After supper one evening I sat out at the west gable as the sun put its crimson on the sea. Eachan, beside me on the bench, shading his eyes against the glare, began to speak quietly, “You know a’ bhalaich, the old grandfather I’m after telling you about could recall what his great granny told him, how her people, Viking plunderers no better than that, came to Sandray. You see it was handed down to her, word of mouth in the days when folk had time to listen. Yes boy, it’s an extraordinary story, about a raven, and I tell you, they’re nesting there to this day. He was a gifted bodach, he put the story to verse in the way she told it, something in the style of a Norse saga. Think you’re hardy, these were hardy, the folk. If you like you can get a read of it.”
Eachan rose and in a few moments came out with the manuscript. Though happily tired I took it eagerly. He leant on the wall beside me, “You know this, old Hector told me the way the writing came to him. It was a strange thing. You see, he was very fond of the cailleach.” He saw me frown, “the old woman, I mean his great granny. Anyway, on the third night after her death she spoke to him in a dream, told him her story over again. Well, that day, it was clear with the spring air and he went away to a cnoc, a hillock, overlooking the sea and wrote these words. He told me they poured out of his mind as if he were at sea with the Viking rovers through their storm and their coming to that island you’ve been watching every day. The gift was in him, sure enough as the blood they spilled and the women they took.”
Such was the flow of simple writing I seemed a part of it. The sacrifice made by an old woman to help a new born grandson and her people survive through the winter. Her last memories of love and children before the frost had stilled any thoughts How when the baby reached manhood a scarcity of land forced them to set sail. I quickened to the boat builders’ belief that the spirit of the tree they’d felled remained in the timbers of the boat it shaped.
Superstitions didn’t influence my scientific mind, or so I thought but in reading the tale of the Vikings’ faith in the sagacity of a raven which brought them to Sandray, I became increasingly uneasy; a sensation which turned to dread as I read the clarity of the old man’s impression of the horror of the drowning that was to be his own fate. Again came this recurrent vision, the streaming white hair, the twisted knuckles that went from gripping a gunnel to the sides of a coffin.
As I read in the falling light of sunset, my hand shook.
They were the words of a Viking saga
Limbs stiff and bent had once entwined, and moss
beneath an ancient larch
knew love’s passions flow,
Morbid strands the old crone’s hair where tousled
mass was golden spread
in the glow of evening light,
Gums drawn back, teeth stump black, eyes now shadow dark,
that nightly shone for him,
Eyes, once blue as summer long, had watched the empty bay,
were faded dim to a sea washed grey.
Nine had cried, sucked nipples full and red,
her last child saw no bed,
they laid it out upon the hill,
A twisted neck, too frail to feed, she kissed its brow,
the frost cut off his cry.
That night an open door, a birth bed cry,
another hungry maw,
the empty kist their belly store..
She touched blood’s new strand of life and knew its pang,
as memories shed their veil.
She heard a cry, her last one died that
distant year upon the hill,
She made a vow,
‘This night’s child must live, by my sacrifice.’
Softly as the winding sheet that binds, stealthy as the shroud
which covers death’s infallibility,
she crept into the night.
Haloed thrice, the moon’s white cloak turned the sea to ice,
bound their haven to the shore.
Snapping branches, low swept by winter’s weight,
made clawing
arms of patterned light,
And crone of crones, her stumbled path tore
knot worn hands,
and cut each barefoot step.
Against the trunk she sat, twined fingers on an empty lap,
her head to lolling sleep,
Yet through her pain grew summer’s bloom and he came
striding,
blue of eye, boat and shore,
Her man she held once more and lips their touch,
till shy young limbs
entwined beneath the crescent moon,
And sunshine bright each calling spring their
barefoot children ran,
and longboats put to sea.
Tangled branches piled a crag above her tree and year on year,
the raven reared its early brood.
Two gawking chicks pressed tight that night,
their head hung low,
no flesh had filled their gut,
Till scent on cringing air, death’s presence took its fingered grip,
and gliding wing, a single croak.
Strike of dawn, bones iron to the ground, icicles her shroud,
they stared upon a smile,
Her sparkled hair, crystal white, two sockets gaping red,
no eyes, the chicks had got their fill.
New babe at breast, a grandchild boy, lusty, sucking bold,
above the pyre of leaping flame,
Her rising soul joined the black of spiral wing.
Rope and cage, the cliff was scaled, one chick must have
her wisdom eye,
must join our family.
A raucous caw, the raven’s wing, pinions beat, a curved bill stooped
close to rip his flesh.
A nestling crouched, black Satan eyes shone from twig lined bowl,
he grabbed, a vicious bite sank home.
That night, a willow cage hung beside the crib, dark watching eyes
and newborn child were swinging, side by side.
Blue eyed manhood, bearded blonde, shoulders wide, and arms
to power a steer-board oar,
Though hands had still to take their gnarl, his face its hook to carve
by ocean’s cutting spume.
His father told, ‘Our plough has scraped bare rock today, worn horses
shoulders raw, no land is here to spare.’
