Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Niall looked about him and shivered. Some of the tombstones were very old and lay flat on the ground, the writing on them illegible, almost hidden by damp moss and twining ivy creepers. And Shona had been right about the bell, it was tinkling very softly in the bell tower.

  ‘Old Joe told me a story about the bell,’ said Shona in a hissed whisper. ‘He said it’s rung by a Moruach who got stranded and died on the shore and she rings the bell to let all the Moruachs and Caonteachs know what will happen to them if they stray too far from the water!’

  Niall didn’t dispute the story.

  ‘It’s skearie here, and these old trees are like ghosties moaning and wailing. Maybe they’re the ghosts grown out of the bodies of all the dead folk, their spirits all mixing together and trying to speak!’

  They stared at each other wondering if such a thing were possible, both of them feeling afraid but trying not to show it.

  ‘I wonder what spirits are like,’ whispered Shona.

  ‘Todd the Shod says they give him a rare feeling,’ grinned Niall deliberately misunderstanding.

  ‘My mother’s a spirit,’ said Shona solemnly. ‘She’s here watching us.’

  Niall shifted uneasily. ‘Let’s go home! There’s still time for a scone in jam.’

  But Shona was darting away to the newer part of the Kirkyard. ‘I want to look at my mother’s grave!’ she called and Niall followed reluctantly.

  They stood before Helen’s grave with its white headstone. An old McKenzie vault lay in the older part of the Kirkyard but old Malcolm had been the last to be buried there.

  Shona folded her hands behind her back and stared. She had been at the grave before with Mirabelle who occasionally brought a bunch of roses from the farmhouse garden. But it had been a year almost since her last visit because though she went to kirk on Sundays they always had to hurry home to get Sunday dinner laid. A year ago she hadn’t been able to read but she could now, very slowly. Carefully she began to read out the words on the stone. Niall wasn’t greatly interested and scrambled up the stone wall to sit astride and view the tossing Sound of Rhanna in the distance.

  ‘Here lies Helen McDonald, beloved wife of Fergus McKenzie, Laigmhor. Born 14th June 1901, died 29th January 1923. Wait for me beloved, on that distant shore, when my life has fled and the storms of life are o’er.’

  Shona’s eyes filled with tears. Wait for me beloved! How well her father had loved her mother. She wished she had known her, it would be lovely to have a mother. Niall was lucky. Phebie nagged him sometimes and he got an occasional skelping but more often she was loving, her round sweet face made beautiful with her love for her child.

  Shona thought of Mirabelle. She was soft and round and her arms were loving. She scolded and skelped too but mostly she loved. Yes, Mirabelle was really like her mother though she was an old woman.

  Something nagged at Shona’s mind. It was to do with the writing on the stone. She read it again, slowly and laboriously while the wind wailed louder, shrieking and darting round the headstones. She halted suddenly. Something familiar nagged at the back of her memory. 29th January 1923. Why, that was her birthday! Why was her birthday on a stone that read death and not life! She had been born on that day and . . . She held her breath and for a second the storm paused. All afternoon, streaks of lightning and claps of thunder had played threateningly amongst the mountains. Now Glen Fallan was lit by a blinding glare and thunder reverberated in deafening roars directly above. Shona’s scream was almost lost in the volley but Niall heard and came running, his face white.

  ‘Shona!’ He stared at her aghast. Her baby face was distorted with the agony of grief her discovery had brought her. Tears poured down her smooth round cheeks and her small slim body trembled with her sobbing. She couldn’t speak, but just stood there, her eyes blinded by tears and her mouth twisted with shock. It was difficult to believe that a six-year-old girl could be capable of such emotions and Niall felt strangely frightened.

  ‘Shona, what is it?’ he asked softly, placing an arm round her shoulders.

  ‘I know now why my father has never liked me – not really!’ Her voice vibrated with intensity. ‘It’s because my mother died when I was born – like the sheep that died when its wee lamb came! He blames me for being born, that’s why he can never love me! He’d rather I was’ dead and my mother alive. Och Niall.’ She looked at him from swollen lids. ‘I wish I never had been born!’

