Holy Terror in the Hebrides

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “If you’re referring to Mr. Olafson, I believe he’s a very fine musician, you know. I understand you’re a musician, yourself. Perhaps one day the two of you could give us a concert.”

  I got my own back, anyway. It was Hattie Mae’s turn to choke. Coughing, chins wobbling, she put down the glass and glared at me.

  “Dorothy, I don’t think you understand what I’m tryin’ to tell you,” Hattie Mae began when she was able to speak. “That man is one of Those! He—”

  I put my fork down. My food didn’t taste quite so good anymore. “Hattie Mae. What I understand is that you’ve taken a dislike to your fellow travelers. They may not all be appealing people, but I wish you’d let me make up my own mind about them. I don’t like to prejudge people. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment.”

  “Well! I was just tryin’ to warn you! But suit yourself!”

  Her voice followed me out the dining room door and into the hall, where I pulled my jacket from its peg, jammed on my hat, and made for the front door.

  “Excuse me!” Teresa sounded as put out as she had every right to be; I had run smack into her. She was standing in front of the door with Stan in her arms, or he had been; she sucked at a scratch on her hand as she glared at me.

  “Sorry,” I muttered and pushed past her to the front stairs, taking in deep lungfuls of the good, clean air as I walked down the steps.

  The driver of the horse-drawn wagon was waiting in front of the hotel. “Beautiful morning,” she greeted me.

  “Beautiful. ‘Where every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.’” She looked politely inquiring. “A hymn. Never mind. By the way, my name’s Dorothy Martin. I feel silly not knowing yours.”

  “Deirdre Cameron.” She helped me up and clucked to her horse. “I’m very happy to meet ye, Mrs. Martin.”

  In her soft voice, with the delightfully trilled rs, the standard courtesy somehow sounded sincere.

  “Now we’re passin’ the Abbey, as of course ye know. The Celtic crosses ye see are not the originals. Those were nearly all destroyed by the reformers, and the few that were spared had weathered so badly by the twentieth century that the Iona Trust put them in the Abbey Museum, to be protected, and erected the copies ye see here. The biggest one is St. Martin’s cross . . .”

  We went on our peaceful way toward the north end of the island, passing Bob on the way. I ducked, like the coward I am. I had no intention of offering him a ride and being preached at all morning; I’d had enough of that already. When we had gone as far as the road would take us, we turned back down the hill, past the Abbey and through the village. The sun had warmed the air and colored the sea a dazzling aquamarine.

  “What’s that boat that’s going out, Deirdre? The one you can barely see, heading north?”

  “That’s the Iolaire, David MacPherson’s boat. He takes it to Staffa every morning and afternoon when the weather’s good. Do ye know Staffa?”

  “Only by reputation. It’s the island Mendelssohn liked so much, isn’t it? The one the Fingal’s Cave overture is written about?”

  “That’s right. Ye must take the trip; it’s one of the things tourists to Iona are obliged to do.”

  I laughed, and we headed on to the south, passing the tiny grocery store, where I saw Jake coming out with a loaded bag. And after that dinner we’d had!

  On the south end of the island, the road turned west before petering out to a track. Deirdre pulled her horse to a stop and pointed.

  “Ye’ll want to walk on to Columba’s Bay one day, but mind ye dinna go alone. The path is marshy, and it’s easy to turn an ankle on the rocks. And if ye get lost, ye could find yourself at the marble quarry, and that can be dangerous.”

  “Marble is quarried on Iona? I didn’t realize there was any industry here at all.”

  “Och, no, not for years now, not since 1915 or so. It’s fine marble, mind ye, and there’s Iona greenstone as well—granite, that is—but most of the buyers in the old days were in Belgium, and the first war shut down the trade. Somehow it’s never started again, but some of the machinery’s still there, great rusting hulks, and slabs of marble they never bothered to take away.” She shuddered a little. “I dinna like the place myself—the only ugly bit of Iona, to my way of thinking. God made this island, and he’s everywhere on it—’tis a holy place, Iona.” She said it very simply. “But not the quarry. Man took that and ruined it, and I’m thinking the devil himself owns that bit.” She clucked again to her horse, and we set off back to the hotel.

