Island of Wings

by Karin Altenberg

  Betty, who had married Calum MacDonald, had proved to be very fertile. There was something almost animal-like about her sturdy body that smelt of musk and sweat. Her feet were broad like a man’s and large enough to carry her strong frame, her hips were wide and low and her breasts were heavy. She had given birth to a baby almost every year since she married, but they had all been lost to the eight-day sickness. One after the other Betty had watched as her children were suffocated to death by that strange devilry. Lizzie shivered when she thought about such a fate. Betty served as the island’s midwife, and so her time was spent bringing life into the world. But as so many of the babies died it was like a Sisyphean task. And yet Betty was ever cheerful and strong. Her fair curls bounced on the wind and her songs rang through the air, but when you looked at her, if you tried to seek her gaze, she would avert her blue eyes so that you could not see into their depths. How shall I ever understand Betty? Lizzie thought as she watched the woman disappear from view.

  A queer feeling came over Lizzie all of a sudden. It was not like Betty to behave like that. Betty would never hide. And yet there was the sense that would come upon Lizzie from time to time that there was a dark side to that Highland strength. Lizzie turned to the stove where she was heating porridge for the children’s breakfast. She laughed to herself as she stirred the pot with a wooden spoon. I am so silly to create mystery where there can be none, she thought. She looked into the oatmeal, which was beginning to erupt and sink back into little craters. It was almost the last of the oats, and the boat from the mainland was not due for many months. She worried about the islanders. They were starving and things were not good. Some of the children had bloated stomachs, and the old people were looking increasingly drawn and tired. Her husband told them to pray. He believed that Jesus Christ would save them, but she could sense that people were losing their faith.

  Suddenly she dropped the spoon into the porridge and ran out of the manse without stopping for her shawl. Afterwards she wondered what it was that had made her act in that way. Had she heard something?

  It took her a minute or two to reach the back of the feather store and the hole in the wall. Her hands were cupped over her pregnant stomach and her swollen feet hurt in her boots. There was no sound from within the building, and Lizzie felt an itchy sweat in her armpits. ‘Betty?’ There was no reply. She stooped to enter the building and remembered the last time she had entered the feather store. She had stayed away from the building since. She felt sick and her throat contracted in panic. ‘Betty? Are you in here, dear?’ Her eyes were not yet accustomed to the darkness. She could not hear anything but suddenly sensed a movement to her left. She fell to her knees and crawled along the floor until she felt a leg. The younger woman was slumped on the floor, seemingly unconscious. But as Lizzie’s hands reached Betty’s face she could feel that it was soaked in tears. ‘Oh, Betty . . .’ She held her friend in her arms and felt a strange cord around the younger woman’s neck; the texture was dry and a bit oily at the same time. She moved around so that some light fell on Betty’s slumped body. The ligature around her neck had snapped.

  ‘It broke; they would not hold me,’ Betty moaned feebly. ‘Oh, my babies!’

  The wailing tore through Lizzie’s heart. ‘Oh, Betty, what have you done? What is this?’ She tore at the snare and tried to remove it from Betty’s throat.

  ‘Leave it!’ Betty’s voice was suddenly fierce and she pulled herself away from Lizzie while clasping the cord. Her eyes were wild in the dusky light. She moaned again, ‘I thought they would help me, my babies, to come to them.’

  Lizzie looked down at the end of the rope in her hands. It seemed to have been made of bits of some kind of organic mater­ial knotted together. Lizzie felt cold inside and swallowed to reduce the sick feeling that was rising in her. ‘What is this?’ she asked again in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘I thought the life lines that we shared would take me to them. Through this cord they were attached to me, each one of them, and when they were born I failed them. I wanted to be pulled back to them . . .’ Lizzie could not make out the rest of the sentence. She looked in horror at the dried umbilical cords in her hands. They had been preserved in oil and tied together, all six of them, into a rope that was about six feet long. What grief would drive a person to such madness? Carefully she moved closer to Betty and held her again in her arms. Betty’s limp body rested heavily on her own pregnancy as she rocked her friend softly and cooed in her ear. ‘Shh, it is all right, oh, sweet Betty, it will be all right.’ To herself she thought, Not Betty! Not Betty who was indestructible. On whom can I rely now?

