Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Alick looked out of the tunnel and saw that the mist was clearing. He trembled with relief. It was horrible in the tunnel: rats scampered in the dark and insects crawled everywhere. He wondered where Hamish and Fergus were; it was a good half-hour since they had called. He hoped they hadn’t gone out too far but knew that once the mist cleared they would be safe because a fishing boat would pick them up. Alick was worrying more about himself. The claustrophobic panic he had experienced in the dank misty tunnel had made him resolve to get out as soon as possible. It would be easy enough to scramble down the cliff for a few feet then jump into the water where he could swim to the cave where he had left the boat. The thought of the cold water didn’t appeal to him but it was better than waiting in the rancid tunnel till the tide turned.

  He stripped to his underpants and shivered. It wasn’t cold but damp and cloying and he wasn’t used to such discomfort. He peered out again and saw that the mist was clearing. At first it had hovered several feet above the water but a warm wind was dispersing it. He smiled to himself. No one would give him much sympathy when he got back, except perhaps Mirabelle. She would fuss discreetly and make him drink hot broth and a toddy or two. Yes, good old Mirabelle would salve the wounds of mind and body. He gathered his clothes into a bundle and tied them together to throw them into the water. He would have to change into the sodden garments because he couldn’t very well prance through the village wearing nothing but underpants. He smirked. That would give the old gossips something to get their tongues round. He glanced at the dark object floating about a hundred yards from the caves and thought nothing of it. There was always flotsam coming in with the tide. But something oddly familiar about the object made him look again and he saw his brother’s dark head sticking out of his brown working jacket.

  ‘Fergus!’ he cried and without hesitation dived straight into the water. He reached his brother with a few swift strokes. At first he thought the helpless figure was without life. The face was deathly pale and there was no sign of breathing, but a pulse beat faintly at the temple and Alick let out a sigh of thankfulness.

  ‘Fergus!’ he shouted again but there was no response and he realized his brother was deeply unconscious. He wondered what had kept him afloat then saw the piece of driftwood Fergus had clung to before his senses left him. It had wedged into his shirt causing a thick weal on his chest but at least it had saved his life – what was left of that life.

  Alick worked swiftly. He pulled Fergus to him and removed the piece of wood, then he put him on his back, holding his chin above water. He had decided to swim to the cave where he would try and haul Fergus into the boat and get rid of some of the sea from his lungs. It was then that Alick saw something that made him feel faint with shock. His brother’s left arm was a mangled bloody mess. Skin and flesh mingled together and the bone of the upper arm had splintered and projected several inches from torn flaps of skin. Alick looked away in horror. He retched but nothing would come from his empty belly. In that moment he felt a sorrow and a love for his brother that he hadn’t experienced since those far-off days of hero-worship. He felt it was all his fault and he gathered Fergus to him and wept into his wet black hair.

  ‘Forgive me, Fergie,’ he whispered brokenly but he knew that his brother had a long battle for life ahead of him and the thought spurred him into action. He swam to the cave with his burden. The boat had risen with the tide till it almost touched the roof but he struggled gamely to get the helpless body aboard. It was an impossible task. Fergus was slim but muscular and heavier built than Alick, and after several exhausting minutes Alick gave up trying. He leaned against the boat wearily.

  ‘It’s up to God now, Fergus,’ he panted, ‘if He can give me the strength to keep us both afloat till help comes.’

  He didn’t know how long he floated. It could have been minutes or hours. Dazed with weariness he kept drifting into sleep only to jump into wakefulness at the feel of Fergus slipping from his grasp.

  He had no idea of time, but in fact only thirty minutes had passed. Voices floated over the water.

  ‘Here! Over here!’ he croaked joyfully. He summoned his remaining strength and floundered out of the cave. The men saw him and two jumped into the water to help.

  ‘Mind his arm,’ warned Alick as his brother was taken from him and dragged into the boat. The men stared.

  ‘Good God, what a bloody mess!’ whispered old Joe. ‘It’s the doctor for him or he’ll die if he’s not gone already!’

  Alick slithered into the boat. There were no willing hands to help him.

  ‘What’s become o’ Hamish?’ asked old Bob grimly.

  Alick shook his head. ‘Don’t – know, Fergus was alone – no one else.’

