No Safe Anchorage

by Liz Macrae Shaw

  Thomas agreed to both suggestions and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “As you’ll have gathered, building lighthouses is my passion.” His tide of words lapped her ears gently at first but then gathered speed and pounded strongly. “Most wee lads covet a locomotive for a birthday present, but I was so disappointed when my parents gave me a wooden engine. I was much happier with boats, even a tiny one made out of a walnut shell with a paper sail. Or I would hollow out a hull with my penknife from a piece of wood.”

  “And did you make a lighthouse to go with them?”

  He laughed, “Of course. My father showed me the plans he had drawn for the lighthouse on the Bell Rock. I spent the whole of one winter making a model. I was so proud of it. One day I stood it on a stone in the stream, surrounded by my fleet. How the light shone out bravely. Then I was called in for my tea and rushed inside. The heat was too much for the glass. It exploded and the whole thing toppled into the water.”

  “You’ve improved the design since then,” she smiled.

  His face was serious. “It was a necessary lesson. The first rule is to build safely and not endanger lives. It’s a heavy responsibility that Louis will need to learn. I worry that he’s so flighty.”

  “He’s only a wee scrap of a lad yet.” She stood up to look out of the window. “I wonder what they’re up to.” She cried out and Thomas leapt to her side. Effie, little bigger than a child herself, was struggling to carry the boy back to the house. Forgetting her age Janet ran out behind Thomas.

  “He’s an awkward fellow, always falling over,” he muttered, fear leaking into his words.

  They found the child struggling for breath, his skin clammy and eyes fever bright.

  “What have you done to my son?” Thomas pulled the boy from Effie’s arms and cradled him.

  The girl didn’t understand the words but she read their meaning. “Bha e air a dhòigh’s e a ‘cluich ceart gu leòr, a’ lúbadh airson na corragan aige a’thumadh anns a’ ghlumagh am measg nan chreagan an sin. An uair sin thuit e gu h-obann mus b’urrainn dhomh a ruigsinn. Chan eil mi a’creidsinn gun do thuislich e. Thuit e mar clach às an adhar. Dh’fheum mi na gruaidhean aige shuthadh’s steal mi uisge air an aodann aige gus an do thill e chun tìr nam beò.”

  She sobbed and turned to her mistress who was stroking Louis’s head where it rested in the crook of his father’s arm. Without taking her eyes off the child, Janet translated Effie’s words.

  “He was happy playing, bending down to dip his fingers in the rock pool when suddenly he fell before she could reach him. She doesn’t believe he tripped. He just fell like a stone. She had to rub his cheeks and splash water on his face to bring him back to the land of the living.”

  “She pushed him while he was playing and knocked him over,” Thomas bellowed, making the child in his arms twitch and Effie whimper.

  “No, she did not. Louis fell over in a swoon before she could get to him,” Janet said in a quiet voice. She mouthed to Effie to go back to the house and find blankets. “You said yourself he’s inclined to fall over. We must get him into bed.”

  She tugged at Thomas’s sleeve. He lurched after her on tottering legs, his eyes staring. Once inside he laid Louis down. Janet’s fingers sifted through the black hair flopping over the boy’s forehead to touch the skin beneath.

  “He seems to have a fever,” she said.

  She watched as vexation, tenderness, and terror scudded across Thomas’s face.

  “He has these turns. We’ve taken him to so many doctors but none of them can make sense of it. He recovers after a few days in bed. I hoped he was growing out of it. That’s why I brought him with me this time, against his mother’s wishes. He’s not well enough to travel with me now but I can’t wait here for him to get better. I’ve so many other lighthouses to visit.”

  “Well, he’s most welcome to remain here. We’ll take care of him until you can return.”

  His face softened in relief. “Thank you for your kindness. My wife and I are from big families but he’s our only one. He’s always been delicate.”

