Island of Wings

by Karin Altenberg

  The partying went on throughout the night, but as soon as all the young men had fallen into a deep sleep the New Year broke cruelly into another grey day.

  Afterwards no one could remember that the first day of the year had begun in any particular manner. No one could remember seeing or hearing anything unusual as they went about their business that morning. But then most of them had slept in until after breakfast. One boy called Duncan, who was only nine at the time, had been out early to poke in the dying embers of the bonfire. Later on, when asked by the maor if he had heard or seen anything unusual, Duncan said he had not, but when the maor gave him a rare winter apple and asked him to think harder he said that there had perhaps been a noise as if a giant door had opened and closed far away. As his kin gathered around to hear about the noise, the boy seemed to remember more and more. Had he seen a light as of a great fire in the morning sky? asked one. Oh yes, he suddenly recalled that there had been a strange red light on the horizon. Had he heard a noise like the screaming of thousands and thousands of doomed souls? wondered another, and the boy furrowed his brows until his face lit up with the memory: yes, yes, there was a strange sound as if a lot of people were crying and wailing. So, at the end of the day, the St Kildans were convinced that some unearthly evil had once again settled on their island.

  But that was later. What did happen on that New Year’s Day was this: Anna and another young girl from the clachan called Rachel had set off over the hills to drink from the well they called Tobar nam Buaidh, or the Well of Virtues. It was generally thought that the water from this well could offer good health to anyone who drank from it. Tobar nam Buaidh was over on the north-western side of the island, on Gleann Mòr. The summer pastures of Gleann Mòr lay about a mile from the clachan, and the girls set off just before midday to make it back before the dark. The young friends had much to talk about, as one of the Gillean Calluinne had stolen a kiss from Rachel the previous night. It had been too dark to see who it was, and the girls were left to analyse the event over and over again. As they reached the ridge of Am Blaid they sat down for a while to catch their breath. They scanned the glen below them and one of the girls thought she saw a movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she looked again everything was still and quiet. They soon stood up again and skipped down the hillside into the glen, the thin braids which had escaped from under their woollen head scarves whipping around their necks. As they reached the well, hand in hand, they were flustered and breathless and they were giggling so hard that they could hardly stand . Rachel dropped into a hopeless heap by the side of the well, while Anna held on to her jaw, which was hurting madly from all the laughter. Suddenly Anna cried out and pointed at the ground. Strange footprints were scattered in the mud at the opening to the well. They looked fresh, but the shape was peculiar, as one foot seemed to be much larger than the other. In fact, one of the prints did not look like a human foot at all. This seemed odd as they had not seen anybody on their way to the glen. Nor had they spotted any animals on this side of the island. They looked around but could see nothing. Anna felt uneasy, but Rachel laughed and said she was silly and soon the two of them were drinking greedily from the cool clear water of the well. As they left their offerings to the spirit of the well, a couple of pretty shells which they had gathered by the head of Village Beach earlier in the day, Anna prayed earnestly for the spirits to keep her and her family and the manse-folk from illness throughout the year. Rachel, on the other hand, asked the well to make her pretty and make her breasts grow. ‘You can’t ask that of the spirits!’ Anna gasped. ‘They will get angry with you – the Tobar nam Buaidh offers health, not beauty!’ ‘Oh, Anna, don’t be such a spoilsport. I can ask for whatever I want,’ said the plain girl, whose chest was still flat and whose nose was rather too large for her face. ‘Anything I want!’

  ‘No, you can’t!’

  ‘I can!’ she cried, and looked up at Anna with cool grey eyes. ‘It is possible to change for the better. The minister says so.’

  ‘The minister speaks of our souls.’

  ‘I would much rather be pretty than soulful.’

  ‘But if your soul is bad, there is no frippery in the world that can make you bonny.’ Anna stroked her knuckles as she remembered only too well the impact of the minister’s words.

  ‘I’m sure there is a way around it,’ muttered Rachel, who realised she had to rely on her wits.

  ‘But you have got such pretty hair.’ It was the best Anna could muster.

  ‘Aye, well, I was born with it,’ Rachel admitted. ‘But your eyes are much nicer than mine. They are so blue.’

