Island of Wings

by Karin Altenberg

  She stood back and lifted her hand from his shoulder as if it had touched hot iron. The unfairness of the remark struck her with full force. It must be a misunderstanding, she thought. She was determined not to let dejection overcome her; she held it tight in her throat and went back inside.

  George and Dick woke to a most glorious morning. The gold that tinged the island was shining through the muslin curtains of their small bedroom window. They could hear Mrs MacKenzie moving about next door, preparing their breakfast of porridge and a most agreeable cup of tea.

  George watched Mr MacKenzie closely as he sat down to join them at the breakfast table. He seemed himself again, George noted with relief, and, if not quite the gentleman that they had first taken him for, at least his eyes were honest and intelligent.

  ‘I should advise you,’ said the minister as he poured milk on his porridge, ‘that you should give the natives some of your tobacco in payment for the troubles involved in bringing you to Boreray.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course!’ said Dick, who was always anxious to do the right thing. ‘I would be more than happy to offer them a liberal pecuniary compensation for their labours!’

  ‘Their idea of the value of money is so vague that I think they would be more pleased if you were to give them about half of what is in your tobacco pouch,’ answered the minister, who enjoyed brokering a deal on behalf of his subjects, and so the business was settled.

  The natives were already busy preparing their boat when the three gentlemen arrived on the landing rocks. The vessel, which belonged to the community, was a heavy, awkward ship’s boat given to them by the laird. It weighed two tons and was rowed with three pairs of oars. The sail was a curiosity in itself. It seemed to be constructed like a patchwork quilt where each square was made up of a woollen fabric of various colours. Like everything else on the island, the task of making the sail had been divided in equal parts between the families.

  Twelve of the St Kildans had turned out for the excursion. They were as jolly as ever and although their work at preparing the boat was frequently interrupted by the telling of a story or the lighting of a pipe the group eventually set off for Boreray. The island, situated five miles north of Hirta, had no natural landing place and the St Kildans would therefore normally let those who would catch the birds and eggs on the island jump from the boat on to the sheer rocks with a rope fastened around their waist. The rest of the crew would then return to Hirta until it was time to pick up their comrades or, if the day was fair and the sea calm, they might let the boat drift off the island while they smoked and talked. However, on this occasion, the return crew would wait for the fowlers and their guests in the calmer waters just off the island. A trip like this one could only be attempted in fair weather, as even the slightest swell made it very difficult for the men to land.

  The boat was making slow progress through Village Bay, and George soon remarked to the minister, ‘I say, minister, these islanders are truly wretched mariners!’

  ‘Yes, their naval tactics are very poor indeed. I think they must be the most uncomfortable, anxious sailors I have ever encountered,’ said the latter, and laughed.

  ‘How is that?’ Dick chipped in. ‘Islanders are generally very good sailors.’

  ‘Well, I believe it stems from an unusual fear of and respect for the sea. They do not swim, and many of their kin have died at sea, either from falling into it when climbing the crags and stacks or from boating accidents.’

  The natives were pulling six oars at a time: in threes, with two men sitting on the same bench. But although they were all singing to keep the rhythm and urge each other on, none of the pairs managed to dip their heavy oars into the water at the same time. Instead they splashed in at irregular intervals, spraying the passengers with cold sea water. Moreover, the anxious rowers seemed inclined to stick close to land for as long as possible and the boat was thus coasting every little bay and headland on Hirta before setting off, splashing more furiously than ever, across the open expanse of sea between the two islands. Somewhere halfway between the islands the six oarsmen were relieved by their kinsmen. This change-over was carried out in the most casual manner and the St Kildans were gossiping and chatting away while, to George’s frustration, the boat was carried back towards Hirta on the current.

  ‘It is a miracle that they get any work done at all, judging from the amount of gossip that goes on,’ said Dick grumpily, trailing his hand in the water over the gunwale.

  ‘Hmm, that is a most intriguing point,’ said the minister with scientific interest. ‘You see, I have calculated that it takes them on average five times longer to carry out any task related to agriculture than it does the farmers on the mainland. They are naturally inclined to forget the task at hand as soon as they are distracted in their work.’

  ‘Ah, they are just plain lazy. You will have to teach them some good Protestant work ethics, minister,’ said George cheerfully.

  Dick stiffened at his brother’s impertinent remark, but relaxed when he heard the minister laughing behind him. Mr MacKenzie was enjoying the younger men’s company. They reminded him of his time as a student. He had even begun secretly to admire George’s impudence. The young man seemed to be driven by a confidence which he often lacked himself. Of course he would never admit this to anyone, sometimes overcompensating to hide his feelings of inadequacy as a man. In one area, however, he was very confident: his mission. He was convinced that even if he failed in every other way, at least he would not let himself fail in his mission. George’s remarks the previous evening had hit him hard, as they had questioned the very core of his commitment. This mission was more than a vocation – it was the only way to make sense of his survival.

