Island of Wings (8 page)

‘With all respect, sir, I am not sure that I agree.'

‘Oh?' There was a note of sarcasm in the minister's voice.

‘Well, how can it be in the interest of any state to diminish the lives of its most loyal and moral people? Why expatriate those who support the nation in war and provide for it, in the most economical and contented way, in peace?'

‘You have always been a man of means, Mr Atkinson. I was born into the years of starvation, after a series of failed crops in the Highlands towards the end of the last century. I know that agricultural improvement, hard work and an unfailing belief in God are the only things that can save communities like this one from disaster!' He was surprised at his own confession.

‘Have the lairds and politicians nothing to learn from the experience of a community that has survived on this island for a thousand years?'

‘Believe me, Mr Atkinson, when I say that I know these islanders better than you do. What they need is sophisticated guidance from men with experience of the greater world. And they need to ask God's forgiveness so that He may listen to their prayers.'

‘You want them to fear God? Have they not got enough to fear in this place?'

‘George!' Dick said warningly, but was ignored.

‘My purpose here is to improve these people and bring them closer to God.' The minister was desperate; he knew that he had lost the upper hand but could not think how.

‘These people are, as you noted yourself, politically primitive. They are used to having no leader. Do you not understand that as you take authority of their souls and minds they will turn to you as to a God? Do you not fear the consequences of your tuition?'

‘George, please! Mind your words and your temper!' Dick said, as he would always lean a little in either direction to balance a situation. ‘I am sure our generous host has no taste for your adolescent arguments!'

George, reminded of his position as a guest, cooled down and said in an even voice, ‘I beg your pardon, Reverend. I get carried away in discussions. It is my nature, I am afraid, and it is most deplorable. We will perhaps differ on this topic as I, an artist and a scientist, will remain morally much inferior to you, a man of God.'

The minister, quite shaken now, mumbled a conciliatory answer. George's words had disturbed him deeply. At the same time he could not help but admire the young man's engagement. In fact, as he looked at George's flushed face he remembered the vigorous youth he himself had once been, before that fatal storm off Arran. William's death and his own survival had been the most defining factor of his life. If he had not survived for a purpose, William's departure would have been in vain. Or had there been more of an act involved in his survival? Had he saved himself and left William to drown?
I will not be held responsible – there was nothing I could do
.

The night was still light although it was ten o'clock. The flock of starlings was swirling closer above the manse and the lively chirruping and shrill whistles which rang through the air were suddenly irritating to the uneasy minds of the men.

Dick sensed that it was time to break up. ‘We are much exhausted from our travels and from all the impressions of the day, and as I understand we can expect an early start tomorrow we must bid you goodnight, minister,' he said, nudging George with his boot.

‘Yes, my brother is right, we are much fatigued,' George said, feeling it too. ‘Goodnight, minister, and thank you for a most fascinating day.'

‘Goodnight, gentlemen,' MacKenzie answered from some distance.

As the brothers retreated to their beds the minister remained in the garden, deep in thought. Lizzie, who had been sewing by the window after their tea, had been a silent witness to the heated discussion. She watched her husband's face, which was as pale as water in the white night. He made a melancholy figure in his black coat, but she found him almost unbearably handsome. The discussion had revealed to her some of her husband's inner conflict that would otherwise never have come to her knowledge. She sensed for the first time that he carried an enormous guilt: a guilt on which she could not quite put her finger. It was related, she was sure, to the reason for his joining the Church and leaving behind his old way of life with his kin in Arran. Her heart was dark with pity and she wanted to reach out to him and soothe the pain which she could not fathom.

She stepped out into the ghostly light and walked up to stand behind him. ‘It is getting late. Will you come to bed, my love?' she said softly. The palm of her open hand touched his cheek before resting on his shoulder.

