Return To Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Ruth, still in her dressing gown, her hair unbrushed, threw Shona a look of desperation. ‘I’ll never be ready in time,’ she wailed. ‘Lorna needs changing and it will take ages to get her into that robe. She might start crying again and be sick all over it and I’ve still to get myself ready.’

  ‘And do you think I came over early just to sit and twiddle my thumbs?’ Shona scolded. ‘Upstairs with you this minute, I’ll get her ready.’

  With everyone dispersed the kitchen was quiet and peaceful and Shona quickly set about clearing the table before she turned her attention on the baby. When Shona went to lift her she was warm and drowsy and smelt of rosewater which Ruth had sprinkled into her morning bath. Shona carried her to the inglenook and sat to cuddle her for a few precious minutes. A pair of bright eyes fastened on her face and scrutinized her in some puzzlement.

  ‘No, I’m not your mother,’ Shona said and drew in her breath. ‘Oh God, I wish I were, if you were mine I might not feel so lonely every time your Uncle Niall has to be away.’

  She lifted the baby up and tucked the downy head under her chin. The feel of the trusting infant against her breast was rapture; the rapture of petal soft skin, of tiny grunts and gurgles; of soft hair that tickled and little fists that innocently touched whatever they would. Shona wanted only to sit all day in the inglenook at Laigmhor holding Ruth’s baby and with a sigh she rose to fetch the robe from the wooden clothes horse where it had been warming by the fire. Some minutes later she laid the baby down to straighten out the yards of exquisite material and as she admired she felt that this must surely be Ellie lying there waiting to be carried to kirk, small hands carelessly grasping the lacy sleeves; big blue eyes adoring the patterns of light dazzling off the brass ornaments by the fire. Ellie had been the last McKenzie to wear the robe and it seemed to Shona as if the clock had been turned back to those happy hours she had spent with her baby daughter . . .

  Ruth came into the room, lovely in her youth, her sun-bleached hair framing her sweet face, her pale skin showing to advantage the pink dress she was wearing.

  ‘You look a treat,’ Shona said warmly, ‘I have never seen you looking more bonny and no wonder, you have the world at your feet this beautiful morning.’ She paused. ‘Is your father coming?’

  ‘Ay, he is that, he’s so proud of his granddaughter he wouldn’t miss her christening for anything. Grannie and Granda will be there too, so Father asked old Sorcha to sit with Mam. She’s a tough old lady and as deaf as a post so anything Mam says will just go over her head.’

  ‘Does your mother know her grandchild is being christened this morning?’

  ‘Ay, we told her but she didn’t seem to take it in – she just went upstairs to sit beside the cradle and rock it – poor Mam,’ she added gently, her violet eyes full of sympathy. ‘She is living in her own wee world now.’

  After that everyone came crowding into the kitchen at the one time and it was a happy procession that walked through the sunny glen to the kirk on the Hillock. Bob joined them on the way, a grand old Highland gentleman in his kilt and tweed jacket, his white hair brushed, his beard combed smooth, a Sgian Dubh tucked into the thick cream woollen hose which covered his sturdy calves, his brown knotted hand resting lightly on the carved bone handle of his shepherd’s crook.

  ‘God, man, you’re a bonny sight,’ Fergus greeted him. ‘You’ve excelled yourself this Sabbath.’

  ‘Ach well, it’s no’ every day we get a new minister,’ Bob grunted dourly, reserve not allowing him to admit that he had made the effort to dress up for the christening, though his old eyes softened at sight of the baby with her clean new little face peeping out from her lace bonnet. ‘Forbye, it’s time my kilt had an airing. It’s lain in the kist so long the hairs on the sporran have grown an inch!’

  The kirk bell was tolling out, reverberating through the moors and glens, and folk were emerging from croft and cottage, a stiffness in their bearing suggesting collars hard with starch and corsets laced too tightly, combining with the instinct of never to be seen slouching or hurrying on the Sabbath. Phebie and Lachlan came along in time to hear the subdued laughter which greeted Bob’s whimsical words and everyone was in a good humour when they arrived at the kirk gate.

