Return to Butterfly Island

by Rikki Sharp

  Even though she had prepared herself, the collapsed scaffolding made her gasp, her hand fluttering to her mouth. It was a twisted wreck and the lads had been lucky to get away with a few cuts and bruises and Andy’s broken leg.

  She peered up at the stoic grey building, work on the slate roof all but finished. What did she know about property development? And this foolish dream of turning the Grange into a hotel for island visitors that she hadn’t even told anyone, was just that—a dream. Having defended Stuart land and property from change all her life, even Aunt Bea must be turning in her grave.

  The back door was open, so China ducked inside, striding over a piece of scaffolding to do so, anything to get out of the rain. Morgan, impervious to the weather, was away foraging in the bushes, so she was completely alone with her self-doubts and misplaced guilt as she wandered back through the ancient house.

  The money it would cost to return the place to even being habitable, never mind furniture, en suite bedrooms, and so on. She was a joke. Stupid little girl thinking she could change the world. Building herself a fairytale life out here in the middle of the sea.

  She glanced at her freezing cold feet that were wet through and covered in mud. She was still wearing her flip-flops, thanks to her hasty exit from the Inn.

  She laughed at that, wiggling her muddy toes. “Can’t even wear the right footwear on this place. You’re not popping out to the shops for a pint of milk now, you stupid woman!”

  Sitting down at the foot of the staircase, she tried to curl up in a little ball and disappear. Had it been such a crime to have a dream? she wondered blankly.

  Then a scrap of colour caught her eye. A fluttering of wings.

  Out of the darkness of the old building came a single butterfly, heading straight for her. Whether it was the same one she had seen when she had first looked around the Grange a million years ago, she couldn’t be sure, but it was a Red Admiral all the same. Unerringly, it settled on the stair banister next to her.

  “So, Mrs. Butterfly, what do you think I should do? Leave these poor people to live their own lives without my flashy, impossible ideas stirring everything up? Forget trying to tame the mad fisherman? Let him sail free and go where he may?”

  The Red Admiral twitched its wings and tiptoed further up the banister. Then a second butterfly dithered passed the end of her nose, making her start. This one, a Large Heather. The beautiful creature settled on her right coat sleeve. The third winged sliver of colour emerging from the darkness was a Peacock, followed by two more Red Admirals. Soon, there were over thirty of the insects attracted by her body warmth. Scattered around her like living confetti.

  They gave her hope and renewed strength.

  First on her new list was Sort that man of hers out, if he still wanted her, then she’d see about changing the world. Exhausted, she let her head drop into her folded arms and closed her eyes, just for a second. Things would be better if she could just rest for a moment or two.

  The butterflies would help her sort out her aching head. Just . . . for . . . a . . .

  Chapter 13

  The day was bright, the wind warm on her back as she, China Stuart, aged six years and two months, stood on the familiar stone jetty, shading her eyes with one freckled hand. Against the sun stood the figure of her mother, looking taller than in real life. Worrying about getting all of their luggage on board the pitching fishing boat tied up to the stone jetty.

  “Why are we taking so much stuff, mammy? It’s only for a couple of weeks, isn’t it?” She’d had an island accent back then, born on a stormy night with the wind lashing at the windowpanes, it had given the little girl a sense of no fear. She loved the storms that rolled in across the forbidding sea. Ran with the wind and danced in the rain.

  “You never know what the weather’s going to be like, my darling,” lied her mother. Her eyes, blue like her daughter’s, were shadowed in pain. Hiding a fear that only she knew about.

  A second woman was standing on the pier that day. Wrapped all in black, her hair already prematurely white, Aunt Beatrice had come to see them off on their adventure. Then why were there tears in her eyes?

  “Don’t worry, auntie, we’ll be back before you know it,” sing-songed the little girl.

  “Aw, pet. My treasure.” Aunt Bea kissed her again. Her hands were trembling, too. Was she ill? “Are you sure about this, Eve? There are medicines you can take . . . I’m sure if you have another visit from Doctor—”

  “Medicine’s are no good, Beatrice! China’s dad was right. I just can’t live out here any more. Maybe after a month or two with my feet on dry land . . .?” She left the statement open, passing another case to the silent fisherman who was loading the luggage.

  Down the stone jetty came a tousle-haired boy in a bad taste hooped jumper over his shirt and pants that ended just above the knee. He appeared about eight years old, with a mucky face and scabs on each leg from countless tumbles down the hillside. His name was Donald Dart and he looked close to tears.

  “You sure you’re coming back?” he asked the little girl for the tenth time that morning.

  “Of course we are, silly. Aren’t we mammy?”

  Eve Stuart looked away.

  Shyly, Donald bent forward and kissed China clumsily on the cheek. She grimaced and wiped her face with her sleeve. Then the blushing boy whispered something in China’s ear. She broke out in a dazzling smile, her eyes alive with delight.

  Out of the glare of the sun, a fisherman scooped her up before she could reply to the boy’s heartfelt question.

  “Come on, wee girl. It’s high tide and we better be away. Don’t want to leave you behind, do we?” asked the fisherman.

