Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  The grandeur of space weather played out above our heads. One moment the bleached grass at our feet shone green, the weathered stones tinted by its weaving eeriness, and the sea a deep green empire until shafts of white gave way to changing shades; pale green faded and the heavens were immersed in a deep rose pink. The sea before us became dark crimson.

  We neared the headland. Against a lurid sky the prow stone of the old Viking grave ship stood out, a huge black figure. Ancient hand- placed stones, their mica glinted as sparks of a fire ignited by the sky. A funeral longboat burnt again. The dancing aurora were bearing away one of their own, carrying his soul to the land which had grown the timbers of his ship, back to the northlands of larch clad fiords, and the raven crags of wisdom.

  We sat with our backs to that prow stone. The people of sword and longship sailed the galaxies of belief, plundered the cosmic beaches, put fire to the heavens and feasted by its light. Shadows fell about us, regal in their shades; the myths were alive, an unquenchable mystery buried deep within layer upon layer of generations who’d watched in awe from their arctic vastness.

  Slowly the skies were fading, the stars returning. The Gods drew their raiment about them, and left the night to us. Low on the horizon the lights were dimmed below the Halls of Valhalla.

  The woman beside me shivered, I drew her close. We were both greatly affected by the weirdness of the night. No man- made light, two people alone beside a wondering ocean, crouching within the stones of a boat grave, the symbol of death’s aspirations.

  Together we’d witnessed the most powerful forces of nature, had seen threading currents rip through nearby space; remoteness brought closeness and with it came a reverence for that which may lie beyond.

  I listened to the rustle of the sea beneath the cliff, conscious of my close encounter with death, “Eildh,” I whispered, “Whoever lies buried within this ship lived with a vision, he looked north from this headland, held fast to an unshakeable belief that one day he would sail the cosmic oceans of his mind. Nothing has changed. Since humans first felt the presence of the stars on the road of discovery the myths of man’s religion have simply invented fresh gods. I believe there will be no end, only fresh beginnings. The celestial forces bind our destiny to the pathway of infinite knowledge.”

  She was silent for a long time, looking to the last glimmer of the aurora. Reaching to me she held both my hands, “Hector,” her voice, a tremor of excitement, “Hector, we’re having a baby.”

  Dumfounded by joy but unable for a moment to shake off the drama in the skies, my first thought tumbled out, “A child of destiny.”

  Gently I took her to me.

  The night was in our arms, a night for loving,

  and only the stars to know.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “Get me out of here.”

  The pilot banked steeply. Green Atlantic rollers broke their three thousand miles of freedom in spouting white plumes. The jagged cliffs of a small island were close. Sir Joshua Goldberg clung nervously to the rear seat of a small helicopter. Both the engine noise, and from looking out of the window, an awareness of the proximity of the sea were unsettling Sir Joshua’s stomach. Certainly not the Executive Class travel normally associated with his Chairmanship at Nuen or his penchant for the refinements of life. This would not be repeated, only a strong hint from the highest level of a forthcoming building contract plus the insistence of the Permanent Secretary at the M.O.D. had persuaded him to undertake a survey of prospective nuclear waste sites by such primitive means.

  Nuen’s thrust into the UK’s nuclear industry was moving smartly, in spite of Goldberg finding the atmosphere in 10 Downing Street markedly different from that of the previous incumbent, who so happened to be one of his more influential Board members; gone the easy going arm round the shoulder politics, the sofa and coffee decisions taken along with T.V. news bulletins and the guiding hand of Hatchet Face. In place of the nonchalant pop star approach, a grim formality met Sir Joshua as he was shown into the P.M.’s private office. Prompted by Nuen’s UK man on the Board, the meeting had been arranged by Sir Timothy Winthrope-Bagley, top man at the Treasury, who sat beside the P.M. with barely concealed arrogance. Two others came discreetly into the room, Jeff Norton-Winters, whom Goldberg knew well and a face unfamiliar to him. Not a little to Sir Joshua’s annoyance greetings were perfunctory.

