Nuen’s Chairman rose to leave, “Those papers I gave you are carefully worded to cover my Company’s position and in the interests of confidentiality, for both parties, please ensure that once assimilated, they will be made permanently unavailable to anyone. By which I mean destroyed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m exceptionally busy; kindly arrange these additional payments for both operations be made to my preferred account and at your earliest convenience.”
The American official hovered over Sir Joshua, a foot taller and brittle darting eyes, “Jest one small point, Mr. Goldberg- your past chairman at Nuen, Mr. Anderson.”
Sir Joshua, on the point of stepping past the official, stopped short, why Andrew Anderson? His heart beat quickened. Had the method of his take over of the Nuen Company been leaked? Surely only finance trader Nicky Fellows knew. Insider dealing? If that surfaced it would take somebody at the highest possible level to launder it clean. He swallowed hard and said nothing.
The Private Secretary took a long pause, allowing Goldberg to dangle in acute discomfort. Finally in a deadly casual tone, “You sure pulled off a nice one at Nuen, didn’t you just, but we ain’t caring too much about that jest right now.” More harshly he enquired, “How much is Mr. Anderson aware of the re-routing of weapons grade material, the stuff you and I know about?”
Fighting for composure Sir Joshua spoke huffily, “Whatever his past dealings may have been, as far as I’m concerned he knows nothing of our present arrangements. Now, if you don’t mind, I have another meeting in twenty minutes”
“One moment Mr. Goldberg,” the American’s sharper tone checked Sir Joshua’s hurried steps, “I should tell you our men have kept track on your Mr. Anderson. Incidentally, by our reckoning, he became your ex-chairman pretty darn fast,” and waving the papers he’d been given, “We’ll maybe look over your latest bill.” “Please do,” was all a flustered Goldberg could say before in a nonchalant manner, the man continued, “Hope ya don’t mind me a- telling you, this guy’s on a yacht, holed up on a Hebridean island.”
Goldberg froze, “Hebridean island?” The man’s tone softened, “Yeah, an island. He used to be a good friend of ours and we don’t like to abandon a real friend, now do we?” and in mock innocence, “He wouldn’t be the sort of guy to have a loose mouth by any chance, now would he?”
Sir Joshua flapped a hand in dismissal, his face a shade paler than his smart cream suite. He began to hurry across the lawns. At his elbow, a soft drawl, “If Mr. Anderson’s mouth just did happen to get a little too loose, sure the boys might have to arrange a small operation to tighten it,” and with a quiet laugh, “or any other mouth for that matter.”
Goldberg’s chest tightened, he quickened his pace.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The Trance
In the freshness of a lambing morning over the Sound they sailed, relations, friends, island folk brought together in the closeness of a funeral. To each there would be a last journey, undreamt by the young, imagined by the old. We’d roped Eachan‘s coffin on the foredeck of a fishing boat as the sun rose upon a spring day peerless in its unblemished clarity. Near and far the islands of the Atlantic emerged from the sea to an intensity of light so pure that, in its transparency, I saw they too in the fullness of time were fragile.
Quietly we moored beside the Sandray jetty. A green tarpaulin covered the remains. Eachan would have approved, the more so it took six men with slings to hoist him ashore. In that gentle rocking the reflections of a varnished boat scattered on the still waters of an ebbing tide.
I stood at the jetty’s edge. Little by little, each ruffle of water left wet and glistening razor shells, cockle shells broken and empty, bronzed scallops, the fruits of an ocean awaiting the grinding of tide upon tide. Slowly on a bed of mica sand they would dry in the sun, lose their lustre, be buried by the tumult of a storm to become the limestone richness of life out of death.
And the people of the islands came. Children at hand, the old with stick, their long line wound away from the jetty. A piper tramping the rough ground led the trackless journey out to the headland. Turn about the men folk took their place at the carrying poles. The cry of the birdlife was about the cliffs, echo of the pipes, plaintiff and calling.
Ella walked unbowed, the dignity of love and respect. Behind his remains, her steps made slowly to the headland which had claimed their daughter; was to be the resting place of her husband. Within the sorrow of parting lay an awakening to the fullness of summer. The abounding bird life that nested the headland sailing against the brightness, the seals and their cubs whose curiosity followed our arrival, they too lived its pattern. The day needed no pomp, a simple funeral, the island’s peace granted her solace. She understood.
