The names ricochet off me; I’m far too preoccupied with trying to make a good first impression to remember a single one of them.
“Ciamar a tha thu?” says the man who has been identified as my bride-to-be’s father.
“Sorry, I don’t speak the old language,” I say.
“Is duilich seann cheann a chuir air guaillain!” says Maighstir Ross, and everyone laughs. Everyone except me.
During morning meal, I push the food around my bowl and say very little. Afterward, I’m taken by the ministear’s assistant to a small storage bothan not far from the central compound. Today it’s going to be used as my preparation room. It’s gloomy inside, the air heavy with dust. The walls are lined with moldering crates, and cobwebs have overtaken the corners.
The ministear’s assistant, who reminds me his name is Errol, tells me to take off all my clothes. He is a willowy man, with sad cheeks and receded hair. I expect him to go out, to give me some privacy, but he doesn’t. I turn away from him and start to strip. He watches me while chewing on the sides of his nails. When I am in nothing but my underwear, he tells me to stay where I am and then leaves.
There are no seats in the bothan, so I stand in its center, tracing patterns in the dust with my toe. I catch sight of my reflection in a metal pot. The image is distorted, making me look even skinnier than I already am. My arms hang at my sides like broken tree branches. I do a hundred ground lifts every day, but my muscles refuse to get any bigger.
Errol returns with a large golden jug.
“This water is from Raasay,” he says. “It is important we purify you before the Ceremony. Sit.”
I squat and let him wash my body with a clammy rag. His fingers crawl all over my skin, tough and meticulous. It takes a great deal of effort not to shudder at his touch. The ritual takes half the morning. By the time he’s finished, I am freezing cold and my body glows an unsightly red from all his scrubbing.
“We’re done,” he says, handing me an orange robe. “Put this on. It’s time to go.”
I slip it over my shoulders. It is far too long for me, drowning my hands and feet, and the material makes my back prickle. I look ridiculous. I’m going to be laughed at for sure.
Outside the bothan, it is eerily quiet. The clan has already left for wherever the Ceremony is going to happen, leaving only a handful of people behind to keep watch. As we approach the Southern Gate, the Moths who are guarding it widen their eyes when they see what I’m wearing. It wasn’t my choice, I want to tell them.
“It suits you,” one of them calls out.
They wind open the gate and wish me luck as I pass through. The Hawk on top of the wall nods at me and hits all five chimes in succession, creating a soothing chord that echoes across the whole island.
It is the first time I have ever walked outside the enclave. For some reason, the island looks even bigger from this side of the wall. In every direction, hills and mountains topple over one another in every shade of green, orange, and muddy yellow. Trying to comprehend the expanse of land stretching out before me makes me feel dizzy.
“Come on,” says Errol, twisting my elbow to move me forward. “You don’t want to be late.”
We walk in silence, first east and then south. Something about Errol’s surly demeanor makes it impossible to strike up a conversation. I have no idea how he, a visitor to the island, knows which way to go, but he marches on with confidence, at a pace I struggle to keep up with. The land is rough and uneven, full of rogue stones and unexpected puddles. The weather alternates between sweltering sun and miserable rain, like it can’t quite make up its mind how best to torture me. Midges hover around me, attracted by the sweat that is gathering under my armpits and behind my knees.
“Where exactly are we going?” I ask after what feels like forever. We’re walking up a steep incline, and I have to gather the bottom of the robe to keep the excess material from tripping me. My legs ache, and blisters are starting to form on both of my heels.
“This is the Trotternish Ridge,” Errol says. “At the start of time, warring giants carved out this land with mighty hammers. Some say, on the coldest days, you can still hear their ghosts, bellowing across the hills. We’ll keep heading south until we reach Quiraing. From there, we will have a view of Raasay. That is where the Ceremony will take place.”
