A Book of Death and Fish (41 page)

They fried in their own oil in a pan which fitted neatly into a metal bucket with a simple camping gas burner underneath. We watched the shapes composed by the Shiant Islands alter as our angle on them shifted. When it blew up a bit more than we wanted, on the Shiants East Bank, we dropped some sail and rolled it smaller. So we glided into SY hoil, rested and fed. The boat didn’t take a drop in, between her planks nor over her bows.

I did some research and found that the sweet little Scaffie,
Fidelity
, was awaiting her own resurrection, in Stonehaven, though she hadn’t been buried yet. She was under cover. But her Ducati diesel had not done a lot of work and could well be available. Wilma thought James would have wanted me to have it.

‘Aye, he passed away a couple of years ago now. But our own wee madam is fair excelling as a piper.’

Our sheds and greenhouses and new lean-to had somehow filled with stuff. I had planning permission for my garage with a difference. It would be clad with reclaimed natural slate on the gable. A velux window set in there, opening to a mezzanine. There would be an oily area, but also a shower. So I would no longer get in trouble for carrying the residue of projects into the house proper. Or the garden shed proper.

So the site-shed at the olaid’s housing project became my operating theatre. We were letting out her house now. The house had served my mother’s late life needs for about ten years. Where had they gone? The temporary shed beside it had survived my mother.

Broadband was coming to town and I was able to find all the bits to recondition the single-cylinder unit which was uplifted from Stonehaven. An air-cooled engine had its appeal. Apart from the Dietrich-like throaty tone, it meant there could be two holes less in the boat. No need for a raw water intake or exhaust outlet. There was just too much detail in the work to keep Anna motivated.

‘Dr Frankenstein, I presume,’ she said one day when I got back into the overalls, after helping her with the history essay. But see that moment when we ran the Ducati, on the bench – that should have been enough to cure Anna of that unhealthy fascination with unreliable forms of propulsion, like sails.

The neighbours thought it was criminal, the idea of putting an old engine in a new boat. You see, they didn’t believe that she
had
been resurrected. If they could make that leap of faith, it was too much for most of them to see that the same miracle could happen to machinery. But the choice of motor was a matter of money as well as the thrawn tendencies of Lewis culture. There were changes brewing, in my own life.

Gabriele was not encouraging. ‘You’ll be moving in, round the corner, soon,’ she said.

Anna and me were always big pals. I mean, we had more than one adventure. Stuff that should have put her off any kind of boat for life. An overnighter in the Folkboat after the waterpump on the Yanmar packed in and I didn’t have a spare aboard. It was long tacks against a strong headwind. She woke to see me straining to read the compass bearing.

‘Would it help if I called out the numbers, Da?’ She did and it did. She’d also tell me when we were getting too close to the wind and when we were falling off too far. She had a feel for it.

Her mother was anxious, meeting us in the morning, but Anna was beaming because she knew she’d responded to the challenge of it. She can always come out with that winning smile. Those who don’t know her so well would think she was happy all the time.

But she’s one of the driven people. A side order of desperation in the pleasure. Competitive sport only does it for a while. It’s the challenges you choose for yourself. The Corrievreckan in a kayak. Pentland Firth in a dinghy. The unclimbed mountain in Turkey. The Ducati in the
Peace and Plenty
was just too easy.

On the day when everything changed, Anna and me were for keeping going. Her mother knew enough was enough. She was close to her own limit. The rain hadn’t eased. The burn at the head of Loch Langabhat was so swollen you couldn’t see the spawning salmon. We went most years to watch the fish swirl in the headwaters. Late November to early December. You usually see a fin or two first. The dorsal cutting the burn. Then you see the soldered flank turn in the blackish water. Light enters
and the water’s clear and the details of the fish come out. You see the hook in the jaw of the male, the maroon spawning dress. Then another and another and the pool is heavy with its fish. They don’t have an option. If they live, they come back. Sniffing each current till they find their own river, in from the Atlantic.