  ‘They are only blue in certain lights,’ Anna begged, afraid that the colour of her eyes would somehow stand in the way of their friendship.

  Rachel did not say anything but dug a hole in the mud with her scruffy boot.

  ‘Your hair really is very pretty,’ said Anna again to make up, but it was too late. The good mood of a moment ago was destroyed. As they started the long journey back across the hill they walked separately, Rachel a couple of steps ahead of Anna, both girls’ eyes fixed moodily on the ground. They walked on for a while until Anna tried again. ‘Anyway, that boy, whoever he was, kissed you last night. Nobody kissed me.’

  ‘It was probably so dark he didn’t know who he was kissing,’ came the furious answer.

  Anna sighed. It was getting late and she wanted to get back to the clachan while they could still see their way. As they reached the top of the glen she turned to look back at the bay far below. Suddenly she froze and cried out.

  Rachel turned around. ‘What?’ she said irritably. But Anna couldn’t speak; she just pointed into the valley below, and as Rachel followed her finger and looked hard into the dark she saw a faint light flickering in and out of focus. ‘What is it?’ she whispered hoarsely and drew nearer to Anna. ‘I don’t know,’ Anna breathed, ‘but it seems to be coming from the Amazon’s House.’ At the mention of the Amazon’s House the two girls looked at each other, their argument forgotten. No one had lived in the Amazon’s House since the time of the ancestors. It was a strange round building which did not look anything like their own houses. Legend said that it had once been home to a female warrior, a Bana-ghaisgeach, who was feared by all the men in the Hebrides and who used to hunt deer on the great, storm-swept plain that connected Hirta to the Long Isle back in the Young Age. The girls suddenly remembered the strange footprints at the well. Anna was shivering hard, but Rachel grabbed her hand and started running towards the clachan.

  As they entered the clachan there was great commotion and no one would stop to listen to what the girls had to say. A cleit had been broken into and robbed, it turned out. And no one had noticed anything, not even the dogs! Theft was almost unheard of amongst the St Kildans. Things did not get better when it was understood that the cleit belonged to the widow Mary MacCrimmon, whose husband had fallen over the cliffs on a winter’s day many years previously. It was not just food that was missing but Mr MacCrimmon’s old clothes, which Mary had kept just in case.

  At last Anna and Rachel got to tell their tale. The girls were pale and shaken. Anna was sobbing lightly, but Rachel was cool and composed. On hearing what they had to tell, MacKinnon the maor ordered everybody to keep indoors and sprinkle water on their livestock and on the threshold of their houses. He said he would question anyone who had been out and about that day and asked them to ransack their minds for any information that might cast light on the strange events of the day. It was once he had heard the tales of young Duncan that he decided to go to the minister.

  ‘Nonsense!’ cried Mr MacKenzie, and slammed his fist on his desk; a strand of dark hair fell into his eyes.

  ‘But, sir . . .’ MacKinnon stood miserably, his cap in his hands.

  ‘No, man, I will have no more talk about spirits, whether good or evil, in this house!’

  ‘But, minister, you do not underst
and.’ MacKinnon tried again. ‘The girls saw the light in the Taigh na Bana-ghaisgeach and old MacCrimmon’s ghost has come back to claim his possessions.’ The maor was sweating. ‘Do you not see what it means?’

  ‘No, MacKinnon, I do not see what it means!’ The minister’s face was alight with anger. ‘You go back to the clachan and tell the people to pray to our Lord whenever they fear the dark, but I am tired of warning you not to provoke His anger with your pagan mischief!’

  ‘But the boy Duncan said he heard a sound as like the opening of a great iron portal and the cries of wretched souls crying in pain.’

  ‘Then I suggest you give the boy Duncan a good talking-to and explain what our Lord thinks of liars.’ The minister’s voice sounded dangerous as he stood up to face MacKinnon. ‘You are a sound man, MacKinnon. Surely you do not believe in this primitive nonsense.’

  MacKinnon looked at the floor and shook his head slowly.

