Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  ‘She’s holding something. It’s like – like a piece of paper.’

  Lachlan took the crumpled photograph from Mirabelle’s clenched fist. He looked at a smiling young man and the tiny baby he held.

  ‘Who are they?’ whispered Shona.

  ‘Who knows, except Mirabelle herself. People from long ago, no doubt, who meant a lot to her. Perhaps the John and Donald she spoke of a while back.’

  Shona touched the white hair on the pillow. ‘I’d like a wee bit,’ she said softly,’ to keep in the locket she gave me for my birthday.’ She began to cry again. ‘Oh, I wish I had asked her to forgive me!’

  ‘Whatever for, lass?’

  ‘For sulking because Niall’s going away. She must have been so tired and I’ve girned at her so. I was sulking today in the garden and saw her at her window. I should have been with her but I didn’t even know she was ill. Och doctor, I loved her so!’

  He sat down and gently pulled the forlorn little figure on to his knee.

  ‘Weesht now, you mustn’t blame yourself, she didn’t want anyone to know she was ill. She loved you all and liked doing things for you. You were her life and she was happy. I know, she told me, you were like her own flesh and blood. Now, you are coming home with me. Phebie will see to you till your father comes home.’

  Despite his gentle comfort she felt desolated. Mirabelle was dead and her father didn’t know. His were the arms she needed more than she ever had done before. She felt cheated, deserted, and afraid. How could she live without Mirabelle? Who could she run to when she wanted to be the little girl she was and not the defensive dignified child her father thought her to be. How could she do without the homely routine created by Mirabelle? She had grumbled when told to do things that the old housekeeper had thought vital to her comfort but at the same time she had felt cherished and important. How often had she protested while Mirabelle brushed her hair till it shone? How many Gaelic lullabys had lulled her to sleep, how many fairy tales had been read to her while she sat in the inglenook hugging her knees? It must have been hundreds, perhaps thousands of times. Now these things would be no more. The homely ‘mother’ feel would be gone because no one, not even Miss Fraser, could fill the gap left by Mirabelle.

  She sobbed quietly and allowed Lachlan to carry her out of the room. She looked back but couldn’t see for tears. ‘Father,’ she cried silently, ‘Mirabelle’s dead and you weren’t here when we needed you!’ She didn’t know that only part of the nightmare was over or that her father needed help more in that moment than he had ever done in his life.

  Lachlan carried her outside. The wind from the sea blew against them with deceptive calm and rain stung their eyes. She looked at Laigmhor through the mist of rain. It looked gaunt and empty against the grey sky. There were no flickers of lamplight to shine in the windows and they looked like empty dead eyes. She shivered. Mirabelle was in there. If she’d been alive the house would be warmly welcoming but she was dead and the house looked dead too and Shona knew it would be a long time before Laigmhor became alive again.

  ‘We’ve left Tot in there,’ she cried, making the house sound like an enemy.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ said Lachlan. ‘I’ve got to go back with Biddy and I’ll give Tot some warm milk and tuck her up for the night.’

  She knew what he meant. Mirabelle had to be ‘laid out’ for her funeral. Biddy usually attended to such matters and was as used to dealing with the dead as with the living. But she and Mirabelle had been close friends and Shona thought how terrible it would be for Biddy to have to deal with such a matter.

  Slochmhor was warm and friendly. Niall took Shona to the kitchen where Phebie made her drink hot milk and eat a biscuit. Little Fiona screamed delightedly at the cat who had recently adopted the house, and the belated surgery resumed. Shelagh wakened from a very satisfying nap and gave vent to her pent up ‘winds’. ‘Terrible just,’ she consoled herself and rumbled into Lachlan’s room leaving behind such a repelling odour that one or two people went home and the rest held their noses in disgust.

  NINE

  Fergus and Kirsteen were sitting in the hay making their plans for the future when Kirsteen looked up and saw the small knot of men coming towards the barn. They were very excited and shouted to each other in Gaelic.

  ‘Come quickly, McKenzie!’ panted Ranald McTavish. ‘’Tis your brother! Goin’ to kill himself he is!’

  ‘Aye, rantin’ he was,’ supplemented Todd the Shod. ‘Says his life’s not worth a bugger and he’d be better off wi’ the de’il!’

