Island of Wings

by Karin Altenberg

  As soon as the ship reached the bay the village boat came up alongside it and a couple of the men were lifted up on deck. A name was painted with large red letters on the green hull. Mother said it read The Vulcan of Broomielaw and that was the name of the ship. She said it was a most appropriate name as a Vulcan created clouds and explosions just like the ship had.

  Neil MacKenzie stood by the bulwarks on the quarterdeck and watched as his island home drew closer. He was trying to sort and define his feelings at that moment. He had actually quite enjoyed being away for a couple of months, and this made him feel guilty. His visit to Glasgow had been a success from his point of view, and he felt encouraged. There, in the church meetings and salons, he had been appreciated and revered. Churchmen and scholars had flocked to see him, and even women had shown a keen interest in him. Some of them, he had realised, were very agreeable both to look at and to speak to. Their white smooth faces had beamed at him and their bosoms had heaved in their corsets. The doubts and inadequacies he sometimes felt on the island were removed and he had felt strong and elevated. On the island he never knew if his efforts would be enough but there, in the ­candle­lit parlours of Glasgow’s rich and famous, he was encouraged to believe that his work on St Kilda was unique and spectacular. That he was interesting. Even during the journey he had been hailed by some of the more distinguished of the passengers as somebody intriguing and admirable. Lachlan MacLean, a young writer who had travelled with the party on the Vulcan, had been interviewing him about the island on several occasions. MacKenzie found him rather tedious and affected, but it was clear that the young man’s zeal and enthusiasm were genuine. There was a certain Miss Thomson on board who had charmed many of the gentlemen, he believed, and especially Mr MacLean.

  His expedition, his errand of mercy to Glasgow, had paid off. With the assistance of the kindly Dr MacLeod and a few generous gentlemen in Glasgow he had secured forty-seven bedsteads (two for every house that paid rent, one for each of the widows), also twenty-four chairs, twenty-one stools, twenty-one tables, twenty-one dressers, twenty-one glass windows, and numerous pieces of Delft ware. The manager of the Glasgow Steam Packet Company, Mr MacConnell, had agreed to warrant the company in advertising a trip, thus providing a commodious steamer for the expedition, if a sufficient number of tourists signed up.

  Arrangements having been completed, the steamer Vulcan, with about forty passengers, left the Clyde on the twenty-fifth day of July. It had been a rather pleasant journey and Mr MacKenzie had enjoyed the attention that he received from the other passengers, who were curious about St Kilda and her inhabitants. The ship had stopped at several places on the way in order for the tourists to get the full value from their fare. At the Giant’s Causeway one of the passengers, a most respectable tradesman, who had manufactured the household articles that were being given to the St Kildans, enquired of Mr MacKenzie, in real sincerity, if there was ‘any history of the date of its construction’. MacKenzie shook his head in exasperation; how could good citizens still believe in giants? But the journey had not been short of wonders, and he had been fairly aghast himself when they cast anchor in Loch Maddy and at the inn he had seen a Negro waiter, who spoke and sang in Gaelic!

  He looked up towards the island and suddenly he made out a group of people silhouetted against the whitewashed manse wall. He recognised the outlines of his children and his wife and the maid. He loved his children dearly, he was sure of that, but he had not given them much mind while he was away. Nor had his thoughts lingered on their mother, more than to compare her with the young ladies he had met in the city. But now as he sailed closer he could feel a new sensation rise within him, and he was suddenly very impatient to meet them. He thought with tenderness about how simple and uncomplicated they were in comparison with the beautifully made-up people in town. He watched his family with pride and waved at them. To his amazement they saw him and waved back.

  At that moment Dr Dickson came up and stood beside MacKenzie at the railing. He wore a fur hat pulled down over his ears and royal-blue knee breeches with white silk stockings; his stomach was bulging under his coat. His face was rather fat and settled in the haughty beginnings of a smile, which made him look like a statue of some long-forgotten hero.

