Island

by Alistair Macleod

  “We’re from Kintail,” they said finally. “Our names are Alex and Angus. We’re trying to find our grandmother’s house. We came on the smack boat.”

  “Oh,” she said. “How old are you?”

  “Eleven,” they said. “Both of us. We’re twins.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Both of you. I have relatives in Kintail. Come in.”

  They were still afraid, and the dogs remained poised, snarling softly, with their delicate, dangerous lips flickering above the whiteness of their teeth.

  “All right,” they said. “We’ll come in, but just for a minute. We can’t stay long.”

  Only then did she speak to the dogs. “Go and lie under the table and be quiet,” she said. Immediately they relaxed and vanished behind her into the house.

  “Did you know these dogs were twins?” she asked.

  “No,” they said. “We didn’t.”

  “Well,” she said. “They are.”

  Inside the house they sat on the first chairs that they could find and moved them as close to the door as possible. The room that they were in was a primitive kitchen and much of its floor was cluttered with objects not unlike the porch, except that the objects were smaller – knives and forks and spoons and the remains of broken cups and saucers. There was a half-completed partition between the kitchen and what might have been a living room or dining room. The upright studs of the partition were firmly in place and someone had nailed wainscotting on either side of them but it extended only halfway to the ceiling. It was difficult to tell if the partition had been left incomplete or if it was gradually being lowered. The space between the walls of the partition was filled with cats. They pulled themselves up by their paws and looked curiously at the visitors and then jumped back down into the space. From the space between the uncompleted walls the visitors could hear the mewing of newborn kittens. Other cats were everywhere. They were on the table, licking what dishes there were, and on the backs of the chairs and in and out of a cavern beneath an old couch. Sometimes they leaped over the half-completed partition and vanished into the next room. Sometimes they snarled at one another and feinted with their paws. In one corner a large tiger-striped tomcat was energetically breeding a small grey female flattened out beneath him. Other tentative males circled the breeding pair, growling deeply within their throats. The tiger cat would interrupt his movements from time to time to snarl at them and keep them at bay. The female’s nose was pressed against the floor and her ears flattened down against her head. Sometimes he held the fur at the back of her neck within his teeth.

  The two black dogs lay under the table and seemed oblivious to the cats. The lamb stood watchfully behind the stove. Everything in the house was extremely dirty – spilled milk and cat hair and unwashed and broken dishes. The old woman wore men’s rubber boots upon her feet and her clothing seemed to consist of layers of petticoats and skirts and dresses and sweaters upon sweaters. All of it was very dirty and covered with stains of spilled tea and food remnants and spattered grease. Her hands seemed brown, and her fingernails were long, and there was a half inch of black grime under each of them. She raised her hands to touch her glasses and they noticed that the outside lenses were smeared and filthy as well. It was then that they realized that she was blind and that the glasses served no useful purpose. They became even more uncertain and frightened than they were before.

  “Which one of you is Alex?” she asked, and he raised his hand as if answering a question at school before realizing that she could not see him.

  “I am,” he answered then, and she turned her face in his direction.

  “I have a long association with that name,” she said, and they were surprised at her use of a word like “association.”

  Because of the rain the day seemed to darken early and they could see the fading light through the grimy windows. They wondered for a moment why she did not light a lamp until they realized that there was none and that to her it made no difference.

  “I will make you a lunch,” she said. “Don’t move.”

  She went to the partial partition and ripped the top board off with her strong brown hands and then she leaned it against the partition and stomped on it with her rubber-booted foot. It splintered and she repeated the action, feeling about the floor for the lengths of splintered wood. She gathered them up and went to the stove and, after removing the lids, began to feed them into the fire. She moved the kettle over the crackling flame.

  She began to feel about the cupboards for food, brushing away the insistent cats which crowded about her hands. She found two biscuits in a tin and placed them on plates which she put into the cupboard so the cats would not devour them. She put her hand into a tea tin and took a handful of tea which she placed in the teapot and then she poured the hot water in as well. She found some milk in a dirty pitcher and, feeling for the cups, she splashed some of it into each.

  Then she took the teapot and began to pour the tea. She turned her back to them but as she poured they could see her quickly dip her long brown finger with the half inch of grimy fingernail quickly into each cup. They realized she was doing it because she had no other way of knowing when the cups were full but their stomachs revolved and they feared they might throw up.

  She brought them a cup of tea each and retrieved the biscuits from the cupboard and passed the plates to them. They sat holding the offerings on their laps while she faced them. Although they realized she could not see them, they still felt that she was watching them. They looked at the tea and the biscuits with the cat hair and did not know what to do. After a while they began to make slurping sounds with their lips.

  “Well, we will have to be on our way,” they said. Carefully they bent forward and placed the still-full teacups under their chairs and the biscuits in their pockets.

  “Do you know where you are going?” she asked.

  “Yes,” they said with determination.

  “Can you see your way in the dark?”

