Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  Meal finished, a few of the diners tottered to the kitchen to thank to the cook. “Henrietta, how lucky to own such a wonderful chef,” purred a dowager unaware the chef was hired for the night. Winter’s wife beamed, “Shall we withdraw ladies and leave the men folk to their boring politics?” The ladies adjourned with much swishing of silk dresses to the Drawing Room. The men gathered to their host’s end of the antique Jacobean dining piece; the butler, also hired for the occasion, polished the crystal glasses for a third time and soon beneath a blue haze of the finest cut cigars, the brandy bottle circulated the table.

  Not every after dinner exchange of opinions enjoyed those of a Chancellor of the Exchequer and a Westminster Under Secretary. Goldberg, not quite by accident, found himself beside the power behind the UK’s energy police, his school chum, Norton-Winters. Their conversation deepened; Sir Joshua leaned close, “Look here Jeff, do you realise that the world’s biggest energy project so far devised is shortly to be developed in the Sahara, twenty major German Corporations are forming a consortium to build a series of solar thermal generation planets, stuffing sunshine into a steam boiler to drive a turbine, it’s the same as canning sunshine, and they aim to supply an initial fifteen per cent of Europe’s needs; a peak output of a hundred gigawatts, that’s about a hundred of the your dirty coal fired power stations you’re dithering over building. “

  Winters swirled his brandy glass in an unconcerned manner. Sir Joshua’s face twisted in anger, “and this crowd are putting up four hundred billion ecu’s of funding, where the hell are they finding that amount, four hundred billion.” He breathed heavily at the thought of such a sum, “And what Jeff are you doing to help our nuclear programme get started, just what- might I ask?”

  Norton-Winters looked coldly at the friend he knew too well from school days, and aware that the Chancellor seemed to be chattering amiably to an American financier whom Goldberg had brought for the weekend, he said quite firmly, “Look here Josh, the Government’s cutting through the local planning red tape and next week we shall be designating sites for ten nuclear installations. My clear advice to you, my friend, is to cut the first turf in your nuclear waste plant; believe me many cards will then fall into place. We might even help you by a little, shall we say, by an adjustment of the carbon tax on emissions, but as you will be well aware both here in UK and in America the Nuclear Safety Inspectorates are questioning some of the aspects of the design you’re proposing, so you’d better get any design fault rectified, pronto.”

  He let that sink in before looking directly at Sir Joshua with obvious annoyance, “By the way I do happen to know of your arrangements behind my back for supplying the M.O. D. with weapons’ grade plutonium, whilst promising to dump the rotting nuclear submarines which they’re scrapping.”

  Not used to being on the receiving end, Goldberg swallowed hard and choosing to ignore any comment on design problems, forced an ingratiating smile, “Jeff old chap, you know how touchy the M.O.D. can be, especially the way things are out in Helman.” Norton-Winters turned to speak to another guest and Sir Joshua was left sullenly watching his friend, Nicky Fellows, the financial manipulator from America, laughing and joking with the Chancellor of the Exchequer.

  Always the considerate host, Norton-Winters arose and carefully holding onto the table, announced, “Shall we join the ladies?” No longer able to stand the jollity of the night, Goldberg shot a penetrating look at Nick Fellows and carefully negotiating the stairway with a little help from mahogany balustrade, he stomped up to his bedroom.

  The porcelain bedside clock approached three am.before the door opened to admit a grinning Fellows, “Gee man, what a party, and that Chancellor guy, sure we got on just great, just…” “Come in Nicky, I want to talk to you, clear of all that tomfoolery downstairs.” “Josh, don’t be so nasty to your own little Nicky,” and supported by one the pillars of the four-poster bed, Fellows patted the corpulent figure of Sir Joshua, “Joshy, I’ve had a wonderful conversation with the guy. Man, man, he’s going to break up those Scottish banks he got his hands on, break ‘em up man.” Fellows rolled his eyes, “Josh just think of the pickings out of that lot with sterling on its knees, just begging man, just begging,” and falling onto the bed in a roar of guffaws, “Josh, just think of it, stuffing the British taxpayer; I’ll fund your miserable little nuclear dump on the strength of it.”

