don’t suppose there’s a manual on sheep clipping,” catching Eilidh’s hand I grinned, “and next the baby will be born.” Swinging my hand as children will do, she tossed unruly hair, golden as early light on hill pastures and in the fragrance of summer growth we walked down to the house.

I was busy, extremly busy converting the old byre into a bathroom. Outside drains were dug, plumbing parts scattered a concrete floor I’d laid, bath, wash hand basin, pipes and a shower unit leant against the wall. I had an electricity supply to arrange before the next winter. Luckily the old stone walls were dry and sound, I’d strapped and packed them with insulation and was cutting plywood when Eilidh came from the kitchen, “I see a launch at the jetty, I think it’s a Castleton boat, hope nothing’s wrong with Ella,” and after a pause, knowing I’d thrown mine away, “You know Hector, perhaps we should have the mobile phone, in case she needs help.” A shade glumly I nodded. “You’re right, until I get power supply fixed up we can always get it charged when we’re across on the mainland,” as we jokingly called Halasay.

“Whoever it is will come to the house,” I said as Eilidh went back to the kitchen. In the midst of cutting a large sheet of ply I was unwilling to stop. A man’s voice at the door startled me. “Hector Mackenzie?” Caught unawares, I spun round. Disbelief turned to shock; filling the only doorway as though to prevent escape, I stared at two uniformed policemen.

Neither moved from the door, the one whom I recognised as the Castleton police sergant repeated my name although he knew it perfectly well. Bristling slightly at the questioning tone I replied, “Is there any way I can help?” His counter was blunt, “Well now, Mr. Mackenzie, I hope this won’t be difficult,” a little pause, “for your sake.” I hadn’t ever bothered to go along to the station over the drowning of that supposed archaeologist. My God, surely not arrest?

Eilidh’s flushed face appeared behind them, she spoke to them in the Gaelic, “The kettles boiling, you’ll be needing a srupach after coming over the Sound.” It broke a mounting tension, “Well now Eilidh, we’ll be in shortly,” he too spoke in the Gaelic. I understood their brief exchange and awaited their next move. The Halasay policeman reached into his tunic and held out an envelope towards me, “You’d better read it, Mr MacKenzie.” I eyed him straight. I was trapped. The urge to fight coursed red and blazing; about to spring at them animal like, I was on the edge of going berserk. They must have spotted my ready fists. The younger man stepped forward. I tipped onto the balls of my feet. “For sake of Eilidh, Mr. Mackenzie, just cool it,” the sharp words of the older Halasay man stopped me. Ashamed and not a little stupid, “I’m sorry gentlemen,” I said and taking the envelope, “Come on into the old kitchen and see the changes we’ve made, I’ll read this when you’re at your tea.” I admired the old bobby’s tactic.

Through we went to the smell of flour and Eilidh busy at the stove. Of course she knew the local policeman, “Now MacNeil, I never heard you say no to a pancake straight off the girdle.” Sergeant MacNeil put his peaked hat on the table and sat down, “Yes, you have me there.” The young Constable remained sullen, saying nothing, his eye not leaving me.

Mugs of tea steamed before us. “You’ll have to make do with powder milk,” cautioned Eilidh, “don’t worry we’ll have a cow to milk before the winter.” I forced a smile. The Sergeant looked uncomfortable. None the less he and Eilidh blethered away, sometimes lapsing into Gaelic. I understood enough to learn Ella was well. The atmosphere relaxed to a degree. The envelope lay at my elbow, unopened. Rather pointedly, the Constable clearing his throat, pushed back his chair and stood up. MacNeil ignored him and continued telling Eilidh a story about her grandfather falling into the harbour, “and I’m keeping an eye on your brother, Iain,” he finished with a wink at me. In spite of the occasion, I warmed to the man. The old Highland style is difficult to gainsay. He won, in his own way.

Running a finger along the flap I opened the envelope. Thick official paper, folded in three, stark black lettering,

Unauthorised Occupation Property Act revised 1973.

Warrant by Order of the Lochmaddy Sheriff Court this the Twenty-first day of June in the year two thousand and ten.

Island of Sandray.

I hereby give notice to the removal forthwith from the above island of any person or persons and all chattels thereby pertaining to them, and whatever livestock, alive or dead as may be integral and any further encumbrance as may form any part of the occupancy and be deemed prejudicial to a total clearance of the aforesaid Island of Sandray in the Parish of Halasay, Outer Hebrides.

Legal jargon poured down the page. Unbelieving of the words I read the bottom lines,

I hereby receive this warrant and agree to abide by the order.