  As the boat left Hirta behind, the numbers of gannets increased rapidly until the air seemed to be thick with them. George turned his head back and looked into the sky where the myriad of birds resembled the whirling of snow. Occasionally a bird would dive into the sea, resurfacing with a glistening herring partly hanging out of its beak. A couple of skuas were scanning the flock of gannets for a suitable target to harass. Suddenly one of the skuas caught sight of a well-fed gannet and closed in for the hunt, closely followed by his partner. The two brown birds bombarded the gannet from two directions. One of them managed to get close enough to pick at its white breast feathers while the other one pushed down hard from above in an effort to bring it down towards the sea. The gannet was caught by fear and as it realised that the battle was lost it vomited up the freshly caught fish into the waiting gapes of the thieving skuas. Such a display of the unfair cruelty of nature was of great interest to the three would-be naturalists. Each would create his own theology to explain it.

  As the boat slowly approached the island the Atkinsons looked in awe at Stac an Armin, the Stack of the Warrior, which rose abruptly from the sea like a thorn – its sheer cliff-face looking like the topsail of a man-of-war, a shadowed threat on a bright day.

  After much splashing and some rather fair singing the party eventually reached Boreray. The boat drew up with its broadside along the rock. Although it was an exceptionally calm day, the swell of the Atlantic kept the dinghy rising and falling fifteen feet by the side of the cliff. If the St Kildans were unusually disastrous oarsmen, they certainly excelled in landing on a rocky shore. As the Atkinsons watched from their seats at the rear, one man positioned himself in the prow and another one in the stern, each with a long pole which they used to steady the broadside against the rock. A third man, with a coiled rope on his arm, one end of which was attached to one of the seats, was balancing in the middle of the boat waiting for a high wave at the peak of which he leaped on to the rock. Once the first man had positioned himself safely on the rock another man performed the same trick, thus creating a rope bridge or gangway for the safety and benefit of the less experienced cragsmen and the guests.

  After the minister, George and Dick had assembled safel
y on the rock with four of the St Kildans, the remaining eight natives pushed out from the rock and let out a drogue anchor made of a sheep’s stomach filled with stone. Floating slowly on the great shapelessness of the Atlantic, they soon resumed their chattering and gossiping and seemed much content with the general situation.

  The cragsmen indicated to the gentlemen to follow them and at once started to climb the most arduous cliff. It was about seven hundred feet high and they seemed to dance up the rock face completely oblivious of their heavy loads of ropes and gear. The minister, who felt a need to possess the gap between the cragsmen and the gentlemen, started to ascend the cliff in his shirtsleeves, and George and Dick realised that they had no alternative but to follow his example. While they were trying to find a foothold on the jagged rocks the minister told them between breaths that the St Kildan women often descended or ascended these same cliffs with a sheep or a lamb in their arms. This remark had the intended effect, and the two brothers, chafing the shiny leather of their fine boots against the rock, soon reached the grassy plateau at the summit.

  The party crossed the island, following a ridge which spined from the east to the west. As they walked they could see the Atlantic on all sides. Its oily surface stretched and stretched in all directions until it poured over the horizon into another space. On the north-east side of the ridge was a grassy heath which went by the Norse name of Sunadal – a most appropriate name on this morning when the sun warmed the valley and lit up the sheep like lamps, one after the other, as it moved across the steep slopes. After some more walking the party stopped to examine a curious old structure on their left. If it had not been for the natives pointing it out to them, the guests would probably have missed it. It was an ancient dwelling, sunk into the ground and divided internally into a central oval-shaped chamber flanked by smaller compartments, like the petals around the pistil of a flower. The natives called the house Taigh Stallar, the Staller or taxman’s house, and explained that this was where they would normally stay when they visited the island for longer periods. Supplies of dried food and fuel were stacked neatly in one of the compartments, and some dried bracken remained on the floor in one of the other hollows. The smell was stale as in a cave. No one knew how the dwelling had come into being, the natives claimed, but it was supposed to have housed a recluse at one point in the history of the island.

  When they reached the north-west side of the island the men were faced with a most extraordinary view. Before them was a chasm in the rock at its most elevated point. The square gap formed an immense chimney, and George exclaimed that it was without exception the most sublime sight he had ever seen. He knew that he would never find the right words to explain its full splendour to anyone. The sea which sighed deep under the rocks would frequently sneeze and a puff of air would rise through the chimney. From this point they could watch the nesting gannets that covered the rocks and nearby stacks. Stac an Armin lay close and threatening to the north. From a distance it looked as if the cliffs were of a white mineral substance, but on closer examination you could make out that it was the gannets themselves which coloured the rock as they covered every square inch of the precipice. In some cases they seemed to be sitting on top of each other, and the noise that rose from their million throats was so loud that the fowling party had to shout to each other to make themselves understood.

