Sun Dance (44 page)

Tentatively I took the disc from the grasp of a Norseman. Gold, the indestructible metal, blood stained throughout human history, age old emblem of religions, halo of the gods, the mark of power. I rubbed it softly. Tiny etchings covered its face, a sliver of moon, tiny marks for stars, in my hand I held the golden talisman which carried life beyond an earthly grave. No promise of redemption, no priestly bribe of eternal bliss, nothing save an acceptance of the omnipotent sun.

Light from the windows of home emphasized the growing dark. A disconsolate sea boded winds of change. Fretting waves on the shore sounded lifeless, dull and ponderous, they reflected my thoughts. Those who tamper with the enigma of the eternal dust, I groaned inwardly, a line from a Norse saga, repeated itself over and over again, ‘
hang like rooks from a gallows
.’

Darkness closed over my brooding walk to the house. Eilidh waiting at the door, said nothing. She took the disc in her hand without surprise and both in solemn mood, we went into the kitchen. The candle had burnt low, a little smoke curled from its flame.

In the half light her golden hair had shades of a sunset. She turned over the disc. A strange desolation filled her eyes, the sorrow of a last farewell,. “After you went down to the jetty last night I slept for a little, a dream came to me, the sun, a huge circle, slowly shrank to a tiny disc until it disappeared into the western sea.”

She sat at the table polishing the relic until the stains of soil gave way to gold.

And in the dying candlelight her hair outshone its glitter.

The candles had burnt low when a soft knock came to the door. “Eachan?” I said quietly to Eilidh, instantly hopeful he was alive. She shook her head. Rising I opened the door. A shaft of candle light fell obliquely across a tall dark figure standing a little back, “Sorry to bother you, Mr. MacKenzie, ah just wanted to thank you properly for your help with my yacht.” I relaxed, “Come in, come in, you're more than welcome.” Into the dimness of the room the yachtsman stepped, shaking my hand again and from the other offering a bottle of malt, “This is in the way of thanks,” he said, glancing past me to Eilidh. “Ach it didn't need this, but it's very good of you, Mr Anderson, it won't go to waste,” and putting the bottle on the table, was aware he still looked at Eilidh.

This man, tall, rugged and not from a nursery of weaklings was the first stranger to whom I'd introduced Eilidh. His eyes sparkled and Eilidh blushed. I introduced him perhaps a mite too formally, a pang of jealousy in my tone perhaps reached her for she dropped her eyes, saying perhaps rather hastily to cover a little embarrassment, “You'll take a cup of tea, Mr. Anderson?” “Please lady, I'm Andy to my friends.” Eilidh smiled and busied herself at the sink.

To ease the air of discomfort and out of courtesy I reached to the shelf, took down another bottle and two glasses. “You've rowed across, you'll be needing a wee toot of this.” “Sure thing,” and as I poured, “Mind if I call you Hector?” “No, no,” and raising a glass, “here's to us.” “You sure said it, Hector. Say, did I see a solar panel on your roof?” I laughed, and not yet ready to open up a conversation beyond pleasantries, “You did indeed.”

The American swivelled in his chair taking in the whole room, “I kinda like the pad you've got yourselves, kinda reminds me of what my grandfather told me about,” and knocking back his dram, “His father was a Shetlander, had a little farm someplace up there, I aim to find it, got the charts and when I do, I'm gonna build a solar village, maybe start a fish farm. I've an idea for producing power using the osmotic pressure which builds when saltwater passes into fresh water through a membrane. Back home in the States ah saw a model, it really works, scaled up it'll drive a turbine; who in the name of hell needs nuclear energy?” At once I understood, first form science, shell an egg, stick it in salt water overnight and by morning when you make a pin hole a jet of water shoots out. The man wasn't ranting, he was right, harness the pressure from osmosis.

Eilidh set down a plate of oatcake and cheese on the table, “I cook for myself mostly, sure nice to get something from a woman's hand,” and patting her hand, “thanks Eilidh.” A very different style, up front, garrulous and immediately friendly, the Highland nature, reticent, far from disposed to communicate thoughts and feelings; how difficult for cultures to be comfortable together and still, in spite of his forwardness, my first instinct to like the man remained, with reservations. Eilidh seemed less inclined, “You boys will manage the tea, hope you don't think I'm rude,” I noticed she baulked at saying ‘Andy', and squeezing my shoulder, “I'm away to bed.” Anderson rose to his feet and bowing, with a sweep of his arm, “Goodnight, Eilidh.”

Reaching for the bottle he poured out three fingers, a man desperate for company and, I surmised, anxious to unload his problems. After gulping at his drink he surprised me by saying, “America is a backward society, hooked on aimless trivia, fed the mindless anodyne of chat shows and inane movies. It's a society sleep walking towards dystopia on an underbelly of black poverty and a widening wealth gap. The country's run by an unholy amalgam of bonus hungry money lenders screwing the punter and hollering born again Christians keen on military muscle. Stuff international law and the United Nations, to smite is right and you bet it's good for business.”

I paid attention. His words were not common parlance. “Hector, we're seeing the death throws of democracy, it's now a cover for the centralising of power and the hands of financial despots, a hierarchy of power with global tentacles which, by using puppet politicians, aim at total control of the world's diminishing resources, the mining of mineral wealth in particular. Nothing stands in their way, least of all the indigenous people.”