  Without a smile the P.M. shook hands, “Perhaps you know these gentlemen,” he motioned towards the trio with a curt gesture. The faces of Bagley and Winters remained impassive, not a sign of recognition to indicate they were all chums at Eton. However the stranger to Goldberg leaned forward and offered a limp hand, “Jerry Switherington, I’m at Health and Safety,” adding nervously, “for my sins.” Not a smile passed any lips, the P.M.’s eyes narrowed. Given the extent of Westminster expenses scandal the word ‘sin’ was something of a faux pas. Sir Joshua immediately wrote the man off as a nincompoop. “Please sit down.” They sat without a word. Putting the tips of his fingers together and looking at the desk, the P.M. continued, “I shouldn’t need to mention it gentlemen, this meeting is strictly private and informal,” he raised his head with a meaningful stare. “Would you care to speak, Sir Timothy?”

  It seemed to be the last thing Winthrope-Bagley wished to do; he took some moments before saying in a faintly supercilious tone, “Thank you Prime Minister, I think we all understand these new builds are urgently required to met our emission reductions targets by twenty-twenty and beyond. I have to say, Sir Joshua, the details of Nuen’s tender are the most interesting,” and at a glance from the P.M., “on the face of it that is. As we speak, Sir Joshua, our accountants are in touch with your men in New York,” clearly Sir Timothy had no wish to commit himself further. A distinct silence, the Prime Minister looked decidedly preoccupied and studied his fingers.

  To Goldberg’s surprise Switherington cleared his throat, “Prime Minister, may I put a question to Sir Joshua,” he received a brusque nod, “I understand from my engineers they have some major reservations about certain safety aspects of the design Nuen will be building, perhaps you could comment. Secondly sir, are you aware that the some highly toxic waste storage being held at one of our main facilities is currently in stainless steel tanks of a limited life span, and thirdly the stability of the rock formation is paramount in terms of earthquake activity? I believe Nuen have undertaken to deal with issues in the terms of their contract.”

  Sir Joshua’s two friends, colouring markedly, fingered their notes on the table. What a fool, their fool of a colleague had alerted Goldberg that they intended to grant Nuen the contract. Puffs of red showed on the P.M.’s pallor, it was he who’d insisted on this Secretary’s attendance. The Prime Minister rose abruptly. “Excuse us gentlemen,” and glaring at Switherington, “we have another meeting at three, if you don’t mind Sir Joshua. I’m sure Sir Timothy and Mr. Norton-Winters can conclude this meeting,” and with merely a nod he marched out with the Health and Safety’s Chief Secretary at his heel.

  His two school friends coolly ushered Goldberg out of Number 10 via the garden. Unknown to those he’d just left, Sir Joshua’s next informal meeting was round at the M.O.D. Nuen already delivered nuclear submarine fuel to the Scottish base. Moreover, in a top secret arrangement, totally breaching UK’s signature to the International Non-proliferation Treaty, his company were the regular suppliers of vital neutron generators, the key to enabling the firing of a nuclear weapon. What better lever for obtaining these new reactor builds. Maybe too dangerous to pull. Goldberg reflected upon one scientific officer now sadly deceased. It tempered his approach. Those who opened their mouths too wide were apt to find themselves in very unfortunate circumstances.

  The Defence Ministry were also pressing Nuen for more weapons grade plutonium, but payment only dribbled out. In an extremely brief, one to one meeting with the official who’d previously refrained from identifying himself, Goldberg was told abruptly, “fulfil our requirements and staged transf
ers of funds will be forthcoming to the Caribbean subsidiary which you indicated.” Sir Joshua cringed inwardly at mention of the Caribbean connection. Did this incognito official guess his little private siphon? How the hell did they find out? It weakened his bargaining power.

