With an odd little half-sob she ran to the hall and wrenched her coat from the stand. Jon was at her back, pleading with her to either stay or let him go with her but again she shook him off and ran from the house, struggling into her coat as she went.
She had no clear notion of where she was going, her feet carried her along swiftly, pounding the short turf of the clifftop, slithering and sliding on the loose, sandy soil of one of the many sheep tracks that led down to the shore.
A fresh, cool breeze blew up from the sea, the clouds were scudding across the sky so that the moon sailed in and out of purple-grey cumulus and fitfully cast its silver-white light over the great grey-bellied reaches of the Sound of Rhanna.
Bitterness boiled in Rachel’s breast as she hurried along. She hated Mamma, she hated Jon: he had laughed when he should have been supportive and helpful, he had never stood up to that monstrous old bitch he called mother. All along she had smothered rather than mothered him and he had gone along with it till now it had come to this, an open rivalry between the two women in his life for his love and attention. Well, he could have Mamma if that was what he wanted, she’d had enough, she wouldn’t stay in that house another day. Tonight she would pack her bags, tomorrow she would go and stay with Ruth till the steamer came on Friday. There was nothing to keep her here now, nothing . . .
The wind tugged her hair, pulled at her coat; the sigh of wide and lonely places surged in her ears; the beat and roar of the ocean filled her senses.
Dazedly she paused in her flight and gazed around her. She was on windswept Burg Bay, to her left the cliffs rose up, black and sheer against the glowering night sky. The towering fangs of the reefs, those grey, forbidding old men of the sea, hunched themselves into eerie shapes and seemed to gaze moodily down at the water restlessly swirling round their feet. Moonshadows wavered on the sand, flitting in and out of the rocks according to the whim of the wind-tossed clouds until the moon was obliterated completely by banks of blackness and it was dark, dark, lonely, desolate, but complete and magnificent in its wild, hushed, secretive whisperings with only a seabird’s lone cry to intrude into the solitude.
But not so dark – up there – on the cliffs – a light shone like a beacon through the velvet night gloom, beckoning, signalling, guiding . . .
Then she knew why she mustn’t leave Rhanna: someone up there needed her, for his sake she had to stay. She sensed loneliness, sadness, fear, all mingling with strength and power and love of life. She had to go to him: he was calling, calling. In her heart she could hear his voice; in her soul she could hear his music.
Again her feet took wing . . . and this time they weren’t running away.
Chapter Fifteen
Rachel entered Tigh na Cladach via the back porch and without hesitation went straight to the softly lit sitting room. There she found Otto sprawled in a chair by the fire, deathly pale, his pain-filled eyes black and dazed so that at first he wasn’t aware that she had entered the room.
‘Otto!’ Her heart cried his name. A few quick strides took her to his side and as she stooped to gaze into his face she knew why she had experienced these moments of pain and poignancy whenever they had been quiet and alone together. He was a very sick man: this big, wonderful Austrian, with his marvellous physique, his vigour, his delight of life, was dying.
All along she had sensed it – the shadow of death had been there in his eyes even while he had talked and laughed and played his spellbinding music. She had known, but even so, now that the moment of truth was here, the knowledge hit her like a sledgehammer.
‘Rachel.’ His mouth struggled to form her name. He seemed to come back from a very long way and his hand came up to enclose hers. ‘Pills – in the bedroom – get them – quickly please.’
She didn’t remember running upstairs but quite suddenly it seemed she was standing in the bedroom with its rose-sprigged walls and camped ceilings, its rose-coloured bed light shining down on the big, soft feather bed.
Frantically she gazed around, blinded at first by anxiety and fear, then her eye fell on the bedside cabinet – nothing there except a volume of Burns’ poems, another of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped. But wrenching open the little drawer she saw them, a motley collection of brown pill bottles, full, half-full and some empty.
Her hands shook slightly as she picked them up and looked at the labels. He had asked for pills but which ones? Wildly she wondered if she should take them all down to him but then she remembered his pain and seizing the one containing morphine she raced down to the kitchen where she filled a glass with water and went back into the sitting room.