The higher we climb, the windier it gets, and I have to keep dropping to my knees to prevent myself from getting blown onto the rocky crag below. It’s a shame I can’t look up more, because the view is incredible. The mountains rise and fall in unstoppable waves, punctured here and there with sharp-edged precipices and serene lochs.
In the distance, mainland Scotia looms into view like an unwanted spillage. I’ve always felt uneasy about the mainland, like it’s not quite far away enough. Skye is a big island, but the mainland is much, much bigger. It’s actually two countries: Scotia in the north and Ingland in the south. Apparently, we used to trade with them, but not anymore. Not since everyone there died. We’re lucky we live on an island; otherwise the plague would have killed all of us as well.
As we draw nearer to Quiraing, we pass strange rock formations, which protrude from the ground like broken fingers reaching for the sky. I pause to take them in. They are at least ten times the size of me, mottled gray and covered in soft lichen. Errol tuts, unnecessarily loudly. I pretend I haven’t heard, making him tut again, even louder. I roll my eyes and catch up with him.
Just down from the rocks is a wide, open plateau, where everyone is waiting for me. From here, we have a clear view of the nearby Isle of Raasay, a dark cloud on the shimmering water. Members of my clan are standing in a semicircle, and they click their fingers as I approach. The sound is swallowed by a wind that whistles along the escarpment. Aileen peers out from the crowd and gives me a small wave. I want to wave back at her, but I don’t.
I take a couple more steps forward. The semicircle splits apart like the mouth of a whale. I close my eyes, and when I open them again, there she is: the girl they are going to make me marry. She has her back to me, but she’s wearing the same color robe as I am, so there’s no mistaking her. Even from behind she looks far too young. The ministear stands at her side and beckons me to approach. My breath starts coming in short, sharp gasps. I can’t do this. It’s too much. I need to get out of here. There’s no air. I can’t breathe. I have to leave. Now.
I do the only thing I can think of: I turn around and run.
I DON’T KNOW WHERE I THOUGHT I WAS GOING. I’M SURROUNDED by hundreds of people, none of whom are going to let me pass. I’m trapped. I manage about three strides before Errol catches me by my shoulders. His nails dig into the robe. “None of that,” he hisses in my ear. He spins me around and steers me toward the ministear. My legs betray me, walking forward without me wanting them to. He positions me back-to-back with the girl. Her shoulders press against my spine and shake with either anticipation or fear. I reach behind and give her fingertips the tiniest squeeze. She squeezes back, and my breathing starts to settle. At least I’m not in this alone.
The Ceremony consists mainly of speech in the old language, so I have no idea what’s being said. Only the people from Raasay join in with the responses. My clan stands by and watches in silence. I doubt they understand what’s being said either; no one really speaks the old language anymore, except for the elders. On the couple of occasions I glance up and make eye contact, everyone gives me encouraging looks. They’re being friendly enough now, but how will they treat me when all of this is over? Will they still think of me as one of them? The sound of the wind rattles in my ears, which helps drown out the ministear’s drawl.
Just when I think it is about to end, the ministear is passed a live hare. He holds it by its ears and, with brutal efficiency, plunges a knife deep into its middle. The hare’s hind legs spasm for an uncomfortable amount of time until it dies. The ministear then penetrates the creature with his fingers and pulls out its heart. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but I swear the h
eart is still beating as he holds it in his hands. He slices it in two and offers one half to me and the other to the girl.
“With this heart are you joined. In your own hearts, now and forever,” he says.
The finality of his words tears through me.
“Beannachdan oirbh!” chorus the people from Raasay and a couple of the elders.
The girl reaches out and takes her half of the heart, so I do the same. It is warm and spongy between my fingers. A thin bead of blood creeps down my wrist. The ministear nods at me, leaving no doubt about what I am supposed to do next. Today is full of fun surprises. What if it makes me throw up? Everyone is staring at me. Waiting. I presume the girl has already eaten her piece. I don’t think I can do it. I have to. For my clan. For my clan.
