A MASS FOR THE DEAD

by Susan McDuffie

  “And how can I not be,” I retorted, “with himself breathing down my back like MacPhee’s black dog, to be solving this matter?”

  “Speaking of dogs,” she retorted, with the sunlight shining on the gold of her hair, “where is Somerled? Were you leaving that great dog of yours at home, then, Muirteach?”

  Seamus, totally ignored by the both of us, pretended interest in the lavender patch and some comfrey, while Mariota and I glared at each other a moment. Then she laughed her silvery laugh, and said, “Come away in then, the both of you, and I will get you some refreshment.”

  “And so are you alone here? Where is your father?” I asked, after she had settled us with a cool glass of barley water, herbed with lemon balm, spiced and sweetened with honey. Although I told myself I would have preferred claret, the sweet coolness of the drink was refreshing on the hot day. And there was no denying it quenched the thirst.

  “My father is away at Finlaggan. But my aunt bides here, with my cousin. For someone must stay to mind the garden, Muirteach. It does not weed itself, you know. She is away this afternoon, at a birth up towards Ardnave. It is a first baby and I am not thinking we will be seeing my aunt until tomorrow. Robbie is away fishing. He will be back when the shadows lengthen.”

  I wanted to ask her about her betrothal to the nameless MacNeill that Eilidh had spoken of, but I did not. For it was no business of mine, after all, if the daughter of the Beaton went and got herself married. Marry she should, I thought sourly, and soon, for otherwise she is like to become an old maid. At least that MacNeill would take her.

  My thoughts troubled me, and I busied my mind looking around the room. There was a fine large table under the window that served as a desk, from the look of it. On it were piled papers and many books. More books rested on a shelf nearby; the whole family of the Beatons looked to be rare ones for the reading.

  I walked over and examined them, The Odyssey, and other works of the ancient Greeks, intrigued me. They sat beside other books, medical treatises mostly, among them De Re Medicina, and the Lilium Medicinae. At the time those works had little meaning to me, although now I know them somewhat better.

  Bunches of herbs hung from the rafters to dry and gave the house a sweet, grassy smell. The beaten floor was covered with rushes. All seemed in neat order. As I looked at a small wooden cupboard hanging from the whitewashed wall I realized Mariota was asking me something. “What was it you were saying?” I asked.

  Mariota made a little face. “You are wearied, Muirteach, that is plain enough. I was asking what news there was from Colonsay. What else have you been finding out, since I was last there?”

  I told her. After all the dead ends we had found here on Islay, I was more and more of the mind that it was Gillecristus who had done these things. Which would not be making me a popular man with His Lordship, at all.

  “Where is himself these days?” I asked.

  “Why? Do you have news for him?” asked Mariota.

  I shrugged my shoulders, as though I did not care, but felt a fear deep in my gut. “I have no idea who has done these murders. Unless it was Gillecristus. Have you seen His Lordship? Was he asking about it, then?”

  “He mentioned it to my father.”

  “And what was your father telling him?”

  She smiled, her blue eyes twinkling a bit. “Och, my father told him of the second murder, and how that had made the whole situation here all the more complicated.”

  “And?”

  “Himself has some other things to be thinking of the now. He is after the Earl of Ross, to betroth his daughter to young Donald, but I was hearing that things are not going well with that.”

  “Is not Donald still with the King?” I asked, relieved at the thought that His Lordship had something else to occupy him for the now. For His Lordship’s son, Donald, had been in Edinburgh for some years, a hostage for his father’s good behavior to the Scottish Crown.

  “Och, he is still there. But the word was that he might be returning soon.”

  Bleakly, I wondered if the MacLeods of Lewis had need of a scribe, for it seemed unlikely that I would be welcome in His Lordship’s territory after all was over. Or perhaps I could get work in Edinburgh, at the court, or even in England.

  “Are you knowing that MacKerral woman living over at Kilchioman?”

  “Aye,” nodded Mariota.

  “She was aye unfriendly to us. I am thinking her son went to the Priory as a boy, but he left the place. She did not wish to speak of him, at all.”

  Mariota nodded again. “She has her ways, does Alsoon. Her humors are sadly out of balance, but she wants no help from any healer. She stays alone there, and I fear she broods. I am thinking that, when I was younger, she was not so. But her husband cut his hand on a scythe, just a small cut it was, but he died within two days. My father tried, but he could not stop the poison in the man’s blood. Since that time poor Alsoon has not been so well in her mind. My aunt will know her better. You must be asking her about it all.”

  There was a pause, I felt my head nod, and she suddenly said, “Look you Muirteach, you are tired. Why do you not rest yourself in here the while, and I will just finish weeding that bit of speedwell, and that meadowsweet, before the afternoon is gone. Then we will be eating, if Robbie is bringing some fish back. And I think that he will, sea trout most likely it will be. For you both will be hungry. Seamus, if you are not tired, why do you not come and help me out here.”

  Seamus complied, and I leaned my back against the wall where I sat, breathing in the sweet scent of the herbs. They must have been hops, some of them, for I could not keep my eyelids from closing, and I let sleep overtake me for a time in the heat of the afternoon.

  I had a strange dream. Mariota was there, on some high place, and she held something in her hand, with that smile of hers on her face. But when I walked closer to see what it was, she laughed, and changed into a bird, a kestrel it was, and flew away. I could see whatever it was she had been holding, still glittering in her talons.

