Sun Dance (22 page)

Dawn was without a breath. In half light a fog hung on the sea, a narrow band of mist that lay on the Sound at the meeting of the waters, twixt ebb and flood. Out of its cloying white vapour floated the headland, a black embodiment of some archaic upheaval without solid foundation. We rounded it close in. The bird life was silent. Fingers of mist clawed up deep crevices. It needed little to conjure the grinding eons which deify our illusion of constancy.

Eilidh had taken the helm, confident and capable, her eye on a compass box at the foot of the mast. “A bearing of twenty five degrees avoids the reef and puts us to the landing at Eachan’s croft.” Droplets of mist settled on her hair. With a laugh she shook them off. Glum as I felt,

“Look here woman,” in mock annoyance I brushed them off my jacket and we laughed together.

Ella had breakfast on the stove. Its welcome reached us on the lifting fog. Out at the sheep fank, Eachan loaded lambs into a trailer. I went over to him. “Well boy, you’re back. How’s the old grandfather’s house?” he winked, “Needing a nail or two?” “Wind and water tight, it’ll do fine,” I smiled, no longer surprised at his quickness of insight, nor his ability to express thoughts by inference. Unlike the directness of the culture I’d left, the Highland style of leaving the listener to read between the words suited me fine.

His trailer load of lambs was headed for a mainland sheep sale. Halasay’s winding single track road skirted the furthest fields of Ach na Mara and with Eachan at the controls of a wheezing Land Rover, Eilidh and I squeezed alongside him until we reached the pier in Castleton. The ship lay stern in, roll-on-roll-off fashion. A trickle of exhaust at her red funnel, the radar scanner turning above her bridge, it all seemed modern, strangely out of touch.

A sheep float awaited, ramp down and ready. Eachen backed the trailer into position with skill. I gave a hand, grabbing lambs which attempted to escape. Much bleating and scrabbling feet forced lambs onto a mainland float and the lorry rolled aboard the ferry. It was not the parting I’d expected. Sheep and business kept emotion at bay.

Eilidh stood at the gangplank in conversation with the youngish chap who’d spoken the evening of my arrival. I walked up, not very clean. He smiled at me, “You’re still here.” I thought I heard pride in Eilidh’s voice. “Neil, this is Hector.” We shook hands and he grinned, “You’ve caught the island infection,” and with, “See you up by,” he went off to attend the ship’s ropes.

“That’s a cousin, far out, so I suppose he’s related to you somehow, even further out,” her eyes glowed with merriment, “if you’re not careful you’ll get him ‘up by’ after the ferry’s away.” I guessed that ‘up by’, meant the Castleton bar.

How could I be down cast? All the activity, practical hands on work, satisfying and with a purpose. Yet looking at Eilidh, beautiful to more eyes than mine, I knew emptiness would come, a constant missing, wondering; a longing fraught with uncertainty and the pangs of jealousy.

She stared at me, the eyes of our first contact. I felt their meaning and she leant and kissed me lightly on the cheek, “Don’t fret, Hector, I’ll come back. Our minds are together. When you’re thinking of me, I’ll know. I won’t sleep until you speak.” She ran up the gangway and turned with a wave.

I stood and the ship’s propellers churned. The missing of Eilidh had begun.

Eachan came to my elbow, “Come away boy, we’ll go up for a ‘wee toot’. I don’t go over to the mainland with the lambs any more.” The bar was crowded and possibly because I smelt of sheep and my hands were dirty, nobody seemed curious. I didn’t feel out of place and the barman was already giving two glasses a double press below the optics as we came through the swing door. They were set on the counter before us as he and Eachan greeted each other in Gaelic. I made to pay the round but the man held up his hand, “It’s on the house, MacKenzie. Welcome to Halasay, and don’t worry,” he laughed, nodding at Eachan, “you’re in good company.” I got his drift.

Another round appeared from down the counter. Neil from the pier raised a glass. Several rounds later I ventured to say quietly to Eachan, “Who’s the barman?” “Oh, he’s the chap who owns the place, Angus MacLeod,” and looking at his glass, “I think I’m right, he’s related to Ella,” and looking at me, “generations back.” Shaking my head, I emptied my glass, nothing by way of relations surprised me now but curious, I asked, “How did he know I’m a MacKenzie?” Eachan laughed, not unkindly, “See that old photo that hangs over the fireplace, well a’ bhalaich, take a look in the mirror.”