  Far from being mollified by his friend’s three am offer of support, and knowing full well the impact a grey dawn can spread over even the brightest ideas, Goldberg snapped, “Yes, yes Nicky, I appreciate your consideration,” and as his friend, slumped beside him on the bed, “unless Nuen can move fast, and by that I mean in the next few months, this confounded Sahara Solar project will catch on and pull in even more funding. Even the stupid UK government might wake up. Do you realise all Europe’s electricity could be supplied from an area of only two hundred and fifty square kilometres? Cooling water’s the problem obviously, but damn it they’re talking desalinisation and supplying water for crop irrigation; it’s horrendous.”

  Fellows merely grunted. “This is serious Nicky,” Sir Joshua was talking to himself, “plans are afoot for solar farms in Israel and China. Australia’s going solar, the Germans are sticking solar panels on every damn roof and now they’re pulling the strings in Africa, California’s leading the way in America, I tell you, apart from the M.O.D., that dope of a chap Shivering Winters and his Ministry of Trade and Energy is our best hope of any future business.”

  “Nicky my dear chap,” he prodded his snoring friend, “Nuen needs the cash for this waste bunker, and fast, otherwise without more political influence in the right quarters our nuclear job, thanks to this bloody Sahara Power project, is going to be shafted by sunshine.”

  Breaking over with the brittle crash of splintering crystal, the wave crest toppled towards a mammoth hole in the ocean. The screaming gale reached a higher note, foaming white a cascade poured down, the Valkyrie became a smothered hull. She began to roll. Anderson washed into the falling torrent, took a gasp of air. In the seconds with his head above water, he saw her mast coming towards him. She’s going over.This will be the end. He was being dragged down, a rushing gurgle pounding his ears; pressure crushing his lungs. He fought against breathing. Water filled his nose, all was going black and deathly silent.

  Each Atlantic gale will create the few immense waves which remain a terrifying vision in those who survive their greed. Seeded by falling pressure and a rising wind these mountains of the sea are sucked towards the sky; in a relentless urge they devour their smaller brethren, grow in height and might, and prowl the trackless wastes to seek a victim. Top heavy giants, they crash. The ocean’s pit of a sailor’s dread is filled, acres of sea are flattened, the remains of a majestic peak are reduced to the foam streaked carcass of a departing greyback; and the laughter of a gale.

  The Valkyrie lay on her side, knocked down by the inexorable will of the elements. They hear no prayer, nor care. Only the power of the old Viking Gods, the Hero’s of Asgard in their Halls of Valhalla might save one of their own. Strange a modern man in his moment of need should cry to a long dead belief. What power a myth to force itself from the mouth of a drowning man?

  Any man who has seen beyond the ultimate eclipse of this life’s conscious being, glimpsed in his final vision a glory which shines out, that draws him moth like to the eternal flame, to the indestructible energy of a universe which knows not death, only unending change; such a man is transformed, no longer a helpless victim of mindless faith but the possessor of inner knowledge.

  Andrew Anderson’s eyes opened to the sky, conscious that he lay across the yacht’s boom. He felt it lifting him. Vomiting water, retching and coughing, he clung to the spar, vaguely able to see the Valkyrie’s mast slowly rising. The yacht fought to right herself. His feet dangled in a flooded cockpit; seas pouring off her decks she lay, a stricken vessel on a great black shoulder of water. The cascading mass, having flattened the sea, forge
d into the darkness, streaked with anger. Thwarted? The devil is never defeated. The gale raged into the chasms of nightfall.

  Regaining breath Anderson swung off the boom, aware the snagging of his rope on the spar as it lay in the water had saved him, saved him, so far? The Valkyrie, swinging broadside to wave and gale lay ahull, at the mercy of the whole weight of any freshly breaking crest.

  Action. The yacht sat heavily, no longer her buoyant self but a flooded hull. He opened the hatch, water sloshing at bunk level. A yacht half full, the next dump of sea would…? He reached for the instrument switches, panel dead, no power, no electric bilge pump, cockpit hand pump too slow, a pail the only way. The yacht rolled alarmingly, dipping her gunnel to coach roof level as each wave drove under her; swilling cabin water added to each roll; to a fatal list?

  Pail’s in the ‘heads’. He unhitched the rope strop, clambered below, waded through the cabin, grabbed the pail, floundered back to the hatch. Balance and bale, bale with each roll of the boat, get the water out before another wave crashes over her, hatch open- another would smother her she’d fill and sink.