  Here Dugald, Jim Jim and Isabel were waiting, Jim Jim pulling disgustedly at cuffs so saturated in starch they were like celluloid; Isabel scolding him from the side of her mouth; Dugald, thin face rather serious under his mop of white hair, smiling nervously at Ruth who went quickly to his side to show him the baby decked in all her finery.

  Rachel and Jon joined them, the latter smart in a dark suit, his young wife sophisticated in a well-cut, olive-green two piece with a scrap of green and black velvet perched on her raven curls.

  Raising her head she found herself looking into Lorn’s eyes. He was strikingly handsome in his dark suit, his white shirt a startling contrast to his bronzed skin. His hair had been carefully brushed but had fallen back into its natural curl; the sunlight shone through it, laving it with copper. The sky was wide and blue that day and found its mirror in his eyes. Rachel was about to lower hers when he smiled at her, a strange, sympathetic smile that was like a balm to her spirit.

  Since rising that morning, Shona’s thoughts had been filled with the disappointment of Niall’s failure to return the night before and she was glad that she had Ellie by her side, the cool comfort of the small hand in hers bringing her immeasurable comfort. As Kate had predicted, the kirk was filled to capacity that glorious morning in June. Sunbeams slanted through the windows, the scent of roses mingled with the aroma of mint which the old folks liked to suck during the sermon though there was always the odd one rustling surreptitiously from a roomy pocket.

  Totie Little was at the organ, puffing slightly as her feet worked the pedals, trying to keep the squeaking of them to a minimum so that they wouldn’t be heard above the music, her flushed face made redder still by the ruby light filtering through the only stained glass window the kirk boasted, gifted by a member of the Balfour family.

  The laird, his wife and sons, were sitting in their pew near the front, the eldest boy, dark haired and good looking, still a bachelor at twenty-six, ogled slyly by several young women with whom he amused himself during his spells at home, gaining himself a reputation as a womanizer as his grandfather had been before him; the younger son, quiet and thoughtful, his rangy form hunched awkwardly on the uncomfortable pew, studying with deep interest the beautiful peacock feather which sprouted proudly from old Isabel’s hat, sighing a little as his thoughts began to wander, taking him far over the grouse moors with his dogs and his beaters beside him – more than six weeks to go till August twelfth – still – they would pass . . .

  Babbie’s bright head stood out against Anton’s fair one and Shona threw her a smile as she passed which Babbie answered with a mock yawn, hastily stifled, conveying the message that she had sacrificed her Sunday lie-in to be there that day.

  With birdsong pouring in through the open door, scents of sea and moor strong in the air, a bumblebee in the flowers on the chancel table, it was a time to rejoice in the glories of summer. Robbie Beag thought so too as he came respectfully inside, straightening the crease of his best trousers into which he had hastily changed after a morning spent poaching the Burnbreddie Estate. There he had roamed most of his working life, acting as ghillie, half-heartedly chasing the rabbit catchers and the trout baggers who, unrepentant, shared their spoils with him at the end of the day. Now he was retired and delighting in participating in the pursuits he had so often envied. At his back came Tam McKinnon and Fingal McLeod, boldly slipping into their places, ignoring the meaningful looks thrown at them from their womenfolk. But Robbie was possessed of a gentler nature and his expression was hangdog as he took his place by his sister’s side, her glare of outrage though only glimpsed, enough to make him redden and stare down soulfully at his boots which he had forgotten to polish. He gulped, hoping that Behag wouldn’t notice the scuff marks. On the
other side of him, Barra suppressed a smile into her hanky, nudged him and passed him a mint imperial which he took in his sweaty palm, lifted his thumb to see what it was, turned to nod his smiling thanks, and slipped it into his mouth in the pretence of stifling a cough.

  Lachlan got up to shut the door, resuming his seat as the coughings and rustlings died away, coinciding with the opening of the side door to admit the Reverend Mark James, facing his congregation for the first time. Dressed in his robes, his face clean cut above his snow white collar, he looked the epitome of strength and confidence. For a long time his eyes raked the sea of faces before him, one thumb hooked into the folds of his gown, the palm of his other hand resting lightly on the open Bible on its stand above the chancel steps. The silence stretched, during which Lorna Morag chuckled and old Joe choked so violently on a mint he had to have his back discreetly thumped by Todd the Shod. The tension mounted inside the little kirk and quite a few folk began to fidget.

