Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  He turned sharply. His blue eyes searching my face before nodding, the old man turned to look steadily at the forbidding crevices, “Don’t be surprised,” he said quietly. “Our daughter, Hilda, fell from that cliff,” adding, “It’s a long time ago, but it could be yesterday. She was nine.”

  Shades of indescribable sadness coloured his voice. Time retreated. The cry of birds drifted from my hearing. Only the gurgle of the swell, far away in cavernous hollows, reached us. Perhaps he too heard it as a voice. “I carried her off that bottom ledge,” he gazed at it, black, sloping and gale worn, “before the tide would take her.”

  Utterly shaken by my prescient feelings giving rise to such a grievous revelation, I ran my hand along the boat’s gunnel and the headland slipped past.

  Tucked behind the promontory in shelter from the northwest, the bay opened. Shimmering turquoise, clean and fresh, it rolled onto the white sand with the same laziness of the settled weather which had cured the hay on Halasay. The breeze dropped and ‘Hilda’ drifted slowly towards a stone jetty. I looked into water with the clearness of glass. At a loss to know what I might say that could support the immutability of his image, I asked pathetically, “What’s the depth here, Eachan?”

  “We’re at the bottom of the tide; it’s about four fathom, a bit over twenty feet.” It might have been inches, such its purity, such the sadness amidst simple grandeur.

  Eachan seemed in no hurry. The sail hung limp and ‘Hilda’ rocked gently on an imperceptible swell. The warmth soaked into my back, salt air and sun healing my lungs. Gulls sat about the curving tide line, oiling and preening their feathers. Hauled out on the south side of the bay the dark bodies of Atlantic seals lay sprawled, basking and scratching. Arctic terns were back fishing, their high pitched twittering cries bright and childlike. An unsullied landscape and its wildlife, untrammelled by man.

  The sheen on the water dazzled my eyes, facets of light darted off each ripple. I looked on Sandray; simple lines lacking the grandeur of soaring mountains or endless beach, but a hill and shore touchable and intimate in the homeliness it evoked. “This island is the haven of yesterday.” “Just that,” Eachan said simply. “The old folk knew it. They called that house, ‘Tigh na Cala’, House of the Haven.”

  My life was changing, irrevocably changing.

  At little distance from the beach, warm in the sunlight, were the grey stones of the house. A long building of low frontage and rounded gables, it appeared similar from a distance to the upturned boat in which the Viking would have spent a winter. Grown from the soil, a lone house amongst fields of once cared for greenness. Eachan noticed me staring, “That was the home of your great grandfather and his people before him.” It was all he said, then slowly, “and my grandfather.” Doomsday skyscrapers, spider traffic, city greed and ostentation, the delusions of society. I turned to the Atlantic with open eyes.

  “I’ll have to handle the sail,” his quiet voice stirred me. “Yes, I’ll take the oars.” “That’s fine. Make for the inside of the old jetty and lay her alongside.There’ll be no swell at all in there.”

  He handed up my pack as we lay beside the worn stones. “I’ll look back in the late afternoon, I’m away down to Castleton, seeing the day’s so good,” he winked, “just for the sail.”

  This, the island of my visions. I stood and watched him row out a little and hoist the Hilda’s tanned sail. It filled with tranquility. Somehow I’d seen it before. In the distance, a tiny white -haired figure at the helm. The headland hid an old man and his boat, the headland which had known his daughter’s death. How could the evocation of such grief come to me? I’d never asked nor was I told, yet the imprint of the girl’s final moment must exist in some transmittable form to which I was receptive. As I turned to walk towards my great grandfather’s house its sadness swept over me.

  I was alone, the island empty. No other living person. I stood on the flagstone at the door of the old house. The sun round in the south, warm on the stones, the bay spread below, Atlantic’s breadth beyond the enclosing headlands. Sadness gradually evaporated. Magnificence engulfed me. The centuries were with me. There was no loneliness, the connection was complete and my heart, happy as the sunshine of spring. All I needed was here, under my feet. Land lived and worked by my people. Their birth and death on this island. The generations were at my side, stretching time, back and back.

