Storm Over Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  The minister smiled dourly to himself when these little snippets reached his ears. So much for Megan’s wish not to get herself talked about. No matter what time he had taken his departure from her house, the talk would just have been the same; ‘the middle o’ the night’ obviously implying any hour between darkness and dawn.

  He sighed a little to himself in the warm darkness of his peaceful study. The faces of Margaret and Sharon looked down at him from the mantelpiece. ‘My darling girls,’ he murmured, ‘if only you were here beside me. How different my life then.’ Mutt came padding through to rest his muzzle on his master’s knee. ‘Perhaps things will change soon, eh, Mutt? Spring is just around the corner, everything will be better when the sun shines and the land grows green again.’

  Far beyond the cliffs of Burg a tiny light flickered on a crazed sea. Things were about to change for Mark James, but in a way he could not have foreseen that wild night in mid-March, 1966.

  Out on the Sound of Rhanna the forty-foot cruising yacht known as the Mermaid plunged into one trough after another, her gleaming white hull disappearing for long seconds at a time only to rise up once more, like some fabulous bird whose wings had gone out of control.

  The two young men in her fought to lower the wind-whipped sails that were threatening to capsize the boat. They had made the journey from the south coast of England in a series of hops. The weather had been fine when they set out from Tobermory that morning, but they were far from land when the storm warning came over on the radio.

  ‘We’d best make for the nearest anchorage,’ the dark-haired man advised. He was the son of a wealthy sail maker, a responsible enough sort in his way but always ready to embark on any adventure that chanced along. He had become renowned for his revolutionary sail designs, and had come on this trip to find out how his latest ideas would work on the Mermaid.

  ‘We’re as near Rhanna as anywhere else.’ The second young man set his jaw in the stubborn lines his friend knew so well. ‘Might as well go on. She’ll make it alright. Dad and I have had her out on worse seas than this.’

  He was the only son of a highly successful boat builder. All his life he had been indulged and spoiled. Tall, fair, utterly charming when it suited him, people had always run after him. Women fell at his feet, men liked him because he was generous and completely without fear of any kind. In other words he was a daredevil, his conceit leading him to believe that he was master of any situation. He had always laughed at life, had taken what he wanted from it without fear of the consequences. Wherever he went he won friends, made enemies, enjoyed himself to the full without having to work for it.

  His father trusted him with nothing except boats. He was a wizard with them, loved every exciting, blood-stirring moment he spent out on the sea with the wind in his hair and the waves scudding beneath him. This trip was partly to do with taking the Mermaid on open-water trials, partly to do with a matter that had tormented his arrogant heart for more months than he cared to remember.

  ‘She’ll get us there,’ he repeated in answer to his friend’s arguments. ‘Don’t be so bloody gutless, old boy. We’ve weathered worse.’

  One and a half nautical miles from Rhanna’s seaboard, the Mermaid sailed into a maelstrom. Here the tide race met, here the mighty forces of the oceans roared and fumed in savage torment.

  The Mermaid bobbed like a cork in the crazy mêlée, completely beyond the control of human hands. Beneath the black waves sharp fangs of hidden reefs crunched into the yacht’s bow. She groaned, tilted. The mast collapsed, complete with sail and rigging, the halyards fouled the engine prop as they went over the side.

  A scream rose above the snarl of the storm. The young sail designer scrambled over the slippery deck, his left arm hanging uselessly, broken by the weight of his own body when he had crashed down heavily on top of one of the hatches.

  But he wasn’t aware of any pain. He was too shocked at the sight of his friend lying in a crumpled heap on the slopping timbers, torn and bloody and unnaturally twisted. His body had taken the full force of the mast as it toppled over, thudding into bone, flesh and muscle before coming to rest, half in, half out of the water. The scream had been at the sight of the mast coming towards him. He wasn’t making any sound now. He was unconscious . . .

  Chapter Nine

  ‘The phone’s ringing, Righ.’ Hugh McKinnon lifted his eyes above the rim of his newspaper to look expectantly at his uncle seated opposite.

