Island of Wings (12 page)

‘But you don't know where she lives.' He was dumbfounded. ‘I will take you there if you like.'

‘Thank you, dear, I would rather go on my own.' She was out the door before he could say anything more. The sea mist was rolling in over the island like the smoke of a spent battle. Soon it closed around her until she walked in a void. The fog muffled all sound and she was completely on her own. There was only one single element and she had entered it as if it were a liminal place, a place of transition from one world to another. She knew that she was tempting fate, but she was not frightened; she could still make out the path to the village under her feet. This is where I belong, she thought. My heart broke and split in two equal parts for my girls. Nothing will ever be the same again; I will never be what I was. I have shed a layer of my soul like a snake and I must be naked until I find new life – until I can bring new birth. This island is my home now, and I must enter its cycle where everything comes again, light and dark, storm and stillness, life and death, again and forever. Shapes were moving in the fog; cold, damp hands were stroking her cheeks and her brow. As she looked up she saw the forms of her dead children walking beside her. They had grown up, and she was grateful to them for showing themselves as they would have become.

When she reached the
clachan
she put out her free hand to follow a wall until she heard voices and walked in their direction. A dog which did not recognise her barked, catching the attention of two men a couple of yards ahead of her whose features she could only just make out. ‘MacCrimmon?' she asked softly so as not to break the spell of the mist. The two men, their fair hair curled into pelt by the moisture in the air, looked at her in astonishment. ‘Ann MacCrimmon?' she asked again, and showed the basket in her hand. One of the men indicated to her to follow him and led her to the wooden door of a nearby dwelling. Mrs MacKenzie stopped for a moment to gather herself. She ner­vously tucked some straying hair under the bonnet and knocked on the door. She could hear no answer from within so she opened the door on to the dark passage. The stench was more than she could bear and she took a step back. However, she had not come unprepared and she pulled out a handkerchief dabbed in lavender water which she had kept up the sleeve of her dress. With the handkerchief pressed over her nose and mouth and with the basket held out in front of her like a shield, she stooped to enter the house. When she reached the dark byre at the end of the passage somebody caught her arm and helped her across the
tallan
into the room where a weak fire was burning in the pit on the floor, casting strange shadows around the rough stone walls. Mrs MacKenzie pulled the handkerchief from her face and tucked it under the neckline of her dress where she could still smell it. It was hard to say who was more shocked by the situation, the guest who had never been in one of the native houses before or the hosts who had never before received a lady in their midst. Mr MacCrimmon, who was the person who had helped Lizzie into the room, was the first to come to terms with the unusual situation. He greeted her formally in Gaelic, and Lizzie, who could think of no other way to reply, bowed gently. ‘I have come with a gift for the mother and child,' she said, and showed the basket. A number of people were seated on the floor of the house; Lizzie recognised Catriona and Niall, two of the children of Mr MacCrimmon's first wife, who had died in childbirth ten years previously. Marion Gilles was there, along with a few other young married women. Ann MacCrimmon was sitting close to the fire with a baby in her arms. The baby was so new to the world that it could barely open its eyes. Lizzie was suddenly shy and blushed, but Mrs MacCrimmon smiled at her and somebody pulled a chest up to the fire for Lizzie to sit on. She sat down, grateful not to have to squat on the floor which was covered in all sorts of horrors. Mrs MacCrimmon showed her the baby, a little boy, and said his name, Iain. She shook her head sadly and made a gesture to indicate that he was not feeding properly. Lizzie did not reply as there was nothing for her to say, but she sat quietly listening to the soot dripping from the damp ceiling. More than anything else she wanted this boy to survive, and she could feel that the women who had assembled in the room had all forgotten their separate griefs and pains; they were all praying wordlessly to their own gods and spirits for the survival of this golden boy. For every baby who survived was a gift to the community; every child who lived ensured the continuation of the way of life as they knew it; and every mortality – although often accepted as providence – was a threat to their future and a manifestation of the curse that seemed to be endemic to their island.

It was late afternoon when Lizzie left the vigil for the boy who was to die at dawn. She could not bear to see the cramps and convulsions again. The mist had cleared, and as she got home she could see that her husband had been waiting for her. He was sitting at the table in his shirtsleeves with his head in his hands but rose quickly as she came through the door. He stood looking at her, at the tired face which was familiar and kind. ‘What?' she said, exhausted and irritated by his muteness, but he could not put words to his feeling – how could he ever find the right words for those feelings? – he could only hold her, which he did; in one step, one movement, he held her hard against his chest, but he was soft and so was she as she felt his heart against her own. They stood together for a long time, swaying slowly from side to side, as their bodies slotted together and they were able to comfort each other in spite of their separate pains.

