Fiona sat for a while in silence, gazing across the water. Then she turned impulsively to the old man.
“Oh, Grandfather, will you take me out to Ron Mor in your boat one day?” she begged.
But the old man shook his head.
“’Twill be days afore this old boat’s ready for sea,” he muttered evasively.
“But when it is ready, will you take me then?” she wheedled.
But Grandfather was making no promises.
“Maybe, maybe,” was all he would say, and he turned away and picked up the bucket of pitch. Fiona’s gaze was still away over the sea.
“Somehow,” she murmured to herself, “somehow I’ve got to find him!”
As though in answer to her remark the herring gull rose from the rocks below, and, spreading her wings, sailed out over the sea with a long, wild cry.
Chapter 4
FIONA WAS feeding the hens behind the house a few days later when her grandfather called from the doorway, “Rory and I will be off in the boat this afternoon. We’re going to put down some lobster creels at the back of the Ron Mor Skerry—like to come?”
“Oh yes, yes, YES!” shouted Fiona, and, flinging the last of the feed to the scrambling hens, she raced back to the house.
When she and her grandfather reached the creek they found Rory there before them. The boat was launched and ready to start and Rory shoved her off as soon as they were aboard.
It was a brilliant afternoon, with sparkles of light dancing over the water and Ron Mor Island standing out distinctly in the sunlight. It was farther away than it appeared, however, and was soon lost to sight behind the nearer islands. But there was plenty to see as they went along and Grandfather and Rory had tales to tell about most of the islands they passed, fascinating legends of the restless sea, surrounding each with an air of mystery.
They were under the lee of one of the hilly islands when Rory stopped rowing and rested on his oars, allowing the boat to drift while Grandfather explained, “The Ron Mor Skerry lies just around this headland now, and as the tide is falling there’ll likely be some of the gray seals lying out there in the sun, so if we slip by quietly we’ll not be disturbing them.”
They rounded the headland silently and a gray rock came into view lying in a swirl of surf. For a moment Fiona thought it was nothing more than a rock, and then as Rory brought the boat closer she discovered that it was crowded with sleeping seals. She had thought them part of the rock itself until one of them yawned and scratched himself, and in doing so jostled against his neighbors, whose moans and grunts of protest could be heard above the waves. On the highest part of the rock lay an enormous fellow flat on his back with his flippers folded across his great chest. Grandfather pointed him out.
“We call that old chap ‘the Chieftain,’ ” he whispered. “He’s been about the Isles for years. He’s the grandest old seal in these parts.”
As he spoke the Chieftain raised his head and turned in their direction. The moment Fiona saw his face she forgot her grandfather’s warning and clapped her hands, shouting excitedly, “Why, he’s the very same one I saw from the ship on my way to the Isles—I’m sure he is!”
For the next few seconds the skerry itself appeared to be moving as the seals poured off it, slithering into the sea until nothing was left but the bare gray rock in the midst of the swirling tide.
“Och, there now, you’ve scared them with your screeching!” grumbled Rory, pulling again on the oars.
“No, but wait—will ye look at that now!” cried Grandfather, laughing. “They’re coming up already to see what it was that frightened them! There never was anything as inquisitive as a seal!”
As he spoke the old Chieftain himself rose to the surface and swam straight toward the boat, staring hard at Fiona.
“Oh, look! I believe he really does remember me!” she declared.
But Grandfather was already pointing ahead toward the small green island that lay beyond the skerry.
“There is Ron Mor Isle!” he cried with a ring of pride in his voice. “We’ll leave you here for ten minutes or so while we set the creels.”
From the water it looked enchanting with its group of old stone cottages clustered around the tranquil bay in the lee of a sheltering hill. The boat slid in through deep green water so clear that every shell and pebble could be seen on the sandy bottom. Fiona leaned over the side and saw a frightened crab scuttle away from the shadow they cast into his undersea world.
“We’ll be back as soon as the traps are set,” said Grandfather. Fiona jumped ashore, and as she ran up the beach he called after her, “Your cottage was the one at this end, remember? Gran and I had the one next door.”