  “Yes,” they said again with equal determination.

  “We will meet again?” she said, raising her voice to form a question.

  “Yes,” they said.

  “Some are more loyal than others,” she said. “Remember that.”

  They hurried down the laneway, surprised to find that it was not so dark outside as it seemed within the blind woman’s house. When they got to the main road, they followed it in the direction that led away from the wharf and it seemed that in a short time they could make out the buildings of their original destination.

  It was still raining as they entered the laneway to the buildings, and by this time it was indeed quite dark. The laneway ended at the door of the barn and the house was some yards farther. The barn door was open and they stepped inside for a moment to compose themselves. It was very quiet within the barn, for all of the animals were away in their summer pastures. They hesitated for a moment in the first stall and then they were aware of a rhythm of sound coming from the next area, the threshing floor. They opened the small connecting door and stepped inside and waited for their eyes to adjust to the gloom. And then in the farthest corner they noticed a lantern turned to its lowest and hanging on a nail. And beyond it they could make out the shape of a man. He was tall and wore rubber boots and bib overalls and had a tweed cap pulled down upon his head. He was facing the south wall of the barn but was sideways to them and presented a profile. He was rhythmically rocking from his heels to the balls of his feet and thrusting his hips back and forth and moaning and talking to himself in Gaelic. But it did not seem that he was talking to himself but to someone of the opposite sex who was not there. The front of his overalls was open and he had a hold of himself in his right hand which he moved to the rhythm of his rocking body.

  They did not know what to do. They did not recognize the man, and they were terrified that he might turn and see them, and they were afraid that if they tried to make a retreat they might cause a sound which would betray their presence. At home they slept upstairs w
hile their parents slept below in a private room (“to keep an eye on the fire,” their parents said); and although they were becoming curious about sex, they did not know a great deal about it. They had seen the mating of animals, such as the cats earlier, but they had never seen a fully aroused grown man before, although they recognized some of the words he was moaning to himself and his imaginary partner. Suddenly, with a groan, he slumped forward as the grey jets of seed spurted onto the south wall of the barn and down to the dry and dusty hay before his feet. He placed his left arm against the wall and rested his forehead against it. They stepped back quietly through the little door and then out of the barn and then they walked rapidly but on their tiptoes through the rain toward the house.

  When they entered the porch and the screen door slammed behind them, they heard a voice from within the kitchen. It was harsh and angry and seemed to be cursing, and then the door flew open and they were face to face with their grandmother. At first she did not recognize them in their long coats, and her face remained suspicious and angry, but then her expression changed and she came forward to hug them.

  “Angus and Alex,” she said. “What a surprise!” Looking over their shoulders, she said, “Are you alone? Did you come by yourselves?” And then, “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? We would have gone to meet you.”

  It had never entered their minds that their arrival would be such a surprise. They had been thinking of the trip with such intensity that in spite of the day’s happenings they still somehow assumed that everyone knew they were coming.

  “Well, come in, come in,” she said, “and take those wet clothes off. How did you say you came again? And are you just arriving now?”

  They told her they had come on the smack and of their walk and the ride with the man who had the peppermints and of their visit to the blind woman, but they omitted the part about the man in the barn. She listened intently as she moved about the kitchen, hanging up their coats and setting the teapot on the stove. She asked for a description of the man with the peppermints and they told her he said he owned a store, and then she asked them how the blind woman was. They told her of the tea she had served them which they had left and she said, “Poor soul!”

  And then the screen door banged again and a heavy foot was heard in the porch, and in through the kitchen door walked the man they had seen in the barn.

  “Your grandchildren are here to see you,” she said with an icy edge to her voice. “They came on the smack from Kintail.”

  He stood blinking and swaying in the light, trying to focus his eyes upon them. They realized then that he was quite drunk and having difficulty comprehending. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot and a white stubble speckled with black indicated that he had not shaved for a number of days. He swayed back and forth, looking at them carefully and trying to see who they really were. They could not help looking at the front of his overalls to see if there were flecks of semen, but he had been out in the rain and all of his clothing was splattered with moisture.

  “Oh,” he said, as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes. “Oh,” he said. “I love you. I love you.” And he came forward and hugged each of them and kissed them on the cheek. They could smell the sourness of his breath and feel the rasping scratch of his stubble on their faces.

  “Well,” he said, turning on his heel, “I am going upstairs to rest for awhile. I have been out in the barn and have been busier than you might think. But I will be back down later.” And then he kicked off his boots, steadying himself with one hand on a kitchen chair, and swayed upstairs.

  The visitors were shocked that they had not recognized their grandfather. When he came to visit them perhaps once a year, he was always splendid and handsome in his blue serge suit, with a gold watch chain linked across the expansiveness of his vest, and with his pockets filled with peppermints. And when they visited in the company of their parents, he had always been gracious and clear-headed and well attired.

  When they could no longer hear his footsteps, their grandmother again began to talk to them, asking them questions, inquiring of their parents and of their school work as she busied herself about the stove and began to set the table.

