Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  High above me on the cliff edge, Eildh carrying Mullie. her hair blowing in a wild golden mass. She waved down. Past horror sprang at me. Instantly I stood up, signalling- go back from the edge. She vanished. My confidence rose, my woman with me, watching and willing.

  Atlantic rollers were passing the point, I ran out along the lee of a hefty one. Clear of land, out of shelter, I sailed the hollow. Ahead its peak began to break. Open boat, a curling top fast unzipping, racing towards me, ready to swamp us. Ride its crest before the curl reaches. I swung the boat, put her shoulder to it, up she climbed, a violent lurch, over its mighty hump we sailed. The crest toppled over behind me. Now, swing in for the bay on its curving back. The boat so small I sat amongst the waves. Man, boat, wind and sea, the glory of a relationship which breeds lasting respect and affection; there is no mastery of the sea, only a joy in being part of its unquenchable spirit.

  A glowing Eilidh caught the mooring line. Muille’s inquisitive head appeared over the jetty before she scampered back to hide behind Eilidh’s legs. I jumped ashore, two minds and four arms entwined; there could be no leaving Sandray. A lovely woman, lucky man and a little dog.

  Safe home, that night we lay snug and listening. The tap, tap of slates kept us awake. Out of respect for the old man I hadn’t mentioned Eachan’s alarming behaviour at the window, yet Eilidh seemed aware I’d been present at a strange manifestation of the Highlander’s visionary power. She’d spoken in a hushed voice, “A gift or a curse, who would know? Eachan always had that turn of mind, they said it came from his grandfather, born and died on Sandray, full of poetry,” and with a quiet laugh, “Your great grandfather. You know Eachan sometimes seems possessed by the depths of great emotion, past happenings, tragedies or loss; then again he seems to see into a future few would care to contemplate.” Only then, hiding my surprise, did I tell her.

  I waited for the roaring of the gale to abate a little, “I think Eachan’s strength of character has saved him, his state of mind may be a form of awareness, an antenna that can sweep the continuum of events which pass into each other, the long past and the what will come to be,” and after a little thought I went on, “he’s able to see an over view of the dovetailing of the past and future which defies our belief in an instant of time.” Eilidh’s head on the pillow nodded, “Yes,” she whispered, “there is no present.”

  A candle stood on the pine dresser. Its yellow light on played on the walls, making dark patterns of our sparse furniture. I watched the wax melting, drip by drip. A drumming on the window pane came and went, loud then softly, twitching at the curtains. Flickering shadows moved on the ceiling, reminding me of Eachan’s strangeness, his outstretched fingers. The atmosphere took on a chill, the same uncanny chill which had pervaded their kitchen. I had the claustrophobic sensation of entering a cave without ending.

  Our talk had been of Eachan’s wish to make over Ach na Mara to me, how much that would change our lives if it were to happen. Once more we returned to his singular behaviour of that morning and why should it happen after I’d mentioned the raven. What ghastly vision beset him, brought about his pronouncement that the birds would abandon Sandray? More worrying was the wish he imparted down at the jetty, “Bury me on the headland.” Neither of us cared to put thoughts into words. Was it a premonition?

  The door handle rattled, once, and again. Crash, the door flew open. The candle gutted. Blackness. A cold draught blew over our faces. I reached beside the bed for a torch. Wafting gently in its beam, the door stood ajar. Had somebody entered? I swept the beam round the room. Nobody? Before I could rise to close the door, it slammed shut.

  An Atlantic gale seeking out the old house, did its spirit wander the darkness? Suddenly I knew, surely as I saw the dying waves of a receding tide stretch into the emptiness of an ocean blue and immensely empty. Surely I knew.

  “Eilidh,” I held her tenderly, “Eilidh,” I said simply, “Eachan is dead.”

  She lay still, I listened to her breathing, until stirring a little she said, “I know.” Her soft words reached into the abyss of sadness and sobbing gently she buried her head beneath my chin. The candle burned low, its shadows no longer unearthly and I heard her murmur, “Eachan would have been born in this room. And now he’s back and I’m happy for him.”