There was no bleakness on the gathered faces. Bare headed, we stood amongst the pondering stones. At our feet, the tranquillity of the Atlantic made tiny ringlets in the gullies. A soughing wind warm off the sea gave the promise of spring, made our prayers.
Eachan once had said, “These are the tunes that will see me across the Sound.” He foresaw it all. And Eilidh at the foot of his grave played them, and the fiddle sang the psalms of space and wilderness. Mystical notes of trembling fingers carried beyond the cliffs to mingle with the pulse of the sea; and the island folk stood silently for the music and its meaning was of their thoughts.
I looked into the grave, smelt the fresh earth so recently dug, and gazing at the coffin I read his name. I too saw them, as Eachan had surely done. Out of the ground they arose, wraithlike, the generations that went before. Sailing, roving, out of mists that clung to memory they sailed, eagle eyed, rugged men, on the winds that drew them into the sunlight they sailed, Eachan at the helm cleaving the waves.
Bidden by a power from the graves of the past, I spoke the lines which had written themselves at this self same place, “Time lingered as the note that waits poised on the fingers of some plaintive air which guides the pain of beauty into trance. Ocean birdlife wheeled, their cry above the unfolding ripples sigh. The canvas filled, a raven croaked but once above the making tide. A dragon prow nodded to the swell, to a sun alone above the amber hills. Northward trailed the isles, their skyline pointed home, took living eyes to a land they saw in sleep beyond the sea, they sailed by day to a sea they hoped to cross, in the trance of death.”
At the foot of the grave the piper played again. Cearcal a’ Chuain, The Ocean’s Cycle, Solus na Madainn, The Morning Light, the tunes reached out. At his final note I stepped forward, “Piper take your dram.” He held up the glass a long moment, took a solemn draft. Onto the coffin he poured the remainder.
I dug a spade of soil. Ella stepped forward. I handed it to her. Surrounding faces blurred. She gazed down at their years together. In her eyes a man, sun tanned and young, strode up from a hay field. There was no coffin. She cast the first ground, it fell, a dull thud. Each in our turn we took a spade full; they thudded one by one, echoed on the lid, the drum beat of centuries before, a summons of those to come.
Across a gathering of bowed heads, the stillness of the ocean enhanced the clarity of light, singled out a day which bridged the ages, filtered away the superfluous; the flesh, the bones, nothing remained except the spectral lines of the elements which give us thought and bind us to the unending western horizon. Eilidh read my mind, she pressed my hand, here and now mattered. Lovely woman, her fleeting smile dissolved my brooding into the happiness of our being together.
Ferocious cawing broke the silence. Repeated alarm notes, harsh and distressed, reached us. Heads turned quickly, necks craned, hands shielded eyes. Above the Hill of the Shroud two ravens, flapping heavily were striving to gain height. Threshing the still air and calling anxiously they attempted to spiral; huge black wings beating against the mid-day sun.
A humming sound somewhere to the east took every attention. At first a low grumbling, louder and louder until swamping the stillness a large camouflaged helicopter appeared over the hilltop followed closely by a second and a th
ird. The first machine hovered, preparing to land.
The raven stooped, attacking the ‘chopper’. The draft off flailing blades threw the birds tumbling to the ground. Out from the cliff face two young ravens, just able to fly, abandoned their nest and, flopping off the ledge, landed spread winged on the lower slopes.
Distraught parents attacked the intruder again. One bird swooped too close. Flung into the air it fell to the ground, a feather rag. The second bird attempted to alight beside a fallen mate. The down draft swept it off the cliff. Over and over the bird tumbled down the slope until, with drooping wings, it stood cawing defiantly beside two crouching chicks. In the brilliant light we could watch it all.
‘The raven will not nest again on the Hill of the Shroud.’ Eachan’s words rang in my head, Raised before me were his outstretched arms. He stared from his kitchen window in the throws of dismay. What had he foreseen that strange morning, the day of his death?