Conviviality gathered pace around us, locals congregated, elbow to elbow, crofters, fishermen, blue boiler suits, yellow oilskins and much wisecrack. Not all of it registered. Eilidh didn’t leave my thoughts. I realised neither she nor I had asked how we each earned our living. It hadn’t mattered then, nor now; nothing could take away from the happiness of touching minds.

Perhaps Eachan noted my dullness. In a moments lull, he remarked casually, “Eilidh will be on the mainland shortly. I wonder she goes away, she’s so fond of the place but there’s nothing for her here on Halasay; the crofting life is finished,” adding, with a long look at me, “for most folk these days, unless they’re dropouts from the south.”

I paid attention, “She said London to me.” Wondering momentarily if she went to join a friend down there, possibly a relationship, again neither of us had asked nor given any indication that we might have a partner. Our feelings towards each other had been so immediate and sacrosanct that with a touch of shame I pushed it out of my thoughts.

Eachan’s powers of deduction didn’t fail him. By his next comment I felt he’d read me. “Yes, she’s got some fancy job down there. She’s a scientist of course, graduated in Cambridge some years ago but I think she’s not long back from doing research work in Siberia. Anyway, part of her work involves informing the government on some aspect of climate change. I’ts important work but I heard her say she’s dealing with fools. They’re not her type of folk and Hector boy it’s a long way from the crofting style over here. Who knows, maybe there’ll be a connection to bring her back.” Over his glass he winked. My colour rose; by now I knew Eachan’s quiet way of letting his meaning lie between the words. I smiled, “Who knows?”

He went on, “You see, she was born and reared on a croft on the north end of Halasay. The crofting life is in her but her folks are dead, quite a while back. Her brother has the croft. That’s him over by the piano. Iain to name and a good hand at the cattle, a hardy chap I tell you.”

Later, quite a little later, Eilidh’s brother lifted down an accordion which sat, perhaps for reasons of safety, on the lid of a beer circled upright piano. Despite fingers which looked anything but those of the delicate handed musician, he put a lift in his playing I found irresistible, “O.K. if I try out the piano?” “Aye, give it the works,” and with a straight look, “You’ll be Eilidh’s friend,” his grip doubled my fingers together. “Good to meet you.” I was taken aback at the speed of the island’s information network but more than pleased to admit the friendship.

Iain struck an A chord; we were off, into a pipe tune. I hammered out harmony with the syncopation of a jazz band. We zipped through marches, jigs, stately Gaelic waltzes, music runs like a river in spate through Highland blood; following his playing was no problem. Old tunes, fast ones, slow ones, feet tapped, fingers drummed tables, “Give us, Donald MacLean’s Farewell to Oban,” or someone would call, “What about Headlands, or Crossing the Minch?” It appeared Iain could play to order. Drams arrived, bouncing on the piano lid. It seemed the barman could pour to order just as smartly. The crowd gathered round us. A little more encouragement from the bar; an impromptu ceilidh was building.

“Give us a song Eachan.” The bar fell silent. I stopped playing. Somebody spoke to him in the Gaelic. I saw him nod, emptying his glass before standing. Quietly, with muted notes Iain accompanied him. The subtlety of its minor notes, the inflection in the old man’s voice, I listened quite stunned, a truly beautiful tune. The last verse and Iain played through the tune slowly, bringing out all its exquisite charm. As clapping died away, I asked for the tune’s name. At once Iain said its Gaelic name, ‘Nighean Donn a’Chuainein Riomhaich.’ “What does it mean?” He thought a moment and breaking into a smile which brought the look of his sister Eilidh into his eyes, he replied, “In the English it means,
the lassie with golden hair
.” I looked down at the piano keys and thought of the woman I missed.

We played on. Musicians at full toot are hard to stop. Eventually Iain put down the accordion, “There you go Hector, we’ll make a band yet. Take a look over sometime, Eachan knows the way alright.” “You’re on, Iain.” We shook goodnight. The feeling of affinity, instinctive and reassuring, we shared the same race and back many generations, came of the same stock.

