Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  It seemed impossible that a mere thirty minutes later she would be standing alone on top of a cliff with the gulls crying and the rain clinging to her eyelashes till she felt she was looking through a gossamer curtain. It was a fine rain but damp and cloying. Her dress was cold against her skin and she shivered again and wished she had stopped off at the schoolhouse for a cardigan. The mist was closing in fast and she could barely make out the sea below. A finger of icy terror curled round her heart. Abruptly she fell to her knees and put her wet hands to her face.

  ‘Oh God,’ she sobbed, ‘keep them safe! And . . .’ She stopped and looked far beyond the cliffs to the Sound of Rhanna. ‘Please, St Michael,’ she whispered, ‘bring my Fergus back to me.’

  Somehow just saying the words comforted her. She had dismissed all the tales she heard as folklore but she believed they had a grain of truth at their core and realized that below her so-called civilized veneer she was perhaps just as superstitious as the islanders themselves. She felt sick and dizzy and didn’t hear the footsteps behind. Old Bob was there, his gnarled hands helping her to her feet, his voice rough but soothing.

  ‘There now, lass, dinna greet so! My, you’re cauld as ice. Here, take my jacket. Och yes now, I’m warm from the climb up!’

  He tucked the hairy tweed round her cold body and put an awkward arm round her slim shoulders.

  ‘Come away down now, you’ll not do any good up here. The gods are wi’ your man and as soon as the tide turns we’ll all be out on that old finger down yonder, so dinna fear, lass. I came up to tell you we are all having a Strupak down at Todd’s house. His wife says to tell you she’ll keep you some hot broth. Come on now, there’s a lass.’

  Kirsteen leaned against him and cried. He was old and tough and it felt good to let herself be led by him. He murmured soothing words of comfort all the way to Todd’s cottage where a small group of villagers had gathered. Without knowing how it happened she was sitting by a cosy fire with a mug of broth in her hands. Words of reassurance drifted to her ears and she looked up to see well-known faces whose concern for her showed in kindly glances. Somehow she knew she was in the bosom of the island once more and even more a part of it than she had ever been.

  She listened to the men laying plans to man one of the bigger boats when the mist cleared a little and her heavy heart lightened with hope.

  Alick wasn’t out to sea ten minutes before he was regretting his hasty flight. It had been warm five minutes before but now a nasty wind knifed through his thin shirt. Boy of the seas of Rhanna many years ago, he was still master of the waves but years of soft living had weakened his fibres and he began to shake with a mixture of cold and the subsiding of an anger that had tensed his whole being. It had been a rare spurt of temper but extremely violent. In a welter of feelings he had stormed over the fields, hating Fergus for his strength. His face throbbed where his brother’s iron fists had struck and the warm taste of blood filled his mouth. He spat out two teeth, dismayed to discover that one was from the front. His looks were his passport. His charming tongue and quick warm smile had won him endless nights of intimacy with endless women. He was a womanizer and knew it, yet there was never any fulfilment. Once he had won them over, his appetites satisfied, he soon tired of them and went on restlessly, hopelessly, plunging deeper into loneliness.

  Kirsteen had been an exciting challenge. He had spent his nights at Laigmhor thinking about ways to win her over. She was even more of a challenge because she belonged to Fergus and because there was a dignity about her, a quiet, sweet burning of her inner strength that set her apart from all the women he had ever possessed. Today that slim body of hers had almost belonged to him. He wanted her more than any woman he had yet known and would have taken her against her will if there had been no other way. What a triumph then over Fergus, to have been inside the body of the girl that Fergus thought was his alone. The nearness of her had driven him crazy and all the time he was talking and laughing the heat inside him had risen to an unbearable pitch. Then the feel of her, the cool flesh under that thin dress, her breasts heaving with her struggles.

  Then those awful pounding fists crashing into him, hurting every bone of his body. He was defenceless against the bullying power of his brother. He felt deflated and unmanly, humiliated beyond measure in the eyes of Kirsteen, the woman who moments before he had rendered helpless under his own lustful strength. What kind of man did he look now? She would pity him and wonder what he was made of. Only able to prove himself in the bedroom, a coward at all other times.