  ‘Ach, don’t say such daft things,’ he comforted awkwardly. ‘I’m glad you’re born. So’s Mirabelle and Mother and Father and lots more folk.’

  ‘But Father isn’t.’ Her voice was dull and the life had gone from her. ‘Every time he looks at me he’ll be wishing I was dead and Mother here!’

  The heavens opened then and they were soaked before they were halfway home. Shona ran to Laigmhor and Mirabelle into whose arms she tumbled with her heartbreak, and Niall, his fair curls plastered to his head, raced for Slochmhor. The kitchen was warm and no one was about so, while he dried his thick curls, he helped himself to a scone from a plate on the range.

  At first he thought the house was empty. His mother wouldn’t expect him for another half-hour and might be shopping at Portcull. Confidently he helped himself to another scone and munched contentedly, though he couldn’t stop thinking of Shona. The clock ticked in the hall and the house was very quiet. Then he heard voices from his parents’ bedroom. He went to the foot of the stairs to announce his arrival home but the rising note of bitterness in his mother’s voice stayed him.

  ‘Please, Lachy!’ she cried. ‘Don’t let McKenzie run our lives any more. Let me have another bairn! Please!’

  Lachlan was tired. All day long he had battled against the storm, from clachan to croft, tending his patients. Home was still the haven he so badly needed. He and Phebie had their rows like anyone else but he dearly loved the sight of her bonny face and her warm rounded body still moved him to passion. But now he kept a check on his desires and when they made love it was he who was the careful one when he reached climax and as a result their love-making lacked the spontaneity that was once plentiful.

  Helen’s death by childbirth and Fergus’s accusations had affected him deeper than anyone realized. He loved Phebie dearly and wasn’t going to lose her in the same way that Fergus had lost his wife. Phebie couldn’t understand him. She longed to have another child but over and over he refused her. At first it hadn’t mattered greatly and she had been confident that Lachlan would get over the matter. But time was passing, he had grown even more adamant, and lately their quarrels were heated and bitter.

  Today was no exception. He had gone to lie down for an hour. He had wakened to find Phebie beside him, naked and desirable. Sleep went from him. She was tantalizing, touching him till he quivered, her silky body pressed against him, urging him to a frenzy and her hands did things to him till he cried out and reached for her roughly. But she kept eluding him till at the peak of his desire she whispered, ‘Let yourself go today, Lachy! Don’t hold back!’

  But he had pushed her away and the flush of anger took the place of passion.

  ‘You don’t want me to love you!’ he cried. ‘You want to use me like a rutting stag! I’ll not have it, Phebie! God, woman! Don’t you know I do it for you . . . to keep you safe!’

  That was when Niall heard Phebie’s impassioned plea. He stopped, one foot on the stairs then turned and crept softly back to the kitchen. A few minutes later he saw Fergus McKenzie striding along purposefully. Niall held his breath. Fergus stopped and clicked open the side gate, pausing for a moment to look uncertainly at the house. At the same time Phebie came flying downstairs in a headlong flight away from Lachlan, the house, and her misery. She had dressed hurriedly and her hair and eyes were wild. She didn’t even notice Niall but ran past him out of the door and came face to face with Fergus. He was taken aback at the sight of her. He was soaked, his clothes plastered to his body, rain running in rivulets from his hair and down over his face. In seco
nds she too was drenched but she appeared not to notice. The fierce storm that raged over Rhanna was nothing to the look in her eyes at sight of him. Her breath came quickly and her voice was high and unreal. ‘Get away from here, Fergus McKenzie!’ she screamed above the peals of thunder. ‘Get away and don’t come back! I curse you for the selfish devil of a man you are!’

  She ran from him and sped like a mad thing towards Glen Fallan. The next moment Lachlan shot out of the house. He stopped in his tracks at the sight of Fergus and his face turned white. For a long moment in storm-racked Glen Fallan the two men stared at each other then, with a look of contempt, Lachlan raced past to catch up with Phebie.

