Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  This man, tall, rugged and not from a nursery of weaklings was the first stranger to whom I’d introduced Eilidh. His eyes sparkled and Eilidh blushed. I introduced him perhaps a mite too formally, a pang of jealousy in my tone perhaps reached her for she dropped her eyes, saying perhaps rather hastily to cover a little embarrassment, “You’ll take a cup of tea, Mr. Anderson?” “Please lady, I’m Andy to my friends.” Eilidh smiled and busied herself at the sink.

  To ease the air of discomfort and out of courtesy I reached to the shelf, took down another bottle and two glasses. “You’ve rowed across, you’ll be needing a wee toot of this.” “Sure thing,” and as I poured, “Mind if I call you Hector?” “No, no,” and raising a glass, “here’s to us.” “You sure said it, Hector. Say, did I see a solar panel on your roof?” I laughed, and not yet ready to open up a conversation beyond pleasantries, “You did indeed.”

  The American swivelled in his chair taking in the whole room, “I kinda like the pad you’ve got yourselves, kinda reminds me of what my grandfather told me about,” and knocking back his dram, “His father was a Shetlander, had a little farm someplace up there, I aim to find it, got the charts and when I do, I’m gonna build a solar village, maybe start a fish farm. I’ve an idea for producing power using the osmotic pressure which builds when saltwater passes into fresh water through a membrane. Back home in the States ah saw a model, it really works, scaled up it’ll drive a turbine; who in the name of hell needs nuclear energy?” At once I understood, first form science, shell an egg, stick it in salt water overnight and by morning when you make a pin hole a jet of water shoots out. The man wasn’t ranting, he was right, harness the pressure from osmosis.

  Eilidh set down a plate of oatcake and cheese on the table, “I cook for myself mostly, sure nice to get something from a woman’s hand,” and patting her hand, “thanks Eilidh.” A very different style, up front, garrulous and immediately friendly, the Highland nature, reticent, far from disposed to communicate thoughts and feelings; how difficult for cultures to be comfortable together and still, in spite of his forwardness, my first instinct to like the man remained, with reservations. Eilidh seemed less inclined, “You boys will manage the tea, hope you don’t think I’m rude,” I noticed she baulked at saying ‘Andy’, and squeezing my shoulder, “I’m away to bed.” Anderson rose to his feet and bowing, with a sweep of his arm, “Goodnight, Eilidh.”

  Reaching for the bottle he poured out three fingers, a man desperate for company and, I surmised, anxious to unload his problems. After gulping at his drink he surprised me by saying, “America is a backward society, hooked on aimless trivia, fed the mindless anodyne of chat shows and inane movies. It’s a society sleep walking towards dystopia on an underbelly of black poverty and a widening wealth gap. The country’s run by an unholy amalgam of bonus hungry money lenders screwing the punter and hollering born again Christians keen on military muscle. Stuff international law and the United Nations, to smite is right and you bet it’s good for business.”

  I paid attention. His words were not common parlance. “Hector, we’re seeing the death throws of democracy, it’s now a cover for the centralising of power and the hands of financial despots, a hierarchy of power with global tentacles which, by using puppet politicians, aim at total control of the world’s diminishing resources, the mining of mineral wealth in particular. Nothing stands in their way, least of all the indigenous people.”

  His glass was already empty, “Believe me I’ve been behind the scenes. Set up puppet governments, who got the Iraq oil industry? The folly of Afghanistan, its pipe lines out of the Caspian basin and another puppet President, as for bribing the Taliban war lords to stop fighting, sad I’d say, didn’t the Anglo-Saxon kings of England tax their subjects to bribe the Vikings and hope they’d stay at home? It only worked so long, Danegeld didn’t they call it? We tried Georgia, the same idea, pipelines, but it’s a harder nut to crack, tailoring foreign policy to suit the financiers.”

  Privately agreeing I murmured approval but there was no stopping his vitriolic flow, “and I guess Hector, it’ll be the same over here, it’s a network of politicians on the board of banks and multinational corporations, all fiddling their expenses whilst the planet burns and at the top of the wealth pile, you’ve climate change deniers sitting on their fat asses. No sir -they ain’t gonna give up their even fatter eight cylinder off road, air conditioned lifestyles.”