  So it was agreed. For the first few days the young boy slept most of the time, sometimes so deeply as if he were unconscious, at other times shouting and throwing his limbs about. Janet and Effie took turns to watch over him and soothe him when he awoke from a nightmare. He seemed to have the same recurring dream, especially when the wind was hurling itself at the house. He would call out that a strange horseman was galloping by with his face covered by his cloak. Staring open-eyed, skewered by terror, eventually he would respond to a calming voice and fall asleep.

  “What’s he dreaming about? It sounds like the Devil’s work to me,” whispered Effie one night when she was awakened again by his howling and ran to find Janet soothing him.

  “Nonsense. He’s only a wee lad who’s often ill enough to think that he might not last the night.”

  “Do you think he’s having visions of some terrible disaster that’s going to happen?”

  “No, I do not. That’s enough. Your job is to comfort him when he awakes, not to scare yourself with foolish imaginings.”

  Finally, the fever stopped thrashing him and he slept soundly for a night and a day. When he awoke in the evening, he had returned to himself. Janet found him sitting in bed, alert but hollow eyed. “I’ve got a cover like this on my bed at home, all made out of different pieces,” he said as if they were resuming an interrupted conversation.

  “A patchwork blanket, like this?”

  “When I’m in my bed at home I play at the land of Counterpane. I have all my toys with me. I can shake the covers to make my boats sail over the blue patches or make hills for my soldiers to march up.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I like the colors on this counterpane, wee blue patches of sea and sky and brown for the fields.”

  “That’s very fanciful. When I look at the pieces, they remind me of the people who used to wear the clothes the patches came from.”

  “Who wore that piece here, the one that’s the color of oatmeal?”

  “Well, that’s from a gansey worn by my grown-up son, Murdo, who lives in Stornoway now. He was very fond of it and wore it until it was more holes than wool. He said I knitted luck into the stitches. He always had full nets when he wore it. See the cable stitch there? That’s for the ropes that keep the sailor safe.”

  “And what about that dark blue that looks like the deep ocean?”

  She smiled, “That comes from a gown I had as a young lass, before I was married. It was a heavy cloth that rustled when I walked.” She pretended to scowl. “Don’t look so astounded, young man. I might seem as old as Methuselah to you now, but I was as young once as you are now.”

  He grinned and the dark surface of his eyes gleamed. He pointed at another square. “That piece of brown tweed?”

  She hesitated, scraping at its surface with a fingernail.

  The boy’s face caved in. “I don’t like that one. It’s rough and dark like the cloak the horseman wears in my dream.”

  Janet shook her head. “That one belonged to a wee boy, not a man. It came from a pair of breeks my younger son wore.”

  “He died, didn’t he, before he became a man?”

  She looked directly at him, “He did die, but he’s at peace with the Lord now.” Seeing the haunted look on his face, she continued, “He was a happy lad. He didn’t die from an illness and neither will you. Look at how much better you are now, well enough to pester me with questions. Now, have you seen this lovely scrap of red tartan?”

  He nodded and she was relieved to see his face no longer looked troubled.

  “It came from a skirt my daughter Catherine wore when she was your age. I only had the one daughter and she used to complain that all her dresses were dull things cut down from her brother’s clothes. So for her birthday one year I made her a new skirt, even though it was an extravagance.”

  ‘Did she like it?’

  “She loved it. She wore it until
it was much too short for her.”

  “Look, it’s gone dark outside. When I was ill and couldn’t sleep my nurse used to lift me out of bed. She carried me to the window to see the lights in the houses across the street. I used to wonder if there were any other sick boys looking out, too. Of course I’m much too big to do that now.”

  “That’s just as well for there aren’t any lights to see here.”

  “The only light is the one from your big lamp in the window that shines for the sailors to see.”

  “It is indeed.”

  “Cummy used to tell me stories as well.”

  “Your nurse? Did she now. What sort of stories?”

  “She read the Bible, a chapter at a time, all the way through and from The Book of Martyrs and The Pilgrim’s Progress. Lots of psalms too.”

  “The Good Book must have been a comfort to you.”

  His face clouded and he whispered so quietly that Janet had to bend down close to hear him. “But I’m afraid in the dark that if I sleep I’ll never wake up again. I would be dead then and maybe go to Hell.”