  Righ nan Dul, slippered feet stretched to the fire, lowered his own paper to gaze in some exasperation at his big, strapping nephew. Righ had been the Keeper of the Rhanna Light for many years, but since the lighthouse had become automated his job now consisted of checking and maintenance, an important enough position in its way but all rather boring to a man who had led such an active life. But he wasn’t getting any younger and was glad enough to pass uneventful hours in his tiny cottage perched close to the lighthouse, his position as the island’s coastguard providing him with occasional bursts of excitement that were more than enough to lend a bit of spice to his peaceful existence.

  When his fisherman nephew had come to live with him he had found it strange sharing his lonely home, but in time he grew used to it and even to be glad of the company despite the fact that the lad was so lacking in initiative he might easily have walked off the edge of a cliff if directed to do so.

  ‘Answer it then, son,’ sighed Righ patiently. ‘You know I have a bad leg and canny leap out my chair every time the damty tellyphone jingles. I canny bide the thing and would never have had it on my own account.’

  Hugh uncoiled his rangy body from his chair, his big, solid, stockinged feet making the floorboards groan as he strode heavily into the tiny, cold hallway to lift the phone gingerly and say in a scared, breathy whisper, ‘Ay?’

  A booming voice sounded metallically over the line. Hugh held the instrument away from his ear, an offended expression on his weathered, youthful face. From a safe distance he heard the speaker out before turning his face back into the kitchen to say in his slow drawl, ‘’Tis for you, Uncle Righ, something about a Mayday call, the man said.’

  ‘You mean you let him go on all that time thinkin’ you were me!’ Righ snorted in annoyance, heaving himself out of his chair to limp out to the hall.

  ‘Ay, ’tis me, Righ McKinnon,’ he explained, remembering to give his proper name and not the more familiar title that had been bestowed on him from his first day at the lighthouse.

  ‘Then who the hell? Oh, never mind. This is Anderson speaking from the coastguard station at Oban.’ He went on to explain that he had just received a distress call from a yacht called the Mermaid which had run into trouble roughly one and half nautical miles off Rhanna with one of the two man crew badly injured. ‘I’ve asked the Barra lifeboat to stand by,’ the voice went on, ‘and will also alert any shipping in the area though I doubt the existence of any in these seas. Anyway, Righ, get your lads together and see what you can do – mad buggers, out on a pleasure trip on a night like this . . .’

  Righ laid the phone gently back on its cradle, as if it might rise up and bite him at any moment. ‘Hugh, get along to the coastguard hut and sound the siren!’ he yelled.

  ‘Now, Uncle? I haveny finished readin’ my paper yet.’

  ‘Ay, now – and be quick about it. A yacht’s in trouble off Rhanna. The coastguard at Oban has alerted the Barra lot but we’ll no’ be needin’ them if we’re smart off our mark.’

  So saying he hobbled out to the porch to don waterproofs and Wellingtons and to grab the storm lanterns, one of which he pushed into Hugh’s hands as he rushed past, coatless and hatless.

  ‘Stupid bugger!’ cursed Righ. ‘His mother must have dropped him on his head when he was a bairn!’

  But despite his lack of application Hugh was supremely agile, and in a matter of minutes the siren was wailing into the night, alerting the Rhanna lifeboat crew and frightening the life out of everyone living in the near vicinity, not least Ranald
whose cottage was right next to the coastguard’s hut, and who leapt out of his door to see what was happening, braces looped about his thighs, hair standing on end.

  Straining his eyes into the rain-lashed night he made out the soaked figure of Hugh dashing out of the hut. ‘What’s happening, Hugh?’ he yelled.

  ‘A ship in trouble,’ Hugh’s voice floated faintly back, ‘the Barra lifeboat’s comin’ and all shipping in the Sound has been alerted.’

  Ranald scratched his head. Shipping? On a night like this? Still, something was afoot – something big by the sound of it. Ranald’s eyes gleamed and his imagination, fed on the many adventure novels he read with such enthusiasm, ran away with him. Maybe it was a cargo vessel run aground on the reefs, its hold packed to the gun’ales with gold bullion . . . His mind ran riot, carried him back to those wild, romantic days of smugglers and pirates, even while the parsimonious streak in him saw to it that he never got completely carried away. He cast his vision along the length of Portcull.