  Land is all that counts. To be part of it, peace or storm and the sea, the profound, unchanging sea, I wanted it all. The tiny fields, their tumbled dykes, the hill pasture that climbed out to the crags of Hecla. Land circled by sea and sky. I wanted its space with me night and day. And above the green fields a skylark sang.

  A large smooth stone lay beside the house’s only door. I sat on it leaning against the front wall, touching the rough stones in a manner of greeting. They were warm and friendly. I shared a seat with the past, its vantage over the bay. Our arrival hadn’t bothered the seals. Now the tide crept towards them. They shuffled down the sand, barking and grunting. Splash after splash and the bay had dark heads bobbing; the seal folk were away to fish. Who could be lonely?

  After a little while I studied the house. Green painted sheets of corrugated iron cleverly fitted its rounded gables and a stubby lum Tiny windows had glass and surprisingly, drawn curtains. In two halves after the style of a stable door, the joining hasp had no lock, only a wooden peg. Tentatively I tried the latch. Should I enter?

  Half opening the door, a small porch led into the kitchen. Wooden table and chairs, dresser scrubbed and tidy, “Hello!” I laughed at myself for speaking and stepped over the threshold, all the excitement of a home coming, familiar surroundings after along absence.

  A door at the other side of the porch entrance was slightly ajar. I peeped in. The curtains were drawn, making the room a little dim. A large iron bedstead appeared to take up most of the space. Pushing open the door, in I walked.

  The sunlit porch threw my shadow onto the farthest wall. Without a sound, the door swung behind me. Heaviness entered the absolute silence. Was I alone? I stood at the foot of the bed, swaying with fear, straining to hear breathing.

  Hair on the nape of my neck bristled. I’d been in this room before. The bed faded. A coffin sat on trestles, a dead man stared out, white hair, crooked hands, imploring eyes, the face, the photo. Gradually my focus returned. I unclenched trembling hands from the bed rail, wet with sweat. How long had I stood?

  The sun’s journey found a chink in the curtains. A slit of light pierced the room. Across the bed onto a small table it fell, in a burning circle of light.

  It shone on my briefcase.

  I reeled back, stumbling outside.

  The Sun erupted. Again the ear bursting pressure.

  Screeching steel, choking fumes, screaming terror, blood, drip, drip; through the utter horror of stench and chaos, blue eyes looked into me.

  Bursting out of the house, I ran along a track beyond dunes of winnowing grass towards the headland. Lack of breath stopped me on its exposed top. Cliffs were to either side and to my surprise the remains of an enclosure. Stones here and there, some half buried. One leaning stone. I stood looking down at the initials, H.McK. Sand thudded on a wooden lid. The pound of waves?

  The stones appeared to be arranged in the shape of a boat, pointed ends, a large boulder, the bow, a flat stone, the stern? I sat leaning against the largest stone. The pimpernels were in bloom at my feet. The ocean sang. Sea birds arose, crying. Afternoon sunshine fell on the stones. Did I sleep? It seemed I looked from a great distance, but still I was present.

  Norsemen were farming the land beside the sea, west facing and a kindly soil. A long-house up from the beach saw the panoply of their lives and heard the wail of death. Out on a headland under a pagan sky where a north wing rode the spindrift, they gathered stones. His lifetime boat took shape and they buried their patriach, the last of those who had brought them.

  The sea unrolled on the rocks, a soughing melody and over green fiel
ds of fledglings safely reared, the skylark sang. The air made eddies of warmth curing hay for the people, filling their barns with the fragrance of meadow grass,

  On the evening’s stillness were the voices of the girls, calling, calling and the cattle came from the slopes of fescues wild, slowly on their chosen path. Brown arms bent, golden hair tumbled against a mossy flank and the milk tasted of hills untouched. And laughing eyes, blue as the sea, turned their gaze.

  Time lingered as the note that waits poised on the fingers of some plaintive air which guides the pain of beauty into trance. The birdlife wheeled. Their cries mingled with the sigh of unfolding ripples. A raven croaked but once. I saw the canvas fill above a making tide and a dragon bow nodded to the swell, to a sun alone upon the hills.

  Northwards trailed the islands, their skyline pointed home, took living eyes to a land they saw in sleep, beyond a sea he’d sailed by day to a sea he hoped to cross, in tomorrow’s trance of death.