  Fergus felt unreal. For years he had nursed his grievances, never stopping to think that they might affect the lives of others. He had felt himself to be the master of his own fate but had come at last to the stage when he wanted to bury the past. He had made the great decision and, having made it, nothing would appease him till he made amends. He had been sure of the forgiveness of easy-going Lachlan, and Phebie with her good nature presented no obstacle to the reconciliation.

  He felt he had dreamed the scene but Lachlan, pleading and coaxing with Phebie while the rain poured in torrents round them, was no dream, nor was Niall’s face, white and frightened, at the window.

  He stumbled away towards Laigmhor. There at least he was sure of a warm welcome. But another storm awaited him the moment he staggered thankfully into the warm kitchen. Shona jumped from the rocking chair. She had cried her heart out against Mirabelle’s bosom. The old woman had petted and stroked and whispered endearing words, and her tears had dried leaving her heart heavy.

  Afterwards she sat in the bath by the fire while Mirabelle bathed her. Mirabelle sighed and wished the unhappy little being would have a tantrum or utter words of anger but wrapped in her blue dressing-gown with her fiery hair tied back from her pale little face she was like a lifeless wax doll. But now the big wonderful man that she had loved devotedly was striding into the room and she felt at that moment she could never love him again. She faced him and her voice was strong and even.

  ‘I know now why you don’t love me, Father. It’s because God took Mother and let me live. It was all on her gravestone!’ Her voice rose and Mirabelle wrung her hands in dismay.

  ‘If only you had told me, Father . . . about her! We could have loved her together but you wouldn’t let me and I hate you for it – I hate you, Father!’

  She fell to a storm of weeping and Fergus put his hand to his head and swayed dizzily. He had been without food since morning. The long struggle with Dodie’s cow had left him exhausted, Phebie’s words had shocked him but the worst nightmare of all was the sight of his little girl, an infant still but the words pouring from her baby mouth were those of someone whose emotions were developed beyond her years, who loved and hated with an intensity that matched his own. All the thwarted longings of her short life had given strength to her torrent of words. She had wondered at his rejection of her. Through the misty learning years of her infancy she had sensed the barriers between them; now she had discovered the reasons for them in a way that should never have been.

  But he could give her no comfort – it was too late for that. He knew she would have rejected him and he also knew, with a choking sob rising in his throat, that it would be a long time before those slender little arms would entwine themselves round his neck.

  Mirabelle looked at his chalky face and dazed eyes and felt alarmed. He’s a man demented, she thought. Her kindly heart turned over and she cried, ‘Fergus, come in and sup!’ But he was turning into the fury of the storm once more. It seemed as if all the forces of nature had saved themselves for this day. The heart of the storm lay directly overhead . . . the wind tore at fences and trees and shrieked with an angry voice on the open moors.

  Fergus bent into the wind, his mind churning like the sea. He was drenched to the skin but was aware of nothing but his tormented thoughts. He wandered without direction or sense of time but his subconscious guided him till finally he stood, a lonely figure battered by the elements, on the seething shore by the schoolhouse. The lowering sky had brought early darkness and a warm light shone from a downstairs window.

  He stared at the light, trying to keep his eyes open in the sting of salt spray. The light signified warmth and he became aware of his numb extremities. He put his clenched fists to his frozen lips and murmured ‘Helen’. But it wasn’t Helen he saw in his mind. It was Kirsteen, warm, living, beautiful Kirsteen.

  ‘Forgive me, Helen!’ he cried into the wind and stumbled towards the schoolhouse door, the rain mingling with the salt tears that poured unheeded down his cheeks.

  Kirsteen had bathed in her zinc tub before a roaring fire; now, in a faded pink dressing-gown, with her supper on a plate on her knee and a book in one hand, she was warm and comfortable. Rowan, her orange kitten, purred before the fire and the house was a cosy protective shell. Windows rattled, doors strained at their bolts, but the anger of the storm only served to heighten the peace and warmth of the room. Engrossed in her book it was some time before she became aware of the erratic tapping from the hallway. Vaguely she reminded herself it was time she got someone to prune the trees. They were always tapping the windows in a high wind. But the tapping became intensified and with a start she realized it was someone at the door. Annoyed at the intrusion she went to open it and drew an involuntary gasp of surprise. Fergus! The man she dreamed of had come to her at last but never had she imagined it would be like this. His face was grey and his black eyes sunken and full of a desperate despair. Rain fell in sheets around him and the bullying wind tore at his bedraggled clothes.

