‘Don’t you think I have tried?’ Lizzie flared up but settled quickly again. ‘I just can’t seem to get through. Solano, on the other hand –’ she looked up to see if Betty had registered the secret of the name, but the younger woman seemed unperturbed – ‘he let me come close. His passions are different and he was not ashamed to make me feel his heat. He looked at me and made me feel wanted and alive. And now I have lost him too.’ Lizzie could feel a tide of anguish rising inside her. But then, does it not hurt the sea when it rasps against the beach? she thought. What is my ache in comparison to the pain as it wears itself thin against the pebbles on the shore – or the agony of the nestling as it pushes out of its jagged shell or of the bud on the hawthorn bush as it bursts raw into the cold air?
Betty looked at Lizzie’s closed face with eyes full of concern. ‘You must think of your children. All this talk of you wanting to be this and wanting to be that – what about them needing their mother to be jolly and strong?’
Lizzie looked up in revelation, as if the thought had just dawned on her. ‘O God, what have I done?’ At last she started crying.
‘Shh, it is not easy, I know. But this is your life now. You must try to come to terms with it.’
‘But how?’
‘It is not for me to say. You need to find out for yourself. We all do.’
Lizzie woke by the hearth where she had fallen asleep. The fire had gone out and the room was cold and damp. She could only just make out the sleeping forms of Betty and Calum in the recess in the earthen wall. Quietly so as not to waken them she pulled on her clothes, which had been placed across the tallan to dry. They were still damp and there was a bad smell around them as of greasy fleece. She stepped out into the brisk dawn. It was very early and no one was about in the clachan. A single gull moaned overhead – it may have been chasing through the sky all night. There was a strong wind from the sea and Lizzie abandoned herself to it, letting it reset her features into a recognisable face.
*
Neil, inconsolable, had been up all night preparing a speech for her. He had been writing to her, letting his failings take shape as he added word upon word until they flowed into sentences like rivers across a great plain. His desk was strewn with crumpled, discarded paper. How carefully he had been perfecting his redemption! But as he looked out the window and saw her crossing the glebe, her face so white in the drab morning, it all vanished and he was repulsed by himself anew. Yet he somehow found the courage to walk out to meet her, bringing a warm coat because she looked so cold.
Lizzie looked up, startled, as he came towards her. She stopped and appeared as if she would turn, but he said her name softly and she stayed. Cautiously, as if approaching a wild animal, he walked up to her and reached out, arms straight, to put the coat over her shoulders. She tensed but let it happen. She was shivering and kept her arms crossed over her chest, pretending it was the cold.
He spoke first. ‘Lizzie, why . . . ?’ But it came out like an accusation rather than a plea and he had to start again. ‘This island, it is deforming us – me,’ he quickly corrected himself. A memory raced through his head – the scent of the tanned skin of her neck on a summer’s eve. ‘We must not let it enter our hearts in this manner.’ Why, he wondered, were they no longer able to share the simple gifts that the island offered: the intense deepening of the skies reflected in a tarn, the blinding splendour of the summer dawn across the sea, the streaks of fulmars sailing home from the west on the rays of the setting sun?
She had not been prepared for this and did not know how to react.
‘Can it be repaired?’ he asked, and the dread filled the morning air around them.
‘I don’t know, I just don’t know, but we must try.’ Her voice was surprisingly steady.
He opened his arms to her and as he embraced her he lifted his eyes over her head to the summit of Conachair, as if expecting to see their love still walking there, hand in hand. Suddenly, as he scanned the top of their island world, something seemed to fall from heaven – or was it just a gannet diving out of the sky for the first catch of the day?
1836
When she had a moment to herself Lizzie would sometimes make her way to the little graveyard which had been fashioned out of a piece of land on the gentle slope above Village Bay. Today she had brought a bunch of snowdrops which she had picked in the manse garden. She had woken early that morning out of a dream that was full of light. The dark bedchamber had still been intense with the relief she felt every new day when she woke up knowing that her children were alive.
Now as she crouched by the low, grassy mound that marked the grave of the twins she was struck by how exposed people became when their children entered into the world. She was powerless in the face of the love she felt towards her own children, but she had to carry on in spite of this crippling vulnerability. She knew she could keep them safe only by keeping the fear alive.
A while after the stranger left the island she had given birth to a little daughter – they had called her Jane, after one of the twins they had lost. Lizzie smiled now as she remembered a moment the previous summer when she had been feeding the baby – a blackbird had sung in the hawthorn by the open door, and as Lizzie had looked into the face of the nuzzling infant she was certain the baby was listening to the song. A true daughter of the island of birds!
