He is turned towards the wall, a child again, needing somebody to love him. He is confused. Oh his despairing mind, the agony! Who was it that loved him well? He is too weak; he loses the thought; he cannot remember.
She breathes into his hot neck. She blows cool breath just where his dark hair meets the skin. In that soft place where youth lingers, where tenderness can still exist.
He dreams of birds. Of wings and noise and air. White wings batting the air. The noise! Island of wings. He hears a curlew’s call. Or is it a man laughing? And then another dream; somebody is pulling him underwater.
She watches the thin lines around his closed eyes, the blue veins on his eyelids that will not rest. She puts her lips to his temples to still the pulse and the demons who pump it.
Her smell fills his nostrils. She is in the bed next to him. Her arm is slung across his chest and one naked breast is pasted to his damp skin. He tries to pull away, embarrassed. Has she noticed that his body is sagging? That the hair on his body is grey? How much does she know? How much of his failure . . . of his betrayal?
Once she puts her hand between his legs to cup his testicles and hold his slack penis. With gentle hands she cradles it as if it was a fledgling fallen from its nest.
And being in an agony he prayed more earnestly; and his sweat became as it were great drops of blood falling down upon the ground.
Is he bleeding or is the damp on his pillow just sweat. He has dreamed again of a monster, a dusk-born devil. He is alone in the bed and the room is cold.
He was suddenly awake and knew that he had to make a decision. In his last letter the Rev. John MacDonald had explained the situation to him clearly and in all its brutality. Ever since Lord Brougham’s declaration against the evangelicalists in the House of Lords in 1839, the evangelicalists within the Presbyterian Church had realised that they would have to break away from the established Church. A date had been set for this historical event; the General Assembly in Edinburgh on 18th May, 1843. MacDonald knew he had the elders on his side, and he reckoned that almost two-fifths of the ministers would walk out with him and leave the moderates to remain under the domination of the state. MacKenzie knew all too well what this meant. The ministers who left the established Church would also have to leave the manses and the kirks. In his own case it would mean moving his family into one of the dwellings in the clachan and preaching in the darkness of the sooty hovels of his congregation. The alternative was to give in to the lairds and the establishment, thus betraying his calling and everything he had achieved on Hirta. He would disappoint his mentors as well as his flock. The thought was unbearable. The elders on the island had grown strong through his instruction – they were sure to join the Free Church.
Perhaps his work on Hirta was finished? The past two years had been very difficult and his labour had told heavily, both on his health and his mental vigour. He had endowed the St Kildans with thoughts that made them human in the face of God. Many of them had passed from darkness into light, from being servants of Satan to being sons of God. Might he not be more useful elsewhere? And besides, he needed a time of mental rest and refreshment. He had always thought the laird kind and generous and had no wish to oppose him.
He had prayed for guidance. ‘I can trust God to show me what will be most for His glory,’ he said to himself, and the remark gave him some strength.
He got out of bed and threw a blanket over his shoulders. The house was quiet but he could hear the voices of children somewhere outside; they reminded him of the reassuring bells of cattle in the hills of his own childhood. Baby Patrick must be asleep, the last of his children to slumber in the cot with the carved sprigs of juniper. Quietly, so as not to disturb the blessed silence, he opened the door to the parlour. The light from the window was even and bleak, barely strong enough to distinguish shadow from darkness. She was squatting on the floor, going through a drawer. There were some old letters on the floor next to her and a silver and amethyst brooch which he thought he recognised. Her head was bent, and the light that fell through the window seemed to stroke her neck and wrap it in silk. Her breasts were large inside the badly fitting dress which made her look slightly absurd, ugly even. Looking at her he felt lost and betrayed. She had lost her firm body and there was something dusty about her. Had he brought her to this? He tried to remember her as she had been when they were first married – but it was impossible. But still he knew; he knew that she had been beautiful and that he had been able to love. That she alone had made it possible for him to love.
‘Lizzie, I am tired.’ The words slipped out before he could stop them.
She gasped and looked around for she had been far away.
He cleared his throat. ‘I have . . .’ He did not know how to put it. ‘I have not been quite myself lately – you must not mind some of the harsh things that I say when my mood is dark.’
She looked at him in silence and wondered what guilt does to a man. He averted his eyes and looked around the room which he had once decorated himself. The carpet was still good, but there were patches of damp on the walls. Was it time to leave it all?
She nodded, that was all. Perhaps she wondered what she had given away.
He had never been able to recognise weakness as a virtue, and he could not bring himself to say sorry because the word was not substantial enough to express his shame.
‘We are going back to the mainland.’ There, it was decided.
She nodded again. ‘When?’
‘I wish to be present at the next General Assembly in May, and my vote will make it impossible for us to stay on Hirta.’
‘So soon.’ She tried to stand up, but she had been on the floor for too long and her body would not obey her. He walked over in two long strides and helped her to her feet, lifting her tenderly until her face was close to his. He recognised her then for the first time in many years, and she gave him a quick smile. Together they sat down at the table by the window.