Twenty seasons the larch had shed, needle orange, at its foot.
Axes rang, the crone’s tree sang,
‘No gale has felled my sway, the north wind sets a Viking free,
my strength goes with your ship.’
Cut and trim, she floated slim, by winter peat and oil lamp fantasy,
a dragon tongue was carved to lick the sea.
May’s the month of siren call, ages past an inner song to gnaw the heart,
cast eyes to landfalls far.
Mutton barrel, rye bread store, hogs of ale and thirsty sword,
he loaded thirty able men aboard,
Wives and sweethearts, skirts to thigh, carried men folk down the shore,
shoulder high, one kiss, goodbye.
Crack of rope, the sail unfurled, wing tip wide the raven soared to terrify,
make carrion of a foe.
Slanted tight she flew, south by west a dipping bow, her rearing stern
buried homeland’s snow clad sky.
Proud larch tossed the dragon prow, and high aloft in thrumming stay
swung childhood’s chick, wisdom’s raven now.
Last evening light, the nor-east gale quenched a flaming sun,
dashed crimson crests to the steerman’s face,
Feet braced bare, a pitching helm, ‘The Raven’ skimmed
man and boat, bold mastery.
Moon torrent night is sea nymph’s tress, its spray, beguiling flesh,
a sailor’s dream, yet haunt of treachery.
Spindrift coiled in shrieking moan, a gale of devil’s g
lee,
the cage swung violently.
A sudden caw.
He knew the cry.
Swing the helm, full broadside wallow, sail crashed o’er the dipping deep,
a pitiless wave trough hollow,
Crack, crack, it split the mast, lee rail down, a sail lay bellied on the sea,
dragging stays, the cage awash.
‘Hack the mast, save the sail, to oar, to oar, head the swell, row boys row,
or it’s the gates of hell.’
Rope to waist, deep and green death’s choking cave he caught the cage,
held aloft the raven bird.
Amidst a tower of sea, an emerald plume, a burst of spray, a hidden rock,
the tip of Orkney.
Angled hard against the crests, bending oar, with young arm power,
a dragon reared to fight the sea.
Flashing waves, a headland drenched in spray, seas that drove them close,
‘pull my boys, for mighty Odin’s sake.’
Shoulders wide, one broken oar? A splintered wreck ashore,
tormented gale, a booming cliff.
Backwash surge, he threw the helm, born seaman’s touch put stern to sea,
and down the shores of wild old Orkney.
Cape Wrath abeam, the turning point, wide Minch ahead,
an island chain, plunder, loot and gain.
Behind the Cape, Sandvarten bay, in they slid beached safe,
beside four stravaiging galleys lay.
Night time fire weaved spark and star, ale- faced red told their raven’s wisdom call,
he’s fit for Odin’s shoulder in Valhalla’s hall.
Drinking horns, five would sail, the bird to be their guide, sword or strife,
its eye would find a home.
A roving wind brought terror down the Western Isles, slashing axe, blood stained sand,
the raven, silent in his cage.
Last headland, soft mist draped island hill, caped by morning cloud,
‘Hecla, Hecla, Hill of Shroud,’ the lusty steersman cried.
Caw, cawing, from the cage.
‘Loose its door,’ the raven flew, a circle thrice,
it vanished in the sun cast cloud.
Green fields beside the village smoke, a turquoise bay, beach sand sloped,
and open to the sky.
An island home,
A Viking home,
By the old crone’s eye.
The manuscript slipped out of my hand. The sun had dipped into the faintest pink horizon without my noticing. A challenge stared out of these pages. No rational consideration needed. No practical thoughts or doubts. Shadows of ill health vanished. A new life, heart pounding I came alive, could breathe, stretch body and mind. Abandon civilization, make the island my home. No hesitation, no question, the birth right of my people, make it home.
From the open front door the notes of fiddle music firmed my resolve. The music blended with the glory of approaching summer dim. Tunes soaked in the fabric of island life. Lively, then wistful, a shade melancholy, the old fingers of MacKenzie carried each mood at their tips. I went inside to watch the stroke of his bow. It touched the strings with the delicacy of a painter of sound. In his eyes, the music of his mind.
The lilt took me inside, “Go through,” Ella nodded to the sitting room door, “he often takes a tune to himself in an evening; it’s a good excuse.” I guessed what she meant. Eachan didn’t notice me until the down stroke of his bow drew the final notes of a beautiful plaintive air, “Come in, come in, sit over.” He must have noticed the sadness in my face. “That last tune was written by a woman who saw her husband and two sons drowned in a freak gale off Halasay Head. You see, the music was in her and her people before her. That tragedy brought it out, gave her comfort, and today that gives thoughts to many who hear it.”
Dram and bottle sat on the dresser, “Never mind the sad ones, have a wee toot yourself. I’ll give you something livelier.” He poured me a ‘fair’ dram. “Can you play anything yourself?”