  ‘Says he’ll prove he’s man enough to kill himself!’ said Canty Tam, named so because he was slightly simple and smiled at everything. He was smiling now despite the horror of his words.

  Fergus’s face had paled under his tan. ‘What are you all rabblin’ about?’ he demanded, his fists bunching in a characteristic gesture.

  Hamish placed a firm hand on his shoulder. ‘Steady lad, ’tis true enough. Ranald was painting a boat when Alick came storming down saying he wanted to take a boat out . . .’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Ranald who made his living hiring out small boats. ‘Bad in a rage he was and I’m thinkin’ it was odd because he’s not like yoursel’, Mr McKenzie – beggin’ your pardon like. He pushed some money into my hand and I couldny believe my eyes, near on a pound he gave me. He was ay a kind-hearted chiel but a pound just . . .’

  ‘For God’s sake get to the point, man!’ said Fergus grimly.

  ‘Well, I gave him a boat – one of my very best and Canty Tam and myself helped him to push off. When he got out a wee bit he started to scream all the things we’ve been tellin’ you. He was like a man demented, his eyes starin’ out his head. It was a bit skearie, wasn’t it, lads?’

  Those that had witnessed the event murmured in agreement.

  ‘It was to the Sgor Creags he said he was goin’,’ added Todd. ‘Awful it was just. A man sair trauchled wi’ life so he was!’ Todd’s eyes were round and the other men looked overawed.

  Fergus stared. ‘Did you say – the Sgor Creags?’

  ‘Yes, terrible it was. He shouted he’d become like the chiel in the story my mother told me – the one who was caught on the Creags!’

  ‘Aye.’ Canty Tam nodded eagerly. ‘He said the gulls would eat his flesh but his bones would stay there forever and we’d all have to remember him!’ Canty Tam smiled in satisfaction at the thought.

  ‘The tide, Ranald – what like was the tide?’

  ‘Comin’ in, sir – slow and peaceful like but – comin’ in.’

  Fergus strode away and the men followed, an assorted crowd but all curious, and eager to help. Hamish, kilt swinging and red beard jutting, walked beside Fergus.

  ‘Don’t worry, lad,’ he said quietly, ‘we’ll get him safely aground.’

  ‘Go home, Hamish,’ ordered Fergus curtly but he was immediately sorry and put his hand on the arm of the man who had always befriended him. ‘Don’t worry about the McKenzies any longer. Maggie will have your tea ready and she’ll wonder if you don’t come home.’

  ‘Ach, she’s used to me bein’ late but I’ll ask young Mathew to run over and tell her I’ll be a wee while.’

  Mathew grumbled but went off over the hill. He was in a hurry to get the task over with and popped his head hastily through Maggie’s door. Whisky rose quickly thinking his beloved master had come home but seeing it was just another human flopped back down, his nose in his paws.

  Maggie raised her hand in greeting. ‘Sit you down, laddie, and have a cuppy,’ she invited. ‘Hamish should be in soon and the kettle’s on the boil.’

  Mathew declined hurriedly. ‘He’ll be late home and thank you, Maggie, but I have no time to wait.’

  He rushed off and Maggie took a pot of steaming broth from the fire. She looked at the table to make sure it was set properly and, content that all was ready for Hamish’s return, made room between two cats and went for forty winks.

  Mathew sped quickly over the fields
to the village. He topped a rise and saw the unmistakable figure of Shona fleeing over Laigmhor fields below. He shouted and waved but she was beyond hearing range. He shrugged. She had Mirabelle and it might be better if she didn’t know about Alick till his fate had been decided.

  A skittish wind had turned the Sound into translucent green swells that broke in creamy foam on the boulder-strewn sands of Portcull. When Mathew arrived, the men were dragging a sturdy boat into the brown shallows. Fergus jumped aboard and many hands pushed him into deeper waters. Before the greedy sea took the boat out too far Hamish treaded water to his waist and jumped in beside Fergus.

  ‘Get out, Hamish!’ panted Fergus wildly.

  ‘No.’ Hamish’s voice was calm but firm. His kilt plastered round his legs in wet folds and his fiery beard was bedraggled yet he still managed to retain the air of splendid dignity that was always his. ‘You’ll need help in yon sea,’ he continued. ‘It’s rough out there by the Creags and if there’s any swimming to be done better me than you. It was never one of your best assets.’

