Storm Over Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  She regarded him calmly. ‘The laird brought you, he said something about following you to see that you didn’t fall. You didn’t go down far, only to a grassy ledge quite near the top. I was passing and somehow we got you up between us and into his Land-Rover.’

  ‘There was no one else, Babbie? Please God no one else saw me!’

  ‘No one else,’ she smiled mischievously, ‘only Scott Balfour and I know your guilty secret—’

  ‘Guilty secret?’

  ‘Ay, that he got you so legless you couldny even think straight, let alone ride a bike. Luckily you only gave your head an almighty bang so between it and your hangover you’ll be in a fine state come morning.’

  He lay back, relief flooding his soul. She suspected nothing, saw the whole episode as something of a joke. ‘Babbie, you won’t let on to anybody about this, will you?’ He passed a shaking hand over his eyes, failing to notice the compassion that flooded into those hitherto laughing eyes of hers.

  ‘No, Mark, of course I won’t, what’s there to tell anyway? Just a few drinks over the top, it’s happened to me many’s the time. We hold very responsible positions, you and I, and it’s no crime to let our hair down now and then.’

  Blindly, he sought her hand once more and squeezed it. ‘Thank heaven for people like you, lass, you do so much good on this island.’

  ‘Ach, no more than yourself! But we’re both human with our own needs and desires – something I think you tend to forget.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten, Babbie, that’s my trouble, I’m so wrapped up in myself I’ve been neglecting my work lately.’

  ‘Havers! You’re only one man, my lad, and canny do everything – man o’ God or no’.’

  She suddenly sounded like Behag and they both laughed.

  ‘You’ll have a bump on your forehead as big as a gull’s egg before the day is over,’ she warned him, ‘and should think about taking a rest tomorrow. I’ll go and see John Grey and ask him to take over the Sunday services for you. He’s quite an obliging old soul in his dotage, though he might think it best to cancel the afternoon service at Portvoynachan.’

  ‘I can’t, Babbie, it’s the McLachlan twins’ christening tomorrow morning and I just can’t let Shona and Niall down – oh Lord! I promised to go over to Mo Dhachaid this evening!’

  He made to get out of bed but she pushed him back with a firm hand. ‘Promises! Promises! You’re full o’ them, for this, that, and the other! Ease up, Mark, you’re pushing yourself too hard. I’ll see Shona and tell her you canny make it tonight though I don’t suppose wild horses will keep you back from tomorrow’s christening.’

  He smiled. ‘Neither wild horses nor Babbie Büttger.’

  The door opened and Scott Balfour put an enquiring face round it. ‘Thank the Lord you’re awake, old man.’ He tiptoed over to the bed, sober now, no longer ‘kissin’ and slaverin’ into his very own beard’ but perfectly lucid. ‘I’m sorry I made you take that first dram, old son, you weren’t used to it and it was my fault entirely you skidded over the cliff. When I saw you lying down there I thought you were dead –’ he straightened – ‘say, you won’t let on about this, will you, Mark? That old crone, Peggy, would never let me hear the end of it and Rena would make me do penance for a month.’

  He held out his hand, Mark took it, laughing a little at the other man’s hangdog expression.

  A mournful whimper came from the hallway and the next second a shaggy, apologetic head wormed its way through the slightly open door to gaze with hopeful brown eyes in the direction of the bed.

  ‘Mutt! Come on, boy, come on,’ called Mark.

  The dog rushed straight up onto the bed to wind his paws round his master’s neck and to plant on it big, wet, adoring kisses. Mark fondled the dog’s long, silky ears.

  ‘I’ll always have you, eh, Mutt lad, I’ll always have you.’

  The dog whined with pleasure, his warm body quivering. Mark didn’t know why, but he wanted to cry suddenly and was glad he could hide his face into his dog’s golden ruff. Life could be so hurtful but it could also be very sweet, and in those moments he tasted that sweetness and all because of the unquestioning love of one large, moist-eyed dog known as Mutt.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mark never knew how he got through either the church service or the christening ceremony, but somehow he did, ignoring the questioning looks cast at the huge purple bruise on his forehead, the nudgings and the whisperings, concentrating instead on the twins, so beautiful in their long lacy robes, so trusting in their wide-eyed innocence.

