Island of Wings (21 page)

‘Have you no shame? Letting another man touch you in my own home! I will have no more of it!'

‘But, Neil . . . he was only leaning on me for . . . for support.' She stammered for the injustice of it.

‘Get out of this room immediately!'

She turned to the man in the bed and saw that he was looking at her. There were specks of green in his brown eyes and something else which she dared to interpret as compassion. Softly, almost invisibly, he inclined his head to her and held her gaze. She looked into his eyes to find some strength.

‘Mrs MacKenzie, remember your place!' Her husband grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them.

Mr MacKenzie remained true to his word and did not let her near the stranger again. Two women from the village would come in to feed him and change his dressings. Lizzie would see them walk in and out of the room with fresh linens, chamber pots and ban­dages. Secretly she thought she could interpret signs in the discarded bowls of half-eaten stew or damp rags – surely he preferred her ministrations to theirs?

Gradually, while she had been nursing the man, Lizzie had come to hear about the remains of the shipwreck that had washed up around the island. A couple of bodies had been found in Gleann Bay. They must have been in the water for some weeks, but the natives who found them could still make out that they were not wearing uniform, nor did they have the appearance of fishermen, and one of them still had a pistol strapped to his belt.

At night Lizzie would lie in bed and listen to the noises of the house. Knowing that the stranger was in the room right next to her was almost unbearable. She pressed her ear and then her face against the cold wall where patches of damp darkened the wallpaper. Once she was brave enough to get up when her husband was asleep and listen at the door of the chamber. She could not hear anything, and she was too frightened to open the door.

Instead, she dreamed of him. She closed her eyes and they walked together through a forest where the foliage sieved the warming rays of the sun; brambles caught her skirts, and the scents of rich earth and crushed leaves rose from the ground. They sat down amongst violets, and the ever-inquisitive sun sought them through the canopy of trees. Once or twice, when she thought she had lost him, she stopped and turned around and he was just behind her, just there, and the peat in his eyes came alive as the fresh bark of a beech or the moss on a stone in a brook.

Another time they walked through golden cornfields, vast as the sea and punctuated by islands of cheerful daisies and delicate poppies with petals ready to fall. And at such fragility and threat, unable to hold on, she would fall, fall, fall . . . fall to where she was once again alone.

Who was she? She had been deprived of passion for so long, during which time she had let practical matters rule. But now, when she was allowed to dream of the silent man who spoke to her so clearly, she knew she had forgotten how to love. If she opened her eyes the adventure would be gone and she would be back in the manse, facing the wall and its peeling paper, with damp smoke in her throat.

During the day she would turn to her children for comfort. As the sun fell through the window, competing for their love, she would hold them too hard while she read to them from the book with coloured drawings. For a moment she would forget to read as she bent her head to fill her nostrils with the scent of their hair – the salty blue and green smells of the island intermingled with the pure, slightly moist smell of the child. ‘Go on, mother, read more, please,' they cried while they struggled against her hot embrace.

Anna noticed her mistress's mood but did not understand. She found it strange and embarrassing. It would be many years yet until she herself would grow into a young woman, years till she understood the pain and anguish her mistress had suffered in those few weeks: how that heart had woken again to romance and adventure and had been finally crushed.

This was the period of the spring storms, and one night, at the end of March, a south-easterly gale forced a Prussian ship on to the rocks of Boreray. Amazingly, the crew saved themselves on to the island and could be rescued by the St Kildans the following morning when the storm had died down. Their ship, however, was dashed to splinters. During the commotion caused by the rescue operation Lizzie saw her chance, at last, to return to her foreign sailor.