  That night, as though by chance, ‘Shivering Jeff’ Winters happened to appear at their club. “Look here Jeff,” Goldberg remembered saying, “I’ve just read a report, two Japanese companies are developing a technique for harvesting solar energy from space using satellites, they’ll beam it down to earth by lasers or microwaves, a prototype’s going be launched in the next few years. The sooner these new builds are started the better, and that fool Switherington opening his mouth Jeff. D’you think his comments would concern the P.M.?” Realising his anxiety showed, Sir Joshua took a tougher line, “I know the contract just awaits my signature but you can tell ‘Windy Bags’ he’d better open the Treasury safe. If you all want a deal I need at least fifteen percent up front to cover the design points that ass was making, and don’t forget ‘Shivers’, you’d better let ‘Windy Bags’ and your busy Mr. Prime Minister know if you don’t want Nuen to run your new reactors it just so happens we own the largest uranium mines in Western Australia and like oil, supplies of the stuff won’t last another forty years.”

  Norton-Winters busied himself attracting the waiter’s attention and seemed not to have heard him. The last words from ‘Shivers’ stuck in Goldberg’s mind, “Don’t worry about the politicians, Josh,” Winters confided tapping the side of his remarkably large nose, “just carry on, fix this damned waste dump and you’ll have real friends. By the way, if you’re interested, a beautiful riverside property on the Thames came up for sale last week; things could be arranged for an old friend.” He’d poured more wine, “for old times sake, Josh. You can trust ‘Windy’ and me.”

  Trust- the word left Sir Joshua hollow inside. Old school pals? Who the hell could he trust? Bloody bureaucrats and politicians, a fatal mix of slippery characters hiding behind one another’s backs, loathing each other in private, always offloading responsibility, the business world required honesty, that is one might say, within reason. At least one should be swindled honestly.

  Goldberg groaned, no more looking out of the helicopter window, his bowels wouldn’t stand it. The whirring rotors ceased. He opened his eyes, struggled hurriedly out of his seat and from the hatch doorway could see they’d touched down on a broad hilltop. Nuen’s Chief Engineer and a leading geologist in the party helped Sir Joshua down the ladder. He staggered over to an outcrop of rock which barely hid his flapping shirt tail. A smile passed round the experts as they turned their backs and began unloading their surveying equipment.

  The impact of a primordial scene drew minds to consider a starkness little changed since the great glacial melts scraped rocks to their origins those thousand years past. Moss, in tiny verdant patches, clung to hollows amongst stones flaked and shattered by the keen edge of Atlantic gales. Nothing but the supremely hardy could survive. The late winter barrenness found personification in the harsh croaking of two birds, the only sound to be heard above a biting March wind with ice in its teeth. The Helicopter rocked to each succeeding gust.

  A squatting Goldberg shivered, looked about him and began vehemently cursing the place, the land, the sea; its unremitting bleakness frightened him. The thought of being marooned brought fresh spasms. Get these rock borings done and get to hell out of here. This hideous place will do, all it’ll ever be fit for, a vacant, useless, wilderness. In needed taming and by God, Nuen would do it.

  Perished and shaking, Sir Joshua was at last able to stand and take in the prospects of constructing a viable deep waste repository. Eye and mind swept over the topography. We’ll blast the top off this ugly pile of a hill, build a breakwater and harbour with it, right down there, extend that promontory to shelter the bay, depth might be critical, level that green area for accommodation and the rock crushing equipment, that’ll deal with the spoil from the underground storage cavern, it’s bound to be road building material, sell it south, nice little earner. Electricity, that major wind farm project planned on islands to the north, plus their own generator backup, yes, a high rise pylon spur across that stretch of water should be feasible. No people on the island, no blasted environmental brigade, so there’d be no damn planning regulations which couldn’t be handled by the usual method.

  Well accustomed to macro-planning, Goldberg covered the site’s possibilities in minutes. It freed his thoughts to consider the real questions, the probable billions required by Nuen; tapping the UK Government for more finance once the ink dried on the contract and they’d detonated their first charge; and paramount to his thinking- profit.

  Hurrying back to the helicopter Sir Joshua tripped and fell quite heavily. Abandoning survey operations the team ran across to find their leader sprawled across a rock. “I think I’ve broken my fucking ankle,” he screamed at them, “get me out of here!” Nuen’s Chairman began to sob, “This wretched, goddamn awful bloody place, I’ll… I’ll…” he spluttered to a stop. Through the intense pain Goldberg vowed revenge on a remote island with a feeling of hatred beyond anything he’d known.

  Above the hill a pair of raven circled.