  At this point the two St Kildans who had first jumped ashore on Boreray started to uncoil a thick rope about eight fathoms long. Made of horsehair, the rope had been clad in many places in sheepskin to prevent it from wearing against the rock. One of the natives wound the rope around his waist just under his arms and another one took it over his shoulder and under his arm and positioned himself with his feet braced against a boulder in order to carry the weight of his comrade. His companion went to the edge and then walked backwards over the cliff, descending with his body extending horizontally from the vertical rock face and with his back towards the sea which was breaking far below. George and Dick both threw themselves flat on their stomachs and looked over the edge of the rock. The climber was jumping lightly between the grassy ledges on which the gannets nested, his feet seeming barely to touch the rock in a manner which made him resemble an insect skimming the still waters of a pond. As he landed on a new ledge the climber would chase some of the birds away and quickly reach out to secure their eggs, which he put in a straw basket that was tied to the rope. In this manner he managed to fill the basket in less than ten minutes. He then started his ascent, agile as an ape, and aided by his friend he soon was back at the top of the cliff.

  The Atkinson brothers were much impressed by this competence. ‘Why did he not catch some of the birds – they seemed to be within easy reach?’ asked Dick.

  ‘They are leaving the adult birds to hatch the remaining eggs in order to ensure the harvest of gugas, the young gannets which they consider to be a delicacy, in August and September. The adult birds are generally killed earlier in the season and dried or salted in barrels for the winter,’ the minister explained.

  ‘They tend to harvest the fulmar and guillemots in May,’ he continued. ‘We will probably be able to see this on our way back to Hirta this afternoon.’

  George was busy taking notes of all that he observed. He was hoping that his experiences would result in him being asked to read a paper to the Natural History Society of Northumbria. Mr Bewick would probably be impressed by some of his ornithological observations. Perhaps in the future his writings would even lead to his being elected a fellow of the newly established Linnean Society of London. He wanted his family name to be linked with science and exploration. He greatly admired the men of science who had made their names abroad: Banks, Solander and others who had all been given land and titles as a result of their work.

  ‘Come on, George, we are leaving.’ Dick had to nudge his brother hard in the side to wake him from his daydreaming.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They are taking us to see a pair of nesting peregrine falcons!’ Dick cried excitedly. He was still young, and some things would make him revert to being the boy who had often roamed the Northumbrian moors around the family estate.

  George, who had been enjoying his ambitious dreams, was irritated and followed a few steps behind the others as they set off to find the nesting birds of prey.

  However, when they reached the inland cliff where the falcons bred he was the first to display his enthusiasm over the pair of birds who were trying to conceal their four chicks in their nest.

  The young cragsmen were as apt at raiding the falcons’ nest as they were at collecting the gannets’ eggs, and the Atkinsons were soon presented with a young bird each.

  The chicks were still covered in white down, but the adult feathers of a steely blue-grey were starting to come through on their backs. They looked very vulnerable, with their disproportionately large feet and blinking eyes. The young St Kildans made a bed of their woollen scarves for them in one of the egg baskets and covered it with a basket lid.

  ‘Are you sure it is necessary to remove them from the safety and comfort of their home?’ asked the minister, who had not realised that the intention was to add the birds to the Atkinsons’ collection of specimens.

  ‘I am sure the parents will rear their two remaining young in a satisfactory manner,’ said George, who was still too inexperienced to understand loss but was at least familiar with the nature of birds.

  The minister, who had experience in both fields, could think of nothing to say.

  As the party returned to the rocks where the boat had dropped them off, the St Kildans began waving and shouting to attract the attention of their kinsmen who were still drifting near Stac Lee. On hearing their calls the boatmen splashed up to the rock and received the party and the baskets of eggs. No one mentioned the two chicks, but their pathetic cries disturbed MacKenzie. He could not help but remember the slimy purple body that he himself had delivered from h
is unconscious wife just before the old crone who acted as midwife arrived to cut off its lifeline and smear the stump with fulmar oil.

  Before returning to Village Bay the boat drew up at the base of Conachair. A couple of teenage boys were working away sixty feet above the surface of the sea. They were both standing on impossibly narrow ledges with long poles that looked much like strong fishing rods, twice the length of a man and with a horsehair noose at the end. George soon saw that they used the rods to fish for birds, pushing the noose over the heads of the unsuspecting, silly-looking guillemots. Sometimes the fowlers could catch two or more birds in one swoop. George could not help but laugh when the birds looked quite puzzled as their relatives disappeared around them, but few made any more active endeavour at escape than to move their head from side to side in order to avoid the pole, although some tried to push away the advancing noose with their bills. However, as their numbers dwindled, a few of them started to show signs of distrust and apprehension. Some of them took the trouble to shuffle away to the furthest extremity of the shelf and one or two even quit it altogether. The two boys had already gathered a large quantity of dead birds, which they had stuffed into nooks and crannies in the rock in anticipation of the boat. Now they started to throw the birds into the boat and the three passengers soon found themselves quite inundated by carcasses. The boat sat heavy in the sea as the six oarsmen started their laborious journey back towards Village Bay. The sun was still high in the west, but the light had changed and heralded the coming of another white night. One of the crew started to sing, his voice high and clear. He chanted a verse and the other men would answer in unison, thus establishing the rhythm of the oars.