I went over to the piano. Ella placed my glass on the lid and off Eachan set with a full down stroke. I guessed the cord. Into vamping, Key of G, did we not make it swing. Ella’s foot was tapping, she started clapping to the tempo, birling round the room. “You two’ll be playing in the Castleton next. I’ll get a dance, we’re needing out for a night.” We played on. Tunes I’d never heard, but they came to me as naturally as Eachan played them.
Eventually he put down the fiddle, “Well, Hector, you had the old piano bouncing off its casters. Great stuff boy. Slainte mhath!” Our glass raised to the drug of music. Though the evening remained warm, Ella had a peat fire in the grate and as we sat, I commented, “There’s quite a stack of peats at the end of the buildings. Where do you get the peat?”
“Oh, there’s peat banks out on the hill, not many folks bother with them now.” He pointed to the fire. “Those were cut last year and next year’s supply Ella and I cut last May. It’s a hefty job,”
After a lengthy pause, he took a sip at the glass, “When I was a boy the locals would ceilidh at this house. On nights when the moon was bright, the door would open, no knock, in they came. Sometimes they took a peat but always something that warmed you a little. It warmed a story just as well, a good one could last as long as folk would listen,” and laughing, “drams in between and the yarn would improve. Did you enjoy your great grandfather’s story? He had the gift with telling a story and could put it to the pen as well. That one would be true, it came down to him as I told you and that’s not the end of it.”
I could see Eachan differed little from those he’d just described. In the way of his old Highland stock, given a dram, there would be always a story waiting in the wings. I guessed he was as eager to tell more of Sandray’s history, just as I was anxious to hear it.
He savoured his dram, “No, that wasn’t the end of it. You see, in the days of that story, the folks on Sandray would be at the peat banks in May, same as ourselves. On the day I’m telling you about, a father and son were out at cutting the peat on the north side of the hill. The wind was in the northeast, that always gives a clear day and puts the mainland hills like a pencil line on the horizon, blue and sharp.”
His voice was low. I could tell as the story unfolded, it filled his mind’s eye. “The father was at the digging and the boy spreading them on the top of the bank, young and sharp-eyed for sure. Anyway, the boy looked up, ‘There’s five sails rounding Halasay head, slanted hard, drawing full!’ he called down. His father jumped out of the bank, startled, ‘Death’s on the wing,’ he groaned, ‘the raven soars,’ and shouting, ‘On you go, run, boy, run!’ Well, the loon was fleet of foot, down to the village by the bay. Some of its stones are still about. Anyway, when the boy caught his breath, he ran about the houses shouting his warning, ‘The heathens are on us, hurry for your lives, make for the Dun!’
Eachan warming to his story, caught up the glass at his elbow, “Now on the southwest side of Sandray and I’m talking long, long ago, there’s the stone walls of a prehistoric fort or a Dun, as we call it. The cliffs there are five hundred feet, sheer, and this Dun sits on a small stack of land, a patch of grass and nesting birds. The sea’s been eating away at its connection to Sandray since the Ice Age; there’s only a narrow neck of land left, no wider than this room,” he spread his arms, “and worse, its sides are straight into the ocean. Well now, the womenfolk gathered their children and the men took what tools or arms they had about them and hurried over to the Dun, single file, a dangerous, slippery path if ever there was.“
Fascinated by his face and actions, I raised my glass automatically.
“Wait till I tell you though, living amongst the island folk was a priest, a Holy man, perhaps from Ireland or Iona and he called after the fleeing families, ‘God speed you, save you, I alone will stay,’ and he stood before his tiny church watching the beach. Raven banners flying, the galleys drove hard onto the sand. Viking leapt over the side,
waist deep, horned helmets, blonde hair flying, I tell you, Hector boy, the lust for killing was on them, flaring in their nostrils. Axe and swords were polished, just gleaming. This giant of man, a tall brute, broad as an ox, straight up the beach he came, running. The Holy man knelt at the door of his little shrine, making a prayer to the Virgin Mary, what else?
The big fellow reached him, stood over him. The priest, a poor creature, thin as a lath, held a wooden cross aloft with bony, skinny hands. Their eyes met. Norse blue and Celtic brown. They stood a moment, eyes locked. The priest spoke, not pleading, but gentle, ‘In the name of Jesus, the Saviour of all mankind, I forgive you.’ Up raised a massive arm, the axe crashed down, split the Holy man down the centre of his crown. There he lay, blood seeping into sand, puny hands gripping a fallen cross, all slippery, red and twitching.”
Dumbfounded at the strength of the tale and its telling, I sat rock still, the sickening crunch of blade on bone in my hearing.
Eachan stared up at the photo of his grandfather. “The Norseman, a split head, bleeding at his feet, slowly turned and looked down to the bay. Turquoise waters, sunlight over white sand. What had he destroyed? He stared a long time. I believe he saw beyond the sea, looked into an immeasurable abyss of his own making. The tide turned. In the immensity of the day, would it flow again? Would this clefted head step before him on the pathway of life?”
Sun Dance Page 9