  ‘You are leading your kin into the new age.’ The minister had placed a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder and his voice was calmer now. ‘We are building a new village, are we not? Well then, you know as well as I do that if there is a thief on the island it is one of us and we must pray to God to help us find the evil that is in our midst. Satan is not a beast who hobbles on one leg – he is an evil who finds his way into the souls of sinners.’

  ‘Aye, minister,’ the maor muttered almost inaudibly, but he was not convinced. He knew what he knew, and he could not turn away from this knowledge, not even to please God. He knew that his kin would not steal on the night of A’Callainn, and he knew that no one would light a fire in the Taigh na Bana-ghaisgeach unless they wanted to provoke the ancestors. This minister who preached of a different kind of good and evil, the approved kind, was trying to extract the old beliefs, to pull out the mythology of the island until it bled at the roots.

  As he left the manse MacKinnon met Mrs MacKenzie in the doorway. She smiled at him and nodded as she started to remove her mittens and headscarf. He stopped for a second and looked her in the eye before hurrying on down the path to the clachan. Mrs MacKenzie glanced after him for a moment before going into her husband’s study.

  ‘I have been down to the clachan to see Betty, Neil.’ She could tell by his back that he was angry.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Anna is in a terrible state; she and a friend saw some very frightening things on Gleann Mòr this afternoon.’

  ‘Do you believe the hysterical tales of some young girls? Especially Anna, who lied to us so shamelessly after stealing the rug.’ He turned quickly and stared at her. ‘Perhaps you will be tearing the wings off birds next and gouging out their eyes!’ She was close at hand so it was at her he vented his frustration.

  Lizzie looked at her husband in disbelief, but when she answered her voice was strong and slow. ‘But they are afraid, Neil, and we should take their word for it. They know this island – we do not.’

  ‘I command this island!’ The force and arrogance of his remark surprised him. He winced and was just about to make a joke to soften the stupid claim when she said in a tired voice, ‘You have changed, Neil.’

  He felt anger and frustration rise inside him again. What did she mean? The tone of her voice had hurt him more than the nature of her remark. How dare she!

  She left the room before he could answer. Once she had put the children to bed she locked the front door. For a minute she stood by the windows, looking into the frosty darkness outside and wondering what treachery dwelt beyond the night and what, if anything, she could dare not to believe.

  The island huddled under the signs of evil. Hail as big as fulmar eggs fell over the clachan and destroyed the winter thatch of a widow’s roof; the water in the burns turned to blood at dusk; a child was born with a split lip and died a few days later, her face distorted and twisted like the Devil’s. The nights rang with strange and terrible noises – dark airs that terrified and hurt. Many thought they recognised the haunting sound of the opening of a great gate and the screams of purgatory. Their dreams were of death by water and tides rising into great flood waves. They woke from their dreams crying.

  Young and old prayed for salvation, each to their own God. But as the black month rolled on there was no sign that their prayers were answered.

  On a cold morning in late January Neil MacKenzie strode darkly against the bright sky towards the summit of Oiseval. He climbed briskly past a headland where a sleek stream suddenly lost its foothold and fell, abandoned, into the sea in a thin, glittering waterfall. From above it looked like a string of saliva extending from the slack mouth of the huge, aged rock. Nothing could grow on the fell, which was exposed to the ruthless battering of the sea. The wind and the salt spray had made the ground as barren as a desert. When he reached the summit he stopped for a while and looked out to sea. He wore a dark tweed cloak that batted and flapped in the clear, wintery air, and there was no heat in the pale sunshine that fell on his bare head. The wind spoke to him and he answered back into the vast emptiness of the Atlantic. He could see no life; the sky was too immense, too blue, and the extravagance of it was almost perverse. ‘I wonder . . .’ he said into the space where his was the only existence. ‘No, no, I do not have the answer.’ And then, as if answering the call from the west, ‘What? What did you say?’ But it did not matter. He sighed and walked on because he knew he must blame his sins for his predicament. Things were not going his way any more. He was losing his grip. He had forced faith into the souls of the St Kildans, he was sure of it, and still they sank back into popery, lies and theft as soon as the elements were against them. Will they not be bettered by civilised association? Will they remain creatures beyond the pale of humanity? No, no, he must not despair! They suffer from a nervous disposition; their minds are weak, that is all, he told himself. Education will strengthen their minds like medicine strengthens the body. At once he felt better. And the truth was that, despite his brief spells of doubt, besides his feelings of guilt and all the setbacks and disappointments, he still believed that he was doing the right thing. Yes, he was convinced that he was doing good. God may well present him with repeated challenges, but the Lord had rewarded him with two children who lived and grew, and one more on the way. Yes, he was blessed. But there was that other concern. He had sensed it lately and could not master it. His Lizzie seemed to have grown distant. On several occasions she had turned away from him – his own wife refusing him, preventing him from doing his duty to God and procreation, preventing him from taking his pleasure. Not now, she had said; give me some peace. Peace! He spat the word at the wind. Ah, the humiliation! Did she expect him to swallow it just like that? Aye, let her be cold towards him, let her be as dry as a stick! He had another fire burning inside him now, he would put the wild waters in roar, he would succeed in his mission.

