Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  That particular Friday as MacLeod took over from the barman it pleased him to note the bottle of twelve year old Highland Park, pride of his the line of optics at four pounds a nip, had been half emptied; with less pleasure he observed that, thanks to the generosity of two hotel guests, it appeared most had gone towards fuelling the paranoia of a now loquacious Andrew Anderson.

  Two fellow countrymen sat to either side of the yachtsman on a bench in the farthest corner; the American couple who appeared to have befriended the tiresome Anderson had booked in that afternoon. Homer MacDonald and Bart MacDougal, New York, looked stylish on his hotel register and Angus MacLeod made them welcome, “You’ll have relations in the islands Mr. MacDonald?” The man beamed, “Sure thing, two hundred years back, ma folks hailed from a li’l ol’ farm on the Isle of Wight. My mom told me they called it Cowes and say, guessing by the horns on your bovine critters, sounds like it must be some place hereabouts; ah jest have to see it.”

  Always the genial host, MacLeod let the gentleman’s stab at the map poster with a friendly smile, “Now, now isn’t that strange. Cowes, yes Cowes, oh well I’ll tell you there’s plenty locals in the bar will give you directions; the ruins are there to this very day,” and pursing his lips as though deep in thought, “Was your great, great grandfather a Donald MacDonald by any chance?” The descendent of the once mighty Clan Donald appeared thrilled, “Sure was, gee it’s unbelievable you would know that.” “Not at all, not at all, Mr MacDonald, your name gave me a clue,” screwing his eyes and looking to the ceiling, “I think your ancestor was a first cousin of the Clan Chief- he was killed at the world famous battle of Culloden.” “Stone the crows, you don’t say,” and grabbing the hotelier’s hand, “shake on that, pardner.” MacLeod kept his counsel and the peculiar trio passed the evening under the curious eye of an off- the -cuff historian.

  Regular trips to the bar counter, “Barman, a large malt whisky and two cokes,” were paid for by the chap calling himself MacDonald. The loudness of Anderson’s voice ensured that much of his comment also crossed the bar, “You two guys ever heard of Diego Garcia?” The pair of tourists sipped their cokes and looked mildly interested. Common to those gaining an audience, the yachtsman launched into to his story, and given the diminishing contents of the bottle on the optic, with a surprising lucidity.

  Swilling his fourth large one, “Yeah, I guessed not, well my friends, it was a paradise island, paradise, near as you get it on this goddamn planet, in the Indian Ocean, sun and surf. Y’see in nineteen seventy-one the Brits booted out its natives and their dug out canoes, exported them by force to the Seychelles; some little faceless wonder behind a desk in Whitehall let our military bulldoze the palm trees and their woven huts. Sure did trash a paradise, covered it in concrete to make a refuelling base for our nuclear submarines.”

  Although drink flushed the man’s face, it failed to hide empty cheeks haggard from lack of food, “They built a big base, and oh boy I mean big, runways, stealth bombers, I’ve been there, yeah too right I’ve been there. Weapons, warheads, the real nasty stuff, shipped out from California. Believe me I owned the company involved, working for the good ol’ Pentagon, we provided the real hot stuff for their nuclear submarine fleet. An’ don’t you forget these weapons are on instant alert, fired by computer. Ever heard of cyber terrorists? I just happen to know certain hackers have got into the US military already, lifting secret documents.” His two listeners exchanged eyebrow lifting glances, “Now Andrew, that sure is a mite interesting.”

  Anderson twiddled his empty glass. A nod to the bar by the MacDonald chap brought Macleod over with another round. “Diego Garcia,” the yachtsman returned to his theme, “yeah it’s just a dot in the ocean but pivotal to Uncle Sam’s control of the Middle East; climate change and water wars will go hand in hand, maybe nuclear,” and throwing back half his dram, “Diego Garcia,” he repeated slowly, “such a nice quiet corner to play with a computer, handy right now for relocating the terrorists to some quiet place where they get a board to lie on for their tongue- loosening splash of water, and believe me chum, for them that’s the easy stuff.”

  Regardless of who might overhear and be offended, Anderson spoke loudly, “Y’see, you can’t depend on the Israelis, might cut up rough, lose the plot, take over the Holy Hilltop, Temple Mount; it’s the crux of their fight with Islam. Sure Israel’s got the bomb, we gave it to them, my company fixed it some time back, but Iran, now that’s real tricky, we’ve got to know when to go in; or do we let the Israelis do the job? Di.. Diego Gar… Gar, I’m a gonna sail down there, pretty mighty soon, pretty mighty sss…oon, when I.. when I get clear of this place.”

  The trembling yachtsman staggered to his feet, a man destroying body and soul with a hatred aflame in hollow eye sockets. The horrors of delirium assailed him, he began shouting and pointing, “I’ll wait, you’ll come alright, it’s your real big spinner, make you a billionaire, but I’m a gonna blow this whole goddamn game apart, and one asshole, one almighty bastard, you ain’t gonna like it, no not one tiny little bit, not one.”

  MacLeod catching a banned word and the sudden movement looked over sharply. The outburst seemed to exhaust Anderson and he slumped back onto the bench. Rapid strides across the bar and the hotelier stood over his semi-conscious client. The matter was immediately resolved, “OK barman, we’ll take care of our friend.” Before Macleod could object the two American compatriots holding a legless man between them helped Andrew Anderson through the swing door of the Castleton bar and out into the crystal starlight of a mid summer’s night.

  “He sure is heavy,” the man called MacDonald grunted. The pair of them struggled with an inert Anderson, “This’ll be his dingy, you go down first and catch him.” The second American clambered down the jetty steps. “If he goes over maybe the water will do the job.” “No, no, get him aboard, do it my way, this has gotta be a sure thing.”

  For a second Anderson realised he was aboard his beloved Valkyrie. Relief swept his mind, thank God. He felt safe. Tomorrow he’d sail, head for Shetland, find the croft his grandfather left and then, the Indian Oc…… The prospect of getting back to sea thrilled his every nerve. Tomorrow, “Valkyrie,” he muttered, “just you and me, I’ll take you home my lovely.” His head fell to one side and he drifted in a haze between shouting and dreaming.

  Faces grinned from a boardroom table, his screaming wife bent over him, the warm Caribbean became a great curling wave of chaotic motion, he struggled to grip the tiller; in a frenzy, his hands couldn’t move, the wave was crushing him, he fought for enough air to shout, fought to breathe.

  In a smothering darkness his aching chest was collapsing under an immovable weight.

  A light burnt his eyes, became a receding halo.

  Out of it grew the leering face of Joshua Goldberg.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Salvage

  Squatters, we’ve just been made into squatters, told to get out, and there’s force waiting in the wings if we don’t,” My voice sounded remote, oddly detached from the significance of our eviction order. Rage gave way to despair. The island was threatened, its environment about to be sacrificed to progress. The blow to our aspirations left me mentally numb. Uncertainty overshadowed all the inspiration which had grown from the roots of belonging. Our flight to the sanctum of yesterday’s ideals no more than a nostalgic ploy, a childish whim hoping to evade the reality of a shrinking world and encroaching human stupidity?

  Stupidity? Not for the first time these thoughts plagued me. Was I not guilty of the folly of idealism, imagining we could stand apart and watch others despoiling the planet, believe as some great work of lasting art we could weave a tapestry of living which would leave an imprint of the simple old values now being crushed by today’s blind stampede? Perhaps all golden ages are pretend and happiness always yesterday. Had we aimed at an illusion? Outside the sunshine became dull, how easy its desecration.

  The Sheriff Warrant remained on the table. Since co
nfronting the police sergeant, Eilidh hadn’t spoken. We stood at the window, a long time silent. Two uniformed figures sauntered to the jetty. Perhaps because they appeared alien to the relationship we hoped to foster by living side by side with the islands abounding wild life, I saw them in a wider context; indeed they became insignificant by comparison to the uncomprehending minds of those in higher authority who lacked any hands on experience of the momentous power of change sweeping the planet at its most fundamental level for many living creatures.

  How many of the soft handed career politicians understood the implications for world food production engendered by the phenomenon of ‘colony collapse’ which affected frogs, bee stocks and now bats. Did the insect control afforded to crops by frogs and bats or the vital role of bee pollination come into their economic calculations? And again whilst they concentrate on putting financial incentives into cutting carbon emissions, did they comprehend that our abuse of the nitrogen cycle has already passed the danger point.

  Eighty million tonnes of nitrogen, more than twice a safe level, is fixed industrially from the atmosphere each year and spread worldwide on the earth’s soil; a proportion returns to the air as the greenhouse enhancing nitrous oxide, two hundred times more potent than carbon dioxide. Never mind that the acidification, death to vulnerable species and a reduction in the ability of the soil’s delicate ecosystem to recycle excess nitrogen to the atmosphere, leads directly to aquatic blooms sucking oxygen from the water and creates massive dead zones in lakes and oceans. Add together the tonnage of nitrogen fixed by nature to that fixed by the industrial process and we exceed by four times the sustainable cycle. Plunder the atmosphere, degrade the world’s soil to feed an expanding species and increasingly the planet becomes an artificial unit at the mercy of man’s macro-management.

  Eilidh, an expert on environmental issues had sown her views onto a receptive mind. They fitted my train of thought as I watched the two policemen board a waiting launch. Governments and their industrial cabals were fixated on a blinkered attempt to subjugate the elements, bend the planetary forces to the comfort and wellbeing of one species; still to register was an over riding probability their efforts would trigger ‘colony collapse’ amongst the increasingly crowded ranks of the common man.

  Suddenly Eilidh spun round, no tears, her eyes aflame with fighting spirit. Grabbing the warrant she tore it into shreds, threw them into the air and turning back to the window with a fierce gesture, “Let them come and get us, I’ll go in handcuffs and the nation will know why.”

  Bitterness showed, perhaps because her expertise had an emotional base, “the fool politicians are leaving it too late to tackle the approaching catastrophes of climate change, I happen to know scientists will be gathered this week in California making plans for geo-engineering, solar radiation management as they call it, space based reflectors, stratospheric sun shades, ocean fertilisation, all high risk, last resort tricks when the cheapest, most effective and certainly the safest would be to re-afforest the planet,” and pointing to the sky, “This is what must be saved; this is the balance we must protect.”

  The cerulean majesty of mid-summer’s day had a purity of light which outlined the puff edged cumulus clouds towering above the still Atlantic. White crinkles and the shaded grey valleys, they gave us the warm showers to grow our first hay crop. Clouds that travelled as shadows on the sea, parted to allow the sun to make ringlets on its surface. They were our friends, as much a part of the whole as were the seals nursing their pups out on the rocks or the confetti of yellow primroses strewn across a verdant machair.

  My thoughts during our silent minutes perfectly matched her defiance. In a flash my despondency evaporated, I took her by the waist and we danced round the room, “That’s my girl, it’ll have to be a tranquilising dart into me before they get chance to put the handcuffs on you.”

  Out in what had once been the byre and was set to become our bathroom, I’d unearthed lengths of wood which by their shape and staining had been the planks of a boat. That afternoon without telling the mother to be I’d fashioned a baby’s crib. Through to the bedroom I sneaked and whilst Eilidh busied with supper, put it beside the bed.

  I heard the squeaks of surprise as she got undressed for bed, “Hector, it’s exactly what I wanted.” and she came bouncing back to the kitchen and hugged me as best the bump would allow. “It’s made from an old boat,” I explained seriously, “that’s why the sides have a slight curve, perhaps I should have fitted a drain hole.” Knowing my fondness for teasing and not to be beaten, “Maybe you could fit a mast and sail,” she laughed, “it’s our boy’s first boat.”

  And that night the warrant forgotten, we talked babies.

  At first light the following morning the Hilda rounded Sandray headland and into that serenity which awaits the sunrise. Darkness was leaving mainland hills, a crimson sky cast the Sound into deep mauve; and tiny whorls across its surface marked the tideway. Stealthily, the great orange tip sent fangs of new light into the clouds so the edge of each little whirlpool for a fleeting moment became its own bright cosmos; and in the beauty of their fragility I saw the mirror of all universes caught in an endless tide of change.

  We were Castleton bound, me to face the police, Eilidh to make plans with Ella for the baby’s birth. Up ahead, much to our surprise, we sighted a yacht. Not under sail, there was no wind, but not under power either for she drifted beam on to the tide. Maybe engine trouble, surely not abandoned? Eilidh lifted her binoculars, “It’s the Valkyrie.” Her tone as shocked as were my thoughts, I commented, “Would the Anderson man be fit to be at sea?”

  Out in the centre channel the yacht drifted across our course and with the current under us we were closing fast. It would be against the common decency of the seaman’s code to sail past if there appeared a problem. I hesitated. We would pass her at half a cable. Should we leave well alone? No, do the time honoured thing, I swung over and hailed, “Valkyrie ahoy!” Twice I called and waited. She rocked gently to the gathering tide. Soon it would sweep the yacht past Castleton and into the Minch. “I’m going alongside.” Eilidh nodded, getting fenders and rope at the ready.

  We lay moored to her. I knocked loudly on the hull. Nothing, was she unmanned? It struck me, had Anderson gone over the side? Drowned? Her rigging was slack, it tap, tapped against the mast. Had he been trying to make sail? I didn’t like it, an empty yacht, drifting. The sunlight glancing off the wavelets, rippled along her white hull. The last of our wake caught up. The yacht rolled slightly. Bang, her cabin door banged loosely, a disturbing enough sound. A group of gulls alighted close by and began their hungry wailing. The whole thing was becoming sinister.

  One swing and I was aboard. Into the cockpit; I fastened back the cabin door and looked below. Sunlight stabbed the cabin, flitting across the table onto the starboard bunk. Wellington boots were towards me. “Dead drunk,” I breathed to myself.

  What now? Step by step I backed down the companion ladder. The cabin reeked of drink. A length of cord lay on the floor, a feather pillow, soundless, only the tap, tap of ropes out on deck. In the chill of early morning it felt morgue- like. I was about to experience something vile. I knew before even daring to look, Anderson was dead. My nostrils caught the first whiff of its sweet smell.

  Round the table I moved, looked down on an ashen face. Huge eyes, wide open, bulbous with terror. A red and swollen tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth onto an unkempt beard matted with froth. His shirt was badly ripped, an arm hung over the edge of the bunk, a swollen wrist marked with a massive crimson weal. Physically sickened, I backed away, touched nothing. Anderson had met a violent end.

  I hurried on deck breathing deeply and much shaken. “Are you all right, Hector?” Eilidh at the helm of Hilda called up. It took a minute to speak, “The man’s alone, and I’m afraid he’s dead.” Her eyes widened but otherwise she remained calm, “I knew as much when we saw his yacht adrift.”

  “Woman, you never fail to surprise me,”
and gathering myself together, “We’ll have to tow her into Castleton. Will you handle Hilda if I stay aboard here?” “Yes, but it’s calm enough and if we stay lashed alongside, it might be easier when we reach the harbour.” She was right. I quickly secured the yacht’s tiller and jumped into the Hilda. Once under way, the two boats in tandem moved easily. I spared Eilidh any description of Anderson, except to say, “It could be murder.” Shock spread over her face, she said nothing. In half an hour we laid the Valkyrie beside Castleton pier without a bump.

  Our unusual arrival had not gone unnoticed. I threw up the yacht’s mooring line. It was caught and made fast by an impassively waiting Sergeant MacNeil. “Good morning, MacKenzie,” at least he’d dropped the formal Mr. Without replying I motioned him to the pier’s iron ladder. Rung by rung, once on deck he smiled down at Eilidh before addressing me in an official tone, “I take it when you went aboard this yacht, presumably as salvage, she’d been abandoned,” and a shade suspiciously, “by her owner?” “Only abandoned in a manner of speaking, officer,” and not wishing to go below again, “as you’ll see,” I said pointing to the cabin.

  Eilidh, sitting in the Hilda, looked tired. I joined her, “Perhaps we shouldn’t take the boat round to the Ach na Mara jetty today, give Ella a phone, I’m sure she’ll come and collect you,” and indicating the problem moored beside us, “I’ll deal with this lot.” To my relief she agreed but speaking carefully and quietly, “You know Hector, by the rules of salvage at sea, we might now legally own the Valkyrie.”