  I would certainly stay away from the quarry. The peace of Iona had possessed me during my lovely morning, and I was resolved to hold on to it. Even, I thought as I went into the hotel to change into cooler clothes, in the face of the Chicago crowd.

  Since my terms at the hotel didn’t include lunch, I went again to the Heritage Centre’s little lunchroom and talked to Maggie, after the crowd had cleared out.

  “And have ye been enjoying yourself, then?”

  “Do you know the story of the curate’s egg?” I answered. She shook her head. “A curate was breakfasting with his bishop, and was served a boiled egg that wasn’t very fresh, to put it mildly. When the bishop asked him if he’d enjoyed his egg, the curate replied, ‘Thank you, my lord. Parts of it were excellent.’”

  Maggie laughed. “Which parts are which?”

  “I love the island itself, and the islanders I’ve met—you, and Deirdre who drives the wagon, and Hester up at the hotel. But there are some Americans staying at the hotel who—well, they don’t get along, and one of them seems determined to draw me into their quarrels, and that isn’t so pleasant. I’m trying to keep out of their way.”

  “Why don’t ye go off to Staffa this afternoon?” Maggie suggested. “It could well be your last chance for days. Ye know we talked about our storms? Well, dear, the barometer’s falling. We’ll get a storm by morning, is my prediction. And this time of year ye never know how bad they’ll be, nor how long they’ll last.”

  “But I’m here for two weeks!”

  “Ye never know,” she repeated. “If David is takin’ the boat oot this afternoon, ye can be sure it’s safe. And it’s a good day for it; the basalt will be good and dry, with all the wind. It can be slippery to walk on when it’s wet. Ye must suit yourself, of course, but in your place I’d go. It’s not to be missed, ye know. Are ye a good sailor?”

  “Not especially, to tell the truth. And I didn’t think to bring along any motion sickness pills.”

  “Then go to the shop in the village and get some of the ginger capsules. Much better for ye than drugs; they won’t put ye to sleep, and they’ll do the job.”

  I was ready for a walk anyway, so I wandered down to the village, lingering to gaze at the tiny village school, Dr. Kate McIntosh’s office (hours in Bunessen Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, Iona Wednesday mornings only), and the notice board by the public telephones, advertising the bus and ferry schedules, lost kittens, and a ceilidh Friday evening in the village hall. I would have to find out from someone what a ceilidh was—and for that matter, how to pronounce it!

  The little shop, a general store that stocked everything from souvenirs to needlepoint kits, was having a sale on the ginger capsules, so I bought several boxes. If they were as good as Maggie said, I could use them on the ferries going back home, and in planes, though I still hadn’t made up my mind about Staffa this afternoon.

  I turned back as I was leaving the shop. “Oh, by the way, what’s a sea-lid?”

  The clerk looked blank.

  “It said on the notice board that there was going to be one Friday, in the village hall. C-e-i-l-something.”

  “Och, a kay-lee!”

  My mind tried to reconcile the spelling with the pronunciation, and gave up. “It’s Gaelic, I suppose?”

  “Aye. Dinna ye know aboot ceilidhs? It’s a dance party. They’ll do traditional dancing to begin, and then when the young ones show up, it’ll be rock. Ye must come; it’s great fun. We’ll
teach ye the dances!”

  “I’ll be there.” I was smiling as I walked back up the road.

  I lingered on the jetty for a while. The place had captured my imagination. To a landlubber, there is something about boats and nets and seagulls and the smell of salt air that is deeply invigorating. Today the sea threw back diamond glints of hard, bright sunlight, and the wind caught the sails of the little boats on the Sound and sent them flying like the gulls. It was so beautiful I could hardly bear it.

  And there, bobbing gently at her mooring, was the Iolaire, the Staffa boat, brightly painted and inviting.