  ‘Ah, at last we reach the enchanted island!’ This exuberant remark clearly conveyed some relief; the journey had been rough, and the Vulcan’s passengers had waltzed helplessly around the deck as the Atlantic waves set the steamship rolling. The Rev. Dr Dickson was the minister of St Cuthbert’s church in Edinburgh, and his pastoral care rarely brought him outside the capital. He was used to drinking claret in the genteel homes and salons of the New Town and generally mixed with the right sort. Only a few years previously he had had the honour of orchestrating the funeral of Sir Walter Scott. Normally he would not have bothered to undertake this kind of journey, but engagement in the Gaelic hinterland had become rather à la mode lately and he wished to stay in touch with current affairs. Besides, he considered it a charitable cause that would benefit them all in one way or another.

  ‘Yes, I have rather missed it,’ MacKenzie answered dreamily. ‘It is my cathedral. The kirk is humble enough, but to my mind the island itself is as awe-inspiring as any temple built to God. Would you not agree when you look at it this morning, sir?’

  Dr Dickson, who generally felt rather uneasy around the intense younger man, could not decide whether his remark was appropriate or not. He cleared his throat:

  ‘As examiner of the Society for the Propagation of Christian Knowledge, I have to express my grateful sense of what you have done for the comfort and advancement in civilisation of these sea-girt inhabitants, not least for promoting their spiritual welfare and for taking this initiative to administer to them, for the first time, the hallowed ordinance which commemorates the infinite love of our dying Redeemer.’

  ‘It was the task you set me – I was only doing what was expected.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Dr Dickson pulled off his hat and scratched his sweaty scalp. ‘I presume that you are satisfied that your people are fit to be admitted to communion; that they are ready, without any further preparation, to join in the service; and that you can, without prior communication with them, determine which of them should or should not be at once allowed and invited to join that high privilege?’

  ‘I have a good idea, yes.’

  ‘That is excellent, man, splendid!’

  Suddenly he gave a short laugh and pointed towards the shore. ‘Look how the natives run, like a flock of goats scrabbling for their lives, barefooted, bareheaded and coatless.’

  ‘Yes, but so full of expectation and the longing to see their minister,’ MacKenzie added quietly in a tone of voice for a private prayer.

  Dr Dickson flinched at this strange remark. He strongly suspected that this bareheaded minister was getting a bit above himself. ‘I am sure they are fairly devoted to you, sir, for their lowly state is the most favourable condition for worshipping the meek and lowly lamb in truth, and they will naturally get very attached to whomever takes it upon himself to deliver the Gospel in this place.’

  With this remark he excused himself and left in search of Mr Buchanan, a gentleman of considerable influence, beyond the boundaries of Europe, whom he had befriended onboard and found to be most agreeable company.

  MacKenzie sighed when Dr Dickson left him to himself. He was generally unaware of any effect he had on other people but he wanted to be admired. He wondered if he would ever shake off that part of himself that doubted his own abilities, the part that wanted to impress this important clergyman, a man he disliked for his obvious disapproval. He wondered what they were saying behind his back; what names did they call him? The poor miller’s boy who killed his only friend. Were they laughing at him? I will not be humiliated.

  He felt much more at ease with Dr MacLeod, a Glaswegian who spoke Gaelic and had grown up in Morvern. MacLeod was a true man
of the Church, and he had convened the Great Assembly two years earlier. The previous night when they had landed at Loch Maddy they had seen a ship bound for Cape Breton, and Mr MacKenzie had asked Dr MacLeod if he wanted to accompany him onboard to speak to the émigrés. Dr MacLeod had replied solemnly, saying that he could not bear to see those unfortunate souls; he knew all too well what famine and malady had done to his own kin. Mr MacKenzie had nodded. He understood. It was all greatly disturbing; times were getting harder. Crops were failing in the Highlands, and with more and more of the best arable land enclosed and used for sheep farming, the ­situ­ation was becoming alarming. The stories of starvation and misery he had heard told in Glasgow had only strengthened the minister’s resolve. He had felt the same since his own family were forced to leave for Canada. He was no Utopian, but he saw clearly that the possibilities of the modern world were limitless. If he could remove the obstacles that had hindered the natural progress of social order on this island for so long, St Kilda could be different and its inhabitants would at last develop into better and more ethical beings. It would be a moral outpost, a true exemplar of the good of man and an island refuge away from the wrongs of the world. Today was the first day of this new era on the island. Redemption was near.