  I poured tea for him, “Thanks Hec, mind if we have another, what is it you folks say, a wee drap of the cratur?” I winced inwardly. Without waiting for a reply he tipped out half the bottle. The man was covering up some sort of trauma, I began to be concerned, “I tell you, Hector, this goddamn world is splitting along the fault lines of wealth and religious mania and sure as God made li’l ol’ apples, when this global warming finally pulls them apart and anarchy breaks out, you’ll see the poverty stricken masses strip the fields like locusts. It’s then the big boys will emerge. New control methods are being developed by the US military, believe me I know; a lot of it based on mini nuclear technology.” He swallowed half his copious measure in one draught.

  How to handle this situation? Getting him back to his yacht looked improbable. Before I mustered a change of subject, he banged the table with his fist, “I’m on the side of solar power, but it won’t win the fight. Wind power,” he waved a hand, “not worth a fart, maintenance is too expensive anyway, but this nuclear,” his face became deadly serious, “this nuclear business, it’s evil, and believe me pardner, I know, like I really know!”

  Thoughts of how to get him out vanished. The briefcase still lay in the bedroom, untouched. “Evil?” I repeated quietly, “Yeah, evil, truly evil, in a way you haven’t thought of, yet.” This chap knew more than I’d first suspected. I leant forward, “That’s interesting, but evil?”

  Swilling the last of his dram round and round, he threw it back with a flourish. Its last drops trickled down his beard, the voice a low growl, “These nuclear guys are planning to hold the world’s energy supplies to ransom and have all major politicians by the throat,” his red rimmed eyes glared with hatred, “an ah jest happen to know one side winding pig who means to do it.”

  It sounded so ridiculous. I was fascinated, “How is this possible?” Pouring out the remains of the bottle, Anderson swayed back in his chair, “Simple, this enriched stuff is so deadly, a thousand years and it’s still a killer,” his words were slowing and slurring, “simple, the man, the man, who controls its production and espeshally the waste storage calls the tune.”

  At the word storage I looked at him sharply. “Yeah, Hec- Hector, making the stuff is one thing, not too difficult, I can do that,” he hiccupped loudly, “par, pardon me, production not a problem, but storing its leftovers, like crap it piles up, that don’t go nowhere easy. A tricky job, Hec, Hector, that’s li.. like, real tricky.” Rocking back and forth, he looked at the door in a way which gave me the impression the man felt in some danger. He seemed to be choosing his words,

  “Nuclear terrorists, cyber-security, key codes and all that jazz,” another dismissive wave before speaking with care, “Iran, maybe Yemen, all on the drawing board; they call it stra-strategic planning. Pakistan, the big one, that’s to be done a different way.” He struck me as a man privy to more information than might be good for him, a chap who’d broken ranks from the cabal of vested interests and was seeing life from the bottom up with the bitterness of a loser.

  His rambles wandered into a spell of cursing some woman. A clenched fist banged the table. That appeared to steady him and bleary eyed he picked up his previous thread. “Libya’s a class… classic, jest you wait, I’m a telling you, it’s heading thataway. Yah sells a tin god with a chest full of medals a pile of clapped out weapons, maybe a slow plane or two and a heap of tanks, the big boys get the contracts and the lovely black gold pays for a pile of last years weapons, nothing too fancy. Real sweet it is, and when the di..dic…tator steps over the line yah bomb the hell out o
f him, set up the next guy, sell ‘em another load of pop guns, it sh… sure is a beautiful circle, do those finance wallas love it. But I tell yah, Huh…Hec…Hector you gotta keep the big toys tight at home, like real tight.” The voice droned on, weary and resigned, “Politicians and the nuclear boys need wars to keep on top, great for the economy, don’t tell me, I know, terrorists are standard requirement for the nuc…nuclear industry and the little tin soldier politicians, keeps the job going nicely,”

  Poor Anderson put his head in his hands as he mumbled, “job going, keep going nicely until that meg.. mega.. megalo..maniac who holds the keys to an international waste dump which could blow the western world off the planet has the crin.. cringing, poli.. politicians by the balls.”