  Rollers pounding the beach sent shock waves through the ground. The House of the Haven trembled. The gale’s ferocity, its determination to enter the house, no longer surprised us. An hour passed in the utter desolation of our loss.

  Gradually the storm veered into the north, soughing at the gable. Poor Eachan, as fine a man as it had been my privilege to know. An intellect and wisdom which surpassed degrees or narrow cleverness: unassuming, he carried a dignity beyond the squalid interests of money and social station. The sanctity of life in its countless expressions was paramount.

  We said little more, the loss too great. Needing the open skies and knowing the tide was on the flood, I whispered, “I’m away down to check on the boat.” At once she made to get up, “You keep the bed warm, I won’t be long.” Pulling on shirt and trousers I was out before she could stop me. It wasn’t altogether our boat’s safety which prompted me to head for the jetty, something made me uneasy. Danger was afoot.

  The midnight sky gave little light, only when shredding clouds opened a window of stars did it shine on the flecks of spume dancing over the fields weightless as bobs of cotton wool. The weight of each falling comber shook the earth, a mighty thump and roaring up the beach. They were ravaging the dunes. Though the wind was dropping, tide and gale had done their work. Dunes were collapsing. A massive swell tore at their bases. Huge slices of sand faces were falling, being sucked down the shore, staining the rippling backwash. Another dune toppled. I watched the devastation. It vanished, no more than a child’s sand castle.

  How obvious that melting ice caps and rising sea levels would obliterate the dunes of Sandray, ultimately take the croft, strip away the soil by which succeeding generations might live. If Sandray, where else? What of the millions of mouths?

  Back tracking from the shore I reached the jetty in safety. Our sole life line to the outside world rode safe and comfortable. I’d moored her so that she lay across the elbow of the pier. I checked the ropes for chafe and by way of habit before making for home, walked to the end of the pier to scan the conditions. As I turned, was that a flash of green, far out, a starboard navigation light?

  Never, it had to be a star tipping the horizon. Again it blinked, a starboard light, well out from the bay, a vessel of some kind? The colossal swell would account for the pause. A minute passed. Next appearance, green and red, both lights showed for twenty seconds and vanished. No doubting now, the ship had brought her head round, making for the bay, running a lee shore in a gale, every sailor’s nightmare.

  Our kit box stood at the top of the pier, I ran up grabbed a torch and began shining its beam slowly from side to side. Don’t attempt to enter the bay. Hard judging distance at night, would the skipper spot my signal, put up his helm, swing to port? Had he room to clear the headland, make for the Sound?

  On the vessel came; a mast rose against the southern sky; a yacht, in these conditions, my God, are they mad? Shipwrecked on the beach, drowned in the swell? She drew level with the jetty, centre of the bay, just outside the rolling tops. Red and green lights came round to face me. She’s swinging, heading out? To my amazement her white aft light shone. Surely not trying to anchor?

  Eilidh appeared, breathless, “Hector, are you OK?” I gave her a quick hug, “That yacht’s in danger, she’s going to anchor, I’ll run out and take them off, if it goes wrong.” “No, no, Hector don’t, you’ll be swamped.” Loosing the aft rope off, I hauled our boat head in to the jetty and leapt aboard, “Eilidh, I need to help, could you cast off the bow line?” Perhaps my tone of voice- she slipped the rope. Outboard revving, I cleared the jetty’s stonework, running broadside to a steep incoming swell. Not breaking, that would be fatal.

  The ya
cht appeared to be drifting astern. In the glow of her green navigation light, I could make out a figure kneeling at the bow. In spite of the tension, I laughed. Dropping an anchor I hoped, not praying. At hailing distance I throttled back, nosing the rollers, “Do you need help?” A gust took the reply. Taking it as yes, I flicked out fenders and ran close in to the yacht’s hull, both boats now rolling through forty degrees.

  A bearded figure in yellow oil-skins stood above me, arm looped in the shrouds, balancing to a gyrating hull. I flung a line. Wind took it. Re-coil, second throw. Neatly caught, I was hauled tight alongside. Wait for the yacht’s gunnel dipping towards me. One step, I was aboard, clinging to the rigging.

