‘You all know what this means, of course? Someone has taken this holy relic from the island and has sold it. Sold it for thousands of pounds, it would seem. This wee stone, cut during the very beginnings of Christianity on Hinba. From the very beginnings of Christianity in Scotland itself!’
‘Aye, it is criminality, pure and simple. Who do you think could have done this to us? Could it be someone on the island?’
Davey looked around at his neighbours, half ashamed to suggest that one of their own could have betrayed them. He waited anxiously for someone to propose a more palatable explanation. That it was Cameron MacLeod that came to his rescue surprised him.
‘It must have been that couple that had the old McHuish cottage last summer. They were from Glasgow or some such. I didn’t take to them. Something untrustworthy about him, and she was no better. They spent a lot of time out by the Dun, if you remember, walking and picnicking?’
‘That’s true, aye. And he kept asking about the ruins, about the history of the island, now I think of it. I thought he was just curious…’
‘And we thought he was just humouring you, Galbraith. Anyhow, I think we know who stole the thing. The question now is what do we do about it?’
The old patriarch had stood up and was leaning on the table, his balled fists balanced before him. MacLeod was nodding gently, lost in thought and deliberation, while his wife simply looked perplexed. Fergus stayed silent, catching no-one’s eye, waiting for the kerfuffle to blow over, so the he could get back to celebrating his engagement.
‘Fingal is right. We need to act. We can’t let this pass. We’re going to have to fetch the thing from Glasgow, either from this holidaying thief or from whoever he sold it to. I’ve spent fifteen years looking for that bloody stone, for the benefit of the island of course, and I’m not going to be robbed blind by some outsider strolling in.’
Shona fidgeted in her chair. This evening had been to celebrate her engagement, but now the attention was only on this lump of rock. What did it matter that it had been taken? She kept her eyes lowered. She knew that, if she should catch Fergus looking at her, she would not be able to contain her giggling. To keep her face straight, she examined in minute detail the condition of her nails. They were unvarnished, but long and even, the whites forming perfect crescents, as if she was wearing a French manicure; the cuticles were healthy and neatly puckered. She pictured how they would look in a mauve nail polish, or maybe a crimson, if that was not too much.
‘What do you mean, fetch it back? Theft? We never even knew we had it! Would never have known, if Mr Galbraith hadn’t been flicking idly through that magazine while his mouth went numb. At least now he can stop traipsing over the moor at every spare hour, looking for a relic of the saints: we know where it is now!’
Fingal looked sternly from Morag to Davey, his face barely containing his displeasure. It was impossible to tell whether he was more angered by Morag’s outspokenness or at his son’s failure to control it. Both shamed the family and, at this moment of crisis, that could not be allowed. Once again, he had to carry the honour of the family, of the whole island, and his worries for the future were only stilled by the thought of his grandson.
‘Stuff and nonsense, Morag. Were you not listening to Galbraith and the Reverend? The stone is part of the island’s history, and its rightful place is here. It’s a matter of pride. There’s nothing for it; young Fergus will go to the city to fetch it. Won’t you, my lad?’
Fingal’s crooked smile fell on his grandson. At least one of the Buchanans would not let him down. Fergus had said nothing so far, keeping his counsel and following the discussion as it had developed. But now he looked up, startled, suddenly at the centre of the matter. He was unsure how this had come about but realised quickly, under the old man’s gaze, that there was nothing to decide that had not already been decided. He nodded mutely, while his mother began to object. Davey cut her off with a show of awkward authority.
‘Morag, it’s only to Glasgow, for pity’s sake, it’s not to the ends of the earth. And he’ll be staying with his sister, so no harm will come of him. Besides, he’s a grown man now, almost twenty one years of age. He’ll just go to the city, find this man and explain. And, if there’s any trouble, Fergus can just call on the Police to sort things out.’
‘No Police. It’s best we sort things out for ourselves. Or are we now the kind of people that run to the authorities with every set back? As Fingal says, it’s a matter of pride.’