  Working frantically; save the yacht, no fear for himself, the spirit of Valkyrie spoke to him, her voice was at his shoulder, “Together we live or go down, be with me and we live.” The soul of man and boat fused in a bond of kinship known only to those in peril.

  Pails of water flung over the stern. The boat rolled hideously, rode the crest of another shattering top. Another truly big one would bury the Valkyrie, make the Atlantic their grave.

  Sea anchor and ride the storm? Water level down, out of the cabin he climbed, groping along the deck, not tied on, handholds only to the for’ard hatch. She rolled, he fell, arm broken? Huge waves, always far apart. Wait the next lull. Pain, soaked and frozen, fumbling the catch.

  Watching the sea he lugged the anchor from the hatch, a huge canvas cone, heaved it over the bow. Paid out rope, fathom by fathom, secured it to the Samson post.

  Would her head come round, face the onslaught? Ride the crests?

  He looked northwards. Out of the night, a window of light, a star showed.

  Did the God of his forebears look down?

  Was faith alone his anchor?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Aurora Night

  On the beaches of our consciousness wash

  countless grains of time

  That change with every tide, with every fresh born galaxy

  Whose mineral palette is the swirling photon brush

  Which paints the beauty of the cosmos

  As love’s simplicity.

  Eilidh and I spent our first Christmas on Sandray, alone together in Tigh na Cala. The old house and its bothy style of bare essentials had been blitzed. Creaking chairs and enamel basins were out, our supplies no longer sat in wooden fish boxes declaring,’ Lochinver Fish Selling Co. No Unauthorised Use’. A number of boat trips transported some practical comfort. Easy chairs were in; under a woman’s hand, cushions, curtains and a bedroom carpet appeared. From tablecloth to tapestry wall hangings, Eilidh’s flair for bright colours had a distinctive style, the rooms came to life, we had a home, and to prove it Eachan and Ella came over the Sound on Boxing Day. “Ach,” said Eachan, “I’d never heard of this Boxing Day stunt until I was twenty and then it was just a practice for Hogmanay,” adding with a wink at me, “not that some were ever out of practice.” “And who knows that better than yourself, Eachan MacKenzie?” Ella piped up. He pretended not to hear.

  Whilst the two women discussed our home’s next improvements, Eachan sat quietly. Not a man given to showing emotion, to see the house of his childhood rescued from dereliction affected him greatly. A dram eventually brought out the stories of his youth, how they’d gathered the island sheep, the danger of the sea cliffs to sheep and men, “I once lost a dog, ‘Shep’ to name, a topper of a dog, he cut out to the far side of sheep that were making to dodge down the cliff, running fast, his eye was on the sheep, over he went, poor beast. I blamed myself.” he said slowly. The names of his father’s collies came to him, laughingly he went on, “the bodach would work one dog in the Gaelic and the other in English, sometimes he got it mixed, so I dare say the dogs were bi-lingual.” Each cnoc and hollow flitted through his mind as he saw the lines of sheep drawing towards the stone built pens, all Gaelic names which told of the lie of the land or the nature of the ground. I wrote it down as he spoke. Were any left of the generations who knew the features of the island with the intimacy of tramping feet? His reminiscences paused as I poured another wee ‘toot’, “Who else could tell me these names today?” I asked him. “Nobody,” was his slow response, and then with a fixed look at me, “but I’m telling you, Hector boy.” His meaning was not lost.

  We’d taken in the bells in our own home and sailed the Sound in the cold early hours of a star bright night to be the first foot at Ach na Mara. Lights blazed from every croft on Halasay. We made it. Eilidh lifted a peat from the stack beside the house, “This’ll do, we’ll have ours next year.” First to cross the old couple’s doorstep and put a peat to their fire, “Happy New Year!”; oh boy the welcome! Eachan swept Eilidh off her feet, “Woman, I wish I was young again,” they were so fond of each other. I hugged Ella till she gasped to Eilidh, “I’ll bet he’s as wicked as his namesake.” “I’m beginning to think that.” A laughing Eilidh flush-faced from the sail looked beautiful. No shyness at our second kiss of the New Year, and the old couple took our cue.