  In his study Mr MacKenzie stood by the window looking out over the bay. He was resting his forehead against the windowpane. The glass was slightly concave, which made the seascape wobble and buckle. He frowned as a lock of hair fell over his face. It was definitely grey, in this light he was sure of it; he was ageing. Perhaps he was already old. He shuddered at the thought and tried to recall his youth. How could it have left him so deviously without making him aware of its departure? How had he not been told?

  The illness came upon him from time to time. At first it had merely been a vague nausea, a need to sit down and rest for a while. But slowly the headaches and dizziness had turned into migraines which would send him to bed in agony. At such moments it was as if somebody had crammed an iron helmet over his head, tightening it around his skull like an instrument from the sweltering chambers of the Inquisition. As he lay in his bed in still darkness the pain would bring to his eyes tears that would well and spill over his cheeks and into his ears. The noise of his children’s gay voices would beat against his poor brain like steely waves against the winter rocks. His daughter Eliza was the only one allowed into the bedroom at such times. She would sometimes come and sit quietly by his bed and hold her cool little palms against his temples. But if he heard his wife at the door he would wipe his face on the pillow and pretend to be asleep. Behind his closed eyes volcanoes would erupt and red-hot lava would flow and fill the plains of blue and green. This was his predicament. This is what they have reduced me to.

  He watched his tired reflection in the glass a moment longer and then he sighed and closed his eyes. He stood and thought, his face resting heavily against the window. Our heavens are brass and our earth is iron. I need to address their conscience in plain discourse and show them the difference between those who truly fear our Lord and those who are mere formalists and hypocrites. They must listen now. They must understand! It was suddenly clear to him that what was needed was a revival of the senses – an outpouring of the Holy Ghost! He stood straight and snapped his fingers. Why had he not thought of this before? He reached his desk in two strides and pulled out sheets of paper and his inkwell. He pushed the fringe out of his eyes and smiled to himself. Just when our faith is weakest the Lord shows us His power. The timing was good, as the men were away on Soay for a few days and he knew from experience that the women were more easily persuaded.

  He set to writing his sermon. He would start with explaining the meaning of the petition ‘Lead us not into temptation’, and then, when he was sure they had understood, he would apply it in the most inspired way to their own consciences. He would describe in the most vivid colour what evils waited if they continued to give way to temptation and superstition. Ah, the demons and snakes of fire, the infernal torment! But oh, when they were thus terrified of the dangers to which they were exposed, he would turn their feeble thoughts to the power of the Saviour, the wise, powerful and merciful Christ who alone has the ability to save souls.

  There was a knock on the door. Irritated, he looked up from his papers to see his wife enter the study.

  ‘Yes?’ She stood there in the dull light. Her face was red and she seemed fat. Had he really touched that body enough to impregnate it? The thought suddenly repulsed him.

  She remained by the door, with a hand under her stomach and the other against the
doorpost.

  ‘Well?’ His irritation was mounting. Had he not told her never to disturb him at work?

  ‘Something has got to be done, Neil; the islanders are suffering!’ Her voice was strong and calm and she ignored the look in his eyes.

  ‘How so?’ He yawned and stretched in his chair.

  ‘They are despairing. They have been too long without food and fuel and we cannot cope another year without additional supplies. Their minds are weakening.’ She did not want to tell him about Betty. He must never know about what had happened. Lizzie had brought Betty back to her house and put her to bed. She was sleeping now after drinking a brew of St John’s wort, but Lizzie had been terrified by the incident. How would they be able to stand against the storm if the strongest of them all could be crippled into such weakness?

  To her surprise he sat up and smiled at her.

