Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  The instructions had been noted down before the woman began to demur, “I don’t, er, I’m not too sure I can make…” The Agent reached round and place a hand over her mouth, “Nonsense darling, this is an order, if you want to keep your job.” The woman breathed in sharply, “Sorry, sorry, darling,” The Agent soothed, “only joking, know what I mean, just my little joke, naughty me.” Then sounding official, “I need you as a cover, we’re a sightseeing couple. I need to get into this damn fool particle accelerator they’ve built in Geneva so nothing too official.”

  Without taking his hand away from her mouth, he pushed the other under the back of her loose blouse. Swiftly his hand came round, squeezing the nipple of a firm breast.

  The exquisitely cut chandelier of a thousand prisms winking with opulence shone its gleaming facets on the immaculate polish of a massive Georgian refectory table. The boardroom of Nuen House, Park Avenue, New York, was nothing if not sumptuous in its furnishings. To appeal to the predilections of wealth and influence, no refinements of taste had been overlooked. It implied a consolidation of assest whose foundations harked to the era of Carnegie and Rockefeller.

  Fragrant leather and embroidered draperies embellished the room; whilst most impressive were the ornately gilt framed Victorian oils, all be it most of them excellent copies. Such masters of genre painting as Landseer and Millais, held pride of place against the lustrous mahogany panelling. This was not to be considered the offices of a jazzy, get rich quick, IT outfit, but one of unshakable dominance in the field of both nuclear energy production and the international weapons industry.

  Equally polished as the table at which they sat, two rows of Florida tans, looked up as their Chairman entered. Slimmed by regular exercise rather than hard work, he strode purposefully to the head of the table. Jaunty and lightly perfumed, an open necked shirt and golfing flannels emphasised his position amidst the ranks of ties and city suits. To the affectation of paper shuffling and chair scraping, the Board Members rose. Andrew Anderson, Nuen’s Chairman sat down.

  “Please, be seated Gentlemen.” He ran his eye up and down their lines. Good, a full turnout.

  For a nation whose accents have yet to solidify into the strata of social class, none the less, that of their Chairman marked him out as a product of Harvard, rather than Coney Island. “Now gentleman, before we get down to work I’d like you to welcome our addition to the Board. Having just retired from a highly distinguished career as Chief Scientific Advisor to the UK Government, Sir Joshua Goldberg has agreed to join us. We look forward to enjoying the benefits of his expertise on the matters which this company intend to progress and furthermore, his connections outside the scientific field are widespread. Gentlemen, please welcome Sir Joshua.”

  Discreet applause followed. Goldberg inclined his head in response.

  Chairman Anderson continued with the formal business of a board meeting. Comment from round the table was given on matters relating to the minutes of their previous meeting. Agreed as correct, they were proposed, seconded and duly signed with a flourish. Before turning to the agenda’s main item, Andrew looked carefully round the table. His eye rested on a leading Wall Street shareholder. Words were not required. After some moments he deliberately shifted his gaze towards a board member with influence in the White House and the ear of the Pentagon. “Gentlemen, I know I can depend on your utmost discretion,” the Chairman’s tone left the members in no doubt, “you will be aware of the unfortunate slowdown in new building for the nuclear industry and its impact on Company profits. Well I’m able to tell you that Nuen has secured a contract, through one of our subsidiaries, for supplying depleted uranium shells to the war effort in Iraq and gentlemen I’m happy to tell you, it is proving a most lucrative arrangement.”

  Nods and smiles of approval from round the table pleased Anderson as he continued,

  “Gentleman, given Nuen’s considerable involvement in the nuclear industry, as you know we are leaders in both new commissions, the running of plant and waste disposal, I now wish to call on Sir Joshuha to address us on this fast moving field with its widest international implications.”

  For effect, Sir Joshua Goldberg stood slightly away from the group and spoke without notes. Chairs were pushed back and all their faces turned attentively. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman, I appreciate your welcoming remarks,” Goldberg nodded with a calculated deference. “Gentlemen, I have to tell you that the next decade is crucial to the furtherance of the nuclear industry and by obvious consequence, the success of Nuen. Nuclear power capacity may well double worldwide over the next twenty years. Much is happening internationally, the main focus of development currently centres on the Middle East.”