  Her heart ached for him. “Don’t you know that children never go to Hell because God knows that they’re innocent souls?”

  He stared at her in wide-eyed amazement. “I never knew that.”

  “Well, I know that because I’m so old. Do you know anyone as old as me?”

  He shook his head.

  “That proves I’m right then. Does your Mama tell you stories, too?”

  His eyes dulled. “No, she isn’t very strong and I mustn’t trouble her or she’ll get a bad head. Papa is away so much. He did try reading to me from a big book about inventors but I didn’t like it. What stories do you know?”

  “I know plenty. Stories about Finn McCoul and his big black dog, Bran. About the fairy folk, the seal people and the Salmon of Knowledge.”

  She laughed as he shook his head in wonderment. “You haven’t heard those? Well, you sleep well tonight under that old quilt with all its memories and I’ll see what tales I can tell you tomorrow.”

  Chapter 4

  Island of Rona, Summer 1857

  During the long summer days Louis grew taller and stronger. Janet encouraged him to play on the shore but if there were storms he stayed inside helping Effie. Kneading dough, turning the butter churn or even sweeping the floors. The simple daily routines seemed to soothe him. Every night before he went to sleep she told him a story; there were no more nightmares. She thought about the tales she had first heard as a girl. Sitting with her chin on her knees in front of the peat fire, surrounded by the rumble of adult voices. It was a long time since she had told stories to a child. Now she used the stored oil of her memories to light up his imagination.

  She began with Finn McCoul. “Now Finn lived in Ireland, but he spent a lot of time traveling across the sea to Scotland. Unluckily for him he fell afoul of a Scottish giant called Benandonner who swore he would teach Finn a lesson. He built a causeway over from Scotland so that he could reach Ireland more quickly. Finn was a brave man, but he knew he couldn’t beat this terrifying giant in an ordinary fight. What was he to do?”

  “Papa always says that God gave us brains so that we can find answers.”

  “That’s true. This time it was Finn’s wife, Oonagh, who used her head. ‘Tell your men to cut down a tall tree and make a cradle big enough for you to lie in. Meantime my women will help to make you baby clothes.’ Finn shook his head in bafflement but did as she asked. Then he sent men to keep watch and warn him when the giant was approaching his castle. Not that they needed warning. They could feel the earth rocking as the giant’s heavy tread came closer and his angry shouts echoed like thunder across the hills.”

  “What did Finn do?”

  “He dressed himself up in the baby gown and bonnet and lay down in the cradle. Then Oonagh wrapped a huge shawl around him.”

  “He must have looked very silly,” Louis giggled.

  “Aye, and no doubt he had to shave off his beard or he would have looked even sillier. Finn’s wife sat down with her spindle in her hand and rocked the cradle with her foot. The giant marched in, ‘Where’s that rascal Finn McCoul?’ He roared in a voice that would chill your blood. ‘He’s out cutting wood but this is his young son here. Would you like to see him?’ Well, the giant took one peep in the cradle and took to his heels. He didn’t stop to draw breath until he reached the causeway. He charged across it. As he ran he broke it up behind him, hurling great rocks into the sea and shouting, ‘If that’s the size of the baby, what must his father be like?”

  Louis clapped his hands together. “Tell me more tales about Finn.”

  “That’s enough for now. Tomorrow I’ll tell you about when Finn came to Skye to stay at Dun Sgathaich, the Castle of Shadow that was built in a single night.”

  And so she did. “Finn was still a beardless young man. One of the heroes suggested he go to stay with Queen Sgiath who lived at the castle. She could teach him all that he needed to know about the arts of fighting.”

  “But how could a lady, even if she was a Queen, know about fighting?” Louis was scornful.