  ‘And where is my boat?’ asked Ranald, but no one was listening.

  The mist had cleared considerably and the sun was breaking through. It gleamed on the Sgor Creags and the men saw the small splash of colour that was Hamish’s kilt. They looked harder and saw that the Sgor Creags had claimed one of the finest men of Rhanna. They hung their heads and in silence took the boat round Port Rum Point to Portcull.

  Kirsteen was waiting with a knot of others. She saw Alick stagger from the boat. In different circumstances he would have been an object for laughter in his drooping sodden underpants but no one gave him a second glance. They were watching the helpless figure of Fergus being carried ashore. In a dream of horror she watched the men carrying him up the shingle and for several moments she remained in a trance-like state. Her hands had turned icy cold and she felt numb. She so desperately wanted to run to that beloved figure, to find out if he was still of this life, but she was paralysed with the enormity of fear that he had been taken from her. Then her feet took wings and she fled over the shore.

  ‘He’s in a bad way, lass,’ said Bob before she could speak. He raised his voice. ‘Will someone ride over for the doctor? Tell him to come quick!’

  ‘To the schoolhouse!’ cried Kirsteen.

  Todd the Shod scurried off and the men carried Fergus gently away.

  ‘Where’s Hamish?’ asked Mathew anxiously. ‘I told Maggie he’d be late but I didny think this late. She’ll be keepin’ his supper warm. Is he comin’ in another boat?’

  ‘He’ll never sup again,’ said old Bob grimly.

  Canty Tam smiled with satisfaction. ‘I knew the Uisga hags would have a Rhanna man . . .’ He glanced towards the group of men carrying Fergus. ‘And maybe another before the night’s over!’

  Bob was old but his fists were iron hard and Canty Tam never quite knew how he landed with such force on the rough shingle because by the time his head stopped spinning old Bob had joined the rest of the men toiling towards the schoolhouse.

  TEN

  Fergus floated in a nightmare world of fever and pain. He knew not where he was. At times he felt himself bobbing in an inky black sea. The water roared in his ears and his bursting lungs fought for air. From afar he heard terrible groans that he knew came from himself yet they were part of another self over which he had no control. He was drenched in moisture and someone with gentle hands kept wiping his brow but how could they be so foolish as to think they could wipe away the sea that kept engulfing him. Hamish bobbed beside him but always just out of reach. It was awful the way Hamish stared at him, a blank stare from eyes of death, but how could anyone be dead who had been so vibrantly alive moments before? That sea near Hamish was spuming with red, bloody foaming sea, washing in and out of the battered gaping hole in Hamish’s skull. That other self with so little control over its emotions let out a hellish scream and Fergus laughed and cried with pity.

  Sometimes the black curtains that veiled his mind were pulled aside and he saw white muslin curtains blowing in the breeze and white wallpaper sprinkled with blue flowers.

  Voices came to him and his senses struggled to place them in the faces that floated before him. A little girl with bright hair and blue eyes, a lovely little lass, but sad and lost looking.

  And a young
woman, with hair that gleamed like corn, and a delicate sensitive face. Her mouth was firm but soft and the very grace of her features made her beautiful. It wasn’t Helen; no, she was of another life, one which he felt himself to be on the brink of. It was there, barely out of reach, stretching into the caverns of velvet infinity. It would be so nice, so peaceful, to let himself drift through those caverns, to reach Helen who floated like a dazzling star at the furthermost depths. He called her name and the sound of it reverberated back, back, into the black tunnels, vibrating till he felt he must scream. He was afraid now of those depths and he struggled; great weights pulled at him dragging him down, down, but he gritted his teeth and pulled against them. He tried to cry out but now no sound would come. He knew he was opening his mouth but his throat was paralysed with fear of the dark depths surrounding him. Over and over he tried to call out and the wet tears of weakness and frustration mingled with the salt sea dripping from his forehead.

  Kirsteen watched his struggles and her heart lay like a stone in her breast. Once more she wiped away beads of sweat from his face with a hand that trembled. She was so tired but would let no one else nurse him till she knew he was going to get better.