  I helped him to an easy chair and went for blankets. As I covered him he looked up, his face made haggard by the contortions which plagued his thoughts, “Thanks Hector,” he reached and shook my hand, “you sure are a lucky guy, lovely girl. Not me, pardner, had my fill of that, me I’m on a mission, and it sure ain’t a holy one.” Turning his head, he went straight to sleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Cobwebs

  The croft house of Ach na Mara had an air of detachment. Lying in the porch, his nose on his paws, Rab the old collie looked up but didn’t bark. Used dishes lay in the kitchen sink. Eilidh shook her head sadly. We tapped on the room door and after a moment entered gently. The curtains were drawn. We stood silently. Filtered light imparted a hallowed stillness to the room; the tick, tick of the old fashioned wall clock seemed loud and intrusive. There was no need of time. One lifespan had been measured by the seasons of sow and reap, and on a gathered crop the sun sets but once.

  Outside on the croft we’d left the sunshine of an early spring which each year would have lifted a winter heart. That day walking up to the house, the land seemed cheerless. Perhaps it was just in ourselves but the fields were desolate. We were not alone in our bereavement, the land too sensed the loss. The love of a man for the soil of a lifetime’s care must lie on the land, and who could prove it would not know their time of parting. In a holism which binds a man to the land, who should divide the quick and the dead?

  Ella sat at the head of an open coffin, sunlight faint through the curtains rested on its plain wood and varnish. In those first brief minutes as we stood quietly beside Eachan’s remains, the days, months, the years, each sadness of the past, a prisoner of happy times was released and they came to me in the immense ocean’s cycle of grief. I placed a hand on Ella’s shoulder. She rose without a word and I gathered both women to me. Their sorrows mingled. No tears; they would be for the days of privacy and memory.

  As in life, so in death, Eachan’s presence filled the room. I put my hands on the edge of the coffin, looked at those of a man who had become father and mentor, the man whose vigour of body and mind had set the pattern of my new life, saved me from mental wreckage, had given me the wisdom by which I’d come to understand the values that underpin human existence. I watched his face grow young and he walked the croft, and the fields, fresh and green were filled with lambs. I reached down and touched his cold forehead.

  Eilidh beside me put an arm round my waist. Long, long was her gaze before, from a pocket, she took the golden disc and placed it in the hand which had known sun and storm alike, and bending she kissed his forehead and a tear glistened on his cheek. Ella stood quietly, “I knew you would know and come over,” was all she said. The living and the dead were one.

  I left the women together and went out to the byre. Neck chains jingled as I pushed open the door and lying cows got to their feet. Heads turned and big round eyes stared at a stranger. The cobbles had been swept and the dung cleaned out, I guessed by Eilidh’s brother Iain. Loosing each chain, I let the cows out for water and taking the worn pitch fork, filled their hakes with the meadow hay of a summer past. In a little I heard them back at the door and one by one in they trouped. Reaching round each neck I retied the chains and gave each a scratch behind their shoulder. A line of heads lifted and long tongues pulled down their evening feed. The sweet scent of sun dried grass was in the air and the healthy smell of cattle on my hands.

  I sat awhile on the milking stool looking up at the cobwebs on the rafters, dusty with age. Eachan was of the unhurried days, a fading lifestyle lost to the age of haste.

  We hadn’t asked how he’d died, Ella would tell in her own good time. That night in the kitchen after supper, three at the table instead of four, Ella, strong minded and composed, began to talk, “He went out about ten o’clock at the height of that gale to check the boat. Well, well I waited an hour and he wasn’t coming. I took a torch and went down to the jetty, even in the shelter of the jetty it was wild.” Her voice fell to a whisper, “he was sitting in the stern of Hilda, I shouted down and shone the torch, but he was,” she looked up as though seeing Eachan coming in from the byre, “…he was dead.” I took Ella’s hand and she smiled though the mist.

  The long silence was broken by a knock at the door and a “Hello”. Iain and his wife were the first of callers, friends and neighbours. Each went through to the room for a few moments of thought. A crowded kitchen had Eilidh busy with tea and bannocks whilst I dispensed ‘refreshments’ to the men. Muted conversations gave way to reminiscences which soon became more cheerful, crofting days and escapades. It was late, late, before the house emptied.