  Well, he would show everyone what he was made of. He meant the words he hurled at the men on the shore. He wasn’t afraid of the sea but Fergus was. They would go off and tell him and he could hardly refuse to come looking for his own brother. Let Fergus show them what he was made of . . . if he dared.

  The boat rocked and Alick cried like a little boy. The tears mingled with the blood frothing from his nose. ‘It hurts! It hurts!’ he sobbed like the small boy who had ran to his mother with every little wound.

  ‘Oh Mother! Fergus is a bugger for hitting me! I hate him so I do!’

  He shipped his oars and buried his face in his hands. He had rounded Port Rum Point and was out of sight of Portcull. His little boat bobbed in the green swell coming in from the Sound and he sobbed, great heartrending sobs that were snatched greedily by the threading wind and tossed over the sea. For quite some time he cried out his heart and gradually felt better. Mirabelle was always saying, ‘A good greet cures a host o’ ails’, and she was right. A man couldn’t sit down and weep when he felt like it but he was alone now. Bobbing in his little boat out on the Sound he felt completely alone and very peaceful. The sea had always soothed him and he felt a regret that he hadn’t stayed on Rhanna and become a fisherman. The water had peace and power; wind and tide decreed its moods and it was a force to be respected. But it could be kind to the unafraid. If a man could float and hold on to his courage the sea would carry him without the shell of a boat under him.

  Alick stopped crying and looked about. The sea was strengthening. He had left the shelter of Portcull Harbour and was facing a glassy heaving swell at the tip of the Point. The tide was coming in quite fast but there was still a narrow strip of shore all round the high finger of land. He looked at the Sgor Creags standing out of the sea, stark and grey. The water seethed at their base and the glassy troughs of sea slid towards them to break in waves several feet high, washing the pinnacles in creamy spray. It was a wild sight. Alick was well aware of the presence of countless smaller rocks that surrounded Sgor Creags that were covered at high tide and a death trap to the unwary because they could trap a small boat and finally lure it against the Creags.

  He stared up at the wind-battered cliffs that ran the length of the Point, getting steeper as they went inland. At their base they were barnacled and green, slimy with rotting seaweed, but above the tide line they rose dark and forbidding, hewn into fantastic patterns by wind and time.

  The cold whipped through Alick’s clothes and goose-pimples rose on his flesh. He was in a dilemma of his own making. The heat of his anger was burned out and he had no intention now of letting himself be battered to death on the Sgor Creags. But how could he go back with his tail between his legs? He would be the laughing stock of Rhanna. He couldn’t stay out on the Sound too long either. He was hungry and cold and his whole face throbbed like a giant toothache. For a time he rowed aimlessly, his dark head sunk on his chest, his shoulders hunched miserably. He was drifting nearer the Creags and he started when his keel crunched ominously against a hidden rock. He pulled away and came to a swift decision. He would hole up in one of the tunnels. He shuddered as he looked at the black holes in the cliff face but at least they would afford some protection from the elements. He knew the caves would fill with water but he would scramble to one of the tunnels higher up. He gave little or no thought to the men who would doubtlessly come looking for him. At the moment all his planning and motivation were for the comfort and pres
ervation of Alick McKenzie, and time was running out because barely a foot of sand remained uncovered at the caves.

  He pulled steadily and the keel grounded. Swiftly he jumped from the boat and, pulling it to one of the higher caves he knew never completely filled at high tide, tied it firmly to a rocky spur. He began clambering up the slippery rock but it was no easy matter: he slipped several times, tearing his clothes, cutting hands and knees on jagged holds. Eventually he slithered into a tunnel and lay panting. It was dark and smelled of rotting seaweed but at least it afforded shelter. He propped himself against the rough wall. He was trembling and sore all over and he sucked peevishly at his bloody hands. Edinburgh, with its clean streets and buildings, seemed a million miles away. He thought of a lot of things but most of all about his own plight. Something scuttled in the dark depths behind him and he stiffened when he heard the unmistakable high whistling of rats.