  ‘Kirsteen.’ His voice was soft with exhaustion. ‘Help me! For God’s sake help me!’

  The plea was utterly heartrending and filled her with such compassion she wanted to take him into her arms, to love him with all the love she felt for him. But she stayed her wildly beating heart and drew him out of the storm into the warm shelter of her little home. She sat him before the fire and like a small boy he allowed her to dry his hair and help him struggle out of his wet clothes. It was like a dream; yet in all her wildest dreams she had never felt such tenderness for the vital young man who had come to her out of the storm and let her help and comfort him without protest. She dried him and wrapped him in a wool dressing-gown left behind by old Roddy. Leaving him by the fire she went to heat some broth which he took obediently and gratefully. His dark hair had dried and small tendrils curled round his ears. A feeling of such poignancy tore at her heart that she couldn’t help reaching out and stroking his head. She had asked no questions since his arrival and he had uttered no words save those spoken with such pleading at the door.

  He turned and looked straight into her eyes. Some of the pain had gone from his, replaced by a look of unbelievable longing.

  ‘Kirsteen,’ he whispered huskily and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that she should be in his arms, his hands gently stroking her hair, his fingers tracing the fine bones of her face. Her heart raced into her throat. She tilted her head and he kissed her eyes and nose. The warm smell of his drying hair filled her nostrils and the dear sweet nearness of him made her cry out.

  ‘Kirsteen,’ he said again and now his lips were hard against her own. The dressing-gown fell from her shoulders and the flames from the grate outlined her breasts and slim waist. He caught his breath and crushed her to him, his breath quick and harsh.

  ‘Beautiful Kirsteen!’ he cried pushing her to the floor. His pent-up emotions of many years were being released at last. She felt his gentleness turn into a passion that could only come from a man such as he. His mouth touched every part of her body till she trembled in ecstasy. She was as passionate as he, her feelings for him had smouldered for almost a year, now they kindled and caught fire till every fibre in her burned for him.

  He was wild, almost rough in his eagerness but her frenzy matched his, their cries mingling with the shrieking moan of the w
ind that darted and howled outside.

  PART FOUR

  1933

  SEVEN

  They found the cave high on the Muir of Rhanna near the site of the old Abbey ruins. It was a hot glorious day in July. Bees droned lazily in the scrubs of heather. It was the school holidays and the days of every Hebridean child were filled with play. Groups of them were always to be found scrambling around the caves at Port Rum Point. At low tide it was possible to go into the caves to sit on rocky perches and watch the Sound breaking against the Sgor Creags. Wind and time had sculptured each crag to a sharp point to make pinnacles of treachery for the unwary boatsman. Rumour had it that long ago a stranger to Rhanna had been swept in his boat against the Sgor Creags one stormy night. His body had been harpooned on one of the Creags and because of the treacherous tides no one had been able to reach the body and it remained there till the gulls picked it clean and the skeleton was eventually washed away to sea.

  It was one of the many legends that abounded on Rhanna. The old folk clung to the stories told by their ancestors and the children liked to believe all they heard. The story of the harpooned stranger was one of the most popular and Shona and Niall sat on the ledges to stare with morbid interest at the Sgor Creags, picturing the man’s body slowly rotting away.

  ‘It must have been terrible for the poor man,’ Shona would comment, though her eyes shone.

  ‘Ach, he’d be dead and never know,’ Niall scoffed unfailingly.

  ‘But he wouldn’t be dead at first,’ answered Shona trying to imagine such a plight.

  It was also rumoured that the plentiful ledges high up in the caves had been used by smugglers to store their bounty. The caves filled at high tide but never quite reached the ledges so would have been perfect for the smugglers so familiar with the tides and the banks of slimy rock.