  A man’s voice at my ear, “I’m trying to get out two anchors, one’s out. Can you ease away to starboard? Controls in the cockpit, gear lever goes down for ahead, throttle’s the small lever. Go easy into gear,” and looking at the narrowing gap astern, “don’t stall the engine.” Using every hand hold he clawed his way along the deck to the bow. I worked my way astern to the rattling of chain being hauled from a locker.

  The bucking and rolling getting more erratic, we must still be drifting. Almost thrown overboard I grabbed the winch, dropped into a deep safe cockpit. Close one. Unlash the tiller, it thrashed wildly for a second, I gripped it between my thighs, hung on one handed, reached for the controls. At my right hand, fine, a touch of throttle, very gently into the gear. I steered us carefully to starboard. Violent rolling, it’s getting shallow. Should we take to the wee boat, run the swell, leave the yacht before she struck?

  A bellow from the bow, “Steady at that!” a rattle of chain, anchor down. I glanced astern. White lines of rollers were smashing into spray on the rocks, the only lightness which showed. Ledges close. Cream breakers ran up the gullies, burst in plumes, fell back sissing. A cable off, if the anchors failed, both boats would splinter on the black seal rocks.

  The man fought his way aft and stood in the cockpit beside me.Neither of us spoke, tense and alert, watching. The engine might well tick over, it could never take us out of here.

  Would the rolling turn to pitching? Her bow swing to the swell? Tell us the anchors were holding?

  I saw Eilidh, high above the breakers. For myself I had no fear, but I felt the anguish of her watching.

  The boom and hiss became louder.

  Shipwreck closer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The nude Sun God

  Ten p.m. and Sir Joshua Goldberg sat in his strictly private office pouring over Nuen’s actual and projected profits. In the absence of the thrill of handling raw cash the pleasure of studying figures ending with seven noughts ran a close second. He lit a cigar and blew thoughtful rings. Tomorrow his first report to the Nuen’s Annual General Meeting as its Chairman would be a catalogue of success. His delivery must leave nothing to chance, must side step any awkward questions from the shareholding punters, vis a vis his predecessor Anderson’s abrupt departure. He needed to concentrate, fix the whole performance in his mind, make it look off the cuff.

  Previous minutes proposed and seconded, they’d be followed by a series of graphs together with short videos of the Company’s latest projects, thence to coffee, that always got the shareholders relaxed. He’d begin by drawing attention to Nuen’s escalating capital assets, touch modestly on the eighteen percent improvement in profits, magnanimously announce a quarter of one percent increase in dividends and end dramatically by sketching their future global prospects.

  Should he keep this gem to the last? He saw himself speaking with statesmanlike gravitas. Shareholders, it pleases me, slight pause, and your good suportive selves, here there would be laughter, to inform you all of the significant news which is emerging from Canada as I speak. Nine times all the oil we’ve so far consumed since the invention of internal combustion engine is contained in the tar sands of Alberta. Naturally we have to contend with the environmental lobby; no, no, cut that, they’re just a shower of green layabouts, easily discredited, given my media mogul friend’s ability to cast them as fanatical extremists bent on killing ecomomic growth and fomenting anarchy. Best to say, you see gentlemen separating oil from sand is energy hungry, extremely energy hungry but not surprisingly, given your Company’s eminence, it presents Nuen with a brilliant opportunity. Already I’ve been approached to construct two nuclear power facilities near the main extraction sites, and rest assured I can confidently predict that many smaller plants will follow.

  Sir Joshua imagined he heard the indrawn gasps of surprise and approval. Very privately, his fund management friend’ Nicky’, during the past few months, had been quietly buying him more Nuen shares, nothing too obvious, just acquiring them for a small holding company registered in the British Virgin Islands. He’d called it Elixir Investments. Without doubt, releasing the news of fresh contracts would massage the one thing which interested all finance punters, the price. How he loathed these petty shareholders, loyal only to profit, but there you are, humoured they must be.