‘My sole aim was to bring them to a state of penitence – to make them realise . . .’ His voice faltered.
‘Do not brood on words; you have prospered on this island.’ Somehow she still could find the strength to be charitable.
He did not seem to hear.
‘I have watched them as closely as a scientist looks at insects under a glass. I have been able to touch them, to heal them, to encourage them, to instruct them – but I still do not understand them.’
She made a sound that might have been a sigh. ‘You have kept yourself aloof and apart from them. You saw them as a problem that needed to be solved. But they were never the problem.’
He shook his head, but she was not sure he was listening. She had suddenly had enough of him and his self-pity. There was intensity and some of the old spirit in her voice as she said, ‘The only way we can come to understand other beings is by tainting them with a bit of ourselves. When we are all covered by the same filth it is possible to understand each other – and to believe in each other.’
He noticed there was a bit missing in the threshold – he had never had the time to repair it. Not a difficult job really, just the bother of finding the right wood. And there had been so little time. What had he ever believed in, apart from his faith? What else was there to believe in?
‘Certainly, yes.’ He did not have the strength to contradict her – but had he not understood Duncan? A print showing Jesus at the temple in Jerusalem had been damaged by the damp. Why had he not seen it before? Still, it was not the damaged print that made his eyes hurt, nor the memory of Duncan, all skinny legs and white-blond hair, picking up his rod outside the schoolroom.
‘You seem, at times, to have applied the same approach to your own children.’ Her voice was gentle but it trembled a bit as she continued, uttering for the first time what she had always known: ‘Your mission was always most important, was it not? More important than me and
the children.’
He shook his head quietly but did not look at her, nor contradict her.
She went on. ‘I think at times that perhaps you were never really brave enough to love us’.
Such failing scarred the heart.
‘They love you, you know, your children.’
He looked up. Was she teasing him? How could she say such a thing? She reached across the table to hold his hand because she would not yet let herself accept that her own devotion was wasted – she could not forget the words and the emotions he had never spoken. She looked into his blank eyes and tried to tell him, with the blue light of dawn and dusk, that she was still willing to believe in him: the bravest of churchmen and most cowardly of men. He pulled away his hand and covered his eyes.
8
MAY 1843 – DEPARTURE
He did not walk out. He had waited in such agony for the day when the historic dispute would be settled that when it arrived he could hardly believe in the reality of it. Might it not be, he asked of himself, that when it came to trial, the hearts of the men who had spoken so bravely, so foolishly, against the established Church would fail them? Surely the days of martyrdom were over? There was no need to walk away from manse, livings and pulpit. No need – just plain obstinacy! There was a rumour that over three hundred ministers had signed the protest. Three hundred! That was impossible. Forty perhaps, but none at all seemed more likely.
There was a fresh wind in Edinburgh on the morning of the Great Assembly. Representatives from all the parishes around the country had gathered outside St Andrew’s church in George Street to see what their ministers would do. There were thousands of them, all hungry to know of the outcome. MacKenzie had struggled to get past the masses to take his seat. The church was already crowded with elders from all the parishes and members of the public, some of whom had been waiting since before dawn. He had felt slightly panicky, and sweat had been pouring down his face. The spectators had been shouting at him and the other ministers, ‘Will you go out? . . . Will you stand up for the Church or the state? . . . Will you support the parishioners or the lairds?’
As they all sat down to council, Dr Welsh, the chair who had moderated the last Assembly, had stood up to open the proceedings with a prayer. The air in the church was thick with anxiety and purpose. Rising slowly, Dr Welsh looked out over the seated ministers in front of him. The church had never before seen such a congregation but, although men of religion sat densely in the pews, there was not a sound, no coughs or shoes scraping on the floor, no whispers or snuffles to break the silence of expectation. Dr Welsh, who was a short man but who seemed to tower over the crowd that morning, cleared his throat to address the ministers of the Church of Scotland. He gave a brief prayer, asking for the Lord’s blessing, after which he declared that he could not go on with the business of the Assembly as it could no longer act as the Supreme Court of the Church of Scotland because its terms had been violated and its jurisdictions had been infringed upon by the secular courts. He then asked for permission to read out the Protest of the Free Church of Scotland. When he had finished reading he put down the document, bowed reverently to Lord Bute, Her Majesty’s Lord High Commissioner, stepped down from the podium and walked towards the doors. There was a moment of silence and confusion before Rev. Thomas Chalmers, who had been sitting next to Dr Welsh, picked up his hat and followed him back up the aisle. At this point, as if a signal had been raised or a horn had been blown, row after row of ministers and elders stood to leave. Solemnly but with raised heads they filed out after the leaders of the new commission. From where he stood at the back, MacKenzie watched with growing apprehension. He saw many of his old friends walk out along with some of the most venerated churchmen – there was Dr Gordon and Dr Macfarlane and Campbell of Monzie. And then he saw to his horror Dr MacDonald, the Apostle of the North, who had meant so much to him. As Dr MacDonald walked past he looked straight at MacKenzie and nodded his head ever so faintly. But MacKenzie stood still. Even if he had wanted to, he could not have moved: his limbs would not allow it. Paralysed, he watched as disappointment and contempt filled the eyes of his former mentor. He wanted to call out, to defend himself, but he could not speak. There was nothing I could do.