  The boat suddenly lurched beneath her feet and they were moving, but China hadn’t answered her friend’s question. He ran along side them until there was no more jetty left to run on. China waved and she waved until her arms were sore, as she shouted across the widening gap between the two of them and the sea began to toss the small boat this way and that.

  But the wind carried her answer to Donald Dart’s question away into time . . . nearly thirty years into the future, when China awoke with a start at the foot of the stairs in the abandoned Grange. Around her, the butterflies had vanished as mysteriously as they had appeared.

  “I remember . . .” She sighed, her eyes alive with the unwavering spirit of a six-year-old. “I remember what Donald asked me on our final day!”

  Then she was out of the house and away down the hill as if the devil himself was snapping at her heels, Morgan appearing from the undergrowth and chased after her, barking fit to burst. She remembered, after all his time alone. She remembered. Now all she had to do was find Donald and give him the answer he had been waiting for so long to hear.

  “And you”—Donald waved one finger in China Stuart’s face—“You keep away from me! I knew where I was all these years without you! Since you’ve come back, the whole island’s gone mad!”

  “Donald!” chided Mrs. Baxter, holding China tight as her nephew ranted and raged. “She’s done nothing but try to help! You’re the bloody fool who hit a policeman when you docked at Balivanich!”

  “Well who told them I’d be coming, eh? I just wanted to get my hands around McKriven’s throat for what he’s done and the police were waiting to ambush me!”

  “Stop exaggerating, you stupid boy. Sergeant Fitzgerald is sixty if he’s a day, and the only other officer on the island is PC Magelan, and she’s only twenty years of age! That damn temper of yours, just like your mother, Saints preserve her. You’re lucky to get off with a caution! Besides, it was me who rang the police.”

  Hurt and feeling betrayed, Donald chewed that one over for a second. “Liar. You’re just protecting her, like you used to when we were kids. Always took her side when something went missing or got broke, thanks to her clumsy ways! I’ve had it with the whole lot of you! I’m up to the Grange and tie those sheets back down before this bloody storm starts!” He barged his way out
of the pub and was gone into the driving rain outside.

  “And you actually fancy that?” asked Biddy, still holding China close, as she stopped trembling.

  “Not when he’s breathing fire and insults, I don’t.”

  Biddy Baxter shook her head in despair at her nephew’s terrible temper and finally let China go. “Better lock all the windows in this place and get out the pots and pans for when the ceiling starts to leak. This storm is going to be terrible.”

  “Will he be alright up the hill on his own?”

  “Him? Donald? Let him stew. He owes us both an apology, stupid man!”

  Even though it was raining now, the whole island seemed to be cowering in silence as the full might of the storm moved towards them. Lightning played across the sea, its thunder still taking seven or eight seconds to reach West Uist. But then it was six . . . and then it was five.

  Doors were being bolted, livestock taken inside, and even the massive Irish Wolfhound had found himself shelter under one of the pub benches in the snug, once the heavens started to crash and bang. Having secured the pub as best they could, Mrs. Baxter placed a bottle of whiskey on the bar between them and two clean glasses.

  “Best way to ride out a storm like this. May the good Lord protect the men of the sea on a day like this.” She crossed herself reverently and took her first sip of drink.

  China shuddered as the howl of the wind rose an octave. The Inn sign commenced banging against the side of the building and the chairs and benches outside began to move in the gale.

  “Damn. Should have brought those in,” fretted Mrs. Baxter. “Last time we had weather like this, they ended up across the way and in the sea!”

  This was a side of Butterfly Island that China couldn’t remember. She was suddenly reminded that it existed in the middle of a cruel ocean; just a chunk of rock jutting up from the sea floor.

  “Do you go to the Kirk as often as Aunt Bea?” she asked Mrs. Baxter, wanting to talk about anything rather than sit in silence and listen to the storm rage. Worried where her man was.

  “Me? If I did, who would run this place? No, your aunt was a Force of One. She probably went down to that stone church nearly every day of her life . . . and that’s a lot of days. Well, I told you, didn’t I?, that she even managed to get Donald to harness up the pony and buggy and take her down the day before she died? It was as if she was driven by something. Having to make her peace with God one last time.”

  An odd idea began to seep into China’s brain. “Then that was after you witnessed her write that missing will?”

  “The very next day. As I said, driven.”

  A shiver ran through China Stuart’s body as the idea burst into a full-blown revelation.

  “Oh, Biddy, I think I know where she hid the will! It’s been staring us in the face all this time!” Before Mrs. Baxter could stop her, China was up and pulling on her waterproofs and Wellington boots.

  “What in heaven’s name? Leave the benches outside, love! They were due to be replaced any way!”

  “No! It’s the will! Beatrice hide it in the Kirk, and I know exactly where!” Unbolting the front door, she was immediately battered and drenched by the storm, but before Mrs. Baxter could get round the bar to stop her, she was gone.

  “For heaven’s sake! Morgan! Go with her, you great useless lump!”

  The dog swung his massive head towards the banging front door, the driving rain, and then back to Mrs. Baxter again. Putting his head on his front paws, he shuffled a little further back beneath the pub seat.