  ‘Oh, God help me!’ he sniffed. A thought came unbidden to his frightened mind. Those nights of the Ceilidhs of his youth and the old men with their stories of sea hags. What did they call them? Green water Caillichs? He looked down at the sea. It was green, a deep sea-green. He had laughed at the old men behind their backs and scoffed at the old legends but now – in this horrible dank tunnel with the waiting sea churning below – he could begin to believe anything. He would wait till dark then he would go back to Laigmhor, collect his clothes, and leave Rhanna in the morning. He was thankful that tomorrow was the day the ferry came: how awful if he’d had to wait a few days and everyone laughing behind his back.

  The plan was simple and seemed quite feasible. Despite his state of discomfort a smile curved his cracked lips. He felt in his pocket, found his cigarettes, lit one, and leaned back against the damp wall to wait for the tide to turn.

  Fergus and Hamish came round Port Rum Point and met the strong green swell from the Sound. They were surrounded by rolling mist and could just discern the looming cliffs.

  ‘We’ll use them to guide us,’ said Hamish. ‘But we can’t go too far along or the damt Creags will tangle wi’ us.’ He laughed cheerily and Fergus, looking at his solid kilted figure, was glad of his reassuring company. It was eerie there in the mist with everything familiar blotted out. The slap of the waves against the boat seemed strangely loud but he knew it was because the thick blanket of har had deadened other sound.

  ‘We’d better shout,’ he said and proceeded to bawl Alick’s name. Alick, dozing in his tunnel, heard the sound faintly. He recognized his brother’s voice and for a reason unknown to himself his heart pounded with relief. He was feeling ill and miserable and didn’t care now if he went back to Rhanna in disgrace. He had been a fool to behave the way he had and had deserved the beating he got. He crawled to the edge of the tunnel and cocked his head to fathom the direction of sound. There were two voices frantically calling his name and he cupped his hands to his mouth but only a croak came out. He swallowed hard and grimaced in pain. His throat was swollen and sore. He had slept with his mouth open because his swollen nose had made breathing difficult. Dried blood had gathered at the back of his throat and he swallowed again and again in an effort to relieve the dryness.

  The voices were growing fainter. He cupped his hands once more and managed to shout, ‘Here, I’m here!’ but there was no answer. ‘I’m here!’ he cried again in despair. He sank to the floor and hugged his trembling body tightly. Fear made him feel sick and he vomited, retching agonizingly till he emptied his stomach.

  Fergus had shipped the oars while he shouted. So eagerly did he listen for an answering cry that several vital minutes passed before Hamish noticed that the cliffs were no longer visible. Both men looked at each other in dread. Curls of mist drifted wraith-like over the water and the steady leaden rain soaked them to the skin. It was frightening not knowing which way to go. Too near the Sgor Creags and their boat would be smashed to driftwood, too far and they could drift into the open sea. Sweat broke on Fergus’s brow and his eyes searched desperately for the cliffs but the mist had swallowed them up. The boat rocked alarmingly and his stomach churned in fear. It wasn’t a particularly rough sea but there was a calm menace in the green swell that was far more forbidding than a superficial show of strength and Fergus knew that deep undercurrents were meeting and boiling.