Eliza was very excited to have a baby sister, but James Bannatyne, whose world was still confined to the manse and the glebe, seemed a bit confused about the newcomer. One day he had found the shell of a kittiwake egg by the garden wall and brought it to Lizzie and asked if they could not put Jane back inside. What view of the world will my children get here? she wondered. She remembered the scents and colours of her own childhood, the smell of the broom in the valleys and the gleam of dew on the gorse. And the way the approaching rain would bring the smell of lush green regeneration. It was strange to think that her children had never felt the fresh smell of budding trees. Here every green smell was tinged with blue. The deep breath of the sea defined their senses. The mists brought salt distilled from the waves of the Atlantic, and when she looked closely at her children’s smooth faces she saw lines of salt crystals in the fine down above their eyes and lips. At times she feared that the sea was slowly eating into the core of them. Sometimes she would worry about what the children would think of the outside world – their landscape here amongst the towering rocks was vertical rather than horizontal, and they were sure to get quite dizzy when they set foot on the mainland. But such a scenario seemed so unlikely. Their entire world was here. Lizzie put a hand to her stomach and felt the swelling of yet another pregnancy.
She placed the snowdrops on the kind grass and blew into her hands. The dark months had not quite loosened their grip of the island yet, and the wind was raw. On days like these the grey hills and soaked valleys were numb and motionless – only the skies moved. At other times the island was so alive that the sky struggled to contain it.
Absent-mindedly she picked up the flowers again and divided them into two bunches. She rested on her knees and looked around the enclosure. Nathaniel, the first born, first dead, was also buried here somewhere, but his grave had not been marked. She could feel the old anxiety coming over her and struggled to keep it at bay. Looking closely at one of the snowdrops she could see the tiny green footprints at its core, from which three white petals fell like tears.
Some days she could feel them on the wind – like dry leaves they rustled past. Some nights when the wind settled she would put her ear to the wall and listen for them on the other side: for her dead children – and for him. With her husband sleeping beside her she would strain for a sound in the dark silence that would remind her of happiness.
But over time she had learned to let her thoughts be light on the wind that blew and blew. She didn’t let them weigh down her head into darkness. Light as feathers, heavy as peat.
The Manse at Hirta, May 1836
To The Most Venerable Dr MacDonald of Ferintosh
Forgive me, Preceptor (or dare I say friend?), for delaying writing to you for so long. Believe me when I say that I have not forgotten my mentor. On the contrary, I often call on your wisdom and advice in my prayers (without ever neglecting to be grateful for His supreme advice, naturally). How I wish that you were nearer so that I could sometimes speak to you about my most pressing concerns.
I have been very busy these last few years. You may remember that I told you in my last letter that I had decided to move the village and reform the farming system on the island. This reform is now well under way and the earthly lives of my people are much improved. I have also had to deal with the care and accommodation of a number of shipwrecked crews and the birth of a daughter. Jane is now a year old! I now have three children on earth and three in heaven – a cruel symmetry – and although I know I ought to worry about the perfection of the living ones, the dead ones weigh heavier on my conscience. But forgive me for such talk of simple private matters. You need not remind me, Preceptor, that I have received a call from God and from the poor people of St Kilda and that my parish and myself are bound to one another in bonds of love.
I mentioned that the physical lives of the St Kildans have greatly improved. However, I am afraid I am still struggling with their spiritual redemption. Notwithstanding all my labours and prayers, I have not seen any real spiritual fruit for several years. For although they have acquired much knowledge of the facts and doctrines of Christianity, it does not seem to enter their hearts or do much to influence their lives. It is true that open and gross sin is less frequent, but it is only in a few cases that the heart seems to be at all touched, or that there awakens any real anxiety about the salvation of their souls. Am I then worthy to guide them towards salvation? I hear of your successes amongst the Highlanders – they call you Ministear Mona Toisidheachd – the Great Minister of Ferintosh. I am not surprised by this epithet, Preceptor, nor entirely satisfied as, if I had a say, your name would be accompanied by an even grander title. I remember well how the love of the Redeemer gleams inside you and how it shines out at the people as you preach to thousands at a time. I, on the other hand, can only aspire to enlighten the hearts and souls of my small congregation. Am I worthy? I ask of you again, as I ask the Lord every night. Perhaps it was a mistake to focus all my efforts on reforming the village? Nay, I will not believe it! Before they can properly understand and profit by preaching they have to be taught, step by step, and in the simplest way possible, the leading facts and truths of Christianity and the basic rules of modern life. My mind may fill with doubt, but I will not give up, and I will take inspiration from you and preach with new zeal and conviction! I often read the words of the apostle Paul, as he speaks of ‘the glorious Gospel of the blessed God with which I have been entrusted . . . I thank Him who has given me strength, Christ Jesus our Lord, because He judged me faithful, appointing me to His service’ (1 Timothy 1:11–12).
These, then, are some of my present concerns.
I read in an old newspaper brought to me by the factor about the Great Assembly last year, when the Evangelical Party gained new ground. I rejoice at the thought of religion being brought back to the people. The teachings of the Church of Scotland have become too refined and aloof for people to understand – it fosters superstition and oblivion. I read of Thomas Chalmers’s great work amongst the poor of our cities. You, Preceptor, ought to be similarly celebrated for your work in the Highlands!