Taking the bottle from her trembling grasp he gulped down two of the pills and sat back to look at her. ‘In a little while I will be better,’ he told her breathlessly. She sat there with him, quiet and still by the fire, her mind strangely calm, her hands, those slender, delicate, soothing hands, wherein lay a power that could not be denied, placed cool and tender upon his clammy brow.
Gradually he relaxed, pain departed, he took several deep breaths and taking her face in his hands he turned it towards him till he could look deep and straight into her eyes.
‘You know, don’t you, liebling?’
She nodded; he gave a funny little half-smile. ‘From the beginning I felt you were different from anyone I had ever known. You have the sixth sense, the eyes that see deep and clear beyond the soul. I have been ill for a long time, Rachel. I have the treatment, the spells in hospital till I am sick and tired of it all and want only to die in peace – but first – I must come home to my grandmother’s island, the beloved lands whose memories take her sweetly and serenely through all the years of her exile.’
He told her then what he had told Kate that morning – of his connections with the Clan McKinnon, of Magnus his maternal grandfather, his plans for a clan gathering – and of things he hadn’t told Kate – his determination to visit the island where it had all began for him and where, in a spiritual way, it would end for him.
‘I will go back to Vienna to pass my final days. But here,’ he placed a clenched hand over his heart, ‘this part of me will remain behind on Rhanna. In my boytime I hear the ocean, I walk the hills, I smell the perfume of the moors, all through my grandmother’s voice, I wasn’t to know that coming here would capture my heart for all time and never let go of it, no matter how far I might travel when the time comes for me to go away.’
She made no gesture, her heart was too full for her even to attempt to let him know how she felt. A time like this needed words and those she could never utter. She filled the minutes with practical actions, piling the fire high with peats, placing his slippers on the fender to warm, going through to the kitchen to pour milk for Vienna, rolling newspapers into twists for the morning fire, finally making cocoa, which he and she drank in an oddly tranquil silence.
At one point she knelt by him and placed his slippers on his feet. His hand came out to touch the top of her dark head. ‘Liebling,’ he said huskily, ‘something brought you here tonight – when I needed you, you came. Today I learn that your husband has come home to you – but – would it be selfish of me to ask . . . would you stay with me for a little while?’
For answer she curled herself at his feet and clasped her hands round her knees. The eyes that gazed into the fire were big and dark with the pain that burned in her heart. Her beloved stranger had touched her life only briefly but she knew that the strange sweet power he had over her spirit transcended the bonds of flesh, the passage of time. He would remain with her forever, long after he was dead and gone and only the voice of his living soul spoke to her in the eternal winds blowing over the land.
For Otto Klebb was life, a life that would flourish beyond the grave. His magic, his music, his memory, would remain behind for always and at the thought of that a wonderful sense of peace flooded her being. And the peace remained with her for the rest of that evening spent with him. They felt no need to communicate, each was content in the knowing that
the other was there, a harmony of everything that was the essence of understanding and love in the human consciousness.
The hands of the clock on the mantelpiece were at two a.m. when she finally rose to take her leave. She wanted to help him upstairs to bed but some of the old vigour was there in his voice when he held her close in his arms and said into her hair, ‘My liebling, there are some things I must do on my own, going to bed is one of them, dying is still a good way off for me and to have you there in the intimacy of the bedroom might prove to be a temptation I could not resist.’ He held her away from him to look into her eyes. ‘We could not live with ourselves if we betrayed what we feel for one another with the weakness of the flesh. I make a vow to you, when my dying time is here, when I pass over to the valleys of the unknown, I will carry with me cherished memories of a young girl who is more to me than flesh. You are of my soul, Rachel liebling, and, no matter how hard it is for me to touch you without possessing you, I will not tarnish what we have found together on this earth by giving in to the needs of my body.’
Her eyes were dark and shiny with unshed tears, her heart knew the beauty and pureness of his words. Helplessly she nodded and kissed him gently on his brow.
He smiled. ‘We have many things to do, you and I. I have some months left to me and I want to fill them with the knowledge of your world. You will teach me your sign language so that I can understand all the things you want to say to me, I see many expressions in your eyes but not enough to let me know what is in your heart. And now . . .’ his mouth nuzzled hers, ‘you must return to your husband, I will not be the cause of enmity between you – so go quickly, before all my good resolutions crumble into the ashes of meaningless talk.’