Gabriele took one look at it and was for going back. She wasn’t going to try crossing that burn. More like a river now. Anna and me were right up for a push. We could do the circle. Up our wee Himalayan path – snaking up Stulaval. It would get easier then, as the faint track followed the flat high ground. Then we’d cut across, to take the fork down by Loch Voshimid. After that, it was downhill along the Land Rover path to the Hushinish Road. She and her mother were always going to mountain-bike that one. But Gabriele had good days and bad days. You couldn’t make plans. And the father and daughter could check it out, on foot.

Gabriele really was cool about walking back the same way – that would do her fine. She’d rescue the car and pick us up at that point on the Hushinish Road.

‘You two won’t be happy till you get soaked right through,’ she said.

We’d storm it. The rain gets you walking faster.

We waved goodbye to the shape of Gabriele, taking it slow back up the rise to the path. We went to find the best route across. There was the foundations of a long-gone bridge. Very green grazed ground around that, standing out from brown, shining in the dreich late afternoon.

It’s the first step in, when the cold hits your toes and the pain is sudden. Then it goes dull. The water warms in your boots and it’s bearable. Then you don’t notice. It’s normal. I’m wading the ford and then my pole is going too far down. We should turn back. We’ll have to find another way.

We both pace the bank. Not looking for salmon now but for a route through the shallows. I see one and go. Between rocks, the pole dips again but I push for it. Lose the footing, right close to the other bank. I dive for it.

‘Hey, Da. Nearly a dry capsize. Nice one.’

‘Kind of you to say so, girl, but I’m not as bloody dry as all that.’

Anna is across already, learning fast from the mistakes of her olman.

That was bridge number one.

Well, the bridge wasn’t there any more but the ford was. We pause. I’m shivering but if we walk at a gallop I’ll be fine. There’s still a way back but it’s borderline now, for catching up. We’d arrive in time to see Gabriele drive off to pick us up from somewhere we wouldn’t be.

I think of the crossing before Loch Voshimid. Another trickle that could bring forth a yield of adrenalin today. I pause again.

‘Do you think we should turn back?’

‘Let’s just go for it,’ Anna said.

We do.

The responsible adult and his daughter get euphoric, warming up with the incline. Some pace. We strike out with the rhythm of folk who’ve been cooped up. Tasting the elements again.

We pause and look up, scan the skyline. You seldom walk this way without seeing a golden eagle. We’ll hear stags soon. I see the lines of white descending from the ridges. Places where I don’t remember any burns. Deep down, I’m turning over the options in my head.

We could still go all the way back. Wait for Gabriele to realise we’re not going to appear on the Hushinish Road. Or else we could skirt round the next burn. Get up the east side of the ridge and follow it along the high ground. Along the watercourse. Dark wouldn’t be long away but the ridge would keep us right. And Anna’s an ace on the Silva compass.

Then we hear the roar of water. We look at each other but don’t alter the stride.

We’ll take a look at it, anyway.

This is bridge number two.

I’m trying to consider the option that’s it’s a no-go. I’ve struggled to find enough water here to fill my hand for a drink. Remember the Bible story. David or Joshua or some other heroic leader has more men than he needs for the mission. So he gets the squad to drink from a stream. Those who cup their hands to drink are taken. Those who lie down and lap are not. Since the Clock School education, of stories, singing and sums, all by a coal fire, I’ve cupped my hands to drink. You wouldn’t want to miss out on a wee adventure.

‘Can you see the path, Anna?’

Neither of us can. The noise is bad news. But the bulk and shape of the water is scaring us too. The colour is muddy or peaty but it’s charging over the concrete bridge so hard that the foam is thick. It’s a rapid, going over as well as under a bridge. I’m trying to remember what the bridge is like. There’s nothing visible. It’s only there by implication in the water-flow. I remembered it being a basic concrete casting over wide pipes but I’m not sure of the detail. Anna is already testing the edges. She finds solid cement-work under her boots. ‘It’s all right, Da, we’re on it.’