  The village boat had reached the Vulcan and MacKenzie was lowered into the dinghy along with MacLean the writer and a few others. The villagers were still scrambling towards the beach, and he frowned when he saw his eldest daughter running along with them. Where was his wife? Could she not keep the children in control? He did not want to be embarrassed in front of all these important people. With a hot rush of irritation he remembered how she had been when he first brought her here, so aloof and distracted. She had not offered any of the support and encouragement you should expect from a young wife. None at all! And now she had turned from him towards the children. She was always occupied – never any time for him. Had he not seen to it that she had a maid to help her so that she could be more involved in his work? Where was that lanky girl anyway? He could never quite trust her; had she not lied to him once?

  While the St Kildans rowed the dinghy towards the shore the fresh-faced Mr MacLean was babbling endlessly about all the things he wanted to do on the island. He was rather effeminate and over-eager, MacKenzie thought, and forever scribbling in a waxed notebook. The minister silently hoped that the young man’s writing was not as exasperating as his speech. Mr MacLean too wore knee-breeches and silk stockings and a bonnet that matched his coat. He had a fair, open face with slightly protruding eyes, and a loud, annoying laugh which reminded MacKenzie of the call of the herring gull. A nuisance, all in all.

  ‘Ah, look at the bairns,’ cooed Mr MacLean. ‘Aren’t they the bonniest you will ever see? So innocent and pure and not marked by starvation or conflict!’

  MacKenzie glanced uncertainly at the writer, trying to discern a note of sarcasm, and then looked again towards the shore where his daughter Eliza and her brother James were tumbling down towards the beach with the other children. Their green tweed outfits matched the fresh sorrel and bracken on the slope, and their little faces, brightened by Atlantic mist, were open and eager. How he had missed them!

  The rowing was too slow; he leaned forward in the dinghy, willing it to go faster. As soon as it hit the shelving beach he jumped out, not minding his nice new boots and trousers. He saw Eliza running ahead of her brother towards him. As she reached him, his own flesh and blood, he forgot himself and fell to his knees to embrace her. He kissed the soft, hot skin at the nape of her neck and felt tears well in his eyes as her hands held on to his ears, kissing him wetly on the nose. He was suddenly full of hope. Perhaps in time he would be able to convey to his daughter what was brewing in his own soul. She was the one who was most like him. Surely she would be the one to understand him. He tried to look deep into her eyes (would his soul not be mirrored there?), but the girl was rambling now about explosions and volcanoes. He couldn’t quite understand and tried to shush her. ‘Do you love your father?’ He blew the soft question into her ear. She was wriggling in his arms, squealing in pleasure for Father was back and all was play. There was happiness in her dark curls again. ‘No, no, I hate you, I HATE you! You went away and never came back,’ yelled the elated child, and laughed into the sky. The minister suddenly stiffened and withdrew from his daughter. What was she saying? Could she really mean that she did not love him? He was making a fool of himself; his daughter was making a fool of him. It must be his wife who had influenced the child against him while he was away. Ever since Mrs MacKenzie’s withdrawal into preoccupation with the children he had suspected that she resented him. Hardening his heart, he closed his face again and stood to greet the rest of his family. Eliza, bewildered and rejected, stepped back and bit her lip.

  Lizzie watched her husband as he was welcomed by their eldest daughter. She was confused about her feelings at that moment and she suddenly realised that she had not missed him while he was away. He seemed slightly taller than before he left, and his shadow was longer. He reminded her of a guillemot: his black minister’s coat sharp against the white collar and his eyes black and blankly lit by a hectic fire. His manners too were different, and she imagined that they might have been shaped by a desire to please these other people who suddenly filled the shore.

