Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  A young and handsome Eachan had the fashion of walking the miles across the hill to the east side of the island. Saturday nights, without fail, he would be at a fireside talking to an old crofting couple. Sheep conversations apart, his mind was on their daughter who sat quietly, awaiting a tap on the door which would take her to the local dance. The light of the Tilley lamp shone on a lustre of flaxen curls, made her eyes liquid pools of deep attraction. Eachan was in love, unashamedly and distractedly. He attended her wedding, dancing, drinking, and longing.

  Out of affection for her folks he kept up his visits to their crofting fireside. One night with a gale out of the west hastening his walk he arrived to find the village midwife busy heating towels. As always a welcoming dram from the ‘bodach’ and they sat to the fire, talking. The night drew on, women’s work went on. In the wee hours the midwife brought through a crying bundle to wash at the warmth of the hearth. The birth of a daughter to the girl he had lost to another man. By and by he tiptoed through to the back bedroom. The girl he loved looked up from feeding her baby. He kissed her tenderly and went out to walk, long, long, miles.

  Full twenty years were to pass, hard work alone on the croft of Ach-na-Mara. And one night when the hillside lay in soft velvet light, he proposed to the girl he had seen washed, a new born baby by the fire. And the light of the moon fell with the eyes of her mother, and she said ‘Yes.’

  Graying a little, but handsome still, fresh air and soft rain had kept Ella young. A powerful woman, she’d helped at the digging of the peats, the sowing and harvest. She rolled wool at the clippings, kept corn to the hens and fed collie dogs, cooking stove and family alike. A busy woman, trained from childhood in the ways of a crofting household. When a ‘nor-wester’ tuned the slates and the boom of breakers kept it time, all would feel snug in their tiny kitchen, then the warmth of the peat fire helped produce a sizeable brood of children. The frequency of winter gales was to fill a home of scrubtop table and bunk beds beneath the wood lined eaves. Ella presided over her man and brood with the eyes of kindness.

  Evenly featured offspring, blue eyed and willing. Dependent on age, work about the croft was part of their upbringing. A bottle and teat to feed the pet lambs fell to the youngest. The oldest by ten, would be digging the ‘tatties’ they’d helped to plant and perhaps before bedtime, peeping into the byre with the hurricane lantern on a nail above the stall throwing its yellow light on the pressing cow, until out came a wet, spluttering calf.

  Round the fields on a spring morning they followed their father to see him draw the front legs, then a head, and gently bring out a living lamb from a ewe in difficulty. With school pals at communal sheep clippings when neighbours gathered, they carried fleeces to pack the wool bags, all the time working and learning the skills which made possible an island life. Jobs were given to all the children, simple disciplines without question or pay and happiness ruled.

  Patched-hand-me-downs, their barefoot children ran the summer long, lively expeditions to the hill, building stone and heather shelters, or down to the beach when the white sand burnt their feet and only the beady-eyed gulls dozing one- legged amongst the seaweed complained at the intrusion. Green edged rock pools filled with treasure, open razor shells and mauve pebbles were spread to dry. Heedless of time, driftwood games and homespun adventures by the light off the sea filled their childhood days

  Below ‘The Field of the Sea’, a double ended sailing boat lay winched on its launching track, clear of the tide. Headlands enfolded the bay, green topped and fertile. Spring and autumn alike, the passing geese would rest and feed. Tapering headlands fell away to creviced rocks where the cormorant stood holding their outstretched wings to the sun, a safe haven to all when plumes of spray burst in crannied gullies and the booming Atlantic was in voice.

  As the high days of summer waned and moon put her harvest light upon the sea Eachan would run out his sturdy little boat and take the children fishing. The brown lug sail would pull them clear of the headlands on a faint breeze that followed the sun to the west. The herring would be running and the net would fill, and the lithe silver bodies would pour about their feet. A last haul and the moons orange path, broad and dappled reached from a darkening horizon. By her dying beam he would steer his boat for their rock bound haven, the breeze just a ghostly hand.