Even Fingal looked at the publican in disbelief, but could not disagree. That the matter had already escalated so far unnerved him almost as much as the realisation that it was his old adversary making the weather. Before he had recovered sufficiently to weigh the implications, Shona’s anguish exploded into the uneasy lull created by her father’s intervention.
‘But we’re to be married! He can’t just go running off to the city for no reason! He has responsibilities! To me!’
Her mother put an arm around Shona and blew shushes into her ear, while her father looked quizzically in the direction of a still startled Fingal. Slowly, the question settled in the old man. If the island was in need, then it would be a Buchanan that rose to the challenge: Fingal nodded his agreement with increasing vigour. From behind them, at the bar, the Reverend Drummond cleared his throat.
‘So it is decided. Young Fergus will set out as soon as possible to retrieve the stone and bring it back to us. It’ll need to be after the engagement party on Saturday, of course, but as soon as possible after that. I’ll talk to McCredie tomorrow and make sure he is available to take him across on the Sunday. Lad, the whole island is depending on you. I know that you are more than a match for the task. Mrs MacLeod, please, a whisky for the boy!’
9
Fog. Thick and pale, the colour of misery. It drapes all before you, stretches higher than you can imagine, engulfs the world to just beyond the edges of your vision. Only at its base, where its greyness blurs into the ground, does the world become real.
The smothered grass leeches its greenery, but it is solid at least. Defined. It is trustworthy enough to carry your weight, at least for a short while, before it too disappears into the flat, grey wall. So you fumble forward into the unseen life that surrounds you: only in the darkest corners of your mind do you contemplate the possibility that the fog is not a mask but an ending.
That a world is concealed by the greyness is only a little less terrifying than the alternative. Such opacity is the haunt of monsters and wraiths. This certainty has been buried in your imagination for centuries, since the time before the Cross, before fire. So your footing is unsteady, each step an act of unimaginable courage. And yet you move forward into the unseen jaws that lurk beyond the curtain.
The grass becomes cross-hatched with sedge, until its softness is replaced entirely by its darker, starker cousin. And then the water begins. Flat darkness that extends into the flat greyness. The sound of a crow cracks the damp stillness of the day and a milky sun cuts a pale disk in the sky.
To your left and to your right, there is only a thick line of sedge; you dare not look behind you and before you there is only the water of the moat. Through the fog, you can hear the thin lifting song of your princess, cascading from the castle ramparts like babbling spring water. You are so nearly home, and yet the water stands between you and your rest.
You set off to your left and for hours your only company is the sedge and the water and their monotony. The voice follows you on your circumnavigation, the bitter sound of hope. She is walking with you, unseen, unreachable. In the mind’s eye of your mind’s eye, you try to picture her, but the fog clouds her sweetness, veils her beauty. But her ever presence drives you on in your endless circling of the castle.
Hours pass, days. And then you remember you can fly. Rising smoothly to a few feet above the sedge you propel yourself uncomprehendingly across the moat. Within moments the sedge has vanished into the fog and there is only the flat greyness around you and the fla
t dark water beneath you. You move steadily forward towards the voice, expecting the castle’s walls to break from the fog at every passing minute. But they never do.
When the voice stops, you no longer know whether you are gliding towards the castle or back to the shore or simply around in circles. You no longer care. Without the voice to guide you, there is no point in your journey, no destination. You simply hang above the limitless water, maybe moving, maybe not.
You forget how to fly.
Into the dark water. It closes above you, wrapping its darkness around you in an instant. It is still, it is heavy and silent, and it is cold. It is so very cold.
10
A sheet of solid grey cloud had closed over the sea. It stretched to the horizon, beyond the smudge of the distant mainland. It was an angry grey. Its relentlessness choked the world with infectious foreboding. It was not yet raining, but that would surely come. It was inevitable. Fergus cursed his luck: after the last days of clear skies and unseasonable warmth, he had had to set off today of all days, to make the crossing to Mallaig in the chill and certain rain. That he felt queasy after the night’s drinking only added to his many miseries. That he had had to leave his Shona, even for a few days, was the first among these.