  ‘You are right. But there is no need to worry, I was just about to address the matter!’ There was a strange light in his dark eyes and she was suddenly afraid.

  ‘They need food and warmth, Neil, not words and prayers. That will not ease their suffering. They need some basic comforts before they can listen to your sermons.’

  Suffering! What did she know of it? And what did they know of it? None of them could know what true suffering was like. Only he knew. Oh yes, he knew! ‘Watch your blasphemous words, Elizabeth!’ The broken spell of her Christian name, so rarely used, rang through the room like shattered glass. ‘It is in their power to save themselves if they turn to the Lord!’

  What could she say? She did not have his faith, but nor could she meekly leave it at that. Her heart was suddenly cold and serene. ‘If nothing else, you must think of our own children, of your sons and daughters. They would be better off in a place where they could get proper food and schooling. Perhaps we ought to send them over to my relatives on the mainland when the next boat arrives . . . ?’ She broke off. The thought had just occurred to her but she felt a great discomfort at uttering it. She was losing her balance, and her grip hardened on the door frame.

  The man who was her husband turned away from her in silence to look out of the window. He had a vague smile on his face as he continued to ignore her. Lizzie, her face ashen, let go of the lintel and turned to go. MacKenzie, in a tone that was calm, said to her back, ‘Who are you to speak of the welfare of our children, you who let our firstborn die?’ She swayed but steadied herself and did not turn as she walked away from him.

  That autumn the Holy Ghost was poured into the hearts of the St Kildans like molten lead. The prayers which had at first been forced down their throats were coming back up in an overwhelming flood of piety and emotion.

  It began in September when most of the men were away on the islands fowling and the kirk was attended mainly by women. On such a day MacKenzie decided to describe the dangers to which they were exposed because of their temptations. At great length he expounded on the theme of evil, and when the fear of God had taken a hold in their bosoms he turned to outlining the greatness and nature of the love of Christ. He explained, in considerable detail, about the sufferings of Christ – their duration, their intensity and above all the glorious end for which they were endured: to save sinners. He urged and beseeched his parishioners to come to Him for safety and protection as there could be no other salvation.

  He preached from Luke, chapter twelve, and concluded by talking about what must be done to bring forth the Holy Ghost:

  It is quite certain that every man, woman and child on this island might be converted now if God, the sovereign judge of all, would only send out His Spirit. God alone has this power, and I, your humble preacher, your books and catechisms will not be of any use to you now. You must open your hearts to the injection of God because only then will the Holy Spirit be abundantly poured forth. You must each of you throw out your books and rely upon and honour the Spirit! Let us meet and pray, and if God doth not hear us, it will be the first time He has broken His promise. But if the Lord does bless us, all the ends of the earth shall fear Him. And then, just before the sun is turned into darkness and the moon is turned into blood, the Spirit of God will be poured out upon all your flesh. O Lord, lift up Thyself because of Thine enemies; pluck Thy right hand out of Thy bosom, O Lord our God, for Christ’s sake, Amen!

  When he had finished the minister staggered and slumped against the pulpit. His face was pale and sweat was pouring down his forehead as he looked out over the congregation. At that precise moment, after so many years of struggle, the Lord showed his power and the St Kildans believed. Oh how they believed! Feeble and starved women and the few men present wept and cried aloud in agony and distress. The minister, when he recovered, could hardly make himself heard and proposed a psalm to calm the congregation, but the precentor was overcome with extreme feeling and could not sing so the minister had to lead the song himself. Only a few sobbing voices joined in. He continued to sing until the excited feelings subsided a little, at which he grabbed hold of the pulpit and, as they all thirsted for more, resumed the preaching.