  Fergus knew the truth of this. He feared the sea, its intensity and power. It could look calm and inviting but undercurrents were always a danger. He had swam a lot as a boy but never without fear. His head could be above the surface looking at the calm but underneath he could feel the water surging and swaying, restlessly roaming, tugging at the puny thing that was his body. In a way the sea reminded him of the unfathomed emotions of the human mind, the depths of which could be frighteningly strong yet appear so calm on the surface.

  Alick knew that he feared the sea, but it was his unspoken triumph over the brother who was so good at everything else. During the days of their boyhood Alick had gloated quietly when Fergus floundered and had to be helped from some difficulty that was to Alick a simple matter of skill. Fergus now wondered if his brother was testing his boyhood fears. Was he throwing out a challenge that Fergus as his brother couldn’t possibly ignore because if he did he would show the world there was something that could terrify him? Fergus was afraid. He felt it in every bone of his body. The sea was bucking at the boat and the Sound was growing rougher by the minute.

  ‘Are you sure, Hamish?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Will you try and stop me then?’ grinned Hamish, looking with affection at the white-faced young man he had known since a baby. He saw Kirsteen on the shore. She stood to one side of the knot of islanders who had gathered like nosy gulls. He thought what a lovely lass she was with her slim body and fine sensitive face. Her eyes had shown her reluctance to let Fergus take the boat out but she had uttered no protest and now stood, quietly dignified, with her hands at her sides. Hamish wished that just one of the islanders would go up and offer her some crumb of comfort but the women were in clannish groups and the men too interested in the proceedings to bother with one unhappy young woman.

  Fergus seemed to read his thoughts. As he pulled at the oars, he said in a quietly jubilant voice, ‘We’re to be wed, Hamish. I’ll stop the gossiping old Cailleachs. She’s a fine lass is Kirsteen and I’ve been a fool of a man not to have wed her sooner.’

  Hamish smiled happily. ‘That’s what I’ve been waitin’ to hear, lad. When is it to be?’

  ‘Not soon enough, Hamish. It’s strange, but I feel a different man altogether, not like myself at all. I was so tightly bottled up this morning I felt I could burst, now I feel I could shout to the world how happy I am. I haven’t felt like that in years and it’s all because of Kirsteen.’

  Hamish felt honoured by the confidence and touched by the eager happiness of a man usually so withdrawn. Hamish was a happy man himself. All his life he had been contented but it wasn’t until he married Maggie he felt really fulfilled. Maggie had brought him an ever greater contentment. With her he had found the richness of companionship coupled with a steadfast love and he thanked God every day for having allowed their paths to cross.

  ‘I’m happy for you, Fergus,’ he said simply. ‘You’ve been a lonely man these years.’

  Fergus drew a deep breath. ‘If only Alick . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Hamish who silently cursed Alick his childishness. ‘He won’t spoil things for you, son! We’ll find him out there and a damt warmed arse he needs for doin’ such a thing!’

  They were well away from the shore now.

  ‘Mind my boat, Mr McKenzie!’ yelled Ranald anxiously. ‘She’s a good one so she is!’

  Canty Tam smiled secretively at the green swelling waves on the Sound.

  ‘The Green Caillichs will get them,’ he said softly, but with devilish assurance. ‘They’re out there waitin’, their auld hag faces smilin’ because today they’ll have a Rhanna man!’

  ‘You’re daft, man,’ said old Bob but he turned his eyes quickly from the boat. Many of the islanders believed the legend of the Green Uisga Caillichs of Rhanna Sound. They were the spirits of witches of bygone days who had been cast from the island for various evil practices. Now their ghosts roamed the Sound and anyone venturing too far in a small boat were likely victims. The Caillichs took many forms but the most famous was a beautiful mermaid who turned into a green, one-eyed monster when the victim was lured far enough from the shore. Some claimed they had seen the mermaids sitting on the rocks near the treacherous Creags. The oldest man on Rhanna, ninety-seven-year-old Tam the Plough, claimed he had actually seen a mermaid turn into a green monster and had managed to escape. ‘Just by the skin of my trousers’ – because he had held a Celtic cross before him and shouted for St Michael to smite the hag. His simple faith had saved the day and earned him a reputation for bravery. No Ceilidh was complete unless Tam was there to repeat the tale which he lavishly embroidered with each telling. He and Bob had a friendly rivalry as to which was the best Seanachaidh but both were equally popular with their unending tales of water beasts, fairies, and witches. They spoke with reverence about St Michael who stemmed from the dim past of pagan rituals and who was the patron saint of all who were in danger at land or sea.