  Later he came back downstairs and they all sat around the table. He had changed his clothes, and his face was covered with bleeding nicks because he had tried to shave. The meal was uncomfortable as he knocked over his water glass and dropped his food on his lap. The visitors were as exhausted as he was, and only their grandmother seemed in control. He went back upstairs as soon as the meal was finished, saying, “Tomorrow will be a better day,” and their grandmother suggested that they go to bed soon after.

  “We are all tired,” she said. “He will be all right tomorrow. He tried to shave in honour of your coming. I will talk to him myself. We are glad that you have come.”

  They slept together under a mountain of quilts and in a room next to their grandparents’. Before they went to sleep they could hear them talking in Gaelic, and the next thing they remembered was waking in the morning. Their grandparents were standing near their bed and the sun was shining through the window. Each of their grandparents held a tray containing porridge and sugar and milk and tea and butter. They were both rather formally dressed and like the grandparents they thought they knew. The drunk moaning man in the barn was like a dream they wished they had not had.

  When they got up to put on their clothes they discovered bits of the blind woman’s biscuits still in their pockets, and when they went outside they threw them behind the barn.

  They stayed a week at Canna and all during that time the sun shone and the days were golden. They went visiting with their grandfather in his buggy – visiting women in houses and sometimes standing in barns with men. One day they visited the store and had trouble identifying the man behind the counter with the one who had offered them the ride and the peppermints. He seemed equally surprised when he recognized them and said to their grandfather, “I’m sorry if I made a mistake.”

  During their week in Canna they noticed small differences in the way of doing things. The people of Canna tied their horses with ropes around their necks instead of with halters. They laid out their gardens in beds instead of in rows and they grew a particular type of strawberry whose fruit grew far from the original root. When they drew water from their wells they threw away the first dipperful and the water itself had a slightly different taste. They set their tables for breakfast before retiring for the night. They bowed or curtsied to the new moon, and in the Church of St. Columba the women sat on one side of the aisle and the men on the other.

  The Church of St. Columba, said their grandfather, was called after the original chapel on the island of Canna. St. Columba of Colum Cille was a brilliant, dedicated missionary in Ireland and he possessed Da Shealladh, the second sight, and used a stone to “see” his visions. He was also a lover of beauty and very strong-willed. Once, continued their grandfather, he copied a religious manuscript without permission but believed the copy was rightfully his. The High King of Ireland who was asked to judge the dispute ruled against Colum Cille, saying, “To every cow its calf and to every book its copy.” Later the High King of Ireland also executed a young man who had sought sanctuary under the protection of Colum Cille. Enraged at what he perceived as injustice and bad judgement, Colum Cille told the High King he would lead his relations and clansmen against him in battle. On the eve of the battle, as they prayed and fasted, the archangel Michael appeared to Colum Cille in a vision. The angel told him that God would answer his prayers and allow him to win the battle but that He was not pleased with him for praying for such a worldly request and that he should exile himself from Ireland and never see the country any more, or its people, or partake of its food and drink except on his outward journey. The forces of Colum Cille won the battle and inflicted losses of three thousand men, and perhaps he could have been the King of Ireland, but he obeyed the vision. Some said he left also to do penance for the three thousand lives he had cost.
In a small boat and with a few followers who were his relatives, he crossed the sea to the small islands of Scotland and spent the last thirty-four years of his life establishing monasteries and chapels and travelling among the people. Working as a missionary, making predictions, seeing visions and changing forever that region of the world. Leaving Ireland, he said:

  There is a grey eye

  Looking back on Ireland,

  That will never see again

  Her men or her women.

  Early and late my lamentation,

  Alas, the journey I am making;

  This will be my secret bye-name

  “Back turned on Ireland.”

  “Did he ever go back?” they asked.

  “Once,” said their grandfather, “the poets of Ireland were in danger of being banned and he crossed the sea from Scotland to speak on their behalf. But when he came, he came blindfolded so that he could not see the country or its people.”

  “Did you know him?” they asked. “Did you ever see him?”

  “That was a very long time ago,” he laughed. “Over thirteen hundred years ago. But, yes, sometimes I feel I know him and I think I see him as well. This church, as I said, is called after the chapel he established on Canna. That chapel is fallen a long time ago, too, and all of the people gone, and the well beside the chapel filled up with rocks and the Celtic crosses of their graveyards smashed down and used for the building of roads. But sometimes I imagine I still see them,” he said, looking toward the ocean and across it as if he could see the “green island” and its people. “I see them going about their rituals: riding their horses on Michaelmas and carrying the bodies of their dead round toward the sun. And courting and getting married. Almost all of the people on Canna got married before they were twenty. They considered it unlucky to be either a single man or woman so there were very few single people among them. Perhaps they also found it difficult to wait,” he added with a smile, “and that is why their population rose so rapidly. Anyway, all gone.”