  Scurrying figures were strung out along the length of the road, ousted from comforts and pleasures by the insistent moan of the siren. Ranald rushed inside to don outer garments, then rushed back outside to warn those outwith earshot of the siren of ‘the shipwreck off the coast of Rhanna’.

  Neither Megan in the shore house nor Mark James in the Manse heard the thin wail coming from the coastguard’s hut. All Megan heard was the continuous roar of the sea, while the only sounds heard by Mark were the rushing of the wind in the trees, the flaying of tortured branches, the ominous creaking made by twisted, aged trunks. It was high and exposed up there atop the Hillock, though the Manse itself sat in a walled-off hollow guarded by the doubtful protection of a little woodland.

  Mark stirred restlessly at his study fire while Tina bustled about, piling fresh peats in the grate, puffing a little as she did so for it went against her nature to pay any sort of attention to the hands of the clock. But she was in a hurry that evening, and turning a rather flustered face from the fireplace she told the minister, ‘Matthew is going to visit Old Joe the night so I said I would see he had an early tea. Yours is in the oven. See and take it while it’s nice and hot. Och my,’ she blew away some errant strands of hair, ‘I canny be doing wi’ all this racing about, but as soon as I’ve seen to Matthew I have to fly along to Grandma Ann’s and Granda John’s house. ’Tis the old man’s birthday and I said I would help out wi’ the wee ceilidh they’re having for him. The old folks like a wee bit o’ fuss on their birthdays and who can blame them? ’Tis funny right enough,’ she giggled girlishly, ‘people past the age o’ seventy seem to enjoy nothing better than boasting about their advancing years, while folk o’ my age just pray to God that everyone will forget they were ever born at all – if you see my meaning, Mr James?’ With that she was off, rushing into her coat, muttering to herself all the while. ‘’Tis no’ natural, no’ natural, we were never made for all this hurry,’ was her parting shot.

  The door closed on her. The house was silent once more – except for the groaning of the trees outside the window.

  Mark wondered how long his new section of roof would last in this storm while down below, in the cosy living room of Tigh na Cladach, Megan listened to the boom of the waves and thought that this time the sea would surely come in on top of her. She wished that Mark would visit, she was ready for him now and recalled to mind those happy times they had shared when the Manse roof was being repaired. They had been relaxed in one another’s company, had found so much to talk about, or had simply been quiet together, listening to music, sitting back at ease in the peaceful room hearing the sough of the sea, aware of one another but not in an awkward way.

  Steven Saunders belonged more and more to the past, Mark ever more to the reality of the present – yes, she was ready for him, but she knew he wouldn’t come to her. She had rebuffed him too much, had wantonly hurt him so that he was wary of visiting her unless specifically invited.

  She would wait for awhile. If he didn’t come to her she would go to him – but first she would have a bath, it might help her relax.

  The two people whom destiny might have brought together that night, remained sublimely ignorant to the activity brought about by a cry for help which was to destroy any chances of happiness that might have been theirs – if only . . .

  Grant McKenzie and Matthew, Grieve of Laigmhor, had been visiting Old Joe when the siren sounded. Both men were firm favourites of the grand old rogue of the sea. He had known them since ‘before they were born’ and into their respective ears had fed his stories of mermaids and water witches for as long as they could remember.

  Old Joe had married ‘Aunt Grace’ Donaldson when he was one hundred and four years old and in ‘the prime of his life’ according to him, and he had enjoyed almost a year of married bliss in her cosy little harbour house with its views of the sea and all the busy comings and goings of the harbour.

  But his health had failed that winter. Although still rosy of cheek and as placidly cheerful as ever he had grown slower, more tired altogether, taking more and more to napping in his chair by the fire, pipe clenched in his gnarled, weather-beaten fist, his white head sunk onto his sark. But never did he give in enough to take to his bed. ‘The day I do that will be the end o’ me,’ he told the pink-faced, kindly little woman known to everyone as Aunt Grace.

