Secret of the Ron Mor Skerry

by Rosalie K. Fry

  “Don’t forget me cow!” she shouted as they moved away from the quayside.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow or next day,” Rory promised his mother, “and tell you how we are getting on.”

  Once they were outside the harbor there was no more talking. The waves were not very big yet, but the strong wind snatched at their foaming crests and flung them over the boat so that Fiona and her grandmother were kept busy holding mackintoshes over the blankets to keep them dry. Fortunately the tide was with them and in a surprisingly short time they rounded the Ron Mor Skerry and pulled into the sheltered bay beyond.

  Fiona and Rory had laid their plans beforehand, and as soon as the boat touched the shore Fiona jumped over the side and ran up the beach, leaving the others to start unloading. She ran into each of the three end cottages in turn, setting a light to the high-piled fires heaped ready on the hearths. They had been carefully laid with dry bleached wood and they all blazed up immediately, filling the three little kitchens with crackling warmth and sending three long columns of smoke drifting out across the bay.

  Granny came briskly up the beach with a basket in each hand, but she stopped in astonishment when she reached the doorway of her old home.

  “Why, Fiona child, ’tis as though it had never been empty!” she exclaimed, looking about the firelit room, where Fiona had made the most of the simple furniture, adding two little jars of wildflowers as a homey touch.

  “Well, what do you think of it, Granny?” asked Rory, coming up behind her with an armload of blankets.

  But it was Grandfather who supplied the answer.

  “Och, lad, but it’s good to be home again!” He smiled as he strode in over the threshold and spread his hands to the fire.

  Chapter 10

  FOR THE next hour everyone was busy. Grandfather and Rory unloaded the boat and pulled her up the beach, well above the tide line.

  “Just where she always used to lie. I bet she’s glad to be back,” said the old man with satisfaction, slapping the side of the boat as though patting a living creature.

  They now turned back toward the cottages, where Rory was soon busy filling all available buckets and cans with water from the well. He carried them into the kitchen ready for use. Grandfather lingered outside, inspecting roofs and walls.

  “Well, Rory lad, you’ve made a grand job of these thatches, to be sure,” he called out presently. “And just as well—for, by the look of that sky, the storm will be on us soon.”

  All this while Granny was busy indoors arranging her pans and cooking things in their old familiar places while Fiona heaped blankets and pillows into the old box beds.

  “Now,” announced Granny when everything was in order, “time to start thinking about supper.” And to Fiona’s surprise she went straight across to the window and looked out.

  “Tide’s still low, that’s good,” she remarked. “Come, child, and bring the basket.”

  Fiona followed wonderingly as her grandmother led her out across the rocks to where the shining seaweeds grew in and out of the pools.

  “Here we are. We’ll want plenty of these,” said Granny, rolling up her sleeves and starting to pull the tough red and brown fronds off the rocks. Fiona soon learned which seaweeds to pick and which to leave as they moved from pool to pool filling the basket. Suddenly an idea occurred to her.

  “Granny,” she asked, “would these be the rocks where Ian McConville’s wife collected her special seaweeds all those years ago?”

  “The very same,” replied Granny. “And indeed some of these seaweeds grow nowhere else in the Isles.”

  “Oh, Granny, then does that mean . . .,” began Fiona.

  Granny nodded.

  “Yes,” she answered, smiling, “it means I am going to make her own particular seaweed soup exactly as she used to make it herself. She taught the first McConvilles how to cook it long ago, and ever since, every Ron Mor woman has handed on the recipe to her descendants.”

  “And now you are handing it on to me!” said Fiona, feeling herself already an island housewife.

  When they had collected all they needed Granny led the way to a deep pool in the rocks where they rinsed the seaweed thoroughly, washing out all the sand and bits of shell. This done, they returned to the cottage, where Granny put it all into the cooking pot, which Fiona swung on its chain over the fire.

  Before long a delicious smell began to fill the little kitchen, where Granny bent over the fire, stirring the soup with an ancient wooden spoon. But Fiona guessed that her mind was far more occupied with thoughts of a wooden cradle-boat somewhere out on the sea. Nobody mentioned Jamie’s name and Fiona’s heart grew heavy, wondering if they half believed he was only a dream after all. She kept glancing out the window but there was nothing to be seen save the lowering sky and the rapidly mounting waves.

  The lamp was lit and the dusk already closing in before the expected storm swept in from the Atlantic and hurled itself at the islands.

  “Good thing you roped the roofs securely,” muttered Grandfather as the first gusts snarled around the cottage, setting the row of dangling stones tapping against the walls.

  “Ah, Jamie, Jamie!” moaned Granny as fresh gusts battered against the door and grumbled in the chimney.