Making sure no one was in the house, she walked up to the closed door of the sickroom. For a minute she stood there, trying to control her breathing. There was still a wind around the eaves, and she could hear yesterday's sea through the walls of the manse, as if the waves were secretly conspiring. Then she opened the door and, closing it gently behind her, stepped into the room, which was surprisingly light and still. The man was lying on his side with his face to the window. He was asleep, but he looked better than before. She watched him quietly from the other end of the room. His dark hair had grown a bit, and was curling on the pillow. The shadows under his eyes and around the jaw were nearly gone and he looked much younger. She felt her heart tighten at such tender beauty. Under the blankets he seemed to be wearing a loose linen shirt. She frowned as she thought of the two village women dressing him in this way. Quietly, so as not to waken him, she moved over the floor and sat down at the bedside. Her skirts settled awkwardly around the low stool and, for an instant, the rustle of the dove-grey muslin filled the room. His left hand was resting on the rough covers, and softly she lifted it with her own to find his pulse. She was surprised at how warm the hand was and, as she followed the pulse through his wrist, she let her fingers slide into his palm and immediately felt his fingers link through hers. His hand was alive and his grip welded them together. Lizzie closed her eyes but did not withdraw her hand. Suddenly he was sitting up next to her and his right hand was tracing her face. Still she did not pull away. They were alone in the forest as she had dreamed. She felt his hot breath in her ear and her own pulse quickened. Now his hands were a feathered touch on her body. She recognised the quickening of his breath as he pulled at her bodice. She could feel his body through his linen nightgown and knew that the heat that radiated from him was another kind of fever. She pressed her mouth against his and heard him moan as he pressed her closer to his chest. He said her name, which was the first word she had ever heard him say except for in his dreams, and she wanted more than anything else to be loved by this man, this stranger she had brought back to life. His hands were grappling with her dress again, but it would not give and suddenly it ripped near the shoulder as he pressed his hand in to cup her breast. Now Lizzie was beyond herself. ‘Oh no, no, no . . .' she heard herself moan, but she kissed him again. She was split in two and would never again be one. He grabbed her hand and guided it down between his legs. ‘No! I can't! I have a husband!' she cried, and pulled away from him. She was sobbing now and stared at him in agony as he took hold of himself while looking into her eyes. She could not tear her eyes away and stood there by his bedside as his body convulsed and he let out a great sigh and fell back on the pillows. Lizzie was crying hard now, but she could not leave. When she dared look at him again she saw that he was smiling at her – a kind, gentle smile. ‘Shh,' he whispered, and just then she heard voices from the rocks outside. ‘They are back. O God, I have to leave.' He smiled at her again and nodded. She hurried to the door while clawing at her torn dress, but then she heard his voice behind her. ‘What?' she asked. ‘Solano,' he said softly, and then again, ‘Solano, not Nathaniel.'

4

1835–1838 – ECLIPSE

The Manse, Hirta, 24th April, 1835

To John MacPherson MacLeod of Glendale and St Kilda. Mysore, India

Sir,

By this letter I convey to you a foreign criminal who landed on the shores of St Kilda on New Year's Day 1835. Although the man has lived amongst us for four months I do not know his name but believe him to be a pirate of Portuguese or Spanish origin.

On my orders Captain Dankshof of ‘Die Griffe', a Prussian ship which foundered off our shores a couple of months ago, will take full responsibility for bringing the criminal to the Long Isle and meeting up with the taxman who will prosecute the said prisoner in your absence.

I have done what I thought was right in healing this wounded criminal and handing over his mended body to your justice. I cannot, however, vouch for his soul, which to my best judgement seems to be lost. As I was not able to communicate with the prisoner in his own language I cannot say whether he wants salvation or whether his mouth, which speaks so coarsely in a foreign tongue, is still greedy for wrong. As far as I can tell, his character will take no goodness. I therefore recommend that, should this man be locked up for the remainder of his life, he be given access to the Scripture in his own tongue so that he can start from the beginning with the Word so that life might return to his soul. Remember that purification from sin is a fearful struggle and this sinner should be given all the support he can get in order to reach enlightenment and obliterate sin from his heart.

We do not know what crimes lie in his past, but I am quite sure your worldly court will discover them. However, I do know this: the sin that is ripest in his heart is the hardest to redeem; he abandoned his friends to the waves as their ship wrecked on Rockall, and I dare say that his own survival will rest heavily on his mind. It reflects the original sin of brother betraying brother and thus perpetuating the wickedness of man. It is therefore of utmost importance that this man be given the opportunity to repent and find God's mercy through His Word: ‘Purge me with hysope, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Make me to heare joy and gladnesse: that the bones which Thou hast broken may rejoyce.'

Let me continue now, sir, on a more cheerful note. I would like to take this opportunity to tell you that the plans for the new village are progressing. I expect to see the first construction of the new houses this summer and the common arable land is gradually being divided into strips.

Your subjects have generally been faring well this past year. It is true that many of the children continue to die within eight days of birth, but the adults have all been mainly healthy and we have had no casualties at sea or on the rocks. All of the children of schooling age and most of the able-minded adults can repeat the catechism by heart, and I have even begun to teach some of the brighter young people to read and write. I try to teach in English but it seems hard for the Gaelic mind in these parts to make sense of a language which does not concern the birds and the sea. There was a brief lapse into superstition during the winter but I am pleased to assure you that I stemmed this weakness and returned my congregation to sanity and purity.