  But as he turned to follow the path along the ridge of Oiseval he remembered the beauty of her temples and the delicate bones in her hands as she held them to his face, for how could he forget the only emotions that he had no way of expressing? How could he find words to describe the feeling of her living so vividly, so warmly, inside him? And from the far side of his secret grief he realised that he was partly to blame. They were no longer united through tenderness or intimacy but by the island itself – because there was nothing else. He had not allowed them to share anything else. He wanted to explain to her that the only words of love that he dared speak were the names of their children, but in order to be so brave – so honest – he would have to let his guard down. In the end it was because of his weakness that he chose to increase the distance between them.

  As he reached Bearradh na h-Eige he stepped up to the edge of the cliff and looked down the vertical drop into the sea six hundred feet below. How different this place was now compared to in summer, when the fulmars would be skimming the rocks on stiff wings, crucified between the sea and the sky, or sailing the turbulence with brea
thtaking skill and elegance. He lay down flat on his stomach and looked over the edge into the clear sea. Far below, the swell sighed in and out of the caves. As he stared into the clear green waters he saw the dark shape of a killer whale. The silent predator was gliding towards a group of young grey seals, some of whom had not yet shed their snow-white puppy skins. They were oblivious to the threat as they played amongst the sea caves and underwater rocks. How amazing to be allowed to watch nature from above. Is this how God looks down upon us? he wondered. He watched with a dispassionate interest as the killer whale closed in on its young prey. They looked tiny from such a high distance; it was like a pike hunting a perch. He suddenly felt an overpowering urge to intervene and save the seals and cried out in a wordless ‘Arghh!’ His hands clawed at the rough ground about him until they found a small rock which he hurled over the edge of the cliff. It fell heavily while time stood still – life was suspended – and hit the surface with a distant splash just as the whale went in for the kill. Blood clouded the clear water as the seal was torn apart. He felt empty, and slumped with his face against the stone.

  There was a strange sound which increased as he strained his ears against the wind. First the distant baying of a dog, and then he heard it again. A moaning song, eerie and sad on this clear day, it started like a whisper from far away but increased in strength into a faint, broken-hearted choir. The minister froze and made the sign of the cross; he remembered the boy Duncan’s tale of the crying souls in purgatory. Was he going mad? Had God truly abandoned him? He crawled back to the edge of the cliff and braced himself for what he might see in the bloodied waters. At first he saw nothing; the killer whale was gone and the sea had cleared, but as he looked closer to the shore he suddenly saw them: hundreds of seals had appeared from the caves and were dotted over the sharp rocks by the steep shore. Stirred from their slumber by the struggle, they had all emerged to sing an elegy for one of their lost sons. Their song would sometimes resemble the strong high notes and airs of a single pipe; at other times the cacophony of voices would join in a strange harmony that echoed in the caves and see-sawed like a pibroch over the still Atlantic. More and more seals joined in the sad lament as the voices of their kin summoned them from caves all along the shore. And the minister, his broken heart longing for the sea and his face washed with tears, remembered the lone piper who had played as his own kin embarked on the ship to Canada, and he realised that humankind was indeed closer to nature than he had ever understood.