  A gull swooped down next to me, thinking that someone who sat so still must surely have some crumbs worth considering. When it saw that I hadn’t, it gave a jeering cry and flew away, and the other gulls joined its cries in a raucous, enticing nautical chorus.

  I went back to the hotel for my waterproof jacket.

  I didn’t forget, though, to ask at the desk if there was any mail. If a miracle had happened, my key might have arrived.

  This wasn’t my day for miracles. I was going to have to spend one more day with the other unfriendly guests. Ah, well, doubtless there were worse fates, but I was glad to be getting away from them for the afternoon.

  I was the first to board the lolaire for the afternoon sailing. I swallowed two of the ginger capsules, hoping for the best, and took a seat in the bow where I could see everything.

  What I saw, when I’d finished inspecting the boat and a portion of the beach, was the Chicago contingent, trooping down the street straight for the jetty.

  Of course! I should have known. They were only here for the week, and they would have heard the same warnings I had about the weather. Of course they would want to make sure they saw Staffa. And to tell the truth, there wasn’t a great deal to do on Iona anyway. It was a place to relax and unwind, to appreciate the rather savage beauties of nature, but if you were at odds with your fellow travelers, a trip off the island must seem like a very good idea.

  Look at me, after all—running away from them.

  In the minute or so it took them to reach the boat I gave myself a stern talking-to. Pull yourself together, Dorothy, old girl. This is not your usual form. Whatever possessed you, refusing to face a problem? Not even a problem, merely a small unpleasantness. I’m ashamed of you!

  I’m here to have a good time, not put up with a bunch of creeps, my baser self whined.

  And you think the way to enjoy yourself is to cut yourself off from your fellow man? Fellow Americans, at that!

  I don’t like them.

  And how do you know? You’ve had ten minutes’ conversation with them, if that. All except for Jake, and you like him well enough. Hattie Mae is tough to take, true, but she’s a Christian, you’re a Christian—there ought to be some common meeting ground.

  Yes, but . . .

  But nothing. Stand up, look them in the eye, and smile. Even if they’re mad at each other, there’s no reason for you to be disagreeable to them.

  I stood up, staggering a little as the boat rose to an incoming swell, smiled brilliantly at the group, and waved.

  Jake, first to board, nodded slightly, then turned to give Grace a hand. She didn’t even glance my way. One by one they stepped over the gunwale. Hattie Mae glared; so did Teresa. Bob seemed moody and Chris preoccupied; Janet pursed her lips and looked away. They settled themselves in various areas of the boat, well separated from one another, and from me.

  I sat down again. So much for that. It would, I assured myself furiously, be a hot day in Siberia before I so much as spoke to any of them again. No wonder they didn’t enjoy traveling together. What was wrong with them, anyway?

  That thought occupied me while a handful of other passengers boarded and we pulled away from the jetty. I couldn’t escape the odd feeling that there were undercurrents I didn’t know about. These people seemed disturbed at a level that couldn’t be explained simply by ill temper, or even religious antagonism. It felt as though there were strong personal animosities involved, but how could that be, among a group that knew each other only casually?

  I watched them covertly as the Iolaire crossed the Sound to Fionnphort, picked up a few more passengers, and headed out to sea. Bob sat in the bow, well away from the others, looking sulky and miserable. Jake, seated on a sort of metal box in the middle of the deck, had his back to me, so I couldn’t see his expression, but he certainly wasn’t enjoying the scenery; his view consisted of the inside of the passenger cabin. Most of the group were in there, somewhat hidden from me; I could see only that they were neither talking to each other nor looking out the windows.

  Clearly, something was wrong. Equally clearly, it was none of my business. I washed my hands of them and concentrated on enjoying myself.

  The ginger capsules, spreading a gentle warmth through my insides, made the motion of the boat actually pleasant, like being rocked in a rather unpredictable cradle. And the view was spectacular. There were seals along the way, sunning themselves on a rock, and birds—gulls, of course, and cormorants, and others I didn’t recognize. The sea was high enough to make me glad of my waterproof jacket; spray leapt into the bow every time we hit an especially big wave. When we came near a tiny outcropping of rock and the skipper slowed the boat so we could all see the comical, colorful birds called puffins, I stood up and risked being swept overboard while I madly took pictures.