  ‘St Michael will guard them,’ muttered old Bob, but Canty Tam shook his head.

  ‘Not, it won’t be so. The Uisga hags are gaining strength. Look at them over yonder. I can hear their skirls of laughter from here. It’s the kind of sea they like, all soft and swelling on the surface but below . . . boiling like a cauldron.’

  Bob looked and saw the green swelling on the Sound and heard the thin threading moan of the wind rushing low over the water.

  ‘You’re daft, man,’ he repeated but his voice was uneasy just the same.

  Kirsteen stood nearby and listened. She knew all about the legends of Rhanna and she knew that the inhabitants held firm to their beliefs. Though they wouldn’t always admit to it, they took precautions against those evil spirits that were said to abound in and around the island. Most of them wore Celtic crosses round their necks. Some of them were roughly carved from wood, but no matter how crude, they were a protection from a host of evils. Kirsteen had thought the ancient beliefs quite enchanting. She had been to several Ceilidhs in the homely crofts around Portcull. Curled warmly at blazing peat fires she had listened entranced as Gaelic songs filled the air or the plaintive notes of the fiddle brought the sigh of the sea and the rush of wind into the rooms. The highlight of the evening came when everyone settled to listen to the Seanachaidh, children and adults silently attentive while a lilting old voice told the tales that had passed through generations. Folklore, myths, and legends became frighteningly real in the warm, smoky rooms and, long after the stories were finished, the magic transmitted by the storyteller lingered on so that people scurried homewards clutching their crosses and children kept looking behind to make sure that no Caonteachs had deserted their water haunts in favour in haunting humans.

  Since her affair with Fergus, Kirsteen had found her invitations to Ceilidhs growing less though she was still invited to partake of the odd Strupak. Suspecting that these gestures were merely a ruse to spier her into confiding her private affairs she had
now started to refuse ‘a crack and a cuppy’ and by doing so incurred the islanders’ hostility. Apparently nothing offended more than the refusal of a neighbourly gesture and she began to feel more and more outcast.

  The charm of the islanders lay in their simple faith and barely concealed curiosity. Now that the curiosity was directed at her she was somewhat disenchanted and the islanders sensed her defensive attitude. Though she still received the customary exchanges she felt herself excluded from the vital centre of things though she knew a lot of it was her own fault. The folklore she had found so charming was crude and rather frightening when applied to everyday life and she shivered at Canty Tam’s words of doom and moved away.

  The boat was lost to sight now. Portcull lay in a bay, sheltered by rocky outcrops on the southern side, and by the steep cliffs that rose from Port Rum Point, a finger of land half a mile out to sea on the western side. It was on the other side of this finger that the Sgor Creags lay and the opening of the caverns known as Claigionn an Garadh which meant Caves of the Skulls.

  Kirsteen made her way past the schoolhouse and began to climb the rough track to the high grassy base of the Point. She was aware that several islanders were dispersing to their cottages along the track and she quickened her pace to get away from their following eyes. A drizzling rain was beginning to fall and the mist was coming down quickly. She glanced inland and saw that the mountains were blotted out and thin curls of vapour floated in patches over the moors.

  A group of sturdy mountain sheep were grazing contentedly on the short turf atop the cliffs but when she approached they bleated plaintively as if complaining about the weather. Kirsteen gazed at the greeny-grey waters far below and her heart leapt when she saw the boat heading round the Point. It looked tiny, the two men in it almost invisible. One of those men, a tiny dot barely discernible, was the man she loved more than her own life, the other a dear friend whom she knew had been a trusted member of the Laigmhor household for many years. Of Alick’s boat there was no sign. She thought about him with pity and anger. She liked him and was sorry that his life was so shallow and empty but she was angry because he had ruined some of the most beautiful moments of her life. She cast her mind back to Fergus’s marriage proposal, his words of love, the safe comfort of his arms, and his lips on hers, firmly sealing their love. Then those plans, so full of happiness. He had sworn his life to her and she had promised she would give him five sons, one of whom would surely carry on tilling Laigmhor soil. He had laughed then, a loud happy laugh, and swept her up in his arms as if she were swansdown.