  ‘Joy Shona McLachlan and Joseph Niall McLachlan.’ Their names rang from his lips, gladly, proudly. They both behaved like cherubs all through the ceremonials, the boy Joseph reaching out a chubby fist to grab a lock of Ruth, his godmother’s, hair, the girl Joy gazing solemnly into Lorn, her godfather’s, eyes, her chuckles of delight making everyone smile when he pulled a funny face at her.

  They were big and bonny now, these babes, so different from the tiny mites Mark had seen on a pre-Christmas night just over six months ago. It seemed so close, yet so much had happened since then that it might have been aeons away. He caught Shona’s eyes on him, those wondrous eyes that saw so much. She was very lovely standing there, the light glinting in her auburn hair, glancing off the warm flush of her cheek. She knew about him, he was sure of it, she saw things other people didn’t – yet how could she know? It was his secret, his own guilty, dark secret . . .

  At last it was over, the people were filing out into the porch, shaking his hand, one or two voicing sympathy regarding his bruises. Captain Mac winked. ‘I’ve had one or two o’ these myself – walkin’ into doors that wereny there.’ Knowingly, he tapped the side of his big, jolly nose and wandered outside.

  Mark kept on shaking hands, automatically, nodding and smiling as he did so, wondering all the time what Captain Mac had meant, what he knew. It was just talk, innocent, mischievous, he was misconstruing everyday remarks, turning them, twisting them.

  ‘Will we see you down at Laigmhor for the christening dinner?’

  Shona was there, eyeing him, not pushing or forcing him in any way but just sounding friendly – kind.

  ‘Ay, Shona,’ he nodded, returning her smile, ‘I’ll be there, just give me time to change.’

  ‘Mark, could you walk me home? I want to talk to you.’

  It was Megan, pale-looking, her eyes gazing beseechingly into his. She had been in church for the christening, and though he had tried to keep his eyes averted from her he had been unable to do so. Every time he glanced in her direction he had found her gaze fixed on his face so intently he had felt that she was trying to convey some silent message to him.

  He took her arm and led her away round the back of the kirk, out of sight of curious eyes.

  They faced one another. She looked unhappy and tired, as if she hadn’t slept much lately, the delicate skin round her eyes was slightly puffy, and he had the feeling that she had been crying recently.

  Concern flooded his being, he forgot his own misery and knew only a longing to comfort her. ‘Meggie, what is it? You don’t seem very happy somehow.’

  She caught her lower lip with her teeth. ‘I’m not, Mark, things haven’t been easy this while back. I’ve wanted so much to talk to you, to tell you things that have been on my mind but somehow you’re always out of reach these days – at least, I get the feeling that you’ve been avoiding me ever since – since Steve came to Rhanna.’

  ‘Avoiding you? Meggie, how can you say that? You’re the one who’s been out of reach. How could I interfere in the lives of two people who obviously have eyes only for each other? I know well enough that you’re in love with him and certainly won’t make a fool of myself by trying to come between you.’

  ‘In love . . .? Oh, Mark, we must talk, straighten things out . . .’

  They were walking slowly down the brae as they spoke, so absorbed in one another that they failed to see Steven coming unsteadily along the
road from Tigh na Cladach. He was on them before either of them was aware of what was happening, grabbing Megan roughly by the arm, spinning her round so that she was forcibly held against him, her wrist twisted behind her back.

  ‘So,’ Steven growled harshly, ‘this is what you get up to the minute my back’s turned, flirting with your ex-lover boy and on a Sunday too for all the world to see! At least he might have had the decency to remove his robes before pawing you all over the place!’

  He had been drinking, his face was flushed, his mouth slack and ugly. With a cruel laugh he tightened his grip on her arm, making her cry out in pain.

  ‘Let her go,’ Mark spoke evenly though he had to force himself to do so. ‘I warn you, if you harm one hair of her head you’ll have me to reckon with.’

  ‘Is that so, holy man?’ Steven’s smile was menacing. ‘I doubt very much if you’ve got the nerve to lift one goody, goody little finger, mustn’t tarnish your reputation after all, what would your flock think of a minister who brawls on the Sabbath day!’