  The meetings continued throughout the winter. Every other night somebody new was penetrated by the Spirit. Even the most hard-hearted would suddenly start breathing quicker. Their hands would be raised above their heads, reaching into the air as if they were drowning. Some of the afflicted would cry out and faint, others would fall to the floor and twist in the dust, others again would scream vehemently: ‘O, my overwhelming burden! . . . My sins! . . . Relieve me of my woe! . . . Have mercy on my soul!’ In the end some would sit up and cry out in a superhuman voice: ‘I have found Him! . . . I know that He will pardon my sins!’ One or two would beg the Lord to take them home at once so that they would not sin again. At the end of such a meeting, the kirk looked more like a battleground than a sanctuary.

  The minister was utterly exhausted. His body and mind were working as one during those long winter months. He preached almost every night. Sometimes he would go home for supper and a quick prayer for guidance before he felt compelled to go back into the church and preach again. His migraines became ever more frequent and he hardly saw his family. Mrs MacKenzie refused to let the children take part in the meetings and would only visit the kirk on the Sabbath.

  As the birds returned and food was once again available the evangelism amongst the St Kildans became much less intense. The minister was greatly alarmed when he realised that the hearts of some of the St Kildans had remained hard and that they had only been imitating their neighbours in the winter excitement. He feared that some of them might be mocking him behind his back, and the arrogance of such blatant refusal of the righteousness of the Son of God infuriated him. However, he was well aware by now of the deceitfulness of the human heart and the power of Satan over feeble minds.

  And at the same time he was able to rejoice at the progress of some of the islanders. Old sins were freely confessed; sometimes crimes that had been buried for over forty years were brought to the light and atoned for. Indeed some of the natives were so keen to air their guilty conscience and profess their hatred of all evil that the minister had to set up a surgery to receive them during the day. Envy, cunning, theft, uncleanness, Sabbath-breaking (including singing of profane songs), laziness and general loitering, excessive talking and chattering, swearing and irritability were some of the sins noted and carefully recorded in the minister’s black book. That summer, instead of gossiping about each other and their daily toil or bragging about the deeds and wonders of the ancestors, the St Kildans would be overheard discussing the state of their souls. They would frequently be seen, in the fields or on the rocks, to fall to their knees to utter a prayer. Holy conversation was conducted behind walls, in cleits, out of the wind and in the shadow of an outcrop.

  That summer of 1842 the taxman brought a thick bunch of letters for MacKenzie. Their stamps bore the marks of the Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge and of other Church dignita
ries in Edinburgh and Glasgow. It seemed that the ten-year conflict within the Church of Scotland was coming to a head. The Evangelical Party formed in 1834 was now strong in the Assembly and its followers called for reform of the ancient system whereby the laird selected the minister for his parishes. The evangelicalists wanted community elders and the parishioners to have the right to reject a minister nominated by a patron. The ministers were being asked to choose between staying within the established Church or walking out with the evangelicalists to form a new Church. This would mean leaving the churches and the manses behind to preach in chapels, barns and village halls and live amongst the parishioners.

  When MacKenzie had finished reading the letters he went to bed with a fever that roared at night and simmered gently during the day. His gaze was slow and his limbs were slack. At times, when he thought no one noticed, he cried. It went on for weeks.

  She felt the spirit around him going hot and humid and it frightened her. She had avoided him for so long – had she hated him? Now as his weakness finally showed it frightened her. Desperate, she got into bed beside him, her body forming a perfect S around his, and she folded her arm protectively over his chest. Hesitantly, almost reluctantly, as if forced to, she gently stroked the body of the man she had loved. Her health pulled out his sickness and her strength drew out his weakness. She remembered the young man she loved all those years ago: the man whom her young self adored; the firm body that would arouse her; the eyes that aspired to know her. How she loved him then; she would follow him anywhere. He seemed to walk ahead of her, opening all the doors and letting in the light. She had followed him here, to this life. Did I follow the man or the love? she asked herself as she rubbed his damp limbs.

  Now she stroked his sagging muscles and coarse skin, hot and humid. For all the old love she stroked it – wanting it to go cool and dry again. The body she had once loved. His grey hair. Remembering the strong thighs and the narrow hips.