  The folk of Portcull were kind. Fresh bread, bannocks, and bowls of broth were brought every day. Kirsteen was touched by these gestures yet she was too tired and worried to listen to the solicitous condolences offered by all and sundry. No matter how Rhanna folk felt about each other personally, when sickness came to one of them it was a matter of duty to call in and offer sympathy and help. A steady stream came and went from the sick room. It was Kirsteen’s own bedroom; she had moved into a smaller room and Shona slept with her, snuggled in close like a lost little kitten.

  All day feet clumped up and down stairs.

  ‘Terrible, terrible just!’ Behag Beag said the same thing each day. ‘Ach, the poor laddie! A dreadful thing to be sure.’

  Kirsteen knew the postmistress disliked Fergus and each day she tried to tell her not to utter her hypocritical condolences but somehow she couldn’t get the words out.

  Shelagh wheezed in and did nothing but cry at sight of the deathly pale face on the pillow. ‘Ach, my poor lad, he’s like death warmed up and him not knowin’ aboot poor Mirabelle and poor Hamish. It’s terrible just! I don’t think I’ll ever complain aboot my winds again and all these good folk dead and dyin’.’

  Her words weren’t designed to cheer a flagging spirit and Kirsteen breathed sighs of relief when the old woman left.

  Dodie was the most constant and surprisingly the most comforting of visitors.

  ‘He breeah,’ he unfailingly greeted, stooping low to allow his tall gaunt figure through the low door. Because of the camped ceilings he always stood in the middle of the room and from this vantage point offered all sorts of hopeful predictions about Fergus’s future. He was gruff and shy but in his guileless way he gave Kirsteen hope. Each day he brought a small gift; perhaps a sea urchin dried and cleaned, an unusually shaped pebble, carefully chosen shells, or simply an early autumn leaf glowing with red and gold. ‘To press into one o’ these books you read, miss,’ he explained shyly, anxious that so humble a gift would be acceptable to a fine lady.

  Kirsteen was deeply touched by the gifts. Dodie’s simple mind saw beauty in the treasures of nature. He looked at the sunset and saw its glorious colours where a man of keener mind might look and see nothing but the sun going down.

  He clearly worshipped Fergus and stared at him for minutes at a time. Love looked out of the normally dreamy eyes. Each time he went away he left behind his peculiar odour but he also left a feeling of hope and Kirsteen was grateful for even a grain of that.

  The forty-eight hours since Fergus had been carried to the schoolhouse were like a nightmare. Fergus, unconscious on the couch in her little sitting-room, and the blood, so much blood from that poor mangled arm; she sitting beside him; thoughts, reality, all mixing together while she bathed the deep gash on his forehead. Alick hovering, making demented half-statements, blaming himself, crying like a baby, looking to her for a comfort she could not give.

  Lachlan had seemed a long time in coming but it was only because each tick of the clock was another moment lost in the fight to save Fergus.

  Then Lachlan, white-faced from a day already filled with painful feelings. His examination was quick and he wasted no time making a decision.

  ‘Get ready the kitchen table, Kirsteen. The arm will have to be amputated or poison will set in.’

  Kirsteen felt faint but went to the kitchen. Water was already boiling on the fire. Kate McKinnon and Merry Mary had kept a big pot ready for the purpose of making tea. Bob and several of the men had stayed, suspecting their help was going to be needed. They were drinking mugs of tea and smoking their pipes with the slow deliberate enjoyment of their generation. Word had got round about Mirabelle and there was a lot for them to talk about.

  Kirsteen hadn’t known about Mirabelle and she leaned against the doorpost.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘Oh God no! Mirabelle – Hamish . . . the bairn, where is she?’ Her voice rose. ‘Poor little Shona, she’ll be so lost already and she doesn’t even know about her father yet! He’s to lose his arm! I’ve to prepare the table, Lachlan is operating here!’ Her voice broke with utter despair. Kate McKinnon put a heavy arm round her shoulders.

  ‘There, lass, greet now for it will do you good. Don’t worry about the bairn, she’s wi’ Phebie.’ She led Kirsteen to a chair. ‘Sit you down – we’ll get ready the table. It’s no’ the first time an operation’s been done on the spot. Auld McLure had to tak’ off a pluchie’s foot that got mangled wi’ a heuck. Right out in the middle o’ a field it was. Poor Sandy, he died – pneumonia set in but it was himself to blame. He swung that damty heuck like it was a wee pocket-knife. And there’s myself,’ she puffed out her bosom proudly, ‘all but brought our Wullie into the world without help. Nancy was there right enough but she was only a bairn and couldny do very much! Aye, there’s many a thing has to be done in a hurry, lass!’