I close my eyes and throw the raw heart into my mouth. A burst of sour metal hits my tongue. I do not chew.
As soon as I swallow, a mighty cheer erupts and fists pound the air. My whole clan is prompted into activity, as if they have been told in advance what to do at this point. A dozen hands grab me and throw me high into the air. The sky spins, and then they’re carrying me above their heads, back down the narrow ridge. The whole way down I’m consumed with bouts of panic, imagining what would happen if I slipped out of their hands. It would certainly bring a somber end to the day.
Once we’re on flatter ground, I’m thrown around with less vigor, and everyone starts chanting an old òran. It’s one of my favorites, and I allow myself to be swept away by the words. It tells the story of our ancestors: how they traveled from mainland Scotia centuries ago and overcame many hardships to thrive here on Skye; how they carved out the entire enclave with their bare hands and built the wall that now protects us; how they established a new, superior way of living, free from the constraints of the corrupt Scotian monarchy. I’ve heard the chant so many times I know the whole poem by heart. I join in, my voice getting louder and louder as pride for my clan soars through my heart.
There’s a section in the middle about the great battle that was won against “the heathens from the neighboring isle.” I forget it’s coming up until we’re all saying the words. It’s not very tactful, given our present company. I glance at the chiefs of Raasay, but they’re still smiling. It was a long time ago, I suppose.
We arrive back at the enclave and the celebrations begin. I never expected anything like this. The Stewers have prepared a feast, and there is piping and more chanting. The children have made decorations that flap in the wind. Mead — brought by the visitors from Raasay — is passed around in great quantities. It is not often the elders allow such frivolities, so everyone takes advantage, glugging it down their thirsty throats. Eager smiles transform into drunken ones.
People keep coming up to me and grabbing my fists. It’s the most popular I’ve ever been. Maybe Aileen was right; maybe they won’t see me as an outcast after all.
There is a slap on my back, and I turn around to find some of the Anglers from my boat.
“You did great today, lad,” one of them says, his words slightly slurring.
“Thanks,” I say.
“And don’t you worry about . . . You’re going to be a good, good Angler. The best. We’ll see to that.”
It’s a drunken promise but a heartfelt one. The other Anglers grab my fists in turn and tell me how happy they are that I’m part of their boat. They’ve never said anything like that to me before. They should drink alcohol more often.
A group of young children runs past, playing a game of wolf and weasel. Their joyful shrieks ring out as one of them gets caught. I use the distraction to slip away to my bothan. Once there, I change out of the robe. I’ll probably be reprimanded for taking it off early, but it’s too itchy to keep on all evening.
A small wooden heron stands by the side of my bed. I spent the last few nights carving it out of an aspen branch. It’s not great, but it’s not terrible either. I pick it up and slide it into my pocket.
When I return to the Gathering, it is almost dusk. The last of the sun bleeds out behind a mass of clouds. I wrap my cloak around me to keep out the cold.
“Look, it’s Jaime,” someone calls out as I pass. “Come play with us!” I’m pulled into the group of pipers, and someone hands me a set of pipes. I don’t want to disappoint them, so I put the mouthpiece to my lips and start blasting out a few notes. The other pipers join in, and we play together while those around us nod their heads and stamp their feet. I’m playing really badly, but everyone’s smiling and no one seems to care.
A bass pipe sounds to silence the festivities. From across the enclave Maighstir Ross bellows, “It is time for the couple to set sail for the night. To the Western Gate.”
Someone takes the pipes from me, and a surge of hands shoves me forward. The Western Gate is already open. Bobbing on its threshold is a medium-size rowboat, which has been decorated with heather and ferns. Sitting in the middle of the boat, once again with her back to me, is the girl. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since we left Quiraing, and even now, I still can’t see her face.
Errol is by my side and explains, “It is tradition for the first night of marriage to be spent at sea. You leave with the wishes of your clan propelling you away and return at dawn, having shared your hopes for the future.”