  He spoke emphatically, adapting his tone to one of authority, “Apart from Iran, nine other countries in the region plan a least a dozen new power plants. For example, both Turkey and Egypt are extremely active. Naturally there is major concern on the part of those nations already well established in the field, over this expected proliferation in uranium enrichment and reprocessing capability. An escalation in the availability of fissile material is the obvious result.”

  Goldberg paused for effect, “Spent fuel, gentlemen, enough plutonium, gentlemen, for a couple of thousand nuclear warheads. On top of those weapons already existing in the area, we risk turning the Middle East into a nuclear arsenal.”

  A capable public speaker, Goldberg had looked over the heads of the listeners, but before proceeding he engaged each face in turn. Under heavy lids, his eyes burned intently. “The role of this company in world nuclear energy production could become central. Here lies an oyster of opportunity, a golden chance for us to benefit and of course” he added carefully, “this access to cheaper power would provide the increased living standards and disposable income which developing nations so badly require in the furtherance of trade.”

  Hurrying to the salient points, he went on, “Two areas are vital. Firstly, there are moves afoot to place the existing enrichment plants under international control and most importantly for Nuen, certain nations are pushing for the construction of new super safe enrichment facilities. In effect, they wish to establish an internationally controlled and operated nuclear fuel bank. Operators, world wide, would draw their fuel supplies from a single source. As I speak the EU has allocated the sum of twenty five million ecu’s to the creation of a nuclear fuel stock pile. I suggest to you, gentlemen, the building and management of such a facility would be of great interest to this company.”

  The impressive speaker again paused. Board members glanced one to another. “Secondly and equally important to Nuen is the question of the disposal of waste by-product,” (the words radio-active material he considered to run counter to the interests of Nuen) “This operation could develop in tandem with those of the proposed international nuclear fuel supply. Clearly the leader in one field would engage the respect of governments and the International Atomic Energy Authority. The challenge for Nuen is enormous. Let us not, as board members of such a pre-eminent leader in the nuclear world, shrink from our duty to see the welfare of our fellowmen and women improve and prosper, in safety.”

  To a man the members rose to their feet and applauded. A beaming Chairman joined in with equal enthusiasm. In spite of the air conditioning, beads of sweat trickled down Sir Joshua’s brow.

  After their meeting, the Chairman took Goldberg by the elbow, “A word in my office.”

  The pair retired to easy chairs. Andrew’s taste in paintings veered towards modern art. Was that a Jackson Pollock, Goldberg wondered? Impressive. Ah, the trappings of true wealth.

  “What a first rate address, Joshua, well done, thank you,” the chairman motioned towards a beautiful swan necked decanter. Goldberg shook his head. Anderson poured himself a Bourbon.

  “Now it’s political agenda as much as practical concern and of course financial for sure. You may have influence in the latter, Joshua?”

  The new board member studied the gorgeous Persian carpet upon
which his Italian leather shoes rested. “I think that’s not a problem, Andrew.”

  Noting the direction of Goldberg’s glance, the Chairman nodded, “Yes, we can depend on friends in that part of the world. However, as I’m sure you will agree, politics are the tricky bit.”

  “I have a certain friend. He may be leaving high office soon, his feet are under the right tables, a little additional income interests most people. Shall I invite him across?”

  Lapsing into the vernacular, “Yeah, Josh, bring him on. I’ll fix him a suite at the Waldorf.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Soil of Home

  Treeless and empty, hill and headland curved from land into sea with elegance. Not the sharp, abrupt angles I knew of Alpine scenery, its mountains crammed together, neck craning and inaccessible, their forest slopes all pervasive and oppressive. To a child, woodlands were a trap, eerie and frightening. Danger lurked. Branches were claws, black and waving. Trunks hid furtive shapes, stalking and terrifying. The chill, the stillness, my sense of direction lost, I would run. Perhaps an echo of early man’s sea-shore existence at rock pool and shallows inflicted my dread of forest gloom and its sunless obscurity.