“And ours was the one beyond,” shouted Rory as he pulled the boat out from the shore.
Fiona’s heart quickened with excitement. She hurried up the beach. As she drew near her old home she realized that it was a good deal more dilapidated than it looked from the sea, the cobbled path all choked with weeds, while clumps of grass sprouted from the ragged thatch. It all looked so neglected that she was very surprised on going inside to find the remains of a recent fire on the hearth and a neat pile of wood stacked ready for use beside it, while the old box bed in the wall was heaped with fresh, dry bracken. But there was something more surprising still. In the corner where she and Jamie used to play, a plank of wood lay supported on stones, like a table, and like a table it was laid for a meal, with flat, white oyster shells for plates and thin, long razor shells arranged like knives and forks. But she saw at once that these were not the old shells with which she and Jamie had played. They were shiny and new and scraps of fresh seaweed still clung to the oyster-plates.
She hurried next door to her grandparents’ cottage, wondering what she would find. But the door was stiff as though it hadn’t been opened for years, while the empty fireplace was hung with dusty cobwebs. It was the same in Rory’s cottage and the others, which she visited in turn. The old box beds were empty and not one hearth showed signs of a recent fire such as she had found in her own old home.
She was puzzling over it still as she went back across the beach, when suddenly she came upon the most bewildering thing of all, the clear, fresh prints of small, bare feet, as though a child had come in from the sea and run up the sand—and yet she knew very well that nobody ever came near the island nowadays. She stopped to examine the footprints closely and found them very much smaller than her own. But as she was bending over them a seagull suddenly rose from the rocks and called on a note of warning:
“Kuk-kuk-kuk KUK! Kuk-kuk-kuk KUK!”
In the same instant a wave swept in from the sea and washed away the footprints as though they had never been.
A shout from the sea made her look up and there was the boat rounding the Ron Mor Skerry. As Grandfather helped her in he remarked, “Just look at those seals— they’ve been out there waiting and watching ever since you went ashore!”
Fiona looked across the water and saw a dozen or more shining heads all turned in her direction. Prominent among them was the great head of the Chieftain. As Rory pulled out of the bay they plunged to meet the boat and crowded about it until Fiona began to feel quite shy with so many eyes upon her. Grandfather remarked with a chuckle, “They’re mighty wise, the old gray seals. I believe they guess you’re one of the island McConvilles come back to your old home.”
At these words the Chieftain flung himself out of the water with a mighty snort and brought his great flipper down with a slap on the surface.
“There now, what did I tell you?” chuckled Grandfather delightedly. “He’s understood every word we’ve said and now he’ll be your friend for life. Will you look at the way he’s watching you with those great eyes of his!”
“Does he really like the McConvilles, then?” she asked. “Sure he does, they all do. Ever since the day when Ian McConville first brought his wife ashore they’ve hung about this island where the family used to live.”
“Then I bet he kn
ows where Jamie is!” cried Fiona, and, leaning over the side of the boat, she said eagerly, “Oh, Chieftain, will you help me find my little brother, please?”
The great creature made no reply, but his eyes were so wise as he looked at her that her heart was filled with hope.
“Tide’s with us,” remarked Rory as he swung the boat around and headed for home. Ron Mor was soon left far astern, and one by one the seals dropped back until only the Chieftain remained swimming beside the boat. He followed them all the way home, only turning back when he saw them pull into the harbor. Then, with a last loud snort, he dived and was gone, leaving nothing to show where he had been save a swirl of bubbles spinning in the still green water.
Fiona decided to say nothing about the table set with shells or the footprints in the sand, but she couldn’t get them out of her mind and went to bed with her head full of thoughts of the island and the wise gray seals watching over it from their skerry.
Chapter 5
ALL NIGHT Fiona dreamed about the Chieftain and his clan from the Ron Mor Skerry, until the sounds of their grunting and moaning seemed to weave themselves into her dreams—Hoo . . . hoo . . . hoo . . . hoooooooo . . .