A whole night at sea? Great. Just when I was starting to enjoy myself.
I step aboard. The boat shifts beneath me, making my arms flap, and then we lurch forward after a sharp shove from the crowd. I lose my balance and fall, banging my right elbow. I sit up, hoping no one noticed. I don’t look back. I pick up two wooden oars and use them to inch the boat out a little farther. It’s designed to be rowed by at least two people, so it is an effort to gain momentum on my own. There is a small sail, but I don’t want to risk opening it and exposing my ignorance of how to use it properly.
Eventually, I am aided by the current, which eases the boat away from the enclave. I’m careful not to drift too far out, though; the deeper the water, the more dangerous it’ll be. As soon as we are far enough away not to be overheard, I put down the oars. I should say something to the girl. But what? I clear my throat.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m Jaime.”
She doesn’t turn around or make any indication that she has heard me.
“It’s all been a bit crazy, hasn’t it?” I wobble to my feet and take a step toward her. She turns with a jolt, looking up at me with wide eyes.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
The nearly-full moon casts a pool of silver across us both. Her body is slender, like mine, and she has mousy hair and timid eyes. Fragile is the first word that comes to mind. She’s too young to be a bride. Her cheeks are wet with tears. I am not used to that.
Crying’s not dùth. It’s a sign of weakness. I have never seen anyone cry before. Other than babies and small children, of course.
“What’s your name?” I ask, struck by the absurdity that I am married to someone and don’t even know what she’s called.
“Lileas,” she says. I have to strain to hear her.
“I’m sorry about everything that’s happened today,” I say. “I can assure you I was against it as much as you were.”
“I thought so.”
“Oh, I don’t mean . . . It’s just, well, before today marriage was forbidden on Skye. I presume they told you that?”
Lileas looks at her hands, and more tears drip from her chin.
“Look, I’m not sure how things are going to work out, but my clan is really great once you get to know them. We take care of each other, and no one ever goes hungry. And we have the best enclave on the whole island. I’ll look out for you, I promise. We can be friends. Please don’t cry.”
I reach into my pocket and take out the wooden heron. “I made this for you,” I say.
She stops crying long enough to look up at it.
“Don’t give her that, Jaime.”
The voice leaps from the shadows and scares me
out of my wits. Lileas shrieks.
“What on earth?” I say.
Something bounds toward us from underneath the supplies at the front of the boat. I pick up an oar to defend Lileas. It’s not until the person stands up straight that I recognize who it is.
“Agatha? What are you doing here?”
“I came to — save you.”
“Save me? From what?”
“From the g-girl. You don’t want to — marry her.”
“What? But I’m already — How did you even get on board?”
“I climbed on. It was a clever plan.”
“No, Agatha, it wasn’t. You shouldn’t be here.” As if this wasn’t awkward enough already.
“She’s not as pretty as me,” she says.
Lileas is staring up at her in horror. I shouldn’t laugh, but it rumbles out of me. This is all so ridiculous.
“This is Agatha,” I say to Lileas. “She’s one of the Hawks from my clan.” As I’m saying it, I remember that, technically, that isn’t true anymore, but it makes Agatha smile.
“I am a good Hawk,” she says. “It is an important job and I — I am good at it.”
“You need to swim back,” I say. “If anyone sees you in the boat you’re going to be in big trouble.”
“I c-can’t,” she says. “I don’t like going in the water.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?”
“I’m good at climbing, though.”
“That’s really great, Agatha.”
“I bet I’m b-better at climbing than you are,” she says to Lileas, taking a step toward her, throwing the boat off balance.
“Careful!” I yell, counterbalancing her and almost tripping over my own legs as I do so. When the rocking finally stops, I say, “It’s been a really long day. If you can’t swim back to shore, I suggest we all lie down and try to get some rest.”
“Why do I have to s-sleep on the boat?” Agatha asks.
The Good Hawk Page 5