Iain was buried three days later. A sheep was slaughtered, barley was ground and bread was baked while women came and went, watching and keening over the body of the dead boy. As evening fell a few young men went into the burial ground to dig the grave while some others were sent off to find a broad turf to cover it. There was no wood for this coffin so the baby was shrouded and carried high along the course of the sun around the
clachan
. Three times did the procession encircle the houses and gardens before they entered the graveyard. Mrs MacKenzie was standing by her husband's side. It was not the custom to read the funerary sermon by the open grave; the service would take place in the kirk on the following Sabbath. Lizzie looked into the dark hole in the ground and saw that the bottom of the grave had been lined with something white. She took a couple of steps forward to see better and saw that somebody had put a single wing of a white swan in the grave. She gasped and looked up at her husband. He looked her straight in the eyes; it is all right, he seemed to say, let it happen in this way. She was relieved. The baby was lowered on to the wing. It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen, Lizzie thought. The tiny bundle looked like a perfect angel, and as the men started filling the grave Lizzie had to look away, it seemed so brutal that such whiteness should be soiled. Her husband had told her that because of the frequency of infant deaths, the St Kildans saw their island plague as providence, as an inevitable part of life. But as she glanced quickly back into the filling grave she knew that these ghost children, who would never be kissed and cared for, were mourned and loved just as hopelessly in spite of their fate. Their spirits were forever there, in the lap of a wing or the ripple of water.

Once the grave was filled and the turf placed on top, everyone sat down on the grass or on nearby stones and shared a meal of mutton and bread as the sun set in the west and the warm August night lowered its blue shadow over Village Bay.

Back in the manse MacKenzie said to his wife, ‘I have been thinking that perhaps we should get a maid, a young woman who speaks English so that you can have some company ­– what do you think?'

Mrs MacKenzie had got used to coping on her own and did not think their small household needed a maid. ‘I am not sure . . .' she replied hesitantly.

‘Well, I will ask the taxman if he can recommend some suitable young woman from the mainland.' He was quite set on the idea now and pleased by his own generosity.

Later Lizzie was lying sleepless in bed. Her husband was breathing heavily; she watched his upper lip slacken and shudder like a sail driven by a trade wind. She liked to watch him sleep – he seemed more vulnerable then and she could believe that she belonged to him. Her eyes scanned his face and his strong shoulders, which were white as snow below the line where his shirt cut off the tan. It was very hot in the room and she could not lie still. There was a great restlessness inside her. The night was soft as fur outside the window, and the darkness seemed to pull at her. She got out of bed and threw a woollen shawl around her shoulders. She stood for a while looking out the window before she left the room, her bare feet silent on the carpet. Outside the thick night was starry, but the barley moon was still hiding behind the massive bulk of Conachair. Lizzie breathed in all the heavy scents of the night. She walked dreamily through the dewy grass; the fresh clover and buttery cowslips washed her feet and shed their last petals between her toes as she descended towards the beach. The white sand there would soon be sieved away by the autumn storms, but for now it was cool and soft under her feet. Lizzie looked out across the blank disc of the bay. There was something strange about its deep darkness. She looked harder until her gaze floated on the surface where a faint sparkling like a million tiny diamonds seemed to reflect the firmament. It was as if the Pleiades had sunk into the sea and were looking back up at the sky. She picked up a pebble and dropped it into the shallows – an explosion of fluorescent brilliance expanded and flickered through the ripples. ‘Oh!' she exhaled and stepped back. She looked around and listened – the village was quiet and dark; she was all alone with this miracle. Carefully she hitched up her white nightgown and stepped into the water. Her feet lit up like St Peter's – she proceeded further out. A jellyfish glided past, shining like a green corn moon or a drowned meteor. Lizzie stared at its suspended glowing sphere in awe. Suddenly she knew what she had to do – she needed to be washed in this light – she needed to be enlightened by the life force that illuminated it. Quickly she pulled off her shawl and nightgown and bundled them safely on to a rock. Naked, with her loose hair flowing down her back, she stepped further into the cold water, carefully avoiding sharp rocks and stones with barnacles. She stretched her arms on the surface and dragged them like wands through the white-green glare. Her whole body was outlined by the starry light; she spread her limbs like a giant starfish and floated on her back as if carried by the Milky Way.