  Each spring when the great wild flocks calling in the night steered north by the stars, there came a restlessness for the stravaiging days, it tightened the sinews and coursed through the man whose ancestors had fought on the high seas of adventure. By way of easing the yearning Eachan would sail his children across the Sound to Sandray. They’d sit about him at the old house, scones and buttermilk, and the mood would be on him to tell of his people’s coming to the island a thousand years before. And he would drift to sleep and they would take off to play.

  One of the girls with a sprawling mop of the curliest flaxen hair, perhaps the most daring of their family, had fallen. The children came running to tell him. Out on the headland she’d climbed the cliff where the fulmar nested. There on a ledge at its foot, he found her, and in his boat they sailed her home.

  Careless of things that winter, a storm had splintered his boat. Without a boat he was a man without a hand. His family built him another, the finest of Norway larch and double ended, she had the sturdy lines of the galleys that came to Sandray in the stories he’d told.

  She was all he wanted of a boat, sleek and beautiful, truly a maid of the sea,

  In memory of the girl they’d lost, he called her ‘Hilda’.

  The light was failing, yet its dimness drew radiance from the sea. The luminous gleam of the sun remained a dying presence beneath the surface of the glowing sheet of water. The air, the atmosphere, every particle of existence became tinged in a delicate suffusion of the palest lemon.

  Time’s passage slowed to a total fixation. As the changing light told me of a turning world, so my life was turning beyond recognition. Nothing mattered but to watch the transforming glimmer, its reflection on the sea, the land, a clock spire of worship oblivious to the puniness of an earth that spun in obedience to the dancing waves of space; a revolving, trivial dot in the mysterious grip of the sun’s gravity, a planet at the mercy of the Sun God, radiation.

  The boat turned gradually, its mast a silhouette against the horizon. She epitomised all I needed. A boat, instantly determined, I needed a boat, a journey, follow the elements. Sail by the wind, taste the sea. Shaking with excitement, I tried to rise. A coughing bout raked through me. I bent, hand on the bollard, a rope tripped my foot and I stumbled.

  Somebody caught me.

  “Steady, steady, too late for a swim tonight.” Hard hands lifted me to my feet. I stood swaying. The man remained holding me firmly. The coughing subsided, and turning, “Thanks, thanks,” I managed to say.

  “You’re not too well boy,” the deep ring of his voice startled me. I looked up. My head spun, thoughts twisted, I grasped at memory. Where before, where had I seen this face, those eyes?

  After the pause, “Yes, I ..er.. I was.. my lungs were damaged by an explosion.”

  Minutes elapsed. We looked at each other, no fleeting glance but a searching intensity. His eyes shone, clear as the horizon. A strange bonding. Without ceremony he shook my hand.

  “Sit there just now,” a quiet command. Seated again on the bollard I watched as he rowed a tiny dingy out to the boat. An outboard engine broke the silence of the bay, the ripple of his boat its calm waters. She came alongside. The man climbed the short iron ladder and made fast.

  “Now,” the voice brooked no dissention, “I’ll go aboard. You’ll come down, step by step.”

  He caught me on the last rung, “Sit at the mast, a’bhalaich, I’ll get your case.” Too exhausted to protest or enquire, I said nothing. Casting off, sure footed at every move, he sat in the stern. A man, strong faced, old and white haired.

  The engine rattled into life. We swung away from the pier. An island beyond the bay tapered
into the darkness, slim and faint, beyond comprehension.

  Was I touching this boat? I looked into the night, was I touching the boat which drugged my thoughts with both sadness and a longing?

  Had she risen out of that dream which creeps without warning into dimensions of fantasy and desire? Had I descended into a sleep which had opened the portals of fate, where all tomorrow is a refection yesterday’s hope and tragedy?

  At the first roll of the swell she rose gently and dipped gracefully.

  I held her mast. My head reeled.

  Was I at sea, aboard the ‘Hilda?’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Shadows on the Sun

  “Josh, how splendid to see you,” the P.M. turned from studying papers on a large leather topped desk and rose to a cordial handshake with his Chief Scientific Advisor. “Do sit down. My jove you’re looking so well. Been on holiday?” he queried, smiling warmly.