I must finish now and send you this letter from these shores that I know you cherish. The island is beautiful today as summer has arrived and we have all forgotten the hardships of the winter (we had little fuel and were close to starvation before the birds returned from the west). Here is always the quick transition from light to darkness, from darkness to light. From my window I can see the gannets diving into Village Bay. They too are God’s creation. Does He guide their wings as they fly high and low across the ocean and save lost mariners to our shores? What does He tell them – what do they know?
Blessings,
From one who strives to be your friend,
N. MacKenzie
The Manse at Ferintosh, June 1837
To the Rev. Neil MacKenzie of St Kilda
Dear brother,
We are indeed friends, and I think of you as a brother, or perhaps a son. Yes, a son is more appropriate as you are still young and I have had the privilege of instructing you in some fields. So I pray you to be less formal in future correspondence.
I only just received your letter and hope to reply by returning mail as I also received a note from Mr Bethune saying that the factor will be visiting St Kilda one more time this summer – so forgive me if the letter is brief and my thoughts unstructured. Your letter betrays the very special concerns which can be expected in your parish – one which demands more than ordinary grace, and more than ordinary learning. Your calling, my son, was furnished by Christ Himself. I will say to you what I said to my own son when he was recently ordained: ‘The day on which you received your licence constituted an important date, and inaugurated a new era in your life. The rise or fall of some in Israel may depend on the event which then took place – nay, so far as instrumentality is concerned, the eternity of your hearers may turn upon it. This, I confess, is a solemn, and at times may prove an overwhelming, thought. But be strong in your Redeemer; for He is mighty to save and rich in mercy.’
I often think of St Kilda and her inhabitants for which I felt such pity and responsibility. As I was walking amongst the people on Hirta on my last visit I was overwhelmed by a feeling of despair and the fear that I would not have time enough to salvage those poor souls for His Kingdom. The fact that you are there now makes me sleep easier at night and I pray for the improvement of that vulnerable island community for which I felt such sympathy. They are amongst the last remaining kin of Ossian who brought to us the world of the Gàidhealtachd.
You ask if you are worthy. None of us is worthy to speak the words of God, but it is our duty to walk on, to the end of the world, like the apostles did and administer salvation where we can. We must be present amongst people whose Christian lives, and even humanity, is in question. So I ask you not to worry, my friend, your work is not in vain. You will see that in a place such as St Kilda, where the skies open to His Kingdom, the subject will suggest itself to your sermons and the same circumstances will give it greater force with its hearers.
I must haste now as I have to appear before a court of sorts. There was a young girl who was especially devout and whom I instructed last year. She has given birth to a baby boy and they say I am his father. Nonsense, of course – this is just another trial sent to us. Pray for me brother, friend, son.
MacDonald of Ferintosh
Post scriptum: Did you hear that our Evangelical Party now holds a majority in the Great Assembly for the first time!
The Manse at Ferintosh, April 1838
To the Rev. Neil MacKenzie of St Kilda
Dear brother,
By now news may have reached you of the recent developments in the national Church of the Scottish people. The recent case of the rejected minister of Auchterarder, brought as far as the House of Lords, proves that the inherent rights of independence and the spiritual jurisdiction of the Church of Scotland are gravely threatened.
I ask myself now whether there shall not be a disruption of our Church in the near future. If this is indeed the case, I ask you, brother, to be ready to stand by the evangelist side for which you were chosen by our Lord. The common people and the middle classes are largely on our side, I would say, but we cannot hope for much support from the higher classes in this revolution. The Free Church will try to create associations in all parishes in Scotland, so that if we were forced to go out we would still be able to make a living preaching the Lord’s Gospel, and unless the S
tate decides to persecute us, I am sure we will get on. We must be prepared to go from house and home to serve our Lord under His sky!
I bless you, brother, and remind you that He alone knoweth the end from the beginning. Let us therefore look to the Lord for providence and grace.
Macdonald of Ferintosh
Betty and Lizzie were baking and Eliza was helping to shape the dough into bannocks for the griddle. Anna, who was always full of play, had taken the smaller children down to the beach. For a moment Lizzie worried about little Nigel, who was only a year old and could easily come to harm. She had heard all the stories of the big birds taking off with babies. But she put the worries aside – she knew that Anna would not let anything happen to the children; they were like siblings to her. Little Jane and baby Nigel were both born in April, two years apart, and they were children of that month: still tightly furled but full of possibilities.
Lizzie straightened her back, carefully keeping her floury hands over the trough, and rubbed her head against her shoulder to get rid of a strand of hair that had escaped from under the headscarf. She looked at Betty and Eliza, who were giggling at a shared joke in the floury dust. Lizzie smiled to herself; it is a strong bond which ties the three of us together, she thought. Betty was the one who had assisted her at birth, and the first one to lay eyes on the girl.
But the happiness of the morning, as she watched Eliza so full of joy and life, was tinged with sadness and loss for Betty’s little boy who had died the previous month of the eight-day sickness. Lizzie felt almost ashamed to have been blessed with the good fortune to have four children alive when her friend had none. However, she thought, Betty is a strong girl and so full of forbearance and hope that she is convinced she will have another child soon.
Island of Wings Page 19