Utterly shocked nobody moved. A second machine landed. The third helicopter banked sharply and veered towards us. Ella stood beside the half covered grave. Murmurs of disgust were raised amongst the crowd. The racket became deafening. Terrified young children began to cry.
Tilting slightly, the ‘chopper’ circled above our heads. The thrusting air caused many of the crowd to crouch. Nesting birds fled the cliffs in alarm adding to the cacophony as they poured out to sea, a screeching white mass of twisting wings. Fulmar, gulls and kittiwake, many eggs would be scattered by their panic.
Faces studied us from the windows. The machine made two circuits before the pilot swung away churning the bay into a froth as he crossed over to pause above the Valkyrie who still lay at anchor. The slim little artic terns, newly arrived from their Antarctic wintering, fled the beach for the open sea. My fury mounted. Old heads shook in disbelief, nobody spoke. Finally the helicopter roared up the hillside to land beside its companions.
The sanctity of a day and the dignity of a silence remote from the modern world had been mauled, profoundly mauled. We pressed down the last of the earth and replaced the divots.
No wreaths were laid, nothing placed but the turf divots I’d cut. Already tiny purple violets, first of a summer’s wild flowers showed amongst the greenness which had given resting to the north bound geese.
Of the raven there was no sign.
A cold realisation was dawning.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The Shaft
The safety belt was chaffing Sir Joshua Goldberg’s stomach. He thankfully loosened it the better to command a clearer view below, “What in the name of creation is that mob of people doing down there?” he shouted to the helicopter pilot, “out in the middle of an utter wasteland, most of them dressed in black? It’s got to be some quack American religious gathering, idiotic bunch of zealots expecting the end of the world. It happens every few years.” In excellent spirits, now work on Nuen’s key project was getting underway, he condescended to attempt a little joke, “I saw one of them looking at his watch.” The pilot failed to appreciate his wit.
A tall fellow amongst the supposed fanatics caused Goldberg to prod the pilot, “Circle them again pilot, if you don’t mind.” Even from a distance the style of the man was distinctive. He delved his memory, the confounded din of the ‘chopper’ was not conducive to thinking, it would come to him. “Head to that yacht, pilot.” They swept across the bay, ignoring the fishing boat at the jetty. Their draft heeled the yacht. “Can you read her name?” he asked impatiently. “Valkyrie,” the pilot informed him. “What a ridiculous name,” Sir Joshua snapped. It didn’t mean anything but his recent unpleasant conversation with that Pentagon official came instantly to mind. Could this be Anderson? A bearded man stood in the yacht’s cockpit waving his fist, obviously cursing them. This must be checked, if necessary dealt with and very firmly indeed. Anderson knew too much, certainly for his own good.
Climbing towards the summit they flew above the island’s sole house, “That hovel looks occupied!” he bawled across the cabin. The pilot nodded. “Somebody actually living there, that’s absolutely ludicrous.” He grabbed the pilot’s binoculars, “and damned solar panels, it’s monstrous.” His private hate, anything connected to solar energy. Sir Joshua fumed inwardly. He’d been assured in London the place was uninhabited. Government owned- the fools should have known, “Confounded squatters,” he said aloud. Getting them out, not a problem; keeping the media’s nose out of this development, vital, both for Nuen and the Government. It might take a cash inducement to get them removed quietly; seldom failed, naturally a last resort and one which he found painful. As for those damned penguins perched on the headland. Goldberg’s good humour evaporated.
The pilot landed skilfully on the hill top. Sir Joshua’s personal assistant helped him descend the ladder. Already survey poles and levelling instruments were in use, the constructional engineers were busy, impressions count. Nuen’s chief designer walked over to greet his new Chairman, reflecting to himself- ‘Gone the easy going Anderson who seldom left New York and didn’t attempt to screw down salaries or production bonuses’. “If you’ve time for a few words, Sir Joshua I’ll explain the site’s general layout.” “Of course, MacDonald, that’s why I’m here.”
Together they stood on the summit. Goldberg zipped his leather kapok jacket to the neck and wiped his watering eyes. A panorama of interlocking islands reaching to the serrated line of mainland hills presented no appeal, none whatsoever, “This sort of topography is absolutely worthless,” and allowing his aversion full rein, went on, “we shall revitalise these backward islands, bring in fresh population; they tell me the natives are highly inbred, no doubt that accounts for their excessive proportion of imbeciles.”