  Sir Joshua Goldberg, tanned and urbane, sat heavily on one of the three armchairs, “Well yes, I have as a matter of fact, no, not quite a holiday, I nipped over to Geneva for a few days but as it happened, the weather was magnificent.” His eye flitted over to the brightly lit operations panel which covered the end wall. Large scale, Middle East, he noted, Israel to Iran.

  The P.M. returned to his swivel chair. The strong light from behind him left his face in shadow and focused on Goldberg. A longish, narrow room without windows, blanching and airless, one of a complex of nuclear proof bunkers below Downing Street, it served for strictly private conversations, un-minuted, totally un- recorded. An extractor fan whirred softy from the low oppressive ceiling.

  “Geneva, mm, that’s interesting,” a non-committal remark, yet it evoked a thoughtful look. “Anyway,” the P.M. continued, “we’ve had all the fall out.” He checked himself with a boyish grin, “I’ll re-phrase that. We’ve had to deal with all the complications from that hellish tube bombing. This is the first chance I’ve had to talk to you about the nuclear issue. You remember we discussed it after that bloody ignorant scientist had to be more or less thrown out.”

  His face reddened and smacking a fist on the desk, “How the hell he had the cheek to mouth all that stuff at me, right in my face! I’ve never had that kind of impudence before. Don’t worry, Josh, I’ll see his project clipped,” ..adding in a grinding tone, “maybe his wings too.”

  Steadying himself with a deep breath, “More to the point, I’m sure you’ll know the U.S. manufacturers are already tooling up for these mini nuclear power plants. I was furious that the bugger seemed to know about that as well. We can’t risk any hitch which might frighten the financiers. Is there any truth in what he said about the storage of nuclear waste?”

  The Chief Advisor studied his finger nails aware he’d been responsible for the debacle of their meeting the scientist. “That was the purpose of my little Euro trip and yes, there will need to be certain modifications, but deep burial is definitely on, given, as I say, a bit of attention to some of the details MacKenzie raised. However,” he looked up, “I’m in close contact with the Japanese and U.S. designers and operators. The matter can be handled but,” his eyes flickered slightly, “it would be extremely unfortunate if the points he raised were to be passed, for example to the green press.”

  “I know that too damn well, leave that bit to me, I have a bully boy who can bring that shower to heel,” came the P.M.’s impatient reply, and then more carefully, “The political side is difficult, but with care we’ll get a nuclear debate through the Commons on a quiet day. The economy will be is such shit state, thanks to Mr. Prudence and his banking pals, they’ll be screaming for Government spending and what better way than building nuclear plants to cut this f-ing CO2 millstone and more importantly, the punters’ power bills. Well, maybe. Anyway the bloody ‘Greens’ will scream blue murder but they’re no more effective than a fart in a blanket. The Tories will lap it up, behind the scenes shareholders and all that stuff. Three years from now and three million unemployed! Just wait for it, Josh, the students, the lefties- they’ll only be howling about their jobs and student fees.”

  The pause was deliberate, before he remarked slowly, “Yes, it can be handled,” and then with a laugh, “Of course, Josh, I may not be in office. There’s a man who’s just beside himself to take over the reins,” his eyes hooded slightly, “I don’t need to mention its not meat for those yapping media hounds, they have their uses when required but certainly not on that issue.”

  “Oh no, no, they’re the last people we need in on such topics,” Sir Joshua spoke smoothly. “Like yourself, Prime Minister, I may not be in this post much longer. I would like to resign, if you find that to be in order. Quietly please, very quietly, on a day when there’s plenty of news; nothing beats bad news as a smoke screen. As it happens, I’ve been approached to advise an American consortium, rather attractive, a place on the board, so I’d be able to concentrate a little more on my business activities. I hope you understand Prime Minister?”

  “Of course, of course, Josh, I greatly appreciate all you’ve done, any change you may wish will be dealt with appropriately,” and perhaps a little coyly, he enquired, “Er, not Nuen by any chance?” The P.M. mentioned the largest U.S. Company in the nuclear business.

