Island of Wings (4 page)

It was no wonder, the minister thought as he put down his pen, that the stench around the natives was so unbearable that it made his pregnant wife nauseous. He was suddenly ashamed of himself for thinking such negative thoughts of his own flock and added a paragraph to his notes:

All praise be to the God of mercies, who has brought me hitherto, and permitted me to see the little group of mortal beings who inhabit this sequestered spot.

Pleased by this magnanimous comment he decided that it was time for a break and went in search of Lizzie. He found her on the porch, her eyes closed against the sun and an untroubled smile on her face. He noticed that her cheeks were stroked in a pretty shade of pink. Her hands lay idle and cupped in her lap – they seemed to be gathering sunlight under her swelling stomach. He watched her quietly for a while and realised that he was at that moment raised to a level of happiness that could not possibly last. In her he celebrated the unearthly beauty of the morning. She reminded him of everything in life that he had denied himself since Will's death all those years ago, and for the first time he allowed himself to recognise his dead friend's likeness in her unruly hair and frail temples. Could he dare to own this new space that she had created for him? How skilled he had become at avoiding tender emotions! Could he love her? He shuddered at the thought. There were times when he had wanted to diminish his own humiliation by hurting those he loved.

She looked up at him then, startled to find him so close. The light that entered her eyes seemed to flash an instant before it settled into dark pewter. ‘How is your work going?' she asked, and stretched her back. ‘It is such a beautiful day. I think I will go for a walk.'

‘A walk?' he echoed anxiously. ‘Is that really wise? You know these rocks can be quite treacherous, and you have not been anywhere on the island yet.'

She laughed at his concern as he went on, ‘At least wait until I have finished my work so that I can walk with you.'

‘Don't worry, my dear, I want to go on my own,' she replied cheerfully. ‘I will walk up the spot you told me about the other day, the place where I will be able to see the other side of the island.'

‘
Bearradh na h-Eige
,' he said. ‘It means the edge of the Gap. You must by no means walk all the way up there on your own.'

The week before, the natives had showed him the spot where the hill ends and the sea cliffs take over. The cliffs were about six hundred feet high and, if nothing else, the view would surely give her vertigo, he thought.

‘Well, I will only walk as far as the ridge up there –' she pointed towards a ledge above the hamlet – ‘as I would so like to see the view of the bay from above,' she said reasonably as she heard the concern in his voice.

‘But you are really not in a fit state to walk up a hill,' he insisted.

Lizzie could feel a vague irritation rising within her. ‘The baby is not due for another few months, and if it makes you feel better I will bring him along.' She pointed at the bewildered puppy at her feet.

Now it was his turn to laugh. ‘All right, with such a champion at your side I cannot deny you the pleasure of the view from the hill; it is indeed stunning! But remember not to walk any higher than the small glen with the stone enclosures.'

She rose and kissed him. He let it happen although it was full daylight and they were easily visible from the
clachan
.

Soon the puppy was bouncing ahead of her on the gentle slope above the glebe. It seemed to be chasing a fly or perhaps a more obscure creation of its own mind. She smiled and waved at her husband as she started to climb the steeper ground, her petticoats stirring up the smell of fresh grass and white clover. The sound of the sea was everywhere, but as she ascended the hill the cries of the fulmar became even louder. High above the huge granite dome of the east fell starlings were playing their summer games. Lizzie thought herself lucky to be able to walk as freely as this. She thought of her home in Paisley, where the smoke from the coal fires hung thick in the air and the factories were growing fast. She wished Annie could have been here with her to see so much beauty. She had never thought it possible for grass to be this green and for the sky to be this blue. The ground seemed to be illuminated from below as if some ancient, golden treasure had been buried there.