‘What are you reading?’
Mary was standing behind him on the deck, her cagoule zipped up against the tugging wind. She was still well used to the imprecision of the sea, and swayed with the swell, perfectly at ease. Fergus looked up at her, then down at his lap where his notebook lay open at the last entry, dated Thursday the twenty sixth of March: the morning after he had become engaged to Shona, after Galbraith’s return and the decision to send him after the cursing stone. He closed the book and shook his head, as much to shake himself back into the present as to indicate that he had stopped reading a while ago.
His sister had come across from Glasgow on the Saturday morning, in good time for the engagement party that had become his farewell. She had not been the only one to venture across to the island. There had been cousins from Eigg, his mother’s brother’s children, now adults too, as well as crofters from Rum, and fishermen, and of course McCredie. Almost one hundred people had squeezed into the Harbour Bell to toast the happy couple and to drink and dance the night away, blurred by hazy warmth. Only Fergus, Shona and Morag did not smile without reservation. And Mary, of course.
It had been kind of her, to come all that way. She had said that she would not have missed it for the world, that there was nothing in Glasgow that could not wait. She had smiled broadly when he had opened the door to her, but there had been something like anxiety in the hug she had thrown around him, and she had squeezed him harder than had been strictly necessary. And that was before she knew about the stone. In those first tens of minutes, she had had only his happy news to concern her, before her grandfather had begun to describe the island’s complaint.
It was no surprise that she should react as she did. She had been earnest and solemn even as a little girl. It was as if the disappearance of the stone were some personal affront. Fergus had never understood her interest in Galbraith’s obsession, nor why she had felt the need to leave Hinba, to disappear to Glasgow, in order to pursue it. But he was grateful now for her offer of help, both once they got to the city, but also to travel with him on the journey there. It would simply be more pleasant to travel in company, and would save time and complications. He had never been on a train before.
After everyone had embraced and told each other how much they were missed, Fingal Buchanan had sat down with his grandchildren at the kitchen table to set out the whys and the wherefores of what needed to be done. Davey had sat to one side, silent and nervous, while his wife stood at the sink and washed dishes emphatically.
There was a problem. In his haste to remove the page unseen, Galbraith had failed to note either the name of the auction house or the date of the catalogue. Neither appeared on the smuggled page. As Fingal, Galbraith and the Reverend had talked into the night, the oversight had become apparent. While Fergus and the women had sat at the bar, attempting to remember that this had been a celebration, his father had looked on incredulous as Fingal had taken the error calmly, indulgently, reassuring Galbraith that it had been an understandable mistake, that no real harm had been done; there couldn’t be that many auction houses in Glasgow and, besides, the thieves had been on the island only the previous summer, so the catalogue could not be so old. The attempt by Cameron MacLeod to complicate the matter, with his speculation that maybe the catalogue had not in fact been for a Glasgow auction house at all, to suggest that he should perhaps ask some contacts over there to assist the boy in his difficult task, was brushed aside by Fingal. Galbraith’s insistence that his memory for such things was exemplary settled the matter.
Perhaps in recognition of the burden they had placed upon the young couple, Fergus and Shona were left alone in the bar after the others had gone to their beds. Mrs MacLeod had even left a measure of whisky in a glass in front of Fergus before she retired. For some minutes the room fell into a slow silence, rocked only by the sound of their breathing, falling and rising harmoniously. Both stared at their hands, entwined on the table, and lost themselves in their own thoughts. The heavy clock above the optics ticked and tocked its way through the passing quiet, until Shona broke the stillness some sixty minutes later to announce she was tired and wanted her bed. They kissed briefly, awkwardly, before Fergus shuffled out into the darkness beneath the cloud-streaked moonlight and the weight of his unexpected duty. The clunk of the door’s lock snapped at his heels.