  Chapter 14

  All landmarks that China had been getting used to on the narrow paths that laced the island had been rendered invisible as she struggled out into the storm. Immediately something large flew passed her and she instinctively ducked. One of the pub benches had bowled across the fields as if it were made of balsa wood.

  She knew she had to get beyond the jetty then cut right along a path across the island that led to the cliffs above which the Kirk was suspended, but she was afraid she’d miss the turning. Past the cottages, all shuttered tightly closed and in darkness, past the general store, the rain pouring down that bright red door. It was at that point China thought she should turn back. Wait until the storm was over.

  But there was a stubborn streak inside her that kept her putting one foot in front of the other. Just a bit further, with the stone jetty now behind her. Just around the next corner . . . Then she was miraculously out of the worse of the wind, as the shortcut to the Kirk was forged between two high banks of earth. This was definitely the right path and she only had the torrential rain to fight now.

  Yet even that blinded her. It forced its way under her hood, beneath her sou’wester, and down the back of her neck. She could feel her underwear glued to her as the cold rain soaked her to the skin. Each step became harder to take as she began to shiver with the cold. Whose stupid idea was this? But still, she moved forward. One more step . . .

  It had come to her in a flash. All that time Aunt Bea had spent in prayer whilst Donald shuffled his feet outside the Kirk and waited for her to call him. The perfect time to get a bit of peace and quite, away from everyone mithering her, asking her how she was that day. Was she hungry? Was she thirsty? How were the aches and pains? Alone in the Kirk she would have had plenty of time to hide a single sheet of paper to make sure that greedy swine James McKriven would never find the will.

  The trouble was, neither could anyone else.

  There was that twisted tree, like an old scarecrow, leaning against the wind. Mangled and bent by years of storms like this, poor thing. Not so far now. Around her the wind eddied and swirled, almost lifting her off her feet. She had to cling to handfuls of tough grass as she stumbled blindly forward. Another step . . . and another . . .

  Finally, just as she thought she’d gone wrong somewhere along the trail, a shape loomed out of the storm. A simple-shaped building from a simpler time. It was the high ridged roof of the Kirk with its stone cross above the door, and before it were laid out the tomb stones amongst which Aunt Bea had been lain to rest.

  It was at that moment that China’s strength nearly gave out. There was a mighty roar from the terrible wind rising up from the cliff behind the stone church, like a living beast. Even one hundred feet above the sea level, she could taste the salty spray mixed with the rain in her mouth. Using the grave markers to steady herself, she moved closer to the door.

  Then, running the last few yards, she was inside the Kirk.

  It should have been quieter in there. The roof, regularly repaired better than most of the island’s buildings, was strong and old. But one of the Norman slit windows had blown in and the air was full of pieces of paper, which, China realized to her horror, were pages from hymnbooks and bibles. Above, as the air pressure built within the building, the roof was beginning to rattle and lift more than it should. She could actually see the ancient black timbers moving.

  Just as she began to move forward, she was thrown off her feet as the door slammed open again behind her. Struggling against the force of the wind, a yellow waterproof-suited figure managed to finally get it closed and drop the heavy, rusted latch into place.

  Donald, thought China, her spirits soaring. He’s come to save me! But as the figure turned and lowered his hood, ripping off his dripping wet hat, the hair was black, not blond, the face sarcastic, calculating, and never kind. James McKriven stood there out of breath, a look of triumph on his face.

  “I never left the island last night.” He panted, leering at her. “I knew that sharp little mind of yours would figure out where the old lady had hidden her will. I waited in the empty cottage next to the Inn and watched you. Even in this bloody storm, I knew—”

  He was cut off for a second by the cracking of old wood. Above their heads, one of the vast roof beams was beginning to splinter and split.

  James glanced down the length of the small church, to the front row pews, to where that tiny family bible sat, still in its place, as
if waiting for Beatrice to return and open its pages one last time.

  “The crafty old crow hid the will in her bible, didn’t she? We all stood right next to it and we didn’t know. Just like a Stuart!” Then he made a lunge for the aisle, pushing China to one side.

  She shouted something at him, but the pistol shots of wood breaking drowned her out. For now something else was happening. A low rumble and a vibration beneath their feet as the earth turned over in its sleep.

  The cliff behind the frail stone building was beginning to fall into the sea.

  James McKriven skidded to a halt as the whole Kirk seemed to slip and shift, the floor dropping a good foot at the altar end.

  Frozen, the two looked up in terror to see the roof peeling away as if it were made of paper, and as the storm dived in, as it ripped and tore at anything that wasn’t nailed down, the entire altar wall suddenly faded away . . . falling backwards and disappearing.

  Down the slope the Kirk now sat on, all they could both see as parts of the roof continued to fly off into space, was the roaring sea below them, beckoning them on.

  Terrified, the will forgotten, as James tried to scrabble up the slope towards the distant locked front door, China stood up and moved forward down the aisle of pews. Calmly, the rain pouring down on her from that black sky, she reached forward and picked up her aunt’s bible. There was no time to check her theory as she stuffed the book into one deep pocket. Stones were continuing to drop away into the sea as the rest of the Kirk prepared to follow the altar into oblivion.