Leaving his stance behind the bar Angus MacLeod came to the door with us, detaining me with a nod. Eachan walked out of earshot and the hotelier spoke privately, “Hector, there was a man on the phone the other day, asking for you, I’m sure it would be yourself. You know I could be wrong but he said to me, ‘Has a Hector MacKenzie arrived on your island recently?’

MacLeod laughed gently, “Now, I didn’t just go with his tone, so I said, oh there’s several here already. This is a busy place you know, they come and go. Which one will you be wanting? “

Having cut away completely from any previous life, I wanted no connections. Cursing inwardly at the message, I thanked him, “Don’t be afraid to keep it vague, that’s the way I like it” Shaking my hand as we parted, he assured me, “Vagueness, you’re talking to an expert and I’ll tell you what, the old piano hasn’t sweated like it in years. Come in anytime.”

“You’ve made it,” Ella put bowls of soup on the table along with thick slices of home baking. It needed no enquiry as to the whereabouts of our venue, “Was The Castleton busy?” “Busy enough to please your cousin,” replied Eachan, hoping that would halt the subject.

Ignoring that comment and addressing me, Ella countered with, “Eilidh phoned a little ago to say she was across in Oban, the ferry made good time. She wondered if you two had made as quick a journey back from The Castleton? What could I say?”

Eachan took on a vague manner. A mix of innocence, evasion and excuse which passed for an apology, “You see, Ella, we got a little involved. Your brother, Iain started playing the accordion, you know what the man’s like, there’s no stopping him, one tune leads to another,”

Eachan neatly deflected the blame and kept my name in the clear.

Ella put on a mock scold, “Each MacKenzie, I know too well who’s the last to stop.” Eachan let that pass. I concentrated on the soup, “And, Hector,” she continued, “that man of mine would have you off the straight and narrow quicker than a blind horse would have you in the ditch.”

I looked up, “Did Eilidh say she would phone back?” “No, she’s away to her bed.” The pleasure of the hours spent in The Castleton turned sour. Bitterness, sharp and painful. I should have realised she would phone. I had let her down and it hurt, badly. As women will, Ella noticed, “I told her I was sending you to Sandray,” and nodding at Eachan, “to be out of harm’s way. She said tell him to use my boat. I think she sounded a wee bit upset, tell him to take care whatever.”

Eachan and I sat long after Ella bid us ‘Goodnight’. After missing the phone call, it seemed a night to talk. We settled down with mugs of tea. I wanted to work round to asking about the practicalities of living on Sandray. I knew from Ella their daughters had all left Halasay; two were married in Australia, another nursing in New Zealand and the youngest married to a business man in Vancouver; grandchildren but no son, no pair of hands to take over the land. Eachan seemed in reflective mood. I hesitated to break into his thoughts but after a while I asked,

“What went wrong for crofting life? I’ve heard you say a few times it’s finished.” He gave no immediate reply. Somewhere, down on the shore, migrating redshank were whistling. Syllables, wild and sharp, until each call became fainter and fainter and just the sea remained.

“After they cut the Panama Canal, the ship loads of guano arrived. Centuries of sea bird droppings, solid stuff, they cut it off the cliffs of Chile and shipped it into Glasgow. That was the beginning of the nitrogen era, natural stuff the guano, but next came the Sulphate of Ammonia, a powder, but powerful, would grow grass, high as your knee, then after the war, they got to producing oil based nitrogen fertilizer. The clever lads in the Agricultural Colleges praised its use to high heaven and farmers couldn’t see the advisors were really on the side of the public. Blinkered by the myth of increasing efficiency, farmers sent their sons to college; they came home stuffed with ideas that raped the land. They’d lost their love of the soil; it was the beginning of the end for a belief in natural fertility.”

Our tea grew cold. That didn’t matter, Eachan’s ability to reduce an issue to its salient point was minimalist art in words. Frequently uncompromising, gleaned by age and observation, often spiced with a taste of an underlying philosophy, I could only describe it as a holistic view of life.