Dare I suggest, sir, lord and patron of this island, that you and your lady pay us a visit on your return from India?

I remain your humble servant,
The Rev. Neil MacKenzie

The Manse, Hirta, 24th April, 1835

To Mr MacDonald of Tanera, rightful taxman of the island of Hirta

My dear Mr MacDonald,

Captain Dankshof who delivers this letter to you brings with him a criminal who should be interrogated and tried by the court at Dunvegan. I trust you to act according to your convictions and use your best conscience in the matter.

Moreover, I would hereby like to order a dozen scarlet headscarves, preferably with a ‘paisley' pattern. The costs for these can be deducted from my allowance, if you wish.

Sincerely yours,
MacKenzie

*

That day when he left . . . Lizzie could still feel the wound deepening inside herself when she thought about it. She had been away up the glen on the slopes of Oiseval with Betty and the children to look at the new lambs, which were struggling against their vertical world in woolly bewilderment. Eliza had been dreadfully upset to see a stillborn lamb hanging halfway out of its bleating mother. The ewe was scuffling back and forth on the slope, half-demented and with panic in her dreary eyes, as she tried to get rid of the terrible offspring – that slimy blue chimera of tendons and bones that would not leave her alone. Turning back down the slope with the crying child in her arms, Lizzie looked ahead over the sweeping valley and the sea beneath only to see a group of men assembled by the landing rock and the village boat being pushed out. She stopped in her tracks and put Eliza, who was getting too heavy now to carry any distance, back on the ground. The skies were racing over the island, busily tidying up for spring. A cloud sailed over the sun and blackened the water in the bay, and at the same time a strange foreshadowing settled like dusk in Lizzie's eyes.

‘What does this mean, Betty?' she asked her friend, who had followed close behind, James Bannatyne on her steady hip.

‘I couldn't say,' Betty answered slowly, ‘but it looks as if them
Sassenachs
are leaving at last.' It was clear from her tone that she for one would not miss them. She frowned at the thought of the rowdy, near-sunken sailors who used up precious food and spoke like coils of anchor chain, short and sharp.

Lizzie at once recognised the crew of eleven sailors who had been saved from the Prussian vessel. That was almost three months ago now and the burden on the vulnerable community was apparent – supplies were already running so low that children and old people were beginning to weaken. There was just no way they would be able to support the extra mouths until the taxman's ship turned up with relief once the weather had settled for the summer.

Lizzie searched the crowd on the rocks until at last she saw him standing there, tightly guarded by two of the foreign mariners. Although he was physically locked in their grip he looked quite separate; his head was bent as if he was trying to read something on the ground, a secret message in the dumb rock. Just then the men started pushing him towards the boat, and as he shook off their hands she saw that his own were tied behind his back. Expertly and without the aid of the others he jumped into the wrestling dinghy and sat down by the stern. This is my element, he seemed to say as he looked back on his guards with a steady gaze.

‘Stay with Betty, sweetheart,' Lizzie called to Eliza as she started scampering down the steep hill.

‘Mrs MacKenzie, don't!' Betty cried behind her. But Lizzie took no heed – the blood in her veins was like a storm in her ears, and the brown bells of last year's heather rang out as her skirts brushed past. In spite of her efforts the boat had already pushed out into the bay when she reached her husband on the rocks.

‘Where are they taking him?' she demanded between breaths.

‘To Dunvegan.' Her husband, all cool and calm, continued to look out to sea.

‘To Dunvegan? Have you gone clear daft?' She tried to steady her voice; her fists hung like lead balls at the end of her rigid arms. ‘But they will lock him up!'

‘Precisely.' He still would not look at her.
Surely we cannot have grown this far apart
, cried his heart.

‘What is Dunvegan to him? He is of the sea – do you not hear me, of the sea. We know of no crime he has committed!' She looked desperately towards the dinghy, which was riding tall against the swell in the shallows. Just then she saw the prisoner looking back at her and her eyes smarted as their gaze locked and burned. He was no longer the monster she had found in the feather store that night; gone was the gargoyle – half-man, half-beast – and in his place was this human being whom she had grown to know so intimately through the heat of her hands, through her fingers melting frost.

‘You know this is wrong. God must have spared him for a purpose,' she tried.

The minister made a sharp intake of breath but said nothing.