And then she woke to find that it was morning. She lay for a moment half asleep, remembering her dreams, until suddenly she heard the sound again—Hoo. . .hoo. . . hooooooo . . .
She dressed in a hurry and ran downstairs to her grandfather.
“Whatever are those funny growling noises?” she asked.
“What noises? I don’t hear anything,” mumbled Grandfather, who was busy with his breakfast.
Fiona stood for a minute listening.
“There!” she cried. “And there again!”
“Oh, that! Why, that’s only foghorns,” he replied. “There’s a bit of a mist this morning. Maybe it’s thicker out there.”
Fiona sat down to her porridge in a dream, picturing the anxious ships nosing their way between the islands in the mist. But her thoughts were scattered when the door flew open and Rory burst into the room.
“Grandfather!” he cried excitedly. “They say the mackerel are into the sound this morning, pouring in from the north—will we take the boat and go after them?”
Grandfather pushed back his chair so suddenly that it screeched on the gray stone floor, and, scrambling to his feet, he reached for his fishing lines, all thought of breakfast forgotten.
“Now, just you wait!” ordered Granny. “You don’t go off without something to eat in your pockets.” Seizing the loaf from the table, she began to butter it vigorously.
“Let me go with you! Oh, let me go!” pleaded Fiona, jumping up.
“Now, whatever fun would it be for you out in the boat all day?” exclaimed Granny. “You don’t want to go.”
But of course she wanted to go! Wasn’t it from the boats of fishermen that Jamie was sometimes seen? Rory noticed the desperation in her face.
“Oh, let her come if she wants to,” he said kindly.
“Well, you don’t go without a good breakfast inside you,” said Granny firmly. “There’s plenty of time, they’ll be a while getting everything ready.”
Fiona hurried back to her chair and forced herself to swallow bacon and oatcakes and a cup of scalding tea while Granny cut an extra pile of sandwiches.
At last everything was ready and they started out. There was a small last-minute delay as Granny came running after them with an old homespun cloak.
“You never know how cold it may be on the water,” she said as she fastened the cloak around Fiona’s shoulders. It was so long it reached almost to her ankles.
By the time they reached the boat the mist was beginning to blow in clouds across the harbor. Grandfather straightened his back and looked about him.
“I don’t like the look of the day at all,” he remarked. “It looks like a real fog blowing up.”
“All the better, the fish won’t see us coming,” said Rory cheerfully as he climbed down into the boat.
“’Tisn’t the fish I’m thinking of, it’s Fiona,” muttered the old man uneasily. “I don’t feel we should take her if there’s dirty weather coming.”
“Oh, Grandfather, please!” implored Fiona. “I’ll be quite all right, really I will, and Granny’s cloak is gorgeously warm.” She pulled it around her gratefully, for truth to tell there was a clammy chill in the air.
A fresh wreath of mist blew over them and another foghorn sounded and Grandfather made up his mind.
“I’m sorry, lassie, I am indeed,” he said gently. “But I can’t be taking you today, ’twouldn’t be right.”
Fiona stood on the harbor wall, blinking back her tears as they pulled away without her. Long after the boat had disappeared she stood staring into the fog, which grew thicker every minute. It was soon so dense that she could scarcely make out the shapes of the boats in the harbor, while the tops of their masts were lost in swirling whiteness. There was no one about and no sound to be heard save the muffled boom of the foghorns. There was something eerie about it all and she was glad when an invisible seagull suddenly called from an unseen perch on top of one of the masts.
“Oh, seagull, how good to hear your voice!” she exclaimed.
Instantly there came another sound, a resounding slap on the water.
“Chieftain!” she shouted incredulously.
She was answered by several loud snuffles and snorts.
“Oh dear, I do wish I could see you!” she cried impatiently, peering through the fog and trying to brush it away with her hands.
Near where she stood an iron ladder was fastened to the harbor wall. It was green with slime and the lower rungs were lost in swirling fog. She crept down it carefully, testing each slippery step with her foot until she reached the water’s edge. But there was still no sign of the Chieftain, although she could hear him splashing not far away.