  Fergus fumbled with his shirt collar, pulling the tautness of it away from his skin; Ellie watched him anxiously, wondering if she had made his tie too tight; Kirsteen examined her hands lying on her lap and noted that one of the nails was broken; the Rev. John Grey blew his nose so loudly one or two children tittered.

  Phebie sat with her eyes closed, thinking about Fiona, wishing that she was there that day; Lachlan nudged her and her eyes flew open to see his amused sidelong grin; Dugald stared at his shiny black shoes and wondered how old Sorcha was coping with Morag; Rachel kept her hand tightly in Jon’s and wished the ceremony was over; Jim Jim was making faces at his entranced great-grandchild and glowered at Isabel in pained surprise when she poked him in the ribs and made a warning face.

  Shona felt herself growing hot. In a mild panic she wondered if the minister was at a loss to know how to begin. He looked so erect, so composed, yet his hands were not quite as still as they seemed, his fingers were working against his cloth, the hand that lay on the Bible trembled slightly. He looked so alone, divorced from the throng by a matter of a few feet, the chaste light lying mellow across his face, smoothing out its angular lines. His eyes were roaming from face to face, studying them, taking them in, remembering them, then they came to rest directly on Shona, as if he had at last found someone who was familiar to him and she felt herself to be bathed in a tranquil glow. A tiny half-smile crooked the corners of his mouth and her heart quivered, knowing it was for her alone. She was embarrassed by the intimacy of the moment and a flush of burning shame stained her neck, making her glad that she had arranged her hair in a way that hid it. It was wrong – wrong to read anything but innocence into the look but she couldn’t deny that the small new awakening he had aroused in her at their first meeting came more alive that morning.

  He held out his hands then, in a gesture that seemed to gather the entire congregation to his bosom, and his smile deepened, setting lines of laughter about his eyes.

  ‘This morning I feel that I am a very privileged and lucky man, he began, the mellow fruitfulness of his deep tones reaching every corner without detracting from the peace that lay over the ancient stones. ‘On this beautiful day I come to you as a stranger but I hope, when this service is over, I will say goodbye to you as a friend, I need your friendship, just as surely as I need my God to sustain me when I am alone – and we are all alone at some time in our lives . . .’ He paused and gazed around, the smoky enchantment of his eyes beguiling the young girls, fascinating the children, comforting the old. He had charm all right, Mark James, but it was a clean, clear forthright charm.

  When he finished speaking, everyone rose to sing the first hymn and the rafters fairly reverberated with the heartfelt strains.

  The christening party were called to the font, Rachel carrying the precious infant, a picture in her satin robe, ruby light staining the peach of her cheeks, eyes, big, blue, gazing with wonder at the stiff peacock feather adorning old Isabel’s hat, small fists punching the air, gurgling and smiling all the way to the font.

  Rachel was taut, the roses in her face deepening to crimson as she felt all eyes to be upon her, draining her, robbing her of all the little affectations she had acquired in the city. Her legs trembled, her dark eyes were wide and apprehensive. To speak – oh to speak – just once, to hear the Baptismal Vows issuing from her lips and not from the voice inside her brain. Lorn and Ruth were repeating their vows, Ruth too young looking to be a mother, her fluffy flaxen hair, her small-boned body, giving her the appearance of a little girl pretending to be grown up; Lorn, tall, erect, his frown of concentration not marring the clean moulding of his face or the intense clearness of his shadowed eyes. The congregation then stood to repeat its vows on behalf of the child, and as Rachel handed the baby to the minister she glanced up to see his eyes upon her, lazy yet penetrating, piercing her soul with serenity. Looking up she caught Jon’s encouraging smile and the day that had started so uncertainly for her became charged with sunlight.

  The minister was blessing the child and the kirk was hushed; fingers of sunlight silvered the heads of the old folk and burnished the heads of the young; from the edge of the moors a lapwing piped; nearer at hand a curlew bubbled in glorious adoration of the sun-laved seas lapping the shores . . .