‘Aye, but how wide is it?’ I feel with the walking pole. I’m tentative. Anna borrows it and prods. She hands the pole back. We reckon we’ve got it. Too much froth to see anything but there’s no more than a foot of rapid water flowing over the bridge. Likely less. Anna links her arm in mine like when she was a kid. Now she’s already higher and heavier than me.

‘Come on, Da, we’re going for it.’

But I’m the more cautious, elder one. I keep feeling with the pole, anxious to know the concrete is down there. But our slower progress does not give us enough momentum so the weight of water is driving us across to what must be the limit of the underwater walkway. Too late, we move faster and try to adjust our line upstream. Like vessels steering a course to allow for leeway. But it’s not wind, it’s water with the power to drive a turbine. And we over-compensate.

It’s a big shock when I’m down. Seeing Anna in the water beside me. We’re gasping. I feel the weight dragging me. See that Anna is lower than me already. My face is very close to hers. I’ve caught her eyes with mine.

Things are fast and they’re also slow. I’m seeing something pretty close to panic.

‘Take a deep breath.’

I hear my own voice giving the advice to my daughter.

It sounds calm.

And then I gasp air, too.

We’re both down.

Then I’m up again or my head is. All the rest of me is being thrust against what must be the bridge. We’re on the wrong side. Upstream of the concrete and the pipes.

I’m thinking that, very fast.

Then I see Anna going down again and I’m losing her.

I’m trying to dive, trying to chase her.

But now I’m in the full weight of water and there’s no breathing.

No thinking.

I’m away.

Then I’m getting breath. It’s in at the edge.

My boots are finding stones. I’m sick in my guts. In my heart. I don’t want to get out of the river. Anna’s in here.

This is where I stay. I’ll get breath to dive again.

‘Are you OK, Da?’

She helps me out. I suppose I must be exhausted because I can’t help much. I used to help her eat, clean up her shit. Now she’s coaxing me out of the water. It doesn’t feel cold any more. The air feels cold. My stick is gone. Anna worms in under my shoulder and half hauls me up away from the wild wet.

‘I thought I’d lost you,’ I said.

‘I thought I’d lost
you
.’

So we hug a bit and the warmth is good.

I know we have to get moving. The cold is going to set in and there’s not a lot of light left. We’re going to have to bomb it down the path.

‘Any injuries?’

‘I’m fine, Da, what about yourself?’

It’s a bit difficult to get a full share of weight on one of my legs. The other is OK. I feel something that’s a bit like pain under the numb stuff. Can’t decide where it’s from. I rub my legs and the juice is circulating.

‘Fully operational, blone. Yourself?’

‘Fit as a butcher’s dog, cove.’

‘Well, what are we waiting for?’

So there you are. Bridge number two. It’s behind us now.

At first everything is stiff and then you’re through the pain. It gets euphoric again. The elation kicks in and drives us down the track past Loch Voshimid. The shapes of the hills either side of the glen getting bolder as the light is lost from the sky.

‘You know this is where the last waterhorse was killed?’

‘I thought that was in Uig. Other end of Loch Langabhat. I know you only ever tell me true stories, Da, but a girl could get confused.’

‘Aye, depends where you’re from. The versions.’

I tell her the short synopsis of the three-day struggle and it gets us down the hill a bit. The waterhorse preyed on cattle that strayed too close to the edge of the loch. It would lure a man or a woman on its back and dive down deep. I was trying to distract my own self though, keep the gnawing muscle-pain at bay. Anna was doing fine now.

The limp wasn’t holding me back much. ‘We’re grand,’ I said.

So we were, till I saw what was coming, next. This time Anna must have seen something in my eyes.

‘We can go round this one,’ I said.

‘We’re going over it. It’s not that big. I can see the route this time.’

You know how it is in the stories. The pattern of three. There’s always a twist when it comes to the third and last part of the pattern. A story like that has a form that’s as strong as a good bridge.