Unwillingly she let go of his hands. Every fibre in her, every cell in her body, begged her to stay and surrender her love to him. She knew her weaknesses only too well, one encouraging gesture from him would be her undoing, and so she went away quickly as he had bid, into the loneliness of wind-washed night where the sad murmurs of empty places found an echo in a heart that was full to bursting with emotion.
She was cold by the time she reached An Cala. Jon had left a lamp burning in the hall, the soft halo of light only served to emphasize the surrounding darkness and she made her way upstairs swiftly and silently.
The coolness of the sheets embraced the coldness of her flesh but there was no comfort to be had from Jon. This time it was he who kept his back turned on her. His quiet breathing told her nothing: he could have been asleep, or half-asleep, or wide awake, listening for her coming home, whichever way, she knew he would make no move towards her that night and the silence of the room enshrouded her, with not even a grunt or a snore from Mamma’s room to break the stillness.
For a long time she lay thinking about Otto, her feverish thoughts taking her round and round in endless circles. Then she remembered his strength, his stoic acceptance of what was to be, the beautiful words he had used to describe his feelings for her, now and hereafter. The tension left her limbs, leaving her weak; peace once again flooded her being, making her strong. She sighed and pressed herself into Jon’s warmth. He half turned and put his arms around her and in the comforting reassurance of that familiar embrace her fears melted like snowflakes and she was soon asleep.
The news concerning Otto’s connection with the McKinnons flashed round the island. In a very short time every corner buzzed with the juiciest piece of gossip to have hit Rhanna for ages. In cottage, croft, barn, biggin, shop, shieling, anywhere people could meet, tongues wagged, heads nodded and a most enjoyable time was had by all.
‘Hmph! The McKinnons again!’ Old Sorcha expostulated when the news seeped through to her head via her deaf aid. ‘Why is it they get all the attention? And that Kate! There will be no living wi’ her. She’ll steep herself in airs and graces and go about behaving as if she was the only body wi’ a clan to her name.’ In her excitement she turned up her hearing aid so that everybody in the vicinity was just about deafened by the high-pitched wailing noise it emitted. Face red with ire, Sorcha continued, ‘Do you mind that time, last year, when that nice wee English wifie looked to Kate for information about her McKinnon connections? And Kate, the sly besom, telling her all those lies about being a Mull McKinnon when all the time she belongs to that bunch o’ cut-throats over on Uist?
‘She’s just no’ worthy o’ all the attention paid to her when here is me, old enough and able enough to mind o’ things that happened in the last century! It’s no’ fair! It’s just no’ fair!’
‘Here, I’ll thank you to keep a hold on your tongue,’ Todd the Shod interposed with an aggrieved air. ‘My mother was a Uist McKinnon and a finer branch o’ the line I have yet to meet. They never cut anybody’s throats, maybe just punched each other’s noses now and again at a ceilidh, but nothing worse than that. Here,’ his ruddy face brightened, ‘I’ve just reminded myself, seeing as how my mother was a McKinnon it means I’ll be legally entitled to go to this grand Clan Gathering that Mr Otto is planning on. I must get Mollie to mend that wee hole in the back o’ my kilt for it will be a Highland dress affair, and even though mine’s a McDonald tartan I canny let the side down wi’ holey pleats.’
Todd wasn’t the only one on the island to rake up a convenient McKinnon connection that would enable attendance at Otto’s Ceilidh, as it was quickly becoming known. Everyone, it seemed, had a McKinnon relative buried in the family closet, and even though bringing them out for an airing might risk the uncovering of some unsavoury skeletons, it was a risk that was considered worthwhile in the event.
‘Otto doesny know what he’s letting himself in for,’ Fergus predicted dourly. ‘Every bugger wi’ a bit McKinnon tartan to his name will lay claim to clan rights – the hall hasny yet been built to accommodate them all.’
‘What about you?’ Kirsteen said mischievously. ‘Have you got any McKinnons lurking in your cupboards?’