Mr MacKenzie, who had woken up as his wife left their bed, was watching her from the dark shadows of the landing rock. He knew, of course, about the plankton which lit up the late summer seas, but the scene in front of him was still unworldly. He could not take his eyes off his wife as she swam calmly and quietly in a halo of bright light. He was not sure if he was witnessing vice or a mystery. Suddenly she stood, illuminated, and waded towards the beach with her back half turned to him. She lifted her arms to wring the saltwater out of her hair, and her husband watched with his fist pressed into his mouth as a few flakes of light clung to the glimmering pearls of her vertebrae. She turned to fetch her nightgown from the rock, her hard nipples standing out from her dark silhouette. She dried herself quickly on the shawl and slipped back into the white linen gown. Mr MacKenzie let out his breath. Was this his wife – this woman who glided like a bright angel over the dark sand? He stretched soundlessly and hurried back to the manse. His eyes were misty with shame and humiliation for this lurid desire which had overcome him – this passion for an unknown and otherworldly woman. A woman he had never known.

Lizzie felt clean and calm and she was once again convinced of her youth. She had reclaimed a place of her own, and by becoming individual she was once again human. Her teeth were chattering in the cold and she hurried back to the manse. As she slipped under the sheets her husband turned to her and kissed the salt from her freezing lips. His hands slipped under her damp nightgown and rubbed heat back into her body until she shivered from more than the cold. She clung to his lips and drank him down. As the August moon rose over the summit of Conachair the rekindled flare of love brought them together in sharp pain and hot, sweet beauty.

Later, as he slept, spent and fulfilled, Lizzie listened to the whispers of all the days of light and darkness that lay ahead of them on this island.

3

AUGUST 1834 – CHANGE

The little girl was turning slowly in a falling whiteness. She looked down at her feet, which were covered in a drift of light. All around her soft frost was lifting and falling, whirling and dancing in the breeze. This was very different from the world the child had known so far – a world of contrasts and seasons – light and dark, even and perpendicular, silent and roaring. Here was only one aspect but the girl was not afraid as feathers of snowy white settled on her dress and turned hot summer to winter. Wonder had only just awakened in her along with the recognition of beauty, the power of expression and the ability to move freely, to run down a hill through budding cowslips or climb the high back of her father's armchair. If there were sounds around her she did not hear them: the world was as silent as a storm in a fairy-tale snow globe. Only she understood that this was something important – that this was all at once and nothing at all.

There was a movement nearby and then there were arms around her as somebody stooped to pick her up. Noise came back to her as if she had surfaced from under water. There was light and joy as she went up through the air which was thick and white and made her want to sneeze. As she was carried away the child buried her face in the warm, musky smell of a girl who was turning into a young woman. She was perfectly happy.

It was the third week of August and the fulmar harvest was at its peak. Women and children were plucking tens of thousands of birds in order to salt them into barrels for the winter. Bundles of live birds, tied together and awaiting their fate, hung from hooks on the walls. Feathers covered the hamlet and made it look like a perfect watercolour of a wintery Alpine landscape.

‘Betty, Betty, where are you, girl? Hurry. I will be late!' A woman's voice cut through the babble of birds.

‘Yes, ma'am. Sorry, ma'am. I took Eliza to see all the feathers,' cried the young woman breathlessly as she was still carrying the child in her arms.

‘For pity's sake, Betty, don't call me ma'am – it makes me feel old!' cried the woman, who could not get used to having a servant.

‘Yes, Mrs MacKenzie, I am sorry.' Betty managed to look rather downcast, but she was not sorry; she was a cheerful girl and rebuke ran off her like water off the wings of a solan goose.

Mrs MacKenzie laughed. ‘I am sure you managed to see young Calum MacDonald while Eliza played with the feathers?'

Betty blushed and looked at her naked feet. ‘Calum was trying to teach Dog to sniff for puffins.'

‘Ah, was he now . . . ? Well, I am sure that was not very successful,' Mrs MacKenzie muttered mockingly, and looked down on the dog, which pricked up its ears on hearing the name which had not really been given to it. Dog looked slightly bewildered – seabirds frightened him, and he placed his paws delicately wherever he went.

‘Oh, Mrs MacKenzie, everyone is so frightfully excited, what with the fulmar harvest and the ship and the gentlefolk and all!' Betty, it seemed, was most excited of all. She had never used any form of the word
frightful
before, but she thought it was appropriate under the circumstances.