That’s why the shape of it stays so clear, in your mind.

While I was trying to think straight, Anna was studying the run of the water.

‘I can see where the bridge is,’ she said. ‘There’s only a few inches over it.’

‘I don’t have the stomach for it,’ I said.

She put one boot out to make sure the structure was where she thought it was. Then she left me and took it at a run. There was nothing I could do to stop her. She was across. ‘Come on, Da, you’ve got to go for it.’

I ran for it.

We were both on the other side of this burn and laughing like crazy. Then on again, walking at speed, coasting on the relief. There’s a catch in every story. Like my olman’s tweeds, no two were ever exactly the same. Like Coastguard search and rescue missions. When I was put in charge of my own watch, I’d tell my trainees, there is no such thing as the standard task.

At least one of us had entered the water at each of the first two bridges. We both got away with it on the third one.

Anna is no daft when it comes to the outdoors. She’s been through mists and fogs and snow on Duke of Edinburgh Awards and stuff. She knew we had to get off this hill soon. It was half-light.

We didn’t bring supplies because it was to be a fast slog. The chocolate was gone. I could feel the start of the wobblies. The blood-sugar thing. The combination of using different muscles – and needing more calories than you’ve supplied to your body.

And then I could see the tail-lights. They were moving so slowly. Like someone was looking back all the time for others appearing off the hill, waving their arms and shouting to stop.

We did all that but no-one saw us.

We were both a bit distressed at that stage. I couldn’t stop shivering and the pain in my legs was kicking in. The adrenalin stage was over. Then we stumbled on the flask and the note. Left by Gabriele in a poke on a post. She’d be driving back to check the other end of the route now, thinking we must have turned back. It was sweet cocoa.

Nice one. Everything but the St Bernard. I didn’t fancy brandy at that point. That’s when you know it’s getting serious. When you don’t fancy a dram any more.

I knew then I couldn’t walk any further. I was done. I gave in to it and sat on my sodden arse. The hot drink with its sugar and milk helped a lot. By the time Anna was ready to walk to find a house she could phone from, to tell the police we were fine, the car returned.

Gabriele had driven all the way back to the Loch Seaforth end but we weren’t there either. She was getting seriously worried.

The heater was on full-blast. Anna and me were playing it down. ‘Aye, we had to make a detour or two round a burn or two. Sure, we both got soaking wet. And the olman had a fair stab at pulling a muscle.’

Anna seemed completely unscathed.

I got a shock when I got into the bath. It wasn’t the change of temperature. The bruising was already up. It was the extent of it. I’d only noticed the specific pain from one upper leg, transmitted down. It was the mass of purple and yellow that showed I’d been driven against an underwater bridge.

But when Anna went down, it was suction. She was less marked but more scarred. She told me later she did have nightmares about being sucked into a pipe. It’s difficult to tell anyone about the forces involved. Past a certain point and there’s no coming back. Nothing could come back against that weight.

She showed me the website. One of her number got given a boat, gratis, from a company. That means the group’s exploits are being noticed. I see the tiny red dot emerging from waterfalls. I know it’s Anna’s helmet.

There’s more than two versions of the waterhorse story. Like the last wolf in Scotland, there were a few last ones killed here and there. No shit, I don’t think they’re all dead. It’s not so bad if you come out bruised. You’ve just been in a battle, what would you expect? It’s the guys who come out of the turbulence without visible signs of a struggle. Even if you weren’t a Da, you’d worry about that.

And I knew I’d done exactly the wrong thing by playing it all down so Gabriele didn’t get more anxious. It would have been better if we’d told our full story at the time. My uncle Ruaraidh made the effort to teach me that, while he was preparing for his death.

I did hear later that Anna eventually did tell her story. It was a sea-kayaking trip, with an overnighter in a bothy. People were talking about close shaves. A mate of mine told me that everyone fell silent when they heard Anna tell it.

Good that she told it. Not just because it’s a warning.