He started as he heard her voice but did not rise. As he continued to look out to sea he was aware that her gentle devotion threatened to embrace him. Despising himself, he felt a need to deflect his sense of failure and shield himself from her love. At that moment he resented her decency as much as his own weakness. ‘Our guests did not seem to enjoy their meal very much; perhaps you will be able to improve on the fare tomorrow?' he said, hoping that the cruelty would relieve his frustration and knowing that the hurt it caused could not be repaired.

She stood back and lifted her hand from his shoulder as if it had touched hot iron. The unfairness of the remark struck her with full force. It must be a misunderstanding, she thought. She was determined not to let dejection overcome her; she held it tight in her throat and went back inside.

George and Dick woke to a most glorious morning. The gold that tinged the island was shining through the muslin curtains of their small bedroom window. They could hear Mrs MacKenzie moving about next door, preparing their breakfast of porridge and a most agreeable cup of tea.

George watched Mr MacKenzie closely as he sat down to join them at the breakfast table. He seemed himself again, George noted with relief, and, if not quite the gentleman that they had first taken him for, at least his eyes were honest and intelligent.

‘I should advise you,' said the minister as he poured milk on his porridge, ‘that you should give the natives some of your tobacco in payment for the troubles involved in bringing you to Boreray.'

‘Oh yes, of course!' said Dick, who was always anxious to do the right thing. ‘I would be more than happy to offer them a liberal pecuniary compensation for their labours!'

‘Their idea of the value of money is so vague that I think they would be more pleased if you were to give them about half of what is in your tobacco pouch,' answered the minister, who enjoyed brokering a deal on behalf of his subjects, and so the business was settled.

The natives were already busy preparing their boat when the three gentlemen arrived on the landing rocks. The vessel, which belonged to the community, was a heavy, awkward ship's boat given to them by the laird. It weighed two tons and was rowed with three pairs of oars. The sail was a curiosity in itself. It seemed to be constructed like a patchwork quilt where each square was made up of a woollen fabric of various colours. Like everything else on the island, the task of making the sail had been divided in equal parts between the families.

Twelve of the St Kildans had turned out for the excursion. They were as jolly as ever and although their work at preparing the boat was frequently interrupted by the telling of a story or the lighting of a pipe the group eventually set off for Boreray. The island, situated five miles north of Hirta, had no natural landing place and the St Kildans would therefore normally let those who would catch the birds and eggs on the island jump from the boat on to the sheer rocks with a rope fastened around their waist. The rest of the crew would then return to Hirta until it was time to pick up their comrades or, if the day was fair and the sea calm, they might let the boat drift off the island while they smoked and talked. However, on this occasion, the return crew would wait for the fowlers and their guests in the calmer waters just off the island. A trip like this one could only be attempted in fair weather, as even the slightest swell made it very difficult for the men to land.

The boat was making slow progress through Village Bay, and George soon remarked to the minister, ‘I say, minister, these islanders are truly wretched mariners!'

‘Yes, their naval tactics are very poor indeed. I think they must be the most uncomfortable, anxious sailors I have ever encountered,' said the latter, and laughed.

‘How is that?' Dick chipped in. ‘Islanders are generally very good sailors.'

‘Well, I believe it stems from an unusual fear of and respect for the sea. They do not swim, and many of their kin have died at sea, either from falling into it when climbing the crags and stacks or from boating accidents.'

The natives were pulling six oars at a time: in threes, with two men sitting on the same bench. But although they were all singing to keep the rhythm and urge each other on, none of the pairs managed to dip their heavy oars into the water at the same time. Instead they splashed in at irregular intervals, spraying the passengers with cold sea water. Moreover, the anxious rowers seemed inclined to stick close to land for as long as possible and the boat was thus coasting every little bay and headland on Hirta before setting off, splashing more furiously than ever, across the open expanse of sea between the two islands. Somewhere halfway between the islands the six oarsmen were relieved by their kinsmen. This change-over was carried out in the most casual manner and the St Kildans were gossiping and chatting away while, to George's frustration, the boat was carried back towards Hirta on the current.

‘It is a miracle that they get any work done at all, judging from the amount of gossip that goes on,' said Dick grumpily, trailing his hand in the water over the gunwale.