She passed a number of
cleit
s, used to store turf or a catch of birds, and she thought they looked like a bad rash in the landscape. It was as if the natives had built themselves into the surface of the island and it was sometimes very difficult to distinguish between man-made structures and natural features. Nor was it possible to distinguish the ancient from the new. Time was no longer linear in this place where no one could remember who built the houses,
cleit
s and dykes and where the seasons were marked by the comings and goings of the migrating birds. The ancestors were near the living, and the world of men was closely linked with the rock, the sea and the birds with which they shared these elements. Time and space seemed suspended, so that here and now was always and everywhere.

When she reached the glen with the magnificent drystone enclosures Lizzie turned to look down at the bay and the village. Far below, the sea was so still and clear that she expected to be able to see the fish swimming in the shallows. A fine line of white foam where the surf hit the shingle beach adorned the water's edge like a rope of pearls. There was no smoke coming from the huts in the
clachan
. Fuel was scarce on the island, which lacked both substantial trees and peat, and during the summer months it was used for cooking only once a day. She could see some fields of barley, lit now by the midday sun. The meadows, yards and stock-pounds were empty as the cattle and sheep were enjoying the summer pasture on the other side of the island. From the manse she had watched the women as they set off, twice a day, to milk the cows that grazed the fine grass of Gleann Mòr. It was probably a long walk, she thought, as the women would be gone for many hours at a time. They were often singing together as they walked, and their tunes, which sounded ancient and alien but pretty enough, were sometimes carried on the breeze across the bay where they would echo in the air above the glebe.

The puppy had slowed down ahead of her and was fighting bravely against a passive cluster of speedwells which grew next to a drystone dyke. Its ears were pointed and it growled threateningly as it stared into the innocent blue eyes of its opponents. Lizzie suddenly laughed and stretched her arms as if to embrace all the beauty of the day. She felt like a girl again, her feet were so light that they did not seem to make a dent in the grass and gone were her anxieties and her feelings of inadequacy. The frightening magnitude of her decision to marry the minister and follow him to this place was replaced by a relieving insouciance. She was Lizzie, she was her own self, and Mrs MacKenzie was no concern of hers! She felt light-headed and hot and pulled off her bonnet to let the sun and the wind dry the perspiration from around her face. How she wished she could walk with the girls of the village to Gleann Mòr; she would sing their songs and learn to milk the cows and live as close to the rocks and the sea as they did.

She resumed her walk; youth was in her step and in the flush of her cheeks and she could see no harm in climbing a bit higher. The slope was steeper now and the grass gave way to rocks covered in lichen. A couple of willows were crouching beneath an outcrop – they had been forced by the wind and the weather into submission. Lizzie was delighted to see a young boy of eight or nine years old coming towards her from the higher ground ahead of her. He was fair and pretty and looked an image of health although his clothes were tattered and filthy. She thought how beautiful these children would be if only she could wash them and clothe them in proper, fashionable garments. She greeted the boy cheerfully in English, and he looked up in alarm as if he had only just laid eyes on her. ‘
Cia mar tha thu
,' he answered shyly from under his fringe. His voice was branded by the characteristic lisp of the St Kildans. The mutual greetings were followed by an awkward silence as they both realised that the conversation could go no further. Lizzie smiled at the boy and indicated with her hand towards the ridge; then she waved and turned to go. The boy was suddenly alert, the shyness all gone. He gestured towards the high grounds, shaking his head as he spoke quickly and eagerly. His pale eyes were the colour of freshly caught herring and he looked quite worried. Lizzie, touched by what she interpreted as concern for her welfare, laughed and said teasingly, ‘You are as bad as my husband.' Then she added coquettishly, ‘I wish you men would stop worrying about me. I won't go near the edge of the precipice and I will be very, very careful.' She ruffled the boy's hair and turned to go, but he grabbed her sleeve and repeated some of the words she had heard him say before. Lizzie felt a spark of irritation and pulled her arm away rather too brusquely. The boy looked even more agitated and she thought she could detect tears of frustration welling in his eyes before he turned abruptly and ran down the hill towards the
clachan
.