  Hamish wasn’t afraid of the water, it was the mist that worried him. The sea was charitable enough as long as they could see where they were going but they couldn’t and were in an extremely precarious position. He would have felt happier if they had been further out on the Sound away from the Creags and the numerous rocks surrounding them. The rain had drenched him. His red hair was plastered against his head and his kilt clung in miserable folds round his legs. He thought of Maggie and the warm meal she would have waiting. He thought of the warm happy feeling the sight of her always brought and just thinking about it brought a small measure of that feeling now. Life was so good; he loved his work but now he looked forward to the evenings, Maggie with her knitting, he with his pipe, Whisky and numerous cats draped over the furniture. They could be silent, so peacefully silent with Maggie’s needles clicking, Whisky snoring, and the clock ticking sonorously. Or they could talk for hours about all sorts of things. Maggie wasn’t just a woman who kept the house, she was extremely well versed in many subjects for she had travelled a good deal and could tell him about places he had never been to. He smiled when he thought about the intimate little habits they had adopted. Before bed they each had their own tasks, his to secure the hen runs and rabbit hutches, hers to wind clocks and settle the fire. Before he got back to the house she would hide from him then pounce from some dark recess and loudly cry, ‘Keek a boo!’ It was a kind of hide and seek they had played when first married and somehow the habit continued. It was ‘their game’. They chuckled about it, wondering what the more sedate islanders would say if they knew. In kirk he only had to whisper ‘Keek a boo’ to make Maggie hide her laughter in a hanky.

  He was still thinking of Maggie when an enormous silky swell hurled the boat on to a hidden spur of rock. For a moment he was aware of everything, the seething foam choking and blinding him as the boat tilted him into the sea, the wild crashing roar of water meeting rock, the white face of Fergus bobbing nearby, the cold ruthless water pulling relentlessly. He raised both arms and grabbed at the boat but even as he did so he knew he should never have pulled at the bow. It catapulted towards him. He heard the thud and knew it was deep inside his own head. He saw the blood foaming in the waves. Before the world and all his senses left him he heard Fergus screaming his name, over and over in nameless horror. His lips moved forming the name ‘Maggie’ before all that he had known and loved in life went blank and empty and the sea threw his body scornfully against the waiting Sgor Creags.

  Fergus saw all that happened through a curtain of water. He heard a hysterical voice calling over and over for Hamish and hardly recognized it as his own. All the self-control that he had built round himself gave way and he began to scream in panic. He watched Hamish’s helpless body being smashed over and over against the rocks till it was broken and bleeding. A giant wave lifted it and for a moment it was suspended before it was thrown high to wedge between two of the smaller pinnacles. Fergus looked at the once proud body, at the shining red hair, and the sightless staring eyes and he knew he was crying like a child. He thrashed wildly, trying to free himself from the horror of the Sgor Creags and their victim, but found that only one of his arms would work. The other hung in the water and now he felt the excruciating pain. His whole being had been so tortured at the sight of Hamish he had given no thought to himself. He tried again to lift his arm and cried aloud in agony. The sea was lifting him, taking him to the Creags, and he threshed wildly with his legs and one arm. He looked for the boat and saw that it had completely capsized and was being smashed to driftwood. With an awkward sideways scuttle he fought the tide and gradually took himself away from the rocks. His heart was pounding and he felt giddy. For a moment he stopped to res
t and wondered why the water round him was tinged with pink. He looked up and noticed that the mist had cleared enough for the cliffs to be visible and thought bitterly that if it had lifted a few minutes before Hamish would still be alive.

  He had managed to get well away from the Creags. They loomed like grey ghosts through the thinning mist. He shivered and his throat constricted when he thought of his friend dead because he had again wanted to help the McKenzies. His head was spinning alarmingly and he knew he could swim no further. Why had he come out here anyway? Alick! To find Alick! He tried to shout but couldn’t. He blamed himself for everything. There had been no need for him to have beaten Alick the way he did. It was an unfair fight. Alick had never been good with his fists but it had been the sight of him with Kirsteen . . . Kirsteen, dear lovely Kirsteen, she was like Helen sometimes the way she laughed. Helen and Kirsteen, Shona and Helen, they all looked the same because their faces were blurring in his mind.

  Mirabelle came to him suddenly – she darted into his mind and wouldn’t leave it. She seemed very near and he held out his arm to cling to her motherly bosom. It was growing dim, and briefly he wondered if it was getting dark. His senses reeled; he was floating in the sky and looking up at wavering water and the sky he was floating in reminded him of a sunset because of the pink patches all round him.