  The note book I brought had fallen from my hand, lay open. I’d written those few words without realizing it. The sun had crossed quite a bit of horizon. I made tracks for the house at once. Eachan sat on the boulder beside the door, leaning against the wall, “Well, well, boy, you’ve made the best of the day and a topper of a day too.” At that he disappeared into the house.

  Reappearing, he produced glasses and a bottle of malt whisky, “You never know, there could be an emergency over here at any time, I always keep a bottle of first aid kit in the old home. It’s the surest paramedic you’ll get in these parts.” Two stiff ones were poured,

  “Hector MacKenzie, here’s to your first visit to your great grandfather’s island. Man, the sun fairly puts a sparkle on the barley water. Slainte mhath.”

  “Eachan, to yourself, thank you for taking in me here. I can tell you, it won’t be my last visit.” We drank heartily.

  Grinning at him I put my hand on the wall, “Yes, it’s a day to be here. I went along to the headland and sat awhile, indeed I’m sure I snoozed. What’s the layout of stones over there?”

  “Funny you ask,” he gave me a long look. “The raven was croaking away a little ago as I came ashore, not often I hear it. Old grandfather maintained it’s the same line of raven that came with the Viking. Those stones you were at, though they’ve never been excavated, are supposed to be the site of a Norseman’s grave. They’re laid out in the shape of his galley. The old boy believed that a Norse chief was buried there, the first Viking to come to Sandray he maintained.”

  Eachan looked thoughtful and before deciding to continue, laid his hand on the stone seat, “You see, how can I put it? Well, old Hector, your great grandfather had ‘the sight’. It’s been in the family, since generations.”

  “The sight? I had an idea of his meaning. A tremor passed down my spine.

  Having begun, he became keen to explain. “They call it ‘the Second Sight’,” and nodding to the house, “he had it. Sometimes he would be sitting on this stone when it came on him. What prompted it I don’t know; he could see happenings, long, long past. That poem he wrote, the one I showed you of the Viking coming here, was written out on the hill where the raven nest. Mind you, not only things in the past, deaths and tragedies and such like, he also saw into the future. He’d have premonitions, make predictions. I’ll tell you about that sometime. Yes, Hector, boy,” he patted the wall, “these stones were put here by the Viking.” His voice flattened a little. “Whoever will handle them next?”

  We walked down to the boat. “You sail her back, Hector, it’ll be good practice for you.”

  The ‘Hilda’ sailed so easily, the lightest touch on the tiller brought a response. Sitting in her stern, little more than a couple of feet of freeboard and the sea at my elbow, I was at one with both.

  Making a sudden decision, I handed over my note book. “I wrote this, out at the headland. The words came to me without any knowledge of what you told me back there at the house.”

  Sitting on the centre thwart he read without comment as we sailed. I noticed his attention move to the Atlantic horizon. His stare took on an intense look of dismay. The note book slipped un-noticed from his hands. The tan drained from his face. He became a white- haired old man.

  I eased the sail across for the breeze to take us into the bay on Halasay. The handling of the boat was left to me. I helped him ashore and made the ‘Hilda’ secure. Another small boat lay at the jetty but I made no comment for his mood worried me greatly. I followed him towards the croft. What had passed through his mind, perhaps before his eyes?

  Was it Eachan’s behaviour which affected me? What dread had come over him? Walking at his heel a strange presentiment grew. Bodies squeezed against me, hurry and sweat, clank, clank. I was back on the tube train, gazing over heads. God save me from this trauma. I struggled.

  Out on the croft, a slim figure was hunched beside the house milk cow. I walked over. At my approach a blonde head turned and looked up.

  I looked down into smiling eyes,

  blue as sunshine makes the sea.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Colliding particles

  ‘South Rampart Street Parade,’ romped into, ‘I can’t give you anything but love, Baby.’ A full blown Dixieland jamboree stomped the night away. Engine thumping, paddles flailing, its skipper gyrating round the bridge, the good ship Clare de Lune, steering a slightly erratic course, cleaved a mighty bow wave down Lake Geneva.