  Fiona ran to the window and, pressing her face against the glass, stared out into the stormy twilight. The waves were whipped into confusion now and dashed up the beach in a wild fury of foam. Suddenly, as she watched, a dark shape loomed against the whiteness, and a seal hurled itself out of the waves and lumbered ashore. It was closely followed by another and then another, the leaders crowding in from the sea to make way for those who followed. And then she saw something that wasn’t a seal, a squarish something that bobbed up and down on the swell.

  She held her breath as an incoming wave swept it far up the beach in a smother of foam, and as the wave receded she saw that it was indeed the cradle-boat, with Jamie in the stern. He scrambled out as his little craft swung sideways in the surf; and, holding it against the backwash, he managed to drag it to the top of the beach before the waves could snatch it back again.

  Only now did Fiona manage to speak, although when she found her voice it was scarcely more than a whisper.

  “It’s Jamie!” she told them breathlessly. “He’s come on shore with the seals.”

  Rory was the first to reach the door, but Granny was close behind him and laid a restraining hand on his arm.

  “Careful, lad,” she cautioned. “Whatever we do, we mustn’t frighten him now.”

  They opened the door between them inch by inch, but as the finger of light stretched out across the sand, Jamie turned and fled toward the sea.

  “Oh, he’s going back—he’s going!” wailed Fiona from the window.

  The seals, however, had other ideas and closed about him immediately, the Chieftain himself barring the way and refusing to let him pass.

  “There, would you ever believe that now?” marveled Grandfather under his breath. “The wise ones know what’s good for the child—they know where he belongs.”

  “But, oh, he’s afraid, so afraid!” Fiona whispered compassionately, and she stretched out her hands imploringly to where the little boy stood with his back to them all, hiding his face against the Chieftain’s shoulder.

  As the great waves thundered into the bay with the rising tide behind them, the storm winds snatched at the flying spray and scattered it over beach. The gray seals snorted and tossed their heads while their chief bent over the little boy who stood shivering in the wind.

  “It’s grand and warm inside by the fire,” coaxed Grandfather very gently.

  “And there’s seaweed soup in the cooking pot,” added Rory.

  For an instant Jamie raised his head and sniffed like a small wild animal on the scent of something good. But he still hung back, afraid to move, even when the Chieftain gave him a gentle push, as if trying to guide him toward the cottage.

  It was Granny who stepped out into the storm and wen
t quietly down the beach with outstretched hands. “Come, Jamie love,” was all she said, but there was something in the way she spoke that made the little boy turn to her immediately.

  Looking up with a wondering smile, he put a trusting hand in hers and allowed her to lead him indoors. As Rory reached out to shut the door behind them he paused a moment on the threshold to call out into the storm, “We’ll take good care of him, Chieftain, now we are home again.”

  The Chieftain flung up his great head with a snort of satisfaction; then, swinging around on the wet sand, he called his clan and led them into the sea.

  The storm now increased to a roaring gale that flung itself on the cottages as though trying to hurl them into the sea. But the early island builders knew what they were about when they built their homes with low-pitched roofs and rounded ends where no storm could do much harm. And so the fiercer the storm winds raged outside, the cozier it grew in the lamplit kitchen, where the little family sat around the fire with bowls of steaming soup. Rory and his grandfather were seated on either side of the hearth with the children on the floor between them, while Granny hovered about the group, looking after them all.

  Jamie sat wrapped in a blanket, looking from one to another with solemn eyes and speaking never a word. But he wasn’t too shy to enjoy his soup, tipping the bowl to scrape the last drops from the bottom before holding it out for more.

  “Ah, love his little heart, he’s hungry,” murmured Granny tenderly.

  At first Fiona and Rory tried to question him, but he hung his head and refused to say a word.

  “Never mind, don’t worry the child,” said Granny wisely. “How can you expect him to know how to talk? He’ll learn and find his tongue in his own good time. He’s learning now to trust us all and that’s what matters most.” And she lightly touched the tumbled curls on the small bent head.

  When it was time to clear away, Granny and Rory gathered up the dishes. Fiona made a move to help but Granny shook her head.

  “No, love, you stay with Jamie,” she said, bustling into the next room with a pile of plates and bowls. Rory followed with the lamp, for they did not need it in the kitchen, where Grandfather threw more wood on the fire and the flames leaped up immediately, sending a sudden blaze of light into every corner of the room.

  “Ah, that’s better,” remarked the old man contentedly. “There’s nothing to beat a driftwood fire at the end of a busy day.” He pulled out his pipe as he spoke and began to fill it slowly, packing down the tobacco with his thumb. But his head began to nod before ever he got it alight, and in no time at all he was fast asleep in his corner.

  The children sat side by side on the hearth, silently watching the sparks fly up the chimney, while great breakers pounded the shore outside, drawing back with a roar of pebbles. Fiona shivered suddenly and stole a glance at her little brother.

  “To think you might still be out there in the storm!”

  She shuddered and slipped an arm protectively around his shoulders. She was half afraid he might draw away, but instead he settled himself more comfortably against her. He sighed contentedly, stretching his small, bare toes toward the fire.