  As it was a dream I followed her, beating my own wings, for I too had become a hawk, flying out and over, over the Sound of Islay and on across to Oronsay. We could see the seals swimming in the shallow waters and sunning themselves on the beach; even the young seal pups with their mothers in the sheltered cove where they whelped. Fantastic it was, that we could see every detail of the shoreline of Oronsay.

  How fine it was to move so freely! Being as it was a dream, our flight made no sound and I felt no wind on my limbs. We flew over Sheena’s cottage, which looked dark and abandoned from its point over the sound and continued across the strand.

  The tides were out, and on the Strand red dulse, kelp, and yellow bladderwrack shone wetly on the white sands and glistening dark rocks. But we kept flying, over the path leading to the Priory until at length we hovered over it. The masons worked on the North Range. I could clearly see Padraic and Moloug out in the fields and sure, I was even seeing the beehives set out, the wicker of them yellow against the green of the plants in the gardens.

  The sun, brighter than the brightest flame, was heading towards its bed in the western sky, and of a sudden, in the air before me, I saw the glint of its rays on whatever it was that Mariota had been holding. The glittering object plummeted like a rock, down, and I felt myself descending with it, the green grass inside the cloisters coming up to meet me at a fast rate. This is it, I thought, and braced myself for the fall.

  I jerked awake.

  I was still in the Beaton’s house. The shadows had lengthened some across the floor and the room felt close with the summer heat filling it. My neck was stiff from the odd way I had leaned it against the wall, and my bad leg sore from the walking we had done that day.

  I had dreamed, that was all of it. I found myself wishing for some claret, and shook myself to shake the dream away, even as I regretted the lost beauty of that flight. It brought to mind the wild notes of some elusive song, the sound of it fading out of reach even as I tr
ied to grasp it.

  But what was it, I thought, that Mariota had been holding? The silvery glint of it came back into my mind’s eye—that brooch, it must have been, falling to the Priory. And perhaps all it was meaning was that my father had given it to Sheena, indeed, and that was the message of it then. But where was that brooch now, and who was the killer?

  The door opened and a gangly youth entered, with a small creel of trout. “You will be Muirteach, I am thinking,” he said easily. “I am Robbie. Herself was telling me to be quiet when I came in here, but now you are awake.”

  “Aye.” My throat was dry. “Is there something to wet my throat with? I am parched.”

  Robbie nodded, and filled a beaker with some claret from a jug, then one for himself. I drank thirstily, and was just setting it down on the kitchen table when the door opened again and Mariota entered, along with Seamus. She carried a basketful of young nettles, and after a greeting, proceeded to busy herself with the food, frying some bacon in a pan, then adding the trout while my stomach let me know, insistently, that I had not eaten since leaving my great-aunt’s.

  All the while she kept up a chatter with her cousin and Seamus, about nothing in particular, while I nursed another beaker of claret, feeling strangely surly and uncommunicative, the searing beauty of my dream lost in the bustle of the evening.

  The food was good, but I fear I did not thank her for it. I left the pleasantries to Seamus, who ate almost everything in sight, and complimented Mariota effusively on her cooking. I took myself outside after the meal was over, and watched the sun set behind the standing stones of Balinaby.

  * * * * *

  The next morning I asked Mariota again about Alsoon MacKerral, and at length Mariota agreed that she would go and try to get more information from Alsoon than I had been able to. Seamus and I prepared to return to Colonsay, having accomplished our purpose here on Islay—ruling out my relatives as suspects in the murder. So there was nothing for it then, but to return home.

  We walked down to the beach, where we had left our small boat. The wind was brisk, with white clouds scudding across an azure sky and the wind was in our favor. The trip to Colonsay promised to be a quick one. We said our good byes, and Seamus pushed the boat into the sea, then jumped in, while I raised the sail. The golden sands of Saligo Bay grew more distant as we prepared to continue on up the coastline, before crossing the eight miles or so of open sea between Islay and Colonsay. I was glad the wind made rowing unnecessary that day, although I have strong arms and shoulders and can row well if need be.

  We rounded the rocky western corner of the island. The black rocks glistened against the gray waves of the sea. The breeze grew more blustery, and I feared a gale. The wind stiffened and I noticed Seamus, who had been working the bailing bucket while I tended to the sails, working faster at his task.

  “Look you, Muirteach,” he cried, trying to make his voice louder over the sound of the wind, “she is filling up with water very fast. I am not liking it at all.”

  I looked at my feet and the water was reaching my ankles, in fact, it seemed to be pouring into the boat far too quickly. I surveyed the boat, my eyes moving quickly due to my anxiety, and saw the reason.

  Someone had bored some small holes in the hull of our boat, and stuffed them with tallow. But the tallow had been washed away by the action of the waves against it, and now water poured into the boat, not only from the odd wave that washed over the gunnels—an expected part of sailing—but also from the holes in the hull.

  Someone had wished us ill and wanted our boat to sink.

  Someone had taken advantage of our overnight stay at Balinaby, to drill those holes. The boat, lying on the beach without a guard, had been an easy target. And now Seamus and I, fool that I was, would pay a high price for my carelessness.

  I cursed myself for an amadan, but that did not help our situation, and the depth of the water inside our boat was increasing. It sat lower in the waves with every passing moment.

  “Seamus, keep bailing,” I ordered. I did not need to. Seamus, his face white, sensed the gravity of our situation, and worked doubly fast to get the waters out of the boat, while the first drops of rain from the squall pelted us in the face. I secured the sail and joined him, frantically bailing with another pail.

  Who had done this to us? How easy it would have been, sometime during the night, for someone to drill the holes and then plug them with tallow. We would sink, in the Sound, with none the wiser for it