‘Hmm, that is a most intriguing point,' said the minister with scientific interest. ‘You see, I have calculated that it takes them on average five times longer to carry out any task related to agriculture than it does the farmers on the mainland. They are naturally inclined to forget the task at hand as soon as they are distracted in their work.'

‘Ah, they are just plain lazy. You will have to teach them some good Protestant work ethics, minister,' said George cheerfully.

Dick stiffened at his brother's impertinent remark, but relaxed when he heard the minister laughing behind him. Mr MacKenzie was enjoying the younger men's company. They reminded him of his time as a student. He had even begun secretly to admire George's impudence. The young man seemed to be driven by a confidence which he often lacked himself. Of course he would never admit this to anyone, sometimes overcompensating to hide his feelings of inadequacy as a man. In one area, however, he was very confident: his mission. He was convinced that even if he failed in every other way, at least he would not let himself fail in his mission. George's remarks the previous evening had hit him hard, as they had questioned the very core of his commitment. This mission was more than a vocation – it was the only way to make sense of his survival.

As the boat left Hirta behind, the numbers of gannets increased rapidly until the air seemed to be thick with them. George turned his head back and looked into the sky where the myriad of birds resembled the whirling of snow. Occasionally a bird would dive into the sea, resurfacing with a glistening herring partly hanging out of its beak. A couple of skuas were scanning the flock of gannets for a suitable target to harass. Suddenly one of the skuas caught sight of a well-fed gannet and closed in for the hunt, closely followed by his partner. The two brown birds bombarded the gannet from two directions. One of them managed to get close enough to pick at its white breast feathers while the other one pushed down hard from above in an effort to bring it down towards the sea. The gannet was caught by fear and as it realised that the battle was lost it vomited up the freshly caught fish into the waiting gapes of the thieving skuas. Such a display of the unfair cruelty of nature was of great interest to the three would-be naturalists. Each would create his own theology to explain it.

As the boat slowly approached the island the Atkinsons looked in awe at Stac an Armin, the Stack of the Warrior, which rose abruptly from the sea like a thorn – its sheer cliff-face looking like the topsail of a man-of-war, a shadowed threat on a bright day.

After much splashing and some rather fair singing the party eventually reached Boreray. The boat drew up with its broadside along the rock. Although it was an exceptionally calm day, the swell of the Atlantic kept the dinghy rising and falling fifteen feet by the side of the cliff. If the St Kildans were unusually disastrous oarsmen, they certainly excelled in landing on a rocky shore. As the Atkinsons watched from their seats at the rear, one man positioned himself in the prow and another one in the stern, each with a long pole which they used to steady the broadside against the rock. A third man, with a coiled rope on his arm, one end of which was attached to one of the seats, was balancing in the middle of the boat waiting for a high wave at the peak of which he leaped on to the rock. Once the first man had positioned himself safely on the rock another man performed the same trick, thus creating a rope bridge or gangway for the safety and benefit of the less experienced cragsmen and the guests.

After the minister, George and Dick had assembled safely on the rock with four of the St Kildans, the remaining eight natives pushed out from the rock and let out a drogue anchor made of a sheep's stomach filled with stone. Floating slowly on the great shapelessness of the Atlantic, they soon resumed their chattering and gossiping and seemed much content with the general situation.

The cragsmen indicated to the gentlemen to follow them and at once started to climb the most arduous cliff. It was about seven hundred feet high and they seemed to dance up the rock face completely oblivious of their heavy loads of ropes and gear. The minister, who felt a need to possess the gap between the cragsmen and the gentlemen, started to ascend the cliff in his shirtsleeves, and George and Dick realised that they had no alternative but to follow his example. While they were trying to find a foothold on the jagged rocks the minister told them between breaths that the St Kildan women often descended or ascended these same cliffs with a sheep or a lamb in their arms. This remark had the intended effect, and the two brothers, chafing the shiny leather of their fine boots against the rock, soon reached the grassy plateau at the summit.