“Oh, Chieftain, where are you?” she called.
For answer he smacked the water again, sending a series of little waves slapping against the wall and setting the dinghies bumping at their moorings. She noticed that one small boat was fastened by a long rope to a ring in the wall near the ladder. She caught hold of the rope and pulled the boat toward her. It was old and battered and it had no oars, but nothing mattered to Fiona as long as it took her within sight of the Chieftain.
She scrambled in and shoved off and the boat slid out into the fog, stopping with a jerk as the mooring rope pulled taut. And there in the water right ahead was the Chieftain.
He swam close to the boat as though to make certain who she was. Then, flinging himself out of the water, he brought down his flipper—SLAP! Immediately dark seal heads bobbed up all around the boat while others swam in through the haze. SLAP! SLAP! The Chieftain smacked the water hard again and the sound echoed back from the invisible harbor wall. At the signal the seals began to dive and somersault, chasing one another under and around the boat until the quiet harbor waters were churned into waves and ripples running in all directions. Fiona gripped the sides of the boat as it plunged at the end of its mooring rope. The old timbers creaked as the water slapped the planking, but Fiona cared for nothing as she watched the fascinating water play of the seals.
Then, just as suddenly as they had started, the seals calmed down and closed around the boat, swimming quietly beside it as they had done yesterday. It was only when she saw them swimming beside her that Fiona realized she was moving, and saw with a little shock of surprise that the boat had broken away from its moorings. She could see the frayed rope trailing behind the water. As there were no oars it was impossible to turn back and anyway, she had no idea where the harbor wall might be, having lost all sense of direction in the fog. Indeed, from the speed at which the boat was traveling, she even began to wonder if she was in the harbor still.
Presently something appeared in the mist ahead. It was a tall, seaweed-covered post on which a single gull stood sentinel. As she glided by Fiona knew that she was indeed beyond the harbor, drifting she k
new not where among the islands. And yet oddly enough she was not in the least afraid. She felt sure the Chieftain had come into the harbor to find her, and she felt equally sure he would see that she came to no harm. He glanced at her now reassuringly as he swam beside the boat and she knew that she was safe.
Apart from the unseen current that carried the boat along, the sea was perfectly calm under the blanketing fog, and she might have been miles from anywhere, in a strange little colorless world of her own. It was so quiet that she was surprised to hear the sound of a bell.
Sounds like a church, only it isn’t Sunday, she thought, and looked about, expecting to see an island loom out of the fog. But what loomed up was no island, only a weed-grown bell buoy topped by a flickering light. She remembered seeing it yesterday when out in Grandfather’s boat, and now she knew for certain that the harbor was far behind. The buoy rolled a little as the boat went by and its bell rang out again, and long after the fog had swallowed it up she heard the sound repeated, clang-clong, clang-clong, growing fainter with every clang until at last it was lost again in the silence.
And then she noticed something else dimly outlined in the mist and, peering ahead, she saw that the boat was drifting toward a beach. It was a shelving bay of smooth white sand, and as the boat grounded she jumped ashore.
“Won’t you come ashore with me?” she coaxed, turning to the seals, but they preferred to remain in the water watching her.
The boat was far too heavy to move, so she left it there at the edge of the tide and made her way up the beach. Suddenly she gave a little gasp of astonishment. For there in the mist stood the old McConville cottage with the shadowy shapes of the others dimly outlined beyond. She had landed on Ron Mor Isle! She was home again!
She pushed open the door and went in. Everything was just as she had left it yesterday. She went across to the fireplace, suddenly aware that she was cold. She piled the driftwood high on the wide stone hearth, and as childhood memories flooded back she reached into the inglenook, and there on its long-remembered ledge was the old flint and tinder she had seen her father use. She soon managed to strike a light and the fire blazed up at once, for the wood was dry and brittle.
Secret of the Ron Mor Skerry Page 3