He glowered at her and she burst out laughing. ‘Och, c’mon, Fergie, just think, if you could pull a long-lost Uncle McKinnon out o’ your hat you might just get to attend Otto’s Ceilidh and would be free to drink schnapps till it was coming out your ears!’
Fergus still had a sinking feeling every time he thought about ‘the night of the schnapps’. His pride had been badly bruised at the very idea of being ‘drunk and incapable’, as Behag would have put it, and the realisation that he had been put to bed by Lachlan, Mark James, and their womenfolk, was enough to bring him out in a cold sweat whenever he pictured it in his mind. He was therefore not at all amused by Kirsteen’s teasing remarks and inwardly vowed to get his own back on Otto ‘one o’ these days’ by making him drink whisky till it was coming out his ears.
When all the fuss and talk reached the hairy lugs of old Magnus of Croy he was inclined to the belief that it was all ‘just a lot o’ exaggeration’, but when Kate and Tam came to see him with the news that he was ‘the grandfather o’ a very fine foreign gentleman’, and hastily filled him in with the facts, he turned very pale and collapsed into the nearest chair.
‘Be getting me a dram from the sideboard’ he instructed with great dignity. With alacrity Tam went to carry out his instructions, pouring a generous amount of whisky for everyone ‘by way o’ a wee celebration’.
Kate hugged herself at the look on the old man’s face when little by little the news sunk in and he sat back to say huskily, ‘I never kent that my Sheena went away from Rhanna carrying my bairn – and now this – our grandson, after all these years, I canny rightly take it all in and it will be a wee whilie before I can really believe it’s true.’
‘You’ll believe it when you see him,’ Kate assured him happily. ‘He is a big, fine, bonny chiel wi’ a good McKinnon face on him and a talent for music that was surely passed on to him by his very own grandfather. Ach, just you wait, Magnus, when you meet him you’ll know he’s your flesh and blood, for the bond has aye been there between you. He was very close to his Grannie Sheena, ever since he could understand what
she was talking about she told him about you and about this island. Such bonny stories, I had a wee greet to myself they were so sad, and you and he will just talk and talk till you are blue in the face and fair gaspin’ for breath the pair o’ you.’
And she was right. The day that Mark drove Otto to Croy Beag in Thunder was one that would forever live in the minds of both grandfather and grandson.
It was a warm, balmy day, the sea was blue beyond the cliffs, the little bays sparkled with sun diamonds. Tiny inshore islets were alive with basking seals; a school of dolphins arched through the water, their glistening bodies riding the waves with grace and delight; gannets plummeted and soared; rows of cormorants stood on the reefs, drying their wings in the crystal cool breezes blowing over the ocean.
Nearer to hand, cows grazed the machair; chickens clucked and poked; lapwings rose up from the heather uttering their unmistakable musical alarm calls; burns tinkled down from the hills; a tabby kitten pranced and danced after the heath moths that flitted about from one tiny wildflower to the next – and from a thatched white cottage whose windows and doors were painted a cheerful bright red, peat smoke rose up into the sky and strains of fiddle music floated out to join the rest of the music of a perfect summer’s day.
The two men stood listening, Mark in appreciation, Otto in wonder, his strong, handsome face rather pale in a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.
‘My friend,’ he said after a while, ‘would you come in with me? The occasion, it is of great moment, I am not sure I can handle it on my own.’
But Mark shook his dark head and placed an encouraging hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘No, Otto, I’ll bide out here for a while. You’ve waited a long time for this moment and it’s only right that it should belong to you and old Magnus. I guarantee you’ll only be in the house a few minutes and you’ll think you’ve aye belonged – and think o’ this – your grandmother used to come here – her feet have trod the path you see before you. Go along it and look at it all as if you’re seeing it through her eyes, and when you see the old man for the first time, remember how he and your grandmother loved one another, how they were parted with love binding them over the miles and the years. If you think you feel strange, just remember how it must be for him, believing that he had no family left in the world till you came to the island. Everybody loves Magnus, you will too, and he’ll welcome you with open arms.’
Stranger on Rhanna Page 19