  Fiona looked down at the dark, tousled head. “Oh, Jamie boy, if only you could talk to me! There are so many questions I would like to ask. How in the world did you live all that long time by yourself, I wonder,” she said almost in a whisper.

  Jamie looked up at her and smiled. He murmured something drowsily, but the sounds had no meaning for Fiona.

  “Never mind,” she said. “You will learn quickly and it will be such fun to teach you. Oh, and then what tales you’ll be able to tell! But for now, I’ll tell you what I like to think happened. Would that please you?”

  Jamie studied her face solemnly.

  “All right,” Fiona went on, hugging the small boy against her. “It was this way, then. At first you just stayed in your cradle-boat, and you slept there too. You weren’t a bit afraid, because the seals were always there to guide you through the currents and keep the cradle off the rocks. And they brought you food too, tiny little fish that didn’t taste at all bad, even if they were raw, and the right kind of seaweed. And the seagulls helped in their own way. They must have brought scraps of all kinds of things, meat perhaps, and bread and even cake sometimes.”

  “Cake sometimes,” said Jamie, and Fiona laughed. “Now, what did I tell you? You’ll be talking in no time! Shall I go on? All right. Your cradle-boat washed ashore sometimes and, while the seals watched, you played on the beach and climbed on the rocks, but always you went back to your cradle to sleep. But once, when a storm was coming up, the seals—maybe the Chieftain himself— brought you ashore and you found our old cottage. You must have remembered then, Jamie—you must have wondered where we had all gone and looked and looked for us. How lonely you must have been.” Fiona’s voice caught, almost in a sob, but she went on.

  “Stormy nights like this would have been the worst. Then the seals play in the breakers, but I guess they stay on shore when the waves are very rough. Well, anyway, you kept growing all the time and mostly you went back to your cradle to sleep, until finally you were too big to lie down in it. Then you just used it as a boat and landed on Ron Mor Isle every night to sleep in the old box bed in our cottage. That was the way it happened, wasn’t it, Jamie?”

  “Jamie,” he said, and gave Fiona his slow, shy smile. “You see?” Fiona said. “It’s not hard, is it? But I wonder if you’ll remember what really happened—long enough, that is, to learn to talk and tell us? I hope you will! I like to think too that you weren’t so very lonely. You played wonderful games with the Chieftain and the other seals whenever the sea was not too rough, for of course they would have taught you to dive and swim underwater. How did you learn how to light the fire, I wonder? Of course you had watched the rest of us do it, but it must have been almost accident at first. And you learned to understand the seals too, didn’t you? And you talked to them in their own language. The seagulls would warn you if fishermen came near, so that you could hide among the rocks. But they didn’t warn you when I came! Maybe they knew I wouldn’t hurt you. That’s nice to think, isn’t it? And the Chieftain! How wonderful he was to you, teaching you things—and letting you teach him too. You must have taught him how to sit with you and have tea, the way I saw you doing that day. You did have fun too, didn’t you, Jamie?”

  But Jamie’s head was heavy on her shoulder and his eyes were closed. When Rory and Granny came in with the lamp, Jamie started up with a little wild cry. He stared around the room with startled eyes, then curled himself against Fiona and murmured, “Cake sometimes . . . Jamie.”

  “Now, what do you know about that!” said Granny, lifting him in her arms. Crooning softly, she carried him toward his bed, Fiona tiptoeing along beside them.

  Hours later, when everyone was asleep and the embers sank to ash on the old stone hearth, the storm began to die down and the torn clouds parted to reveal a half-grown moon. By its fitful light the seals could be seen at play among the waves. But presently one of them turned away, the largest of them all, and the Chieftain hauled himself out of the water, onto the Ron Mor Skerry, which was just beginning to appear above the falling tide. He looked toward the island shore where the cottages could be dimly seen, outlined above the bay with the small dark shape of the cradle-boat lying below on the sand. And he sighed a sigh of deep content because the McConvilles had come home again and his clan was now complete.

  The waves still surged around the skerry in a swirl of leaping foam, but already the wind was falling light, and the moon was joined by a small, bright star as the last of the storm died out with the ebbing tide.

  ROSALIE KINGSMILL FRY (1911–1992) was born on Vancouver Island, Canada, but moved to Swansea, Wales, with her family as a child. She trained as an artist at the Central School of Arts and Crafts in London and began writing stories in order to have material to accompany her illustrations. Bumblebuzz, her first book, came out in 1938. During the Secon
d World War Fry served as a cypher officer in the Women’s Royal Naval Service, even as she continued to publish books for children. In addition to writing, she made toys, designed stationery, and contributed illustrations to various periodicals. A prolific and successful writer, Fry worked steadily until the 1970s, publishing more than thirty books over the course of her career. She lived most of her adult life in a cottage in the Welsh countryside.