  Thoughts of childhood trauma returned as I stood at the end of the house revelling in the openness of it all. Fields, green and level, a glimpse of the sea through dunes and away beyond the croftland, huge unmoving clouds lay over the mainland, brilliant white statues, their under bellies grey with showers. Away to the north, sapphire hills turned slender lines to distant haze. Westwards, the Atlantic glistened. Morning sun and the safety of space, it erupted before me in a great release. I liked it.

  Only one coughing fit overtook me. The collie hadn’t barked when I stepped outside, instead his tail thumped the porch floor. “Come in, come in, Hector, you’ll be needing your breakfast.” The quiet voice startled me, I turned to see the old man’s wife standing at the corner of the house. Even more startling, she had used my name. Had I told them last night? I couldn’t be certain.

  “I was thinking of walking down to the hay field, if that’s OK.” I didn’t add, to collect my thoughts and speak to the man who’d brought me here.

  “Never heed Eachan,” she said, as though reading my thoughts. “Anyway, he’ll be up for a srupach in a little,” and seeing my puzzled look, she laughed, “for a mouthful of tea.”

  I followed the old man’s wife into the kitchen. A glass of milk sat on the scrubtop table,

  “You’ll not be drinking the semi-skimmed from the village shop,” she commented, noticing my look as she handed me the glass, “There’s still a milk cow for the house here; she’s about the last on Halasay. Old like ourselves and I’m getting too stiff in the knees to be milking her anymore.”

  Perhaps I seemed uncertain. “Drink up, you’ll be the better of it after your night’s blethers with Eachan,” and turning to the stove, “there’s porridge on the go, if you take it?”

  “Thank you very much. Yes please, I do.” This puzzle of my arrival must be explained, yet still I put off breaking into the issue in a straightforward way. The abrupt question or blunt approach in dealing with people didn’t seem apt in this situation. They hadn’t asked me one question. Why was being here so easy? The atmosphere of this home reminded me of the pleasant, affable manners of my parents. Their approach towards me came across relaxed and natural, and as if their style was infectious, the stresses which had twisted my thinking these past weeks lifted. With a glorious lightness I felt the stirrings of happiness.

  The milk’s richness surprised me. Full of cream, its sweetness reminded me of the scent of wild flowers. I drank heartily, “This will do more than colour the tea,” I laughed over to her. From the porch came the clump of boots. In walked the old boy, Eachan, as I now knew him to be. Strands of hay on his shirt carried the scent of cut grass into the kitchen.

  I stood up, a shade awkward again after a short burst of coughing, “Good morning, -er, er,” I’d nearly said Mister. No formal mould fitted this man. No affectation. He carried a dignity needing no collar, tie, nor title to mark his breeding.

  “Yes boy and a good morning it is. Sit down, sit down,” he said smiling. A chair scraped on the flag floor. Thanking his wife as she put a bowl of porridge at his elbow, he went on, “If the hay gets another day’s sun, it’ll do. I’ll gather it together and let the coilacks settle.”

  “Would I be any use? I’d like to give a hand.” A large plate of porridge steamed beside me, smelling of fresh oatmeal. “Many thanks, Mrs. MacKenzie,” I smiled up. “Don’t be calling me that, you’ll make me feel old,” and behind Eachan’s back she winked, “we’ll leave that to himself.”

  “Don’t you believe it woman,” and turning to me in mock seriousness, “There’s plenty young ones down at the pier give me a smile yet.” He broke into a grin. “Yes, see and come down to the hay, it’s the day for it. I’ll get you a pair of boots.”

  Under a working sun which dried any hint of morning dampness, down to the hay field we went, myself with a spare pitch fork on my shoulder. No jackets, Eachan, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbow, arms burnt almost black. I doubted if they had ever been covered in his lifetime. Walking beside such health and vigour I saw myself, a pale sapling.

