Stranger on Rhanna
Page 36
‘This is Karla,’ Jon spoke in a low voice, ‘Karla McKinnon Jodl.’
‘Karla.’ Otto repeated the name in disbelief. He sank back into his pillows as Jon placed the baby in his arms. ‘Karla.’ He stared at the tiny, sleeping face. ‘How perfect she is, such miraculous perfection, you must have more like her, I would have had dozens but it was not to be – my wife left me because of it.’ He gripped Jon’s arm. ‘My friend, I thank you for bringing her here – and also for honouring my name in such a generous way. You are a good man and I’m happy to see you all together – my life is complete now and I will die in peace.’
Jon took the baby and stumbled out of the room, hardly able to see where he was going for the mists that blinded him.
‘Rachel.’ Otto reached out and took her hands, his were thin and frail, those once-strong, beautiful, pianist’s hands with their long, slender fingers. ‘Soon it will be goodbye, liebling.’
A sob tightened her throat, she who had once run to him on effortless feet couldn’t bear the pain of being with him any longer.
She drew her hands away, briefly her fingers whispered over his face, lingered on his mouth, their eyes met and held . . . moments passed, laden with a million unspoken dreams and longings . . . then she stepped back from his bed and went quickly away.
Death came gently and kindly to Otto. He went with the night that rolled slowly back from the shadowed horizon and he never saw the promise of day silvering the purple-black clouds. Dawn came, rosy and sweet above the sea, chasing the quiet shadows from the hills, spreading light on the sleeping bens, stirring the herds and the flocks in the fields, glinting on the ice-cold burns tinkling over the stones.
The kitchen was quiet when Magnus arose, he knew before he looked at his grandson that he had lost him and he went outside, into the cold morning, feeling the peace of lonely places enfolding him, that special peace that he and Otto had often shared without either of them losing anything of its quality.
Tina looked from the window and saw the old man there, alone on the cliffs, his thatch of white hair blowing in the wind. Her heart went out to him; she followed him outside, but being Tina she stopped first to take his jacket down from its peg, her hand trembling, her tears spilling.
‘Ach, Tina,’ Magnus murmured huskily, allowing her to tuck the jacket round his shoulders, ‘did I do right? Bringing a fine gentleman like him into my humble home?’
‘Where else would he have died so peacefully?’ Tina said gently. ‘He was loved to the last, surrounded by family and friends. I know fine he enjoyed every minute for he told me so himself, also he was honoured to have shared the last part o’ his life here wi’ you, his very own grandfather. You yourself have lived here all o’ your days and there is no gentleman in the land as fine or as wise as our very own Magnus o’ Croy.’
It was January, the snow was on the hills, Rachel walked quickly along the road from An Cala. She, Jon, Mamma and the baby, were leaving the island next day but she couldn’t go without saying her last farewells to Otto. Her footsteps slowed when she reached that lonely grave on the Hillock with the sea and the sky and the silent bens all around.
The inscription on the gravestone was deceptively simple, in days to come it would mystify the casual observer though the people of Rhanna would always know what it meant;
KARL GUSTAV LANGER,
WHO CAME TO THIS ISLAND
AS OTTO KLEBB,
AND DIED A McKINNON.
NEVER FORGOTTEN.
MAC NAN ÈILEAN.
He had been a very generous Son of the Island. He had gifted his beautiful Becky to the village church hall and had set up a trust fund for talented island youngsters. Tina had been left five thousand pounds, various McKinnons had also benefited, the coffers of the Church Fabric Fund had greatly swollen, baby Karla would one day be a rich young lady, and not even Vienna had been forgotten, but it was Magnus who had received the bulk of his grandson’s fortune.
‘Buy a new house,’ he had been urged, but he had just shook his head at that and, smiling his beguiling one-toothed smile, he had said firmly, ‘Na, na, this cottage has done me fine all o’ my days and I’m no’ going to move now, though the money will come in handy and will see me into my old age.’ He had finished with a chuckle which might have fooled some but not those who knew how much he grieved for his grandson.
The world beyond Rhanna had learned of Otto’s death and the reporters had come snooping, but the islanders had closed ranks. Magnus had told them as little as he could but even so there had been splashes in the newspapers about the famous musician spending his last days in the humble thatched cottage of his maternal grandfather.
But all that was past now, the kirkyard on the Hillock slumbered once more, the silence of it shrouded Rachel as she stood there alone, remembering.
But it was too quiet, too sad. In life Otto had known the freedom of wide, wild spaces, she raised her head and gazed towards the great bastion of Burg and she knew where she had to go to find him.
She walked away from the kirkyard, through the gate and down the Hillock. Kate was coming along, her face like thunder. ‘That Tam!’ she exploded. ‘I told him I wanted a washing machine for Christmas, ready for the day when the electrics came to Rhanna. He said he had sent for my present; it came this morning. You’ll never guess what the mean bugger gave me! A scrubbing board! The bodach, he’ll never move wi’ the times, and it wasny even here in time for Christmas!’
Rachel’s lips twitched, Kate’s own generous mouth widened and she gave a snort of laughter, then she sobered and laid her hand on the girl’s arm. ‘Life goes on, mo chridhe, life goes on,’ she said gently and went on her way, pensive and quiet, throwing over her shoulder, ‘You’ll bring the bairn to see me before you go away, Rachel, I’ll be looking out for you.’
Rachel nodded, she too went on her way, her steps taking her along one of the many sheep tracks that led to Burg Bay. There she stood, surrounded by the soar of the cliffs, the tumble of the ocean, and in her mind Otto came to her, striding along the sands, a smile lighting his face, crinkling his eyes. Glancing up she saw Tigh na Cladach and just for a moment she imagined that a spark of light illuminated the windows, reminding her of that day when waves of music had come pouring out, soaring, soaring, filling her world with power and gladness.
This was where Otto was, where he would always be; never again would she walk the shores of Burg without seeing him and hearing him and sensing that his soul touched hers as it had done when he had filled her life with his joy and vitality.
His spirit was here, whispering to her in the wind, caressing her heart with love and beauty. He would never die, never! She spread her arms and threw back her head, she wanted to shout his name but her lack of speech didn’t matter anymore. His own words, spoken before he died, came to her as if on the breath of the breeze: ‘I have never heard your voice but you have no need of it, I have always known what you were feeling and thinking, always it will be so.’
Always, always, now and forever!
Mac nan Èilean! The joyous benediction rang inside her head, and as she stood there she seemed to hear the echo of it, springing out of the sea, tossing up from the waves, reverberating against the cliffs, over and over, like the notes of a great symphony pulsing and throbbing, drifting free and unfettered over the clean wide spaces of the shores of Rhanna.