  During his absence she had grown even closer to the children. As she had read the stories to them in the nursery at sunset, her children had nuzzled in around her like hibernating cubs around a mother bear. Once or twice she had fallen asleep in one of their beds after finishing the story, only to wake up an hour or so later, her heart brimming with happiness and purpose.

  Through her own thoughts she heard her daughter’s outburst, saw her husband stiffen and turn away, and suddenly aware of the rift between them she stepped in to save the situation: ‘Oh, Neil, have reason – she is just a child.’ She said it lightly so as not to scare her daughter. ‘Of course Eliza has missed you, haven’t you dear?’ Eliza nodded, staring down at her stiff boots, tightly laced for the occasion, as her mother continued: ‘She has been beside herself with worry! It is only a short while ago that I had to wipe away her tears.’

  She smiled then, and he saw that there was no malice, no irony. For an instant they stood facing each other on the landing rock where the waves lapped idly at barnacles and seaweed. And for a second they were reunited again, husband and wife, shyly one in their shared world. Without a thought of the people around them Neil lifted his hand and placed his palm against her cheek. ‘Oh, my lass – I miss you and the way we were,’ he said under his breath as she inclined her face towards his warmth.

  Just then Eliza entered the space between them, tugging at her father’s coat. ‘I picked you some flowers to stop your crying, Father.’ She held up a clumsy fist of thrift. The moment of tenderness was broken, but Neil blinked and smiled as he picked up his daughter in his arms. ‘I am not crying, darling. I am just so happy to be home again.’

  It took a couple of hours to land all the passengers from the Vulcan on the beach. The sea was still choppy, and the passengers who were waiting on the ship to be taken ashore were tossed around the deck. The Rev. Dr MacLeod, who insisted on leaving the ship at the very last along with Captain M’Killop, was embracing the mainmast like Ulysses at Anthemoessa.

  Finally, just after one o’clock, when the last of the passengers and all the goods had been unloaded onto the beach, Dr MacLeod seemed to regain his command and insisted on giving a service to the islanders. All who understood Gaelic made their way to the kirk. Many of the tourists from Glasgow followed suit, their curiosity fuelled less by the prospect of the sermon and more by the chance to get a close-up look at the natives. A handful of the less pious tourists decided to go for a bathe in the shallows of Village Bay.

  As the visitors entered the kirk the islanders were all standing up listening to the maor, who was giving a prayer. MacKinnon was barefooted as usual and clothed
in his coarse jacket and cropped wide trousers. He had removed his cap, and his curly hair sat like a mat on his head. He spoke in a low, firm Gaelic that compelled the visitors to stop their chattering and listen to the strange character who prayed so ardently with his eyes closed to the world. He did not stop to look up when the two churchmen entered the church but delivered the message to his kin calmly but with an intensity that surprised the newcomers.

  Mr MacLean, wide-eyed and excited, was one of the last to enter the kirk, and as he did so he caught the last of the prayer:

  . . . Bless those into whose hearts Thou hast put it to come and visit us – not to mock us, but with hearts running over with love, with the message of the Lamb, who taketh away the sin of the world. This we seek for His sake. Amen.

  Later that afternoon, on the other side of the island, Lachlan MacLean was striding ahead of a small group of visitors up the slope of Gleann Mòr. He had taken it upon himself to guide them on an excursion of the sublime island. MacKinnon, the maor, had offered to take the tourists to Glen Bay in the village boat. Mrs Ramsay was struggling in her silk mantle and Miss Thomson had to offer her arm as support. Messrs Goppy and Buchanan were walking a few steps behind, discussing the morning’s sermon and agreeing that the Reverend Doctor had prayed with an unusual fervour and unction, possibly exceeding his usual eloquence. The natives had been moved to tears, and Mr Goppy insisted – and Mr Buchanan was not slow to second him – that no one could possibly close their hearts to such a sanctifying service, nor could anyone doubt, in that instance, that God was present on St Kilda.