  He gave an insane little giggle, and grabbing Megan by the neck he brought her face close to him, forcing bruising kisses on her mouth that made her cry out in pain.

  It was the last straw for Mark. All his anger, longing, and frustration came spewing upwards together with the passions that he had tried in vain to suppress, robbing him of all those sensibilities that had for so long been his. Rushing forward, he pulled Steven off Megan and spun him round, his fist shooting out as he did so. Every shred of strength he possessed went into the blow so that his knuckles were like balls of steel.

  Bone thudded into flesh, not just once but several times. Steven crumpled almost at once, his knees meeting the road with a sickening thump. He shook his head as if to clear it, his eyes dazed with pain and shock.

  Mark wanted to hit him again and to keep on hitting him. White-hot fury churned inside of him, his curled fists itched for more. With a snarl of rage he plucked the young man from the road, held him by the collars at arm’s length, and let fly at him again.

  ‘Mark!’ sobbed Megan. ‘That’s enough, he’s no match for you in his state, let him go.’

  ‘You see,’ slurred Steven, his mouth twisted and taunting despite the fact that it was badly swollen, ‘it’s me she loves, you bloody coward! Can’t you get that through your thick skull? Go ahead and punch me to kingdom come, she’ll only love me the more and despise you for hitting a man when he’s down!’

  His gaping mouth was just inches away, whisky fumes bathed Mark’s face, he saw the blue eyes mocking him, and instead of feeling he was taking advantage of the other man he experienced a surge of such scorn that he began to shake Steven as if he was shaking a dog – only no dog that he had ever owned had taken such a severe beating.

  Steven hung at the end of his fingers like some hideous scarecrow, hardly able to get breath, fear now flooding his dazed eyes. Mark’s ears rang with the rattling of Steven’s teeth, the ripping sound made by his clothing as it came to bits in his hands.

  Several islanders had witnessed the fight from the beginning, others were running down the brae, black-clad figures converging on the road. Mark saw them as from a great distance, a devil seemed to have taken possession of him, taunting him, urging him on, allowing him to enjoy punishing this man who had hurt Megan, who had hurt him.

  Megan was beside him, trying to pull him away, but he ignored her and took another swing at Steven’s face.

  ‘Enough,’ panted the young man, ‘for God’s sake – enough. You think because of this you’ve won, don’t you, but you’re wrong – wrong! Be a man and let her go – you lost her a long time ago . . .’

  Fresh rage seized Mark, his fists balled once more, found their mark with sickening accuracy.

  ‘My, my, he’s a bonny fighter,’ Tam commented cheerfully.

  ‘Ay, that he is,’ agreed Todd the Shod, ‘he’s gettin’ rid o’ his anger at last. Every man needs to do that once in a while.’

  ‘That Saunders mannie was hurting the doctor,’ Granny Ann sucked noisily at a cough sweetie between words. ‘I saw him wi’ my very own een, pulling at her and twisting her arms. Mr James is no’ fighting just for the sake o’ it, he was goaded into it and no mistake.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ sniffed Elspeth in disgust, ‘but fancy our very own minister behaving like a hooligan.’

  ‘He is just behaving like a man.’ It was Behag saying that, in a small voice to be sure but voicing an honest-to-goodness opinion for once in her life. She was more devoted than ever to ‘the man o’ God’ since the incident of Holy Smoke’s ‘disappearance’. Mr James had been the essence of patience both during and after the event and she was going to give him her support now, no matter how much she disapproved of ‘common brawling’.

  ‘Behag is right, Elspeth,’ Captain Mac took Elspeth’s arm and gave it a fond squeeze. ‘Why should he no’ fight for what he feels is rightly his? None o’ this would have happened if that fancy-talkin’ mannie hadny come here. ’Tis my opinion our Mr James has just about had enough o’ his kiddin’ and swankin’.’

  There were murmurs of agreement all round. Elspeth, feeling suddenly good and warm with Captain Mac’s strong arm in hers, nodded. ‘Ay, you could be right at that, Isaac, though ’tis a pity he didny take off his robes before letting fly at the chiel.’