  The Chicagoans, when I sneaked a glance into the cabin, weren’t doing so well. Now and then, when the wind changed direction for a moment, I could hear muffled groans. Well, they’d doubtless be all right, and at least they were feeling too rotten to bother me, which made it easier to leave them strictly alone.

  However, when Grace Desmond staggered out on deck, pea green, and took a precautionary seat at the rail, my conscience began to smite me. I argued with myself for a moment or two, then made my way over to her, swaying and staggering myself as the boat rose and dipped.

  “Look, can you take pills without water? I have the most marvelous seasick preventives. I don’t know if they’ll cure it, but surely it’s worth a try. They’re not drugs, just ginger and camomile. Here.” I handed her the bubble pack.

  “I have water.” It was one of the passengers from Mull, looking sympathetic. He took a plastic bottle from his backpack and handed it to Grace. She was too miserable even to thank him, but punched out a couple of capsules, swallowed them with a swig, and leaned back, looking as if she’d like to die. I bravely went into the cabin.

  “I have some capsules for motion sickness, if anyone’s interested.”

  I might have been giving away twenty-dollar bills. Some of them even tried to pay me, but I waved their money away. “Take up a collection back at the hotel, if they really help. Or buy some in the village and replenish my supply. And you’d be better off out on deck, you know. The fresh air helps a lot, even if you do get a bit wet.”

  It was Teresa who produced the water this time and handed it round. Feeling like Florence Nightingale, I went back on deck and sat down on the starboard side to watch the slow approach of Staffa.

  4

  THE APPROACH WAS slow, indeed. When the skipper’s son appeared briefly on deck to perform some mysterious sailorly rite, I asked him how much longer we’d be.

  “Three quarters of an hour. The current’s slowing us a bit, this trip.”

  Forty-five minutes is a good deal of time for a sociable person like me to go without talking, and I hadn’t thought to bring anything to read. The view by this time was somewhat boring: sea, and more sea, and sky, and, in the distance, the blue-gray outline of Staffa, at this distance looking not much different from the surrounding water.

  So I actually smiled, if cautiously, when Grace sat down by my side.

  “I hope you’re feeling better.”

  “Much better. I owe you profound thanks.”

  “No problem. I’m glad the ginger did the trick.”

  “Mrs. Martin—”

  “Dorothy,
please.”

  “Dorothy, then, I feel I must apologize for my—incivility last night. This has not been a pleasant vacation for me, but the fault is certainly not yours. I ought not to have—”

  “Please! Don’t worry about it. Jake told me that tensions were running a little high among you; it’s natural that you might not be in a cordial mood. Traveling on a tight schedule can do that.”

  She sighed. “I’m afraid there’s more to it than that. Some of our group . . .” Her eyes slid to Bob, who was still sitting at the very front of the boat, hunched over against the cold and spray, but never moving. “Well, there’s been some animosity, but I’ll not bore you. I simply wanted to say how sorry I was for my rudeness, and how grateful for your medicine. It’s actually rather exhilarating out here on deck, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but salt is caking on my face from the spray, and making it a little raw. I wish I had some fresh water to wash it off.”

  “Several people are carrying water with them. Perhaps they’d share.”

  Grace lurched into the cabin with the tipsy gait the boat imposed. I was somewhat surprised when it was Teresa who came to me with a nearly full bottle of mineral water and a clean handkerchief.

  “Are you sure you have enough? It seems pretty frivolous, using water to wash my face if you’re going to need it to drink.”

  “I have another bottle, and almost everybody else has at least one. Go ahead. Have a drink, too, if you want.”

  I took her at her word, and felt much better when I’d mopped the gritty salt off my face and hands, and swallowed a little water to take the taste off my lips.

  “That was kind of you, Teresa, thank you.” I handed the bottle back to her. “Do you suppose—Bob’s up there in the bow getting the brunt of it—maybe he’d like some water, too?”