  In the cliff below crouched their early brood

  Forty fathoms of stout rope and a sea anchor, the survival of a yacht and the life of Andrew Anderson depended on it. Should the Valkyrie remain lying abeam amidst such mountainous seas, the next crescendo of gale and breaking crest would come bearing down on them, draw the yacht beneath its great curling top into a green cave of oblivion. Away on the horizon reared a monster wave, a freak, it towered over the surrounding chaos. Anderson standing at the bow clung to the jib stay with his undamaged arm. Unless the sea anchor bit the sea and held, nothing could save him, unless the spin of fate. He watched its approach, a leviathan of the deep. It crept up the horizon, gathering steepness and height with the deliberation of a predator about to devour man and boat.

  The thunder of seas put words in his mouth, unbidden words. He called on the mighty Thor, man’s Viking saviour in times of distress, “God of my people save me now!” It seemed above the gale the sonorous rumbling of the ocean became a voice; the deity of a long banished faith. Over him came a strange lightness, the exaltation of spirit given to those who approach death with out fear.

  The anchor rope no longer a dipping curve stretched taut. The sea anchor gripped below the crests. Slowly the bow of his yacht came round. The monster came. The Valkyrie faced a pillar of water bow on. Anderson stood, head back, watching, waiting for the peak to crumble. It did. Solid water roared over the boat, immersing her stem to stern, washing a helpless man down the foredeck. The yacht’s nose broke free. Water poured off the decks in torrents. Anderson struggled to his feet, her mast had saved him. The gush of water surging over his body pinned him around the foot of the mast, head one side, legs the other; he was held there by the sheer weight of water.

  Behind the collapsing wave came the respite granted by an ocean which has overreached itself. Disentangling himself, he crawled down a deck stripped of stanchion rails and equipment. The cockpit self draining was emptying, cabin doors undamaged. He toppled down the companionway and lay for a little on the cabin floor. No more water down below. The Valkyrie felt buoyant again. Anderson, wet bedraggled and hurt pulled himself onto a bunk. The boat had saved him and now would save herself. And he slept with the voice of the sea in his ear.

  A ship’s fog horn wakened him. The wind had dropped and a large fishing boat stood off a cable to starboard. Cupped hands shouted down, did he need help? They too had come through the storm, were bound for the Azores and repairs. Anderson shouted up from the cockpit, “No electrics, no engine, my left arm is smashed.” Two fishermen came aboard and rigged a towing cable. Thirty-six hours later the Valkyrie lay alongside the jetty in the island harbour of Horta; the sun broke through to salute once again the seaman’s code of helping a fellow mariner in distre
ss.

  Greatly to Anderson’s relief, concern for a brave sailor had kept the Azores customs officials from taking more than a passing glance over Valkyrie. A certain container retrieved from his villa in the Caribbean for the time being acted as ballast, and in due course he had a job for it.

  Walking up the quay each day Anderson read the names of visiting yachts which their seamen painted over the years on the walls of the harbour; small, famous or otherwise, all recorded by men proud of their ships. “Valkyrie,” he told her, “you’re my first true friend.”

  Three months and a cracked arm healed, a trim yacht waiting, a souwest breeze and northbound terns skimming the sea, the roving fever in a man’s blood returned.

  Wind in her main, the Valkyrie dipped her bow towards home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  A heap of dust

  March sunshine and longer days gave us hot water at the kitchen tap and my first shave by solar power. I’d fitted panels on the roof and a tank in the tiny roof space above the sink gurgled quietly the moment the sun rose over the Hill of the Shroud. Before the arrival of the baby, a bathroom and second bedroom on the east gable in a re-roofed byre, build sheep pens, fence and drain; work a plenty with energy to match. Together we prowled the land with a feeling of possession, though in reality we were no more than squatters staking out a home. Roots of a thousand years meaning nothing in modern law, meant everything to the strength of affinity. Centuries of pressure from the south usurped the old Viking Udal Law. It permitted a settler to enclose the unoccupied land he chose to cultivate without regarding any his superior, no feudal forelock tugging, the stamp of Norse independence. Sandray felt ours by right.