  Feed them a snippit. The Mining Act of 1872 gives all US citizens the right to mine on public land and fellow shareholders, we at Nuen, on your behalf, are about to exercise that very right. We shall commence extracting ore from the major uranium deposits above the Grand Canyons National Park. Republicans to a share they’d love it, stuff the environmental Democrats. Go west young man. Covered wagons, Colt 45’s, conquer the land, the Gold Rush over again, from a touch pad.

  One enthusiastic burst of applause after another, the very anticipation swelled his mind with pleasure. He’d bow his head modestly before holding up a hand to quell the standing ovation he’d asked Nicky to arrange, a nice touch, he congratulated himself, rather clever, just moments before proposing with due humility a small increase in his Chairman’s emoluments. More applause, maybe cheering and a voice from the back of the conference hall, Nicky would see to that, “Due reward Sir Joshua for your skill in guiding Nuen’s affairs.” Nobody would dare to question the amount. The figure involved, about forty percent and the doubling of Director’s bonuses to a figure not remote from six million dollars, must await their next monthly board meeting, prudence dear boy, prudence.

  Another attack of palpitations and a slight pain gripped his chest. It had plagued him on and off since the morning’s disturbing event. He belched loudly, and grabbing a bottle from his desk draw swilled down a handful of pills. Fluent cursing followed. By mistake he’d swallowed the blue tablets kept for ‘special occasions’. Now something else would plague him all day!

  Much had gone well since the pathetic Andrew Anderson’s very necessary replacement. Getting his screeching wife out of the office that morning proved more difficult. ‘How the mischief did this diabolical woman get past the doorman?’ was Goldberg’s first angry thought, but she had. He’d eyed her without speaking. A wall of perfume advanced towards him. As she perched on the edge of his desk and leant over him, he deliberately switched on the extractor fan. Not exactly his penchant; the ample display of expensive Botox treatment left Sir Joshua unmoved.

  “Joshie darling I had to see you, I’ve nobody to help me.” Tears glistened, “Andy sure has vanished, just gone, left little me alone, helpless.” Mascara dripped from her eyelashes. Between sobs she added, “The cruel, heartless monster.” Goldberg gave a nonchalant wave of his hand, “So be it my dear woman and no, I don’t know where your husband has gone.” Given that almost twelve months had elapsed since Goldberg first heard of Anderson’s mysterious departure, it crossed his mind that the discovery of her husband’s absence seemed somewhat belated.

  His coolness appeared to fan a flame. She flung her arms around his neck. “I’m running out of money,” and wailing hysterically, “I might have to sell the house.” With considerable difficulty he disentangled her arms shouting, “That, Mrs. Anderson is not my concern!” and praying the stench of perfume wouldn’t cling to his suit, he’d attempted to thrust her out of the room.

  Bright red finger nails ripped down his left chee
k. A leopard skin handbag hit him squarely under the right jaw, the accuracy of the blow suggested practice. He’d staggered back. Equally accurate, she aimed a kick. The pain was excruciating. The door slammed. She’d gone. Holding himself and staggering across the office he locked it, just in the nick of time. A stream of obscenity filtered through the keyhole. Hefty kicking from outwith thumped round the room. He made it to his desk and telephone before being sick.

  The kicking stopped. At the hands of his doorman, the screeching departed down the corridor. Sir Joshua sank down, clutching at himself, rocking back and forth in agony. Later the Doctor examined him carefully, “Gee, that sure is some swelling, Sir Josh.” An observation Goldberg considered totally unnecessary as he lay exposed across his desk. At the next comment, “Yeah man, she sure did hit the bull’s eye,” the patient seethed inwardly, the sheer impudence. This Doctor would wait a long time for his money.

  So the day had been trying, and still at his desk, late as it was, Chairman Goldberg finally pushed aside his copy of the Company Accounts, lit another cigar and inhaling deeply, lay back in his swivel chair. Smoke trickled from his nostrils. From time to time his hand hovered over the afflicted parts. Damn tablets, they’d double the pain. Stirring himself, he poured another two fingers of brandy. Thoughts of the morning’s fiendish attack were soothed away. Sir Joshua took to mulling over issues which certainly didn’t lend themselves to disclosure but rather to the pleasure of a little self congratulation.