  The little heaps of hay, tanned like himself and their scent as we began to move them more delicate than I imagined; not the plummy richness of tobacco, rather the sweetness of herbs left to dry on a window ledge. I caught up handfuls and breathed its fragrance. Such was the attraction I took several stalks and chewed them. Now I knew the secret of the sweet milk.

  “We’ll put three or four coilacks together, make them into a wee stack, like this,” and he drove his hay fork into the first one and without apparent effort lifted it onto fresh ground. “The bottom of each coilack draws the damp; we’ll put it to the top of the stack, it does as a bonnet.” I followed, best as I could, the fork twisted in my hands. There was more knack than I thought.

  Without haste we worked away all morning, the sun on our heads, the vast expanse of scenery open as the day. I revelled in it. From time to time we leant on our forks. The leisurely pace, not set by any demand of time or place, I feasted on its freedom, my hunger that of an animal released from a trap. The life about the place seemed equally unhurried, each group doing what best suited the day and its heat. A skylark which sang as we started work fell silent. The sheep grazed their way up to an exposed knoll. I watched the cattle saunter off through the dunes, single file, “They’re off to cool their feet,” laughed Eachan, noticing my attention. “We’ll have a wee seat to ourselves,” and he plumped down on a coilack.

  All that morning, as we forked the hay into neat lines of round heaps, my eye couldn’t leave the island. A Sound ran between us, not wide but silky blue as the day’s cloudless sky. Although no ocean swell put a creaming edge to the shores, for there was barely a breeze, still here and there on its glassy waters faint white streaks of foam hinted at the strength of a running tide. Silhouette of Venus on the night of arrival now comely in grassy sun bright pastures rising step by step to a peak of weathered crags. It expressed the challenge of self-reliance, hill land, shore line and where the ground sloped down to greens of abandoned fields, the soil of a home and a living. Perhaps a bay sheltered behind the headland which in times of storm would break Atlantic’s power and tipping the skyline, the gable of a house.

  Presently, as we stretched our legs and lay back, Eachan must have noticed my total absorption and sitting up he spoke slowly, “Yes, Hector boy, it’s an island made of peace.” That was the first time he’d used my name. “They called it Sandray,” and slowly, “yes, the Viking called it, Sandray.” He remained silent. I looked across. His eyes went far beyond the island.

  “You should know that.” After a long pause, he began again, speaking with difficulty, “I saw you studying the old photo last night, that one above the mantleplace.” Slowly he turned to me, “Well now, who better than you should know: That man in the pho
to was my grandfather, drowned, as I told you and to you, Hector MacKenzie, that man was your great grandfather.”

  I sat on a croft, amongst hay, having arrived as an alien. The island swam out of focus, from the curtain of moist eyes, into the vision which had become part of my being.

  “I knew when I came on you sitting at the jetty who you were. I knew the tilt of head, the sharp face, same as old MacKenzie, the last to live on that island you’re studying. You had the cut of his jib, as they say.” He motioned towards the island, “There was no hiding the breeding that’s in you,” and turning to me, “and that, a’bhalaich is where our people began.”

  How long we sat didn’t matter, the hay would make, the tide would ebb and flow, the world could turn. I knew who I was, where I belonged. No longer a life of vague discontent with cities, half formed pictures of what I wanted out of living. The old man’s words left me in a great emotional sweep of feeling. The whole inexplicable process of being drawn here became clear. Attempting a reason was for another day.

  What the hell- I grinned stupidly to hide a bursting heart. Without caring of time, I listened to the cry of birds down on the shore. Nothing else broke the silence.

  The hay smelt fresh and wholesome and the sun shone.

  Nothing mattered, across the Sound lay the soil of home.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The Eye of Wisdom

  Each day the breeze of settled weather followed round to the west and died away with the evening sun. We built our coilacks of cured hay into little watertight stacks with no more hurry than the cattle who by afternoon wandered up from the beach to graze the machair. I marvelled at their contentment. Cows would stand licking the tail of calves suckling away beside mother’s flank. The boldest creatures ventured over to the fence, faces still milky white with froth and round eyes full of unblinking curiosity. Eachan laughed at them. I heard the affection in his laughter and the cows lifted their heads at his voice.