Mrs MacKenzie smiled at the maid and kissed her daughter Eliza, who was nearly two years old. Eliza's younger brother, James Bannatyne, had been born in December the previous year. He was sitting like a tiny Buddha on a blanket in the manse garden, pulling the petals of a meadowsweet in clumsy tufts. His chubby hands continued to tear at the soft flowers. The boy had been entrusted with a name which demanded something of him; it suggested that greatness was expected of him. He was the firstborn boy in the family, but throughout his life, as his many brothers and sisters were born and grew into single beings, he would have the feeling that there had been one before him against whom he was constantly measured. He listened carefully for hints that might reveal the secret to his origin and purpose, and as he grew and matured he searched for his lost brother in the lines around his mother's mouth and behind the grief that would sometimes show in the dark depths of his father's eyes.

Both children were remarkably healthy, and life in the manse was busy and noisy where only a few years back it had been still and silent. Lizzie would often stand over the children's beds at night and listen to their breathing – Eliza's was barely audible, whereas James Bannatyne's came in little staccato sighs. Soft and untroubled dreams would pass over their sleeping faces like the midday breeze across the sea. At such times she would occasionally be overcome by the familiar terror which had possessed her throughout the pregnancies – the fear that the fate of the island had somehow marked the growing life in her womb. While carrying Eliza her nerves had been so raw that she could not sleep or eat for days and nights on end. Back then MacKenzie had had little patience with her. Once he'd said, ‘The baby will live, Lizzie, you must have faith.' ‘But how can you be so certain?' she had asked quickly, lacking the breath to amplify the words. ‘Oh, I am redeemed, my dear. There is nothing to worry about. Just remember to pray.' He had laughed as if she was a child unable to take instructions, and stooped to kiss her on the forehead. But despite herself she had felt her body stiffen. Blushing, she had wished him away, for he suddenly repulsed her.

The taxman had brought young Betty Scott from the laird's fishing station at Lochinver a couple of years previously. The fisheries had been established to accommodate the Highlanders who had been cleared from the lands of the Duchess of Sutherland. Those who refused to take up the new livelihood were forced to emigrate. But soon the fishing stations were overpopulated and there was poverty more miserable than ever before. The laird's factor tried to control the population increase by deciding who could marry whom, and when. It was the factor who had decided that Betty should go to St Kilda, and Betty's father had agreed. She had no future in Lochinver, and Betty was a practical girl – a job was a job, even though it meant that she would not see her family and friends for a long time. The girl, who spoke both Gaelic and English, was easy-going and strong, and Lizzie had grown very fond of her. Her features betrayed her Highland ancestry. Her soft ginger hair and chubby cheeks had been passed down generation after generation since her kinsmen first drove their cattle into the hills. She had inherited strong arms and an independent spirit. That she should now be a maidservant was only a twist of fate, and she knew in her heart that she would soon be mistress of her own home.

‘I need you to help me look after the children for a few hours. Mr MacKenzie and I have been invited to dine with Sir Thomas and Lady Lydia aboard the schooner.' Mrs MacKenzie's cheeks wore the roses of a young girl's and her eyes were shining for the company that she would soon keep.

‘Oh, Mrs MacKenzie!' There might have been tears in Betty's eyes if only she had been a little less practically inclined and a little more experienced in romance. ‘How wonderful!'

The elegant schooner was anchored in Village Bay. It was the grandest ship the natives had ever seen, and their pride and amazement knew no boundaries when they were told that it had been named after their island and that it was written clearly in gold letters on the aft: the
Lady of St Kilda.
The schooner was the property of Sir Thomas Dyke Acland, a rich landowner from Devon and a Member of Parliament. Sixteen years previously, as a young, newly wed couple, Sir Thomas and his wife Lydia had visited St Kilda on a hired boat while they were travelling around the Highlands and Islands of Scotland in search of the
sublime
. Some of the natives remembered the gentleman's visit; he had drawn sketches of their dwellings and of the lofty, dark peaks around Village Bay. On acquiring the
Lady of St Kilda
, which was actually named after his wife, whom he assumed had been the first
real
Lady ever to set foot on St Kilda, Sir Thomas had decided that its maiden voyage should be to the island that had so impressed him in his youth. Lady Lydia, of whom it was said amongst the higher society of the West Country that she had an
interesting
and
adventurous
soul, had been only too pleased to accompany her husband on the journey. Audacious voyaging was not altogether agreeable, of course, but Lady Lydia was apt at putting certain things and events to one side in her mind. The episode with the rampant ram in Loch Awe was one such incident, which she had of course forgotten. She had got rid of the contemptuous dress she had worn that day and never thought of it again. She was convinced that her rare ability made her a superior traveller, and as travel was in itself an embodiment of the ideological apparatus of Empire, it was suitable for her class.