Four hundred and fifty ministers walked out, nearly a third of the total number and many of the most distinguished names within the established Church. For a moment MacKenzie thought he saw amongst them the ghost of a young man who had once set out to preach the Gospels at the furthest corner of the realm. He closed his eyes to disperse the image, but the emptiness in his heart did not subside. Through the open doors he could hear the cheers from the assembled crowd as the true evangelicalists walked down the hill towards the Canonmills and Tanfield Hall where the Free Church was to be set up. The crowd celebrated as if it was a public holiday, and the outgoing ministers had to file through in procession, three abreast. Those who remained seemed stunned, as if what had just happened was unreal. But the increasing echo of the emptying church made it all too real and, as they started to travel back to their manses, where their relieved families welcomed them, there was a piece of their hearts which knew that the days of the old Church were gone and things would never be quite the same again.
A month had passed since that day and MacKenzie had returned to St Kilda to take his farewell of the islanders. In reward for his loyalty to the established Church he had been offered the small highland parish of Duror. Here, he was promised, he could relax and regain his energy after his years of faithful service to the Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge.
Now, as he walked towards the Point of Coll for the last time, there was a strange absence in his mind. He could not put his finger on it. Over the last few days, as Lizzie and Anna had been packing the crates and boxes with their possessions, Anna overwhelmed and brought to tears from time to time by the thought of her house-folk going away, he had felt a sense of relief at leaving the island. He watched his children playing in the garden and knew it was the right decision for them. The only one he could not quite bear to look at was young Eliza. At twelve her once chubby limbs had grown slender and willowy and there was a new depth in her dark eyes. She was old enough to know this island as her home.
But apart from that there was peace. I am weakened, he thought. I can no longer feel the divine strength that used to fill my heart with action and fervour. The spell is broken and all I want now is to be released from this place. To go home to Argyll and end my days – content with my lot and without any demands or aspirations. There was a time when they were like puppets in my hands, impressionable and naive – I wanted to protect them from their misdemeanours and show them the purifying properties of the heart’s sorrow. I moved their world when they did not think it possible; I waged war upon the ghosts of their minds and chased away the witches of their imagination; I have ridden the storm and relaxed in the eye of the wind. This was my art. I was strong once, and then weakness overcame me.
As he watched the waves break over the rocks, not far from the place where Duncan went over, he suddenly realised what the absence meant. He had lost his calling. His deed was done, and from now on he could retire.
The remaining days on the island were short and confused. When it arrived, the drab plainness of the morning of departure seemed inappropriately understated in comparison to the high emotions on the island.
Lizzie was alone in the empty manse. She trailed her hand over the crates and boxes which were piled on the floor ready to be picked up when the ship arrived. The spring had been cold and wet, and the rooms were soaked in damp, a cold stream of air flowing into the house from the sea. She thought of lighting a last fire in the grate but decided against it; what was the use? The manse and the kirk would soon be boarded up and left to decay. She winced as her hand caught a splinter from one of the crates. The piece was large enough to be pulled out whole, but it left an angry gash in the fleshy part of her palm. She studied he
r hand, her eyes smarting – it was an old woman’s hand, she realised. And yet she was not yet old. At least I’m still learning, she thought.
Along the outer side of her palm ran a fine scar, a patch of silky pink against the roughened creases around it. She struggled to recapture the moment when she had received it, trying to ease her fall when the dark birds had hunted her off the Gap. They should have let me see my dead son, she thought. I will never be able to recall his face, only the happiness I carried under my heart.
What will be expected of me now? she wondered. Suddenly she felt the emptiness inside her fill up with all the lightness of her days and the darkness of her nights. Her heart contracted and her throat was tight. She could not breathe fast enough and had to inhale deeply. Blue light streamed through the sooty windows. She smiled to herself. To think that I had to come all this way to know about life.
Without realising why, she dragged her hand hard across a rugged box again and felt the pain as another splinter pierced her skin.
The St Kildans had all risen early to put on their Sunday best. MacKenzie had met them in the kirk to give a last service. Everyone seemed exhausted with grief, and MacKenzie himself, who was impatient to leave, was suddenly insensitive to the commotion around him. In his hurry to reach the landing rock he forgot his book. Turning to his eldest daughter he pleaded, ‘Eliza dear, will you run and pick up my bible from the pulpit in the kirk, please?’
Glad to serve her father, Eliza ran again – for the last time – in her stiff new clothes up the hill, past the feather store and through the clusters of cowslip which were curtsying humbly to the breeze of the bay. She skipped over the glebe wall and hurried along the bed of sweet peas and mustard. At the gable of the manse she skimmed past the hawthorn and the lilac which were both just out. He watched her disappear around the corner of the kirk and wondered what her childhood had been like.
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