  “Finn thought the same. He curled his lip at the notion that a mere woman would have such knowledge, but nevertheless he followed the hero’s advice. He sailed across the sea in a ship whose prow was carved like a sea serpent. It writhed through the waves, its eyes scanning the horizon. When he landed, the queen challenged him to a wrestling match and with a smile of contempt he agreed. He found to his surprise that she was a nimble fighter. In the end his exhaustion made him clumsy. She was able to trip him up and pin him to the ground. After that he was ready to learn from her. So she taught him how to be a fearsome warrior, with sword and staff.”

  Janet could feel the rhythm of the story swing her along, spinning her like the arms of a strong partner in a reel.

  “Do you remember when you made up your own story of how Finn wanted a flat space to dance on? He took his sword and swiped at Dun Caan. As if he were slicing a pudding, he lopped the pointed top off the mountain. Then he had plenty of room to dance.” She laughed, but her voice wavered as she saw the puzzled expression on Louis’s face. “No, of course you didn’t. I’m just a silly cailleach.”

  Louis’s eyes were deep pools as his fingers crept over the quilt. “It was that boy who said it. That’s the patch from his trousers.”

  She nodded, fearing that if she spoke she would weep.

  “Tell me some real stories. Ones from history.” Louis asked her the next evening.

  “I’ll tell you about The Ship Full of People. It happened over a hundred years ago. A man called Norman MacLeod thought to himself that there were too many poor people living on Skye. So he decided to make some money by selling a cargo of human souls, instead of the usual beasts, iron or wood.”

  “How could he do that?”

  “By seizing young men and women and bundling them onto ships bound for the American colonies.”

  “What happened to them when they reached America?”

  “They were to be sold as slaves.”

  “But their families must have missed them.”

  “They did indeed but no one knew what had become of them. They had gone as if they had never existed. But no secret can be kept forever. One of MacLeod’s ships put into a harbor in Antrim in Ireland. While it was at anchor a few of the captives escaped and raised the alarm. Some folk claimed that Sir Alexander MacDonald himself was behind the wicked deed but it was never proved.”

  “Was the bad man who started it sent to prison?”

  “No, he ran away and hid in Ireland. But he returned to Scotland later and fought against the Prince, on the government’s side.

  “I heard another tale too about a Highlands gentleman traveling in Canada. He came across a maid in a house there and spoke to her. She didn’t understand English. So he tried French and German but she just stared at him. Then he thought of speaking Gaelic to her. The poor lassie’s face lit up. She told him how
she had been gathering seaweed when she was seized and thrown onto the boat. It was a terrible thing to treat Christian souls like that. There must be a special word for such a sin against your fellow man but I don’t know what it is, in English or Gaelic.”

  “Papa will know. He knows everything.”

  So Janet was the lamplighter and the flame of her stories banished the shadows for both of them.

  Chapter 5

  Island of Rona, Summer 1857

  Tom hired the same sullen pilot to guide The Comet safely past the tusks of rock jutting from the mouth of Big Harbour. It was Richard Williams again who rowed him ashore. After dragging the boat onto the beach, Richard hoisted the long wooden box on his shoulder and followed Tom to Janet MacKenzie’s door. Again Effie peered at them before scurrying off to alert her mistress.

  “The captain isn’t with you today?”

  “No, Mrs. MacKenzie. He’s busy on his charts. I’ve brought Williams the coxswain with me.”

  Janet nodded and surveyed Richard who was lowering his burden. Her eyes gleamed. Tom couldn’t be sure whether it was curiosity or amusement. He tried on a boyish smile. “You were very firm about not wanting any recompense but I’m afraid the Lighthouse Commissioners were adamant that we deliver this to you.”

  “Well, open it young man.”

  Tom opened the lid, lifted out the contents and presented them to Janet with a bow. He was astonished to see her stern face melt into a laugh.

  “Well, I feel like the Queen herself. It’s a fine thing indeed, but why should I have need of it?”

  “It’s the most modern and best lamp available. Brighter and cleaner than any other.”

  “It’s certainly a handsome thing.” She tapped the brass base. “But I already have my own lamp and another smaller one too. I won’t need them soon and certainly not a new one as well.”

  “True. But I have something else I trust will be more serviceable.” He took a package from his jacket pocket and gave it to her.