  Cheeks like bellows, a black trumpeter leant back, blowing notes at the stars ten to the bar. The pianist beat out the rhythm one handed, wiping sweat with the other, a drummer kept the bass drum going, swigging his fourth pint. Clarinets circled the jiving crowd. The saloon rocked, the boat swayed, churning paddle wheels kept a glistening tempo. Midnight, moonlight, ships lights zig-zagging across dark waters and the great Alps sparkling like diamond tiaras spread a backdrop only Hollywood could rival. Love was in the air and in several cases, against the ships rail.

  And the music, baby, baby--- it roared across the lake, swept from ordered vineyard slopes into tippling wine glasses, rosy red, rosy lips, ‘That’s a -plenty,’ the tempo hot, bodies in a frenzy, top notes on that screeching trumpet hitting the pleasure button. Oh boy, could her hips move, eyes flashing with lust. It’ll be an instant, knee bend stand up romance if I don’t watch her, the bitch. The Agent’s eyes followed his prancing secretary, burning with a mix of hate and jealousy. That fucking young Yank who’d got her up to dance, third time now, swinging her between his legs, nearly had her fucking dress over her head and she’s laughing. The cow, I don’t think she’s got any knickers on. One step too far and and I’ll…. I’ll…’ His fists clenched.

  The Agent glowered. Another large whisky made no difference. The day had gone badly, really bloody badly. It kept revolving through his thoughts. Ten in the morning she was still in bed, in the next room, wouldn’t let him in for the night, the ungrateful cow and me in the head office of this damned stupid Hadron Collider contraption. Total waste of cash. ‘Would I care to see over the installation?’ He took another gulp, God--- that burnt his throat. Fuck fast colliding particles, I should‘ve had more sense, through tunnels, along gantries, tubes and pipes everywhere, stupid bastard droning on, bored the arse off me.

  Rage was smouldering. His normally white face flushed bright red. He felt the pressure mounting at his temples. A totally wasted day, I’ll have to cover this job some how and now this carry on. He glared at the couple. The Yank was right up against her, a smoothie dance. Let him put one hand near her arse. The Agent’s jaw tightened. Oh hell, I don’t need this, the bitch, she’ll pay.

  The day wouldn’t get out of his edgy mind. Had he overplayed his role as a director of a London Insurance Group? The card had got him in, the bloke, pleasant enough but another of these bloody white coated drones, introduced himself as leader of the main team of physicists. In spite of the racket beating his ears, The Agent’s thoughts dwelt on the bits of their conversation that mattered, “We’re here fo
r a short break, a spot of jazz, thought I’d look up one of my London pals. I know he’s a jazz fanatic, Is he about? Hector MacKenzie, I think he works here.” The leader bloke had crossed his knees. The bugger’s uneasy, had I sounded genuine? “Isn’t he a key member of your project?” No response- maybe I didn’t make it casual enough? The Agent remembered asking, “Where does he fit in, what does he actually do? The chaps down the club often pull his leg about it, bit of a boffin, you know the sort of thing.”

  A real faux pas, the boffin blinked, straightened his ‘specs’, “Yes, yes, his work is quite a vital part of this whole project. Indeed it’s central to the success and er..er.. the safety of our work.” Here he paused, glancing to the door. The Agent noted the guy fiddled with a pencil. The bastard’s going to lie to me. “I’m afraid he’s, he’s not available at the moment, actually went out just before you arrived.” Lying wanker. “Pity. I had a spot of news to give him. Does he live in Scotland by any chance? It’s a Scottish enough name.” The white coated arsehole appeared just a mite flustered, “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “Fuck it!” The Agent cursed himself out loud, I went too far. Did I cover my tracks well enough? He remembered leaving with the words, “Not to worry, give him my best regards.” “Of course, of course,” and the scientific wanker had enquired, “What‘s the name again?” Fuck it, oh fuck it, The Agent’s memory of the meeting had him cursing again, “Fuck me, oh fuck it!” All this bloody, buggering woman trouble, that’s why I forgot the name on the card I’d produced. The Agent smarted mentally at the thought of his parting remark to the bloke, “Just keep him guessing, I’ve a big surprise waiting for him.” Fucking right there is, when I catch up with him.