  But Kirsteen was listening with only half an ear. She was watching the sturdy wooden table being scrubbed with soap and boiling water and she shuddered at the thought of Fergus lying on it, not knowing he was losing his arm. She dreaded to think of the time of his knowing. Another man might at first be shocked but would learn to accept what had happened, but would Fergus? Could he, with his stubborn, independent pride, be happy to live without every one of his faculties in perfect order? Would he in time thank God it had been his left arm or would he blame God for what had happened both to himself and Hamish?

  She wondered if he knew about Hamish. He certainly didn’t know about Mirabelle. She prayed for his recovery yet dreaded his awakening to a world from which he had lost so much. But he still had his little girl and he still had her. Would he weigh those things against his losses? Did he love them both enough? Tears coursed down her cheeks and she shivered though the fire had brought a flush to her face. Merry Mary handed her a cup of tea. It was laced with brandy and made her throat burn but the heat glowed through her and when the men came in carrying Fergus she was able to help lower him gently on to the table.

  Biddy had arrived. She looked old and very tired and Kirsteen realized she had just come from Mirabelle’s deathbed. Her eyes were red and Kirsteen shook herself from her stupor and went to the hall where Biddy was removing her coat. The two women looked at each other. Biddy’s chin trembled and Kirsteen gathered her into her arms. Neither said a word but the unspoken bond of their heartache was enough. Biddy gave a watery sniff and blew her nose. ‘I’m fine now, lass, just an old fool I am but she was – ach she was my good friend – none better – there’s gey few o’ them left I can tell you! But it’s sair your ain hert must be, my poor lass.’ She laid her hand on Kirsteen’s arm and a smile lit her weary eyes. ‘Come on now, into battle. We must patch together that young upstart in there.’

  ‘Biddy!’ Lachlan’s voice was threaded with impatience a
nd unease. It was a disquieting sensation to see powerful, self-willed Fergus McKenzie lying so helpless, so completely reliant on the help of others. Lachlan’s profession made him only too aware of human frailties but he had learned to accept its demands. How to tell loving parents their child was doomed, how to impart the news of the passing of a loved one, how to speak of a wasting disease? Time had given him the answers but it did not lessen the pain or joy of each experience. He had learned much about people and, early in his career, found that the humblest of humans had their dignity.

  Fergus had dignity – that was a good point in anyone – but he also had a fierce pride.

  Lachlan looked at the waxen features of the man who had ignored him for ten years. God, was it really that long? Yes, it did seem a long time, yet, was it not just yesterday that Fergus had accused him of Helen’s death? Fergus had killed everything with those accusations of long ago. For a long time he had wondered about his abilities. Could he have saved Helen? He had fought so hard for her life but the battle had been in vain. Doubts had crept into his mind like thick black poisonous threads. No one but Phebie had known about them but even her staunch love had weakened at his continuing refusal to let her have another child. In the end, love had won but it had been touch and go, just another example of how susceptible human beings were in the face of adversity, yet love itself was strength and its power couldn’t be denied.

  Love and hate. Which was the stronger emotion? Fergus had loved with an intensity that made love itself a frightening emotion. He had hated too. Lachlan still remembered the dour black hate in Fergus’s voice but it had been a hate born of grief and Lachlan had known that Fergus would one day regret his bitter words. He had regretted them and tried to make amends but by then it was too late.

  Lachlan felt the sweat break on his brow. Everyone was looking at him strangely. He was delaying too long, they knew it as he did. In that moment all his old doubts came back, but he knew now that ten years was too long for two men to hate each other. But he didn’t hate Fergus, on the contrary he liked the man in a strange sort of way. In the old days Fergus had brought an excitement to him, not the thrill a woman brings, but the excitement of shared male pursuits. There had been an affinity between them, a feeling of respect for the other’s mood, when they spoke it meant something, when they were silent it was a shared contentment.