On perambulating the
clachan
the day before, tossing sweets and tobacco amongst the natives, Sir and Lady Acland had been absolutely appalled to see that nothing had improved since their previous visit. The natives still lived in the most miserable and un-Christian hovels. Not even the most wretched vagabond who squatted on Acland's lands in north Devon lived in such filth. The horror that they felt on seeing the
clachan
again was quite natural and right as it arose from love of the less fortunate and a genuine social affection. The well-being of the St Kildans was of great concern to Sir Thomas, who was a philanthropist as well as a politician, and he had decided to invite the good minister and his wife to dinner to discuss the matter.

Some of the natives had turned out on the landing rock to watch as the boatswain of the
Lady of St Kilda
arrived to pick up Mr and Mrs MacKenzie in the dinghy. Mrs MacKenzie wore her best summer dress of white calico printed with small blue and purple pansies. It had been made shortly after her wedding five years previously, and Lizzie was relieved that she had spent some time last winter updating it. Her sister Annie had sent her recent images and drawings of young ladies in Glasgow. Lizzie had lowered the neckline so that it rested on her bare shoulders and she had puffed the sleeves using material from an old blue dress which she had torn on the rocks. She had no crinoline, of course, but in order to achieve the right width of the skirts she was wearing three petticoats starched with sugar. The underskirt had been lined at the bottom with a willow band which had been shaped around a large barrel. She had been quite pleased with the result at the time, but now she worried that her creation would look hopelessly out of fashion. The tight corset made her sit very upright in the rickety boat as they rowed towards the schooner. Betty had helped her to fasten pretty blue ribbons in her dismal hair and she had formed ringlets at her temples with a hot iron spike. The coarse hands of the servant girl had worked slowly and methodically. The result was surprisingly good, and now Lizzie hoped that her coiffure was not getting squashed beneath her bonnet. There was a little seawater in the hull of the boat and Lizzie lifted her feet under the petticoats in order to save her best boots from the salt. Her husband, on the other hand, looked completely at ease in his black coat with the velvet collar. His white cravat had gone slightly yellow from disuse. To the natives who were watching from the shore the scene was utterly alien. They had grown used to the minister and his wife, and it worried them that the couple should look so different on this evening. Even the myriad of puffins, returning overhead from their missions at sea, seemed to take a curious interest in the colourful spectacle as it crossed Village Bay.

When they reached the schooner the MacKenzies were helped on board by strong deckhands and greeted by the steward, who ushered them down a flight of stairs below the poop deck. As they entered the master's cabin Lizzie removed her bonnet and looked anxiously for her own reflection in the polished brass. Her cheeks were badly flushed and her hair had curled above her temples. She could feel her throat contracting above her beating heart and her voice was pitched rather too high as she greeted their host and hostess.

Sir Thomas Dyke Acland looked exceedingly elegant in a blue velvet coat and slim cream trousers, but Mrs MacKenzie only had eyes for Lady Acland, whose vast gown of light green silk taffeta, strewn with tiny silk roses, like the satin sheet of a bridal bed, seemed to fill the best part of the salon. Lizzie lowered her eyes and blushed as she thought of the ugly contraption of starched petticoats hidden underneath her own crushed skirts. She was sweating in the hot cabin, and as she sat down she could feel the melting sugar sticking to her thighs.

A valet served the dinner. Venison trimmed with greens had been brought from the Long Isle, and as the claret was poured into the crystal glasses it sent shadows of blood on to the white tablecloth. The candlelight was reflected in the brass and mahogany of the cabin and framed the diners in a warm, becoming glow. MacKenzie observed his wife as she bit delicately into a perfect potato, a spit of gravy clinging to her lower lip. She was well tutored, he saw, and recognised some of his own efforts in her manners. But there was something else too – something quite individual which he could not put his finger on. Perhaps he had underestimated her. His eyes rested on her golden features for a moment longer and he suddenly wished that he had been able to give her more.

Lady Acland watched her guests closely as her husband was talking. She saw that the minister was a handsome, dark man although, judging from his bronzed complexion, it was all too obvious that he often went without a hat. He had been to university in Glasgow, she understood, but it was not clear if he had ever graduated, nor if he had achieved a distinction in any of his subjects. Two of her own sons were at Oxford at the moment, but they were quite a different class of gentlemen, of course, and it would be unfair to the minister to make a comparison. As for Mrs MacKenzie, she had beauty, that was clear, although of the natural rather than the sophisticated kind. There was something disturbingly youthful about her, Lady Acland realised. It would be altogether more appropriate if her fresh spirit could mature into something less
gleaming
. A decent soul, Lady Acland thought, as she smiled graciously at the younger woman across the table, though not a lady by any means.