  The rattling of the stout wooden door fell like a blasphemy on everyone’s ears, making them start in fright. The rattling was followed by a hideous screeching which curdled the blood and tingled the spine of everyone there. Mark James paused in his ministrations and looked through the dust-filled sunrays to the door. The kirk seemed to hold its breath and there was a dreadful tension-filled silence. Again the warped and ill-fitting door was pulled and rattled viciously then slowly it began to scrape back, squealing agonizingly where it rubbed over the top step.

  Lachlan half rose, poised ready to intercept the intruder. Rachel’s face turned pale, but not as pale as Ruth who was staring petrified at the door, as if she knew what was about to happen. Dugald stepped quickly to her side, his thin hand kneading her shoulder, conveying a reassurance he didn’t feel.

  ‘Mercy on us,’ muttered Isabel to Jim Jim. ‘It canny be, oh, God, it canny be – no’ this day – oh, dear God – no’ this day o’ all days.’

  A final tug brought the door fully open and Morag Ruadh stood framed in the arched aperture, a wild-eyed dishevelled figure, her hair standing in red spikes around her head, her sunken chest rising and falling with each painful breath, her pinched nostrils dilated. She had dressed hurriedly, creeping away to her room the minute she knew old Sorcha to be sound asleep in her chair. Her black skirt was twisted, longer at the back than the front, her tight corset showed broken bones where it stretched across her belly, a black cardigan was folded across her bosom, held together by a safety pin, her thin legs, bare and pallid, were stuck into brown brogues with the laces undone. It was a far cry from the neat and decorous Morag of old, but at least she had dressed.

  Yet nothing so subtle penetrated the shocked horror in Dugald’s consciousness and the hand that clutched Ruth’s shoulder tightened convulsively. She was incapable of movement, unable to make any gesture of comfort towards him. The fair pallor of her skin had flamed to a fiery red, her pupils were the colour of black grapes. The June sun poured over Morag, glinting into her hair, finding the red flecks in her strange green eyes. Behind her stretched the sun-cosseted fields, the tranquil heat-hazed moors.

  Not one person in kirk that morning had eyes for the view beyond the door. Everyone was staring at Morag, wondering what had brought her here, what she intended to do. She was behaving in a frightening manner, her nails scrabbling viciously at the door jamb, as if she was trying to make some lasting impression on it, her lips were working but no sound was coming, just a high wailing moan that plunged the bravest heart into abject fear. Yet she was a figure of pathos, a poor demented soul adrift in a hellish half world where there was no hope, only despair, deep and dark.

  The Rev. Mark James, standing with Lorna in his arms, recognized Morag’s dreadful sta
te of mind. He had already heard about her, how she had once worshipped God in this very kirk, had played the organ every Sabbath without fail. Compassion overruled the slight feeling of repugnance that the sight of her had invoked in him. This was her grandchild he held in his arms. Dugald had told him about his wife, had explained why she couldn’t attend the ceremony but he hadn’t immediately collated this demented creature with local description and the sketchy gentle one of Dugald’s.

  Mark James strove to collect his thoughts. The congregation were looking agitated, some of the children were beginning to cry quietly. The only sounds to break the silence were the rustling of clothing and the horrible continuing notes issuing from Morag’s throat. He handed the baby back to Rachel and murmured a few words in Dugald’s ear. Dugald’s white head nodded automatically and slowly he began to make for the door. Morag came shambling towards him, her lips stretched wide in a leering grimace, her whole being intent on reaching the font where the christening party stood. Dugald’s hands reached out to her but she pushed him away, her bearing tense and pouncing, reminding the more imaginative of the Seanachaidh’s tales woven round the dark mysterious legends of witches.

  But it was no legend who sprung forward like a cat, one long finger raking the air, pointing at Rachel with the baby in her arms.

  ‘You’ve taken my babby!’ Vindictively she hurled the words at Rachel. ‘I want her, she’s mine, she’s mine, Rachel McKinnon, and you will no’ take her from me! You were aye a queer one! Satan himself sits on your shoulders and though you may be dumb you speak wi’ your eyes – things that no mortal body wants to hear! Ay, the de’il was in you from the start but you will no’ sacrifice my babby to that evil house – oh no! She’s mine! She’s my Ruth, and I want her back. She will never grow to be like you, oh no, I will teach her no’ to let any man tarnish her purity!’