His glass was already empty, “Believe me I've been behind the scenes. Set up puppet governments, who got the Iraq oil industry? The folly of Afghanistan, its pipe lines out of the Caspian basin and another puppet President, as for bribing the Taliban war lords to stop fighting, sad I'd say, didn't the Anglo-Saxon kings of England tax their subjects to bribe the Vikings and hope they'd stay at home? It only worked so long, Danegeld didn't they call it? We tried Georgia, the same idea, pipelines, but it's a harder nut to crack, tailoring foreign policy to suit the financiers.”

Privately agreeing I murmured approval but there was no stopping his vitriolic flow, “and I guess Hector, it'll be the same over here, it's a network of politicians on the board of banks and multinational corporations, all fiddling their expenses whilst the planet burns and at the top of the wealth pile, you've climate change deniers sitting on their fat asses. No sir -they ain't gonna give up their even fatter eight cylinder off road, air conditioned lifestyles.”

I poured tea for him, “Thanks Hec, mind if we have another, what is it you folks say, a wee drap of the cratur?” I winced inwardly. Without waiting for a reply he tipped out half the bottle. The man was covering up some sort of trauma, I began to be concerned, “I tell you, Hector, this goddamn world is splitting along the fault lines of wealth and religious mania and sure as God made li'l ol' apples, when this global warming finally pulls them apart and anarchy breaks out, you'll see the poverty stricken masses strip the fields like locusts. It's then the big boys will emerge. New control methods are being developed by the US military, believe me I know; a lot of it based on mini nuclear technology.” He swallowed half his copious measure in one draught.

How to handle this situation? Getting him back to his yacht looked improbable. Before I mustered a change of subject, he banged the table with his fist, “I'm on the side of solar power, but it won't win the fight. Wind power,” he waved a hand, “not worth a fart, maintenance is too expensive anyway, but this nuclear,” his face became deadly serious, “this nuclear business, it's evil, and believe me pardner, I know, like I really know!”

Thoughts of how to get him out vanished. The briefcase still lay in the bedroom, untouched. “Evil?” I repeated quietly, “Yeah, evil, truly evil, in a way you haven't thought of, yet.” This chap knew more than I'd first suspected. I leant forward, “That's interesting, but evil?”

Swilling the last of his dram round and round, he threw it back with a flourish. Its last drops trickled down his beard, the voice a low growl, “These nuclear guys are planning to hold the world's energy supplies to ransom and have all major politicians by the throat,” his red rimmed eyes glared with hatred, “an ah jest happen to know one side winding pig who means to do it.”

It sounded so ridiculous. I was fascinated, “How is this possible?” Pouring out the remains of the bottle, Anderson swayed back in his chair, “Simple, this enriched stuff is so deadly, a thousand years and it's still a killer,” his words were slowing and slurring, “simple, the man, the man, who controls its production and espeshally the waste storage calls the tune.”

At the word storage I looked at him sharply. “Yeah, Hec- Hector, making the stuff is one thing, not too difficult, I can do that,” he hiccupped loudly, “par, pardon me, production not a problem, but storing its leftovers, like crap it piles up, that don't go nowhere easy. A tricky job, Hec, Hector, that's li.. like, real tricky.” Rocking back and forth, he looked at the door in a way which gave me the impression the man felt in some danger. He seemed to be choosing his words,

“Nuclear terrorists, cyber-security, key codes and all that jazz,” another dismissive wave before speaking with care, “Iran, maybe Yemen, all on the drawing board; they call it stra-strategic planning. Pakistan, the big one, that's to be done a different way.” He struck me as a man privy to more information than might be good for him, a chap who'd broken ranks from the cabal of vested interests and was seeing life from the bottom up with the bitterness of a loser.

His rambles wandered into a spell of cursing some woman. A clenched fist banged the table. That appeared to steady him and bleary eyed he picked up his previous thread. “Libya's a class… classic, jest you wait, I'm a telling you, it's heading thataway. Yah sells a tin god with a chest full of medals a pile of clapped out weapons, maybe a slow plane or two and a heap of tanks, the big boys get the contracts and the lovely black gold pays for a pile of last years weapons, nothing too fancy. Real sweet it is, and when the di..dic…tator steps over the line yah bomb the hell out of him, set up the next guy, sell ‘em another load of pop guns, it sh… sure is a beautiful circle, do those finance wallas love it. But I tell yah, Huh…Hec…Hector you gotta keep the big toys tight at home, like real tight.” The voice droned on, weary and resigned, “Politicians and the nuclear boys need wars to keep on top, great for the economy, don't tell me, I know, terrorists are standard requirement for the nuc…nuclear industry and the little tin soldier politicians, keeps the job going nicely,”

Poor Anderson put his head in his hands as he mumbled, “job going, keep going nicely until that meg.. mega.. megalo..maniac who holds the keys to an international waste dump which could blow the western world off the planet has the crin.. cringing, poli.. politicians by the balls.”

I helped him to an easy chair and went for blankets. As I covered him he looked up, his face made haggard by the contortions which plagued his thoughts, “Thanks Hector,” he reached and shook my hand, “you sure are a lucky guy, lovely girl. Not me, pardner, had my fill of that, me I'm on a mission, and it sure ain't a holy one.” Turning his head, he went straight to sleep.

The croft house of Ach na Mara had an air of detachment. Lying in the porch, his nose on his paws, Rab the old collie looked up but didn’t bark. Used dishes lay in the kitchen sink. Eilidh shook her head sadly. We tapped on the room door and after a moment entered gently. The curtains were drawn. We stood silently. Filtered light imparted a hallowed stillness to the room; the tick, tick of the old fashioned wall clock seemed loud and intrusive. There was no need of time. One lifespan had been measured by the seasons of sow and reap, and on a gathered crop the sun sets but once.