  By candle flame we sat the night away through in the room. Ella spoke of their young days together, the children always about the croft and now scattered to a’ the airts as were so many island families. They would come home in the summer, there’d be a family reunion. In her soft musical voice she spoke as if Eachan were still alive and indeed in her heart, so he remained, “I know he died thinking of the poor Hilda girl,” was the last thing she said, and with her own thoughts she went quietly to bed.

  Early morning sunlight flitted into the room. I watched it stray from face to face, the man in the coffin to the dark framed print of his grandfather above the mantelpiece of an empty grate.

  Eachan’s fiddle lay on the piano.

  ‘From the ranks of death the minstrel boy was calling’.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  “Weapons grade material.”

  Lime trees in full leaf shaded the white pine coffee table at which Sir Joshua Goldberg sat awaiting the Private Secretary to the US Chief of Staff. The constant cooing of turtle doves somewhere up in the top branches annoyed him intensely. What an abominable racket! Rather smart in a new cream suit and his old Etonian tie, Sir Joshua squinted apprehensively into the branches above his head. Too late, a splat hit the table at his elbow. He clapped his hands furiously, a pair of doves glided over to another tree. Glancing at his Rolex… he should not be kept waiting. Seething inwardly Sir Joshua vowed these official types would one day learn their place.

  Flecks of pink and white cherry blossom drifted onto the verdant lawns. A small flock of bullfinches flitted from tree to tree feeding on the young buds, their glossy black heads and richly pink breasts alive with April sunshine. Destructive little blighters, thought Sir Joshua Goldberg as his eye caught the flash of colour. A pair of pied wagtails, flicking their long tails and gathering insects darted about the grass. Across from him on an artificial lake of reed beds and overhanging willow, brightly coloured ducks were bowing and squabbling. A wretched grey squirrel came hopping over the lawn. Blasted tree rats, they could bite. Goldberg heaved himself to his feet. These damned Pentagon gardens are a veritable haven for wild life, almost a zoo he reflected, ridiculous, very distracting. This had to be a hush-hush meeting, nothing written or recorded, no obvious top brass meeting, but surely somewhere inside the building would be more civilised.

  A gangling figure crossed the garden towards him. The loping step and loose arms hanging just wide of his hips reminded Nuen’s Chairman of the sheriff in a third rate Western movie. How preposterous he thought, anyway he instinctively disliked thin men. Ignoring the proffered hand, Sir Joshua remaine
d seated, “I trust you realise I’m a very busy man,” was his greeting. The Private Secretary, sour faced and snake eyed, ignored the comment, “Well, Mr. Goldberg, I guess you’re in a hurry, I won’t detain you, it just happens that my boss wants to know two things. When will the weapons grade material for our Indian Ocean base be delivered and secondly, have you started work on the UK deep waste depository? We need results, pronto.”

  “The name is Sir Joshua Goldberg” he began coolly. Knowing full well that a programme for dealing with the Iranian problem had reached the drawing board stage in the military HQ at their back, his firm intention was not to answer any questions directly but to extract substantially more profit from their current agreement, “The material will be delivered for flying abroad in due course but I have to inform you that as a result of certain technical difficulties, which you wouldn’t understand, the arrangement at this stage registers a shortfall of something in the region of five million dollars, as you will see from these figures. I would point out this is contingency funding and covered by clause five of our minute of agreement and my company requires this further reimbursement before proceeding.”

  “O.K. I’ll pass that on.” He picked up the papers which Goldberg tossed over the table, “What about the waste dump? You’ve managed to bypass Westminster? You realise the dump is needed for other than the spent stuff, it’s gotta cover for the storage of weapons grade material. We need that facility outside of the US, and real private,” and he drawled the words, “my friend.”

  Goldberg held up his hand, the impudence of the man. “My dealings with Westminster are not your concern. A provision for weapons grade storage is already agreed between Nuen and yourselves and will be incorporated in our building programme. Please convey to your Chief that what is not yet agreed is the cost of this extra facility. A substantial monetary advancement will be required prior to commencing any work on the repository, or dump, as seems to be your preferred description. It so happens my surveyors are on site as we speak and construction of the repository will begin as soon as your financial response is forthcoming.”