Oh dear, she thought to herself, I did not handle that very well. Her gay mood was gone, but her determination to reach the ridge remained as strong as before. She wondered how long she had been gone from the manse. She was beginning to feel thirsty and tired, but the summit of the ridge was close now. At that moment the puppy barked pathetically at a couple of large brown skuas nesting amongst the rocks. Lizzie rushed towards the dog as her husband had warned her about the hot temper of the nesting birds. Too late she grabbed the puppy by the neck and slapped its nose, but the birds were already roused and once in the air they started diving towards her with mounting aggressiveness. She screamed in horror as one of the birds swooped close over her head. Its partner, however, dived even deeper and caught a strand of her hair in its claws. Livid with fright, she beat her arms in the air and started running down the hill, stumbling on the scree. The birds were relentless; their shrieking war cries rang through the air and Lizzie screamed again as one of them hit her face with its wing and tore a thin line of blood along her cheek. She slithered and hobbled down the broom-covered rocks. She tried to lean back to stem her speed and stop the inevitable fall, but her legs got caught in her petticoats and she tripped. She was lucky to fall on to a patch of grass, but as she stumbled forwards and rolled down the slope she felt a sharp pain where her left shin hit a stone. At least the stone stopped her fall and she got up, panting, on her hands and knees.

Lizzie looked up; the fulmars were still dotting the sky above her, but the skuas were gone. She pulled up her skirts to examine her leg. The stone had cut a hole through her stockings and she was bleeding, but she was able to move the leg all right. Her palm had been slashed as she tried to stop the fall and the wound was dark with dirt. The puppy came up to her and tried to lick her face. She hated it now: a stupid mindless creature which had stirred the nesting birds. She shooed it away, cursing.

As she started her slow descent she could feel that something was not right. She felt weak and she noticed that her underthings were wet and sticky. A new terror possessed her and she tried to speed up her steps. Oh please, God, don't let this happen now, she begged. The time is not right! When she reached the glen with the enclosure she was already exhausted and stopped to rest her back against a stone wall. The bright day was blackening in front of her eyes and she tried to steady herself with both hands holding on to the wall behind her. It was all terribly wrong – she could feel that things were not as they should be. She tried to call out for her husband but knew it was in vain, and in any case her voice was too weak to lift on the wind. And then she screamed as the most excruciating pain tore at her intestines. ‘O God,' she cried in a hoarse voice at the silent skies, ‘please help me.' She had never experienced such agony and bent over when another wave of torment broke through her.

As the pain subsided she could not believe that this was happening to her. She thought she heard voices and stumbled forwards a few steps to call out. But when the pain returned, the world around her darkened again and she made out the face of the boy she had met earlier and behind him a short, bearded man running towards her.

When she awoke a candle burned low on a small table beside the bed. The room was quiet and long shadows fell into the corners. Lizzie was aching but she could not have said where – she felt calm and sedated. Her throat was dry and she was desperate for a drink of water. As she turned her head on the pillow she saw an old woman in a chair next to the bed. The woman got up and moved closer. Her eyes were blue and her hair was grey under the white frill of her cap. She smelled of unwashed clothes and fulmar oil and her hands were claw-like in the candlelight. Lizzie tried to protest as the claws moved closer and pushed her gently back on to the pillow. The old woman held a cup of water to her mouth and Lizzie surrendered and drank greedily. The drink seemed to clear her mind, but as she started to remember she closed her eyes hard in an effort to forget. But she could not ignore her limp body under the sheets; nor did she need to touch the pain to know the empty wound under her heart.

‘Where is my baby?' she asked the old woman. ‘Did my child live?' she added urgently, her voice thick with dread. Lizzie looked into the pale blue eyes of the old woman as she was told, in a language which she could not – and would not – understand, that her child was dead.

The next time she woke the old woman was gone and her husband was holding her hand. For a moment, before he noticed that she was awake, she saw the dark sea of grief on his face. Then she stirred and he held her close saying, ‘Oh, Lizzie, I am so, so sorry.' She clung to him desperately and after a while she managed to ask, ‘Our child – was it a boy or a girl, Neil? Was it complete like a child should be?'