He became aware the engineer glared at him, “now then MacDonald, explain to me your plans,” the cool air caused him to wheeze, “and kindly, not in too much detail, I have studied your outline drawings. My main concerns are schedules and containing costs.”
“Well Sir Joshua, we shall flatten fifteen hectares up here to the level of that cliff top, that will be the upper area- buildings, control units and helicopter pads. The tunnel entrance which leads to the main chamber will be three hundred metres down the east sloping face, we’ll drive the shaft in at thirty degrees for two hundred metres and then excavate the main hall from which the bore holes will run vertically down through the solid rock for six hundred metres. The extracted spoil will serve as infill as we construct a road down to that eastern bay over there. There’ll be something in excess of a million tons of rock which we’ll use to infill the breakwater needed to protect the deep water installation required for berthing the vessels carrying waste.”
The Nuen Chairman had heard enough; he merely nodded and had begun to walk back to the helicopter when it occurred to him to ask, “Where is the labourers’ camp to be situated?” MacDonald pointed, “On that flat green ground beside the old house, we’ll put in a service road up here to the operations. There’ll be accommodation for up to four hundred men at the peak of construction. Their supplies will be brought in via that jetty, the bay’s too shallow to be any use for the vessels which are to bring in the waste. Two years should see us ready to move in the high tech equipment and we’ll be ready for waste shipments in another two years.”
“Good, MacDonald,” and turning sourly he faced the engineer, “I think I’ve told you before, we do not refer to waste and certainly not the word nuclear. This whole operation is a rock quarry for exporting road metal to England. Kindly don’t forget, no matter to whom you speak,” adding, “if you value your job that is, need I say more? Remember I shall visit from time to time.”
Stumbling over the rough ground, Goldberg paused for breath. Looking round at the empty vastness served to reinforce his previous opinion, this was really the most odiously primitive area he’d ever had the misfortune to visit. The only consolation, every ton of rock would be a golden nugget in disguise and twenty-four carat gold at that he thought, mentally rubbing his ha
nds.
An eddy of breeze ruffled a scatter of jet black feathers. The carcase of a bird, a bloody mangle of torn flesh with bones protruding, lay in his path. “One mangy crow less!” he boomed, kicking it aside. Its great beak opened, a pink tongue showed. It moved slightly. He stopped.
Unblinking eyes stared up, malevolent orbs they seemed to penetrate his thoughts. The loathing in their expression frightened him. He shook it off. Just a glutinous carrion crow and now a twisted heap of feathers, he smirked. And me a scientist! It couldn’t possibly be alive. Could it?
Tentatively Goldberg stirred the mutilated body with his foot. The faintest croak emerged, the exhaling of dead lungs; the twitch of rigor mortis.
Aiming a kick at the carcase he fell heavily. The engineer lifted Nuen’s Chairman to his feet, “Are you all right?”
No reply. Taking an elbow, he guided the trembling Chairman to the waiting helicopter.
A large brandy restored Sir Joshua’s composure and, in spite of the engine noise, he slept.
Fingered wings, outstretched and flapping; a bird strutted towards him, jerking its head from side to side, cawing with greed. Black eyes of hatred pierced his being. The raven bent. A cruel beak opened. It began to peck out his eyes. Howling in terror he attempted to beat it off.
Rigid with shock an awakening Goldberg cried piteously for help.
The pilot paid no attention.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
A legal Injunction
From the tints of an Atlantic sunset the stones of the old house took a rosy glow. By the time lights from its windows cast yellow lines towards the bay, more than the stonework had a rosy tinge. Youngsters and their mothers had been ferried to Castleton aboard the fishing boat, back she’d sailed with a few who’d missed the internment. Inside, outside, filling both tiny rooms, sitting on window ledges, leaning against the walls, some tramping over to inspect my ‘lazy beds’. “You fairly bent your back, time to get the tatties planted,” comment and encouragement, a wealth of folk who knew and understood, a laughing, talking crowd; when had our croft known the like?
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