Name and Signature, --------------- Signature of two witnesses ------------------- Date

Signed, Brian Shuttleworth, Sheriff Officer, Lochmaddy, North Uist.

The document fell on the table. I watched it curl back to its three original creases. The trap was closing. Two silent policemen; a smirking young constable and a thoughtful Sergeant, merely tools of the system, carrying out their duty. I stood up and went to the window. My eye followed the sweep of white sand into what had seemed an unending blueness, an existence that needed no requiem; in its simplicity I had glimpsed a reality that needed no lamentation. As the carving of an unrelenting sea will do, the surge of change beats a yawning cavern of desolation, grinding cliffs, consuming land, devouring peace and planet, forcing the tramping mass towards an airless chamber.

The sky faded. Sunless streets pointed to domes of arrogance, concrete leered down at me; I read the flashing neon sign, you fools there is no escape. Light filtered through the shutters of a modern world, its unending clank, the curling fumes unnoticed, halogen blue and wailing siren, you fools there is no escape, no escape from the growing walls of artificiality, the entrance to a tunnel of darkness. There is no escape.

I spun abruptly. The two men rose sharply, “And what if I don’t sign this warrant?” my voice was low. Sergeant MacNeil met my eye without flinching, he said nothing. The silence lengthened. Without taking my eye from MacNeil, I heard the Constable say with a barely suppressed snigger, “Don’t worry Mr. MacKenzie, we’ll be back with the Sheriff Officers.” The sergeant quelled him with a savage look and going to the door, “I’ll leave it with you Mackenzie. In your own interests, come across to the station.”

Without my realising, as I’d stood at the window, Eilidh had been handed the document to read. Her face drained of colour. Its whiteness emphasised the intense blueness of her eyes, proudly fierce in their defiance, “Make no mistake, Roddy MacNeil, our child will be born on this island, as were the generations of his forebears.”

“Yeah, and this ain’t no bullshit I’m a telling you ma friends,” Anderson’s American accent cut across the rumble of local voices which formed a background to an early Friday evening in the Castleton bar. Weeks had passed since the Valkyrie had anchored in the harbour below the hotel and her skipper became the daily fixture on a bar stool. Sometimes he talked to the locals in riddles, wild talk of financial crash and nuclear war; they listened politely until his ranting became incoherent. Finally he would succumb to staring fixedly at pages of The Ocean Navigators Handbook which he always carried, before proceeding to drink morosely until last orders. Although Hotelier MacLeod had long since tired of hearing Anderson rambling about thieving banks, faulty nuclear installations and the sabre rattling Pentagon, he realised that the man seemed privy to information which in some quarters might be deemed highly sensitive.

That particular Friday as MacLeod took over from the barman it pleased him to note the bottle of twelve year old Highland Park, pride of his the line of optics at four pounds a nip, had been half emptied; with less pleasure he observed that, thanks to the generosity of two hotel guests, it appeared most had gone towards fuelling the paranoia of a now loquacious Andrew Anderson.

Two fellow countrymen sat to either side of the yachtsman on a bench in the farthest corner; the American couple who appeared to have befriended the tiresome Anderson had booked in that afternoon. Homer MacDonald and Bart MacDougal, New York, looked stylish on his hotel register and Angus MacLeod made them welcome, “You’ll have relations in the islands Mr. MacDonald?” The man beamed, “Sure thing, two hundred years back, ma folks hailed from a li’l ol’ farm on the Isle of Wight. My mom told me they called it Cowes and say, guessing by the horns on your bovine critters, sounds like it must be some place hereabouts; ah jest have to see it.”

Always the genial host, MacLeod let the gentleman’s stab at the map poster with a friendly smile, “Now, now isn’t that strange. Cowes, yes Cowes, oh well I’ll tell you there’s plenty locals in the bar will give you directions; the ruins are there to this very day,” and pursing his lips as though deep in thought, “Was your great, great grandfather a Donald MacDonald by any chance?” The descendent of the once mighty Clan Donald appeared thrilled, “Sure was, gee it’s unbelievable you would know that.” “Not at all, not at all, Mr MacDonald, your name gave me a clue,” screwing his eyes and looking to the ceiling, “I think your ancestor was a first cousin of the Clan Chief- he was killed at the world famous battle of Culloden.” “Stone the crows, you don’t say,” and grabbing the hotelier’s hand, “shake on that, pardner.” MacLeod kept his counsel and the peculiar trio passed the evening under the curious eye of an off- the -cuff historian.