‘Perhaps God favours some people quite randomly and decides they must survive for no particular reason at all. Or perhaps God is sometimes just absent, and nature rules, so that the strong survive and the weak die irrespective of the purity of their spirit . . .' She didn't think that she had anything to lose. How could she have known what was at stake? What possessed her? All she could think about was how she had nursed the stranger back to life and how gradually she had seen humanity return into his eyes. He had been closer to death than life, but it was not right for him to die – he was too young and too strong. Human beings want to live.
Why is it
, she thought,
that we are prepared to do almost anything to keep our loved ones alive and close – and yet we fail them?

Her husband turned to look at her in a way that made her feel sick – she could not read his eyes, but he seemed to be advancing through a range of emotions the way a soldier pushes through a battle towards the front line.

‘Only through sacrificing yourself and your cause to God can you redeem yourself for surviving such circumstances – for letting your fellow beings die by your side.' There was such contempt in his voice.

Her heart was beating too hard and the sweat was cold on her forehead. She felt suddenly nauseous and looked towards the open sea, but its hapless mass offered no cause for hope. She tried to steady herself but recognised a familiar darkness just before she fainted.

She had been carried back into the manse by Ferguson and MacKinnon, just as the man who was now a prisoner had once been carried into her care. Presently she was at the table drinking a strengthening cup of tea. The children, who had returned with Betty, had been sent off again, this time with Anna to the
clachan
. Mr MacKenzie was looking at her mutely, impassively, leaning casually with his back against the door. She turned to him defiantly and started to say something but fell quiet when she saw the blackening of his mind through his eyes. He began to stride back and forth in the dull room.

‘Look at this place!' He threw out his hands. ‘Just look at it.' He swept his fingers through the dust on the mantelpiece, his lips set in a disgusted snarl. A few treasures which the children had brought in from the beach were littering the table in front of her – a handful of shells and a dried starfish, one purple arm broken at the heart. MacKenzie slammed down his fist on top of the trophies and swept them on to the floor. ‘You have neglected your duties.' He kicked at the broken shells but missed and hit the leg of the table. This seemed to enrage him further and suddenly, before she had time to react, he caught her by the arm and pulled her out of the chair. The gleam in his eyes frightened her.

‘You are hurting me, Neil,' she whimpered, but he only tightened his grip.

‘You wanted it from him, didn't you?' He had got hold of her other arm too and was shaking her. ‘Well, didn't you?' There was something close to panic in his voice.

‘I have nothing to hide.' It was a strange thing for her to insist, and it made it all too obvious that she had.

Her husband gave a short laugh. ‘Be quiet – you will take it from your husband now!' He started pulling her into the bedroom and she tried to resist. ‘
This
is your duty!' She did not recognise him – she was quite certain that the man who took her was not known to her.

Afterwards he rolled off her and faced the wall. She was still too rigid to move. Her head was not related to her limbs. She hoped he would not speak but he did. ‘I am sorry, Lizzie. I don't know what came over me. You know I never wanted to hurt you. I am not a bad man, am I?'

Was he weeping? Somehow she managed to raise herself out of the bed. She pulled at her skirts. She wasn't too sore but she could feel the stickiness between her thighs and it disgusted her. On stiff legs she took a couple of steps towards the door. A slither of warm indignity was trickling down the inside of her left leg.

His shame forced him to curl up towards the wall. He realised that he had no right to look at her, that in the end he was the one who had forfeited the trust. ‘Don't leave me, Lizzie, oh, sweet, darling Lizzie, please don't leave me,' his heart was crying out, but did he say it?

Lizzie thought she heard him whisper something and strained to catch the words. ‘Leave me' – it was all he managed, in a sigh.

Released, she closed the door behind her.

‘Save me! Please bring me back.' This time mortification amplified his words, but the door was already closed.

Once outside the manse Lizzie started running. The shadows were settling and she hoped the dark would hide her. Low clouds had got entangled in the hills and it had started to rain. It surprised her that she didn't feel hatred for her husband. All she could feel was a great sadness; it came upon her as silently as the mist from the sea. When she reached a small stream she squatted over the gulley and washed herself – she splashed and rubbed until she was quite clean of the humiliation. It was dark now, but she knew she could not face going back. Her boots and skirts were soaked and she was beginning to shiver with cold. Determined not to cry, she bit her lip and set off for Betty's house.

Betty received her former mistress without questions. With a few words of Gaelic she sent Calum off and helped Lizzie out of her wet clothes and into a stiff blanket which smelt of animal. If she noticed the raw skin where Lizzie had scoured her thighs in the icy water, she did not let on. For a long while they sat quietly by the fire, looking into the weak flames. Every now and again Betty would feed it a piece of dried turf – it didn't give off much heat, but there was no other fuel at this time of the year. Lizzie pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders.