She looked down at her lap, “He gave me this golden disk,” and her knitting fell to the floor from empty hands.
There was no illness. On a night when the rain filled a solstice gale and the wild Atlantic beat its drum upon the shore, Ella died peacefully, her hands clasping the gift of her dream.
The headland that took her daughter had been her wish, beside the man whom she loved. It could not be. The community gathered, many joined by the bond of blood, and we laid her amidst the leaning crosses of her forebears, and the burying ground above the wide beaches at the edge of the Sound of Sandray looked to the island of their youth.
The people sang, but to me the psalm was in the voice of the sea, and the sky drew its lament from a cloud that darkened the sun.
For these were the unknown days.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
‘I have a job to do’
“We understand that several years ago, Mr. MacKenzie you claimed salvage of an American registered yacht called ‘Valkyrie’ and she’s presently in your hands. Is that correct?” Two ordinary looking men stood at the croft house door, smart tweed jackets but unremarkable apart from the American accent and the nature of their query. “Come in, come in,” no stranger was ever left on the doorstep. “No thank kindly sir, we’d rather not,” replied the spokesman of the pair. I could see the other chap studying me. “If it’s OK with you, we’d like to look over the boat.”
Last thing I wanted was any trouble over the yacht. Apart from sailing her round to the jetty here at Ach na Mara, I’d done no more than a little superficial maintenance. “By all means, whom I speaking to, please?” The spokesman passed me his card. I read first the name, Allan Cunningham, followed by a string of degrees, and then in complete disbelief, Chief Executive, Nuen, New York, USA.; a company I knew from research days in Geneva to be the biggest worldwide name in nuclear generation. The silent fellow chose not to reveal his particulars but I had an idea he was the reason behind whatever might be the purpose of the call.
During our walk to the jetty they both seemed markedly preoccupied, my bland comments went unheeded. I had heard sounds of a helicopter but the constant activity in connection with Sandray meant I’d paid little attention. However, crossing the dunes revealed their transport parked on the beach, they’d flown in. The executive chap hurried ahead to the chopper and rejoined us on the deck of the yacht carrying a small instrument, “Mind if we go below?”
I followed them down into the cabin and sat at the navigating table. A chart of the Indian Ocean remained spread out, just as Anderson had left it. I hadn’t needed nor indeed cared to go below decks since bringing Valkyrie round to the Ach na Mara jetty. Graceful yacht though she was, many times I’d wished her elsewhere. Something about the boat, no more than a nagging unease, lacking any rational explanation. I’d passed it off as superstition rather than face the possibility that, lurking in subconscious memories, Anderson’s corpse, throttled and gaping, haunted me.
The cabin smelt damp. Mould had grown over the bunks and bedding. The yacht listed slightly, the merest stir as an incoming tide crept around her keel. The air had the mustiness of decay. I shuddered. This yacht was cursed. She’d already led to a strangled corpse. My eye rested on the chart and a circle drawn around Diego Garcia, an American base, I knew the reports of alleged rendition of terror suspects. What else? Anderson’s drunken threat and its menacing, ‘I have a job to do’ was somewhere here.
The Nuen executive swept his monitor carefully across the bulkheads, the cabin sole, into the fo’c’sle. The gadget hovered over each surface, a sentient robot delighting in profound evil. It emitted a faint ticking. A louder click, click, I recognised the sound, my flesh prickled. The Chief Executive piped in a shrill voice, “I told you, now d’you believe me?” He held the sensor poised over a section of the fo’c’sle flooring. Totally ignoring me, two heads intent on reading the dial bumped together. The rate of ticking warned me, a high level of radiation, tick, tick, tick, the clicking of a dice which only fools throw.
I stood on the jetty in the midday light of early June, glad of sunshine. They offered no explanation and, a shade flustered, Nuen’s man confronted me,” We’ve established that the owner of this yacht was a past chairman of my company, she will require to be returned to his dependents.” I almost laughed in his face, he might have thought up a more convincing excuse.
Privately relief was overwhelming, “By all means, today if you wish.” The silent man gave me a curious look. “Thanks for your help,” and with an easy style which hardly disguised a threat, he added, “Maybe you recall your experience when you found this yacht. You won’t be recalling this visit to anyone, that sure would be an unhealthy memory.” They left abruptly.
I jumped aboard the Hilda and moved her clear of the Valkyrie. The pair walked smartly back to their helicopter unaware that voices carry over water. The Nuen Chief sounded to be almost pleading, “Believe me it was entirely Anderson’s own arrangement, you saw the chart, Diego Garcia circled. I’d no part in it, no more part than I’ve had in any of J.G.’s schemes, I always follow his instructions, I’m only responsible for overseeing the handling of the material.” I heard the second man grunt, but didn’t catch what he’d said as they climbed aboard. A sand cloud lifted from the dunes and the chopper headed towards Sandray. I repeated the initials aloud, “J.G.” and then slowly, “Joshua Goldberg.”
Screeching terns had divebombed me early that morning on my visit to check the boats. A shingle area along the beach from the jetty was the bird’s communal nesting site and they returned each April to the scrape of pebbles amongst which they were born, the bay where they fished. More people now strolled the beach; holiday makers came with tents, teams of kayakers swarmed into the bay, all innocent folk not realising that for the birdlife it was home. Over the years the numbers of terns dwindled and on my daily visits I took care to avoid disturbing their pebble nest in which they laid three olive eggs.
As the racket of the helicopter died away, I walked home across a beach devoid of bird life. No sharp high pitched alarm cries, the bay was eerily silent. The helicopter had landed amidst the terns breeding site. I picked my way carefully over to the shingle. Several birds who’d sat their eggs to the last moment were pulp. Scattered about were the yellow splashes of smashed eggs where the parent bird had risen in panic. Here and there a few hatched chicks crouched in the pebble hollows as my shadow fell on them. Most fledglings had been blown about the stones to their death. Other chicks far from their nests lay panting, their newly feathered wings spread out in the heat. Hoping to catch sight of the parents return, I stood for a long time looking out to sea, and an empty horizon.
Another summer and winter passed and so far as we could tell the major construction work on Sandray appeared to be finished. It was no longer such a cloak and dagger operation. Enquiries under the Freedom of Information Act as to its purpose were initially met with a blank refusal, National Security being the standard block; however thanks to internal leaks and a press campaign by the Glasgow Herald the nation now knew that a Scottish island had been developed by an American conglomerate as an international underground storage facility for highly radioactive nuclear waste. Few in the population at large had any idea of Sandray’s whereabouts; anyway it was suitable remote and the news passed with little adverse comment except on the part of environmental groups and a scattering of green MP’s.
Attempts to discover which politicians and government agencies had been involved in slipping decision making past the Scottish Parliament and various official planning bodies, proved difficult to unearth. Parallels were drawn with the sleight of hand which produced the Iraq war. Greenpeace called for a public enquiry but that was turned down. Tracks had been well covered.
Their imprint on Halasay life however was more obvious. Paramount to the running of the base was maximum security. Sandray Sound and the waters around the island were closed to any type of shipping. Local fishing boats, yachts, even inflatable
dinghies were warned off by patrol vessels. On the hill several radar towers’ scanning arms revolved continuously. Local gossip assumed the huge listening cups pointing at the sky formed some part of the facilities’ protection from air attack.
The Castleton bar became a hot bed of conjecture. Heads were shaken over drams, what safety existed from an incoming missile? Archie at the end of the counter looked into his whisky, “It might even be an incoming drone.” Seamus ordered another round, “Whatever that is, it couldn’t be worse than that droning bugger of a politician in the hall last night.”
To a catalogue of prospective disasters the troop of Halasay worthies gloomily drained their glasses. A gentleman new to the island, who perhaps considered himself better informed on the latest forms of terrorism, elaborated on the impact of an outbreak of cyber warfare. Even those listeners unfamiliar with the word ‘cyber’, nodded none the less when he informed them in solemn tones, “A deadly virus could infect the phalanx of computers which run the Sandray complex. That would dislocate all their programmes, the effect would be calamitous.”
To allow his message to sink in he looked from one to another. They stared back in silence, until, “A virus, you mean a sort of ‘flu in the wiring?” remarked Seamus feigning innocence. “Exactly, absolutely,” replied the disciple of doom, unaware the circle of locals buried their faces in pint glasses. A wide eyed Seamus broke the silence, “Well now, I’ll tell you, Mr. er, er..” “Montague Cholmondly,” the man interjected his name. Seamus swallowed hard, “You can’t better a wee toddy for the ‘flu, unless it’s another one.”
Much barstool debate speculated on various earth shattering possibilities, in fact almost to the exclusion of the ruinous sheep prices on the mainland. A desire to ‘get my hands’ on the waste dump operators frequently curtailed the deliberations at closing time. Few however of the hotel regulars had met or even set eyes on Sandray’s latest occupiers; from nuclear technicians to chefs, the islands workforce operated as a closed community, at least so far as it reflected their lack of attendance at the bar counter.
Perhaps just as well. To describe as hostile the attitude of Halasay locals to the takeover of Sandray without any form of consultation, would be risible. Meetings had packed the village hall to hear celebrity environmentalists warn of the dangers lurking next door, an alarming reality which served to fuel the anger of an island community who knew they’d been duped, made victims of the ‘not in my backyard’ syndrome.
Attending another gathering, Eilidh and I sat through a Westminster MP’s attempt to justify government action. He’d spoken boldly about job creation, moving towards sustainable low carbon lifestyles, and finally emphasising the safe role of nuclear power in cutting harmful emissions had ended by making the case for a wise mix of all options in the overall National energy policy. More mouth than man, we exchanged looks but kept silent. One old crofter at the back of the hall got the only applause when he stood up and addressed the platform, “It seems to me, and you can talk about being wise, Mr. Politician,” he’d forgotten the chap’s name, “the peat fire has done my day without harming anyone, apart from giving my wife a bad back.” We all laughed until he said quietly, “But last year my grandson was killed in Afghanistan.”
It came about that one day, a shade reluctantly, the three of us set off to climb the hill above Castleton. An excited Eachan scrambled up ahead and stood waving down from his perch on the summit cairn. Eventually we reached him, to find the clarity of light exceptional. Island upon island blended into each other until slender tips, they became images on the blueness of a day that marbled the tall white clouds of June on an unruffled ocean. The hilltop air in its stillness floated tranquil as the sea.
We sat quietly. First it was near, and then somewhere far away. Was it out on the ridge? There was no telling. A lone whistle, soft and elusive, plaintive as the calling of what once had been. “That’s a golden plover,” I whispered to Eachan. “It’s the shyest of all the hill birds.” The boy listened in fascination. I looked across to Sandray flushed by summer grass, green and inviting to those of a shepherding mind.
A vast breakwater complete with a sizeable navigating beacon curved out from the east side of the island, an immense structure. A huge quantity of jagged rock, blasted from tunnel and hilltop, had been bulldozed into the deeper water, ton by ton dumped and levelled. I visualised a modest sized ship sheltering in the bay unloading steel containers of radioactive waste. Sitting on a sizeable pier a couple of hefty looking cranes reached over the water; they’d be for lifting the consignments onto a track way which, beneath a series of concrete pillars dotting their way up the hillside, led to a tunnel mouth and into the storage chamber.
An array of turrets and antennae spiked the flattened top of the Hill of the Shroud suggesting some of the incoming material might arrive by helicopter. Even to the naked eye the level of activity was staggering. Huge trucks and land rovers crawled along a road zigzagging up the hill and down to the east bay. Obviously building work continued apace. The scale of it all alarmed me. This was no small home- based requirement; at the very least it smacked of American, if not international involvement.
The headland, made conspicuous by its singularly tall pylon, hid the site of our old house. Cables dangling above the Sound continued in a line of pylons striding over the hilltop, carrying the supply of electricity which I knew to be vital to maintaining a critically cold temperature in the storage tubes. Leaning against the cairn I shaded my eyes, groups of sheep grazed the hillside unconcerned by the roar of an incoming helicopter. Another took off, heading east. A moment’s glint of light caught large letters along its side. They read, Nuen.
The sound of a departing helicopter followed us down the hill. Quietness returned as we sauntered down the lower slopes to where the wild fescue grew tallest and the warmth of an afternoon sun brought out the scent of bog-myrtle.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
“A flash on TV.”
Six years old, Eachan walked the two miles over to Castleton Primary School and always keen to help if he thought there was work with the animals, he’d run home. “Do you need a hand Dad?” The abandoned satchel hung on the gate, to the sound of his mother shouting from the door in Gaelic, “Come in and change your clothes.” Eilidh ensured the boy was bi-lingual, even I found myself fluent enough during our supper time conversations to talk sheep, cattle and the weather.
Weeks of unbroken sunshine baked ground and grass alike. It had been the easiest summer for hay making. Even the old worthies for whom the weather had always been better in their school days, complained of sunburnt bald heads and admitted that never before did such a spell of heat settle itself over the islands. Pastures and bodies alike were tea brown. A relentless sun favoured the appearance of bikinis, sometimes even less. The tourist migration to Halasay’s wide open beaches added a fresh dimension to bar counter comments on global warming. Towards closing time, often tempered with a little wisecrack, the stories of an older generation tended to reflect the changing seasons, rather than the earthy observations of the more concupiscent.
“There was no school bus when I ran barefoot to the school and home again at the double to go fishing or whatever was doing,” my crofting neighbour, Roddy MacDougal, a man who’d gained his Master’s Ticket at twenty-five and sailed the world, had just topped ninety. “You see my father used to graze the cattle on Eilean Fada, you know where I mean,” he nodded over his shoulder, “out there on the west side. I wouldn’t be in school even, but many’s the time I drove them across the strand, no problem, when the tide was out, the channel was dry. About May time it would be; what grazing, what a shine it put on them. You could pull a chair under them and eat your dinner off their back, it would be like a table. When the geese came back in October we took the cattle home, but in the old days the young women, my granny was one of them, would go over and milk them and make cheese, and stay for a month or more in a turf hut, and sometimes the boys would go across,” he winked at
me,“ and on an occasion more than cheese would be made.”
Whatever story lay behind his wink, Captain Roddy gazed into the mirror behind the optics. Thoughtful eyes saw childhood days, a sheet of water, thin and bright as glass covering the sand and his father’s cattle splashing their way across the ford. I waited until he looked back to me, “You see as the years went by it got more difficult, you had to wait a half moon and drive the cattle over at the neap tide. That was fine, but you’ll know yourself, Eachan,” I’d long since become used to answering to the Gaelic of Hector, “that north-west gale we had two winters ago, I never saw a bigger sea running, the breakers were eating the dunes by the yard. There’ll be no more cattle grazing on Eilean Fada, nor the geese either. The sea level is rising, and nothing will halt it now. The island just about covers at high water, and Eachan you’ll see it yourself at Ach na Mara, those dunes at the far end of your croft are getting washed away.” “Yes, the marram grass isn’t holding them stable now and when it goes.” there was no point in my stating the obvious.
A look to MacLeod and the ever attentive hotelier served another round. “The old granny used to say when I’d come home from sea and be telling about Atlantic gales, ‘Don’t be speaking, it’ll all be the same in a hundred years,’ but you tell me, I‘m not so sure. They talk about climate change, storms follow heat, I tell you, the whole western seaboard of these islands is threatened; when Greenland gets back its colour these crofts will need more than a seawall.”
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