  No knocking and waiting either, the door opened and neighbours carrying clinking supplies appeared in droves. Good cheer came in more than a bottle, this was a community of like people, no pretensions, as natural as the land they crofted. Lively folk brimming with music and not a little refreshment. Soon they were singing, dancing and for those who would listen or could hear over the laughter and Iain’s accordion, some were telling stories. Ensuring all glasses were charged, though not for the first time, Eachan called the toast, “To absent friends.” It was echoed round a tiny crowded room. I remembered the old Scots song, ‘My ain Folk’, my father at the piano, mother singing; in words and music an exile’s longing, the missing of ‘the lang syne days, the old folks ways, and the hills of the heart’s romance,’ as he used to quote. I asked Eachan and Iain to play it in their memory. My first New Year in the Highlands, ‘at hame with my ain folk,’ and I’ll swear by five in the morning old great grandfather of the photo above the mantle shelf was smiling down.

  New Year’s night and dancing down in Castleton. The following evening on a circuit of village friends, it occurred to me that months had passed and I’d yet to call at the Police Station. Eachan looked serious, “What’s the hurry?” I put it off, wisely so, in the circumstances. Another night around various crofts, I marvelled at the stamina. “Wait you for the Old New Year,” Eachan warned. I must have looked puzzled, “the old folks always kept the twelfth of January as their New Year and some of us still keep up the tradition, out of respect you understand, so now we have two celebrations.” On the fourth day we retreated to Sandray for a sleep. A Highland New Year was not to be under estimated.

  By the first week in January I could tell a difference in the length of day. Settled weather hung over an oily Atlantic, vague mists drifted its flat calm surface, ideal for working the land. I hauled up kelp from the shore, set to digging the lines of ‘lazybeds’ which would take our first planting of tatties. Eilidh sailed back and forth to Halasay, food supplies, kitchen equipment, piping, wood and fittings, boat loads of ‘home improvement’ trips. Each evening by the hissing lamp, I fitted sink and draining boards, cupboards. A week and Eilidh could turn on a kitchen tap, cold water admittedly but the solar panels and a boiler were on order. One corner would host a peat burning stove. By May, I’d be at the peat bank cutting for next winter. Hugging each other to sleep each night we talked plans, sheep, maybe cattle, fencing a field for hay, pioneer homemaking, “What about a collie pup,” my last words and a tired Eilidh nodded in her sleep.


  The winter sun had rolled along the horizon each day to give us weeks of dry invigorating weather. A break coming? I felt it on my skin as late one evening we crossed salt bleached grazings on the gentle rise towards the headland. Deep in the conflicting energies which surround the planet a disturbance was about to strike, a maelstrom of electrons were funnelling into the earth’s upper atmosphere, I’d seen its first flickers from the doorstep, “Come on Eilidh,” Putting down a cushion she was sewing and joining me she whispered at my elbow, “Yes, Hector we must see this tonight.” Pulling on jackets, for the night had the chill of January’s end, Eilidh took my hand and off we set.

  The night held a curiously anxious feel, as we walked it seemed electrified. The planet faced violence from the sun; a geomagnetic conflict. Hot plasma hurtled towards the earth in a cascade of high energy particles. From the north came a cosmic outburst, flashing onto the sky, filling the horizon. The planet’s magnetic shield was fending off a massive onslaught of charged particles, a solar storm. Stars faded and died. Vast curtains of green light appeared, hung in swirling drapes from the firmament. Totally incongruous colours were suspended from a mammoth screen, flickering with intensity, pierced with leaping white flares. It moved by unseen hand.

  Gradually the swaying green canopy gave way; orange searchlights shot skywards, a garish mauve covered cliff and sea. Ripples of violent discharge spread far beyond earth’s orbit. In turn their brilliance morphed to sheets of a deepest pink reaching outwards and upwards, hanging over us. Immense magnetic fields were thrashing the heavens. The omnipotent power of the solar wind, a hurricane of the sun’s ejected electrons rushed past the planet, millions of kilometres an hour, smashing molecules in the upper atmosphere, whipping the earth’s girdling magnetosphere into a frenzy of twisting electric fields. Potential havoc to satellites and power lines could be the very least; were our protective shield to fail, the solar wind would slowly strip away earth’s atmosphere. Exposed to toxic carcinogenic rays life would shrivel and die. The Sun would triumph.