He did not go straight home. For March, the night was mild and still and he had wanted to feel the clean clear space of Hinba around him. He had walked down to the harbour to watch the celestial light play across the sea’s surface. There had been no sound other than the water’s hush, its gentle slap against the wooden uprights of the jetty. Eventually, the air’s unnoticed chill seeped into his flesh and he stopped fighting his yawning tiredness and turned back towards the houses of the village. For the first time in his life he was seized by the thought that his time on Hinba was not limitless after all.
He had woken that morning haunted and cold. His bed clothes lay on the floor and his pale nakedness was marked by goose bumps. Even before he began his recollection of his dreaming, he knew that he had passed a troubled night, and it was with trepidation that he took up his notebook and pen. Even so, it was some time before the foreboding he felt had been joined by the memory of its cause: his imminent departure for the mainland and the city. He had completed his morning round in a state of distraction, accepting the congratulations of well-wishers with cordiality rather than enthusiasm. Galbraith’s conspiratorial bonhomie irked him, and even Mrs Robertson’s delight had given no solace.
As usual there had been no mail for Duncannon, but Fergus had continued up the lane as far as the hermit’s gate nonetheless. He had leant on the stone wall, staring into the jumbled yard for maybe twenty minutes before Duncannon appeared, back from the beach below. He wore a length of hawser, rescued from the surf, like a feather boa. In his right hand he carried a broken plastic paint tub like a bucket. He simply stood and gazed at Fergus, until the boy raised his hand in greeting. Only then did Duncannon smile and wave in return. But he did not approach: he continued to stand in the yard, watching, waiting.
‘May I come in, Duncannon?’
His shouted request had surprised even Fergus, but he opened the gate without being bidden. Leaving his bicycle on the verge, he walked purposefully into the yard, but with no inkling as to what he should say next. Duncannon had only ever shown him kindness, but it was a kindness of an undemanding sort. There had never been any expectations attached to the generosity and Fergus had never felt the need to generate false enthusiasm in return. The pair had maybe passed fewer than 100 words together, and yet it felt then that Duncannon was his only friend.
‘Well, there is no need to ask, is there? It’s this trip that’s troubling you.’
Fergus pulled up abruptly. His friend’s gaze rested on the far horizon, as if scouting the journey the young man would make. For what seemed like the longest moment, Fergus hung equivocal, his face betraying his confusion.
‘Not much gets past Duncannon.’
He did not shift his eyes from the sea, and he spoke in little more than a whisper. Fergus surmised that if you spoke as little as did Duncannon, it must be easier to hear what goes on around you and, satisfied that this insight explained sufficiently Duncannon’s precognisance, he mumbled his confirmation. The man and the boy had then stood for some minutes staring at the sea, only the wind audible above their breathing, their heart beats, before Duncannon spoke again.
‘It’s different over there:’ His unmoving gaze indicated the mainland, and Fergus knew this without turning to see. ‘They’re less forgiving, less willing. It will be hard for you, to be away from Hinba, as much as to be there. Wait here.’
Suddenly dynamic, Duncannon strode across the yard towards his house, climbed the seven stone steps to a green door, and disappeared inside. Fergus realised that despite the hours he had spent up here, alone or with Duncannon, drinking tea and not talking, he had never been invited inside, no matter what the weather. He wondered what Duncannon’s kitchen would look like, whether it would be clean and orderly like the tool shed or chaotic like the yard.
He had lived here alone for so many years, ever since his father had died, when Duncannon had been just 14 years of age. Old Duncannon had fallen from the low cliff one night, his body broken on the rocks that backed the beach; the boy had found him there, they said, but he had waited for two days before he had told anyone. No-one had asked him about what had happened and he had offered no explanation, beyond that given into the confidence of the investigating police officer, over from Mallaig. Ever since that night, Duncannon had spoken about himself only in the third person, as if describing a stranger, a being disconnected and apart. All of this had been before Fergus was born, before Davey had met his Morag, before even old MacLeod had died: to Fergus, Duncannon’s isolation was a constancy, an eternal truth of the island.
The Cursing Stone: a gripping mystery and family saga Page 7