  ‘Well, Joe, you canny live forever,’ she told him, gazing at his ruddy old face with fond eyes. But she wished he would. Everyone wished that. He was a legend, was Old Joe. To generations of children he had been uncle, father, grandfather. As the years rolled on and he never seemed to change, everyone was of the opinion that he was as immortal as the stories he told in his lilting Highland voice. He wasn’t, of course. He was just an old man who had been for so long part of island life, it appeared an impossibility that he could ever depart from it. Now the old enemy had caught up, subtle changes had taken place in him. His sea-green eyes were more deeply sunk so that his white brows bushed down over them; hollows robbed his fine old face of its roundness; his purple-veined hands shook when he supped food; numerous other deficiencies made him angry at being unable to command hitherto easily controlled faculties.

  No one had ever seen Joe angry before. He had never been an irritable man but one of even temperament. True he had been irascible at times, but that was when his advancing years had forced him to give up his house and go to live with Kate McKinnon, whose dominion over him he had not relished one bit.

  His new anger was only for himself, a luxury he only indulged in the privacy of his own home and then only in short bursts. Hardly a day went by without someone popping in for a crack and a cuppy. As a result the kettle was never off the boil though Aunt Grace seldom complained. It was those visitors who kept her darling old sea dog going – as long as his mind was on the affairs of others it was off himself.

  Anyway, Captain Mac had been a good help to her since coming to stay that winter. Since the death of his wife his had been a nomadic existence, travelling about the Hebrides, staying with relatives for short spells before he was off again to his sister’s croft on Hanaay. He was never happier than when on the sea or close enough to it to watch its many moods.

  ‘Betimes I’m thinkin’ the bodach believes the ocean would cease running if he wasny there to spy on it,’ Mac’s sister Nellie confided in Grace, but Grace understood men like Captain Mac. She was married to one, wasn’t she? And she enjoyed the company of Captain Mac and ‘to hell wi’ the gossipmongers’.

  For the gossips had talked when Aunt Grace opened her doors to the retired seafarer with his happy-go-lucky nature and as much fables in his head as Old Joe himself.

  It was a disgrace, folks said, Aunt Grace and Captain Mac under the same roof, for had he not been in the running when Dugald’s sister had come from Coll to settle herself on Rhanna? And now that Joe was growing more feeble with every passing day, God alone knew what tricks the pair were getting up to.

  ‘She’s an able wee bod
y is Grace,’ a disapproving Kate told everyone. ‘And Mac is a lusty old chiel wi’ more than a keen eye for the women and Grace in particular.’

  ‘Ach well, ’tis hardly a den o’ iniquity,’ Tam put it reasonably. ‘Grace is no’ likely to get herself pregnant at her age, is she now? Both herself and Mac are far too fond o’ Joe to do anything that might upset him – forbye that, Grace is promised to Bob Paterson when the time comes and Mac has his eye on other pickings.’

  ‘If you’re thinkin’ o’ that Hanaay widow you can think again, my lad. She has no time now for the bodach and his silly ideas o’ living in a houseboat. I hear tell she’s got herself another man wi’ normal thoughts in his head.’

  ‘’Tis no’ the Hanaay wife I’m thinkin’ about.’ Tam grinned secretively and refused to enlarge on the subject, much to Kate’s chagrin.

  ‘Ach, you’re havering as usual,’ she snorted, ‘and it makes no difference to my opinions on the matter. That two are just bidin’ their time till my dear innocent Joe goes to meet his Maker and no one can tell me otherwise.’

  ‘Your dear old Joe!’ Tam spluttered. ‘You gave the poor old bugger a dog’s life when he was under your thumb. Worried away at the cratur’ like he was an old bone wi’ the plague. I mind once I found him in his room greetin’. Ay, that bonny, brave old man greetin’ like a baby because you had cut his hair for the third time in a month and made him change his drawers twice in one week. He told me he was beginning to feel like a monk paying penance for all the sins he never committed.’