  ‘I canny rightly believe my ears,’ Holy Smoke’s rather high-pitched voice broke in, ‘here you all are, on the Sabbath day, standing around watching our minister behaving like a heathen and soundin’ as if you’re enjoyin’ it!’

  ‘Ach, away and smoke your Woodbine, Sandy,’ said a voice from the gallery, as it were. There were titters. The butcher subsided and said not another word on the subject.

  Mark, his rage suddenly spent, released Steven who staggered back to land on the verge. He was handsome no more. Blood frothed from his nose, welled from his mouth, one eye was starting to close. Immediately Megan was on her knees beside him, staring horrified at his bloodied face. She looked up at Mark who had come rushing forward, her face pale, her eyes wild.

  ‘You fool, Mark,’ she threw at him. ‘Have you any idea of what you’ve done? You’ve ruined everything, everything – and you a man of the cloth who should know better.’

  A mist seemed to fall from Mark’s eyes, allowing stark reality to rear up and hit him like a douche of ice water. ‘Meggie,’ he whispered, appalled at himself, ‘I’m sorry, something came over me – I couldn’t seem to help myself. I’m a man, Meggie, I just couldn’t stand by and watch him hurting you.’

  He threw out his hands in appeal, they were bruised and bloody, a great purple weal accompanied the bump on his forehead, both marks looking like alien obscenities above the pure white of his dog collar. He was no more the Mark James she had known than day was like night, and the knowledge of that pressed her down as if a leaden weight was on her shoulders, bowing them, forcing her head to droop wearily so that her hair hid her face.

  Mark turned from her and went to lift Steven to his feet. The young man threw him off, his blue eyes glittering with dislike as he hissed, ‘I could have you de-frocked for this. It’s no more than you bloody well deserve.’

  ‘You would be doing me a favour,’ Mark returned, drained of everything that had motivated his actions a short while ago.

  ‘The coward’s way out, eh?’ gritted Steven. ‘No, I’ll let you sweat it out till you’re forced to do it on your own account and from the look of you, old man, I’d say that day isn’t so very far off.’

  Megan came to slip her shoulder under Steven’s arm, for he was swaying on his feet and looked ready to collapse again at any moment. ‘Help me get him home,’ she appealed to no one in particular, and one or two of the men came forward to hoist Steven’s weight onto their shoulders. The party moved slowly towards Portcull, leaving behind a terrible silence.

  Mark stood alone, stunned, shaken by what he had done.

  ‘Mark, come home with us, you’re all in.’ Shona wa
s there, Niall at her side, supporting him with their words, their kindly concern. Brusquely he turned from them. ‘I have to be alone, I’m sorry.’

  He strode quickly away, skirting the knots of onlookers, clambering up the bank to cut across to the track leading to the gate atop the Hillock, his black robes flapping, making him look less of a man and more of a phantom. He disappeared into a dip, rose up again, receding into the distance, only his cloth lifting and falling, lifting and falling, till it could be seen no more.

  The crowd dispersed, silently, rather sadly, its lack of comment adding to the sense of despondency that had followed their minister back to his lonely Manse up yonder on top of the brae.

  Towards the middle of August the Mermaid set sail for home with three people aboard, her departure not nearly as spectacular as her arrival had been but interesting just the same as, with Ranald putting so many unexpected obstacles in the way at the last minute, it was a miracle she had managed to leave at all.

  All through that long, hot summer, he had willingly given his services and the use of his shed to the young yachtsmen, appearing so eager to oblige that they had honestly taken him for a simple man with naught else in his head but the desire to please his fellow men. He had personally taken it upon himself to gather together a skilled workforce, so that every day, bar Sunday of course, his big boat shed had rung with the sounds of sweated labour accompanied by much banter and laughter, for no Hebridean worth his salt took any task all that seriously.

  But busy hive of industry though the place had been there was something that could only be described as mystery in the air, an atmosphere that became noticeable whenever Daniel or Steven put in an appearance. Then, certain whisperings and sniggerings would all at once cease, and the ensuing time filled once more with determined hammerings and sawings.