  “Oh, nothing definite,” Goldberg waved a podgy hand, “but a friend in Nuen did suggest that a U.K. contract would be greatly appreciated.” For the first time he looked directly at the P.M. “Maybe there’s also a space on their board.” The comment hung between them in mutual understanding. Their eyes locked for several moments.

  “By the way, Josh, strictly across this table, the deal to sell UK’s shares in our Atomic Weapons Establishment at Aldermaston to that Californian crowd, Harris Engineering, is just about through. You may know, they’re doing a lot of research into the next generation of nuclear warheads. The M.O.D. seems quiet relaxed about it and of course the Chancellor’s delighted. Any way, it’ll tie together quite neatly with any development that Nuen has in mind. We’ve had to keep this little arrangement out of earshot of The House, otherwise there’d be one hell of a hullabaloo.”

  During this disclosure, Sir Joshua’s eyes had fallen to looking at the carpet before he commented, “I must admit, I did get an inkling of the deal.”

  Drawing a sharp breath, the P.M. looked suspiciously at his advisor.

  “Very, very discreetly,” the Chief Scientist continued smoothly, cursing inwardly for admitting as much, “through a friend, as it happens. I do assure you, P.M. this Californian Group, quite apart from their vital work on nuclear weaponry and starting production on the latest airborne megawatt laser guns, are well to the fore in several fields, advanced physics, super computing, and that’s just two areas.” Pausing a moment, he looked up, “More particularly, so far as this waste storage question is concerned, they are into the science of creating the exotic materials which may well be required for casing these underground facilities.”

  The meeting had gone on long enough, too open for the comfort of both. “Look Josh, I can see we must get this storage question sorted out,” the P.M. mused aloud. “Underground you say, well maybe somewhere with a low population density. An agreeable landowner is always better than compulsory acquisition; less fuss, then there’s planning, public enquires, all that damn nonsense.”

  “Leave it with me, P.M.” Sir Joshua lifted his considerable weight out of the chair.

  A cordial handshake brought further discussion to a close. “You have my full confidence, Josh,” The P.M. held onto the man’s hand. “By the way, I can’t just recall who’s the chairperson of Nuen.” His smile settled warmly on Sir Joshua, “Do pass on my best regards for their Company’s future.”

  “Naturally I shall do so, as soon as a suitable opening arises.” He disengaged his hand.

  A green light flashed on the desk. The P.M. reached and touched it. Without any sound, a large steel door slid open. Goldberg left equally silently.

  Whistling the latest pop tune, the P.M. drew
a diary from his inside pocket and wrote a few careful notes before sitting back at the desk and drumming his fingers. He swivelled his chair, stared at the operations map and checked his watch. A red light flashed. He touched it. The room’s only door opened silently. A tall man stood at the end of the room without speaking. Dark city clothes emphasized the pallor of a face seldom away from artificial light. Darting eyes swept the room. The Agent remained silent.

  “Good, good, glad you could make it.” A brusque greeting which took care not to address the man by name and was far removed from the P.M.’s usually warm approach. “Any progress on the tube train bombers? I really need results, by next Wednesday’s House of Commons questions, if possible. Not that politics come into this outrage,” he hastened to add as an afterthought.

  “Negative,” came the reply. The man spoke without moving from the far end of the room,

  “Ah, I see,” the P.M. moved uncomfortably, rubbing his hands together, the meeting with Goldberg still much in his mind, “Let me be specific on another point. Have you found that youngish scientist fellow you were given instruction to trace and more importantly the brief case which we know he carried? I want it and its contents to be found.” His voice became harsh, the mouth twisted. “Also the man was extremely insolent to me and that always spells trouble.”

  The Agent stepped forward and stood close to the P.M., his eyes veiled by drooping eyelids, his gross features threatening in their very composure. Moments drained away before he spoke. “We have him on footage leaving hospital. The taxi number was obscured by a following vehicle. He was not carrying the briefcase described to us.”

  “In other words, you’ve lost him,” the P.M moved back, his voice rising to a higher pitch. “This is not good enough. I want man and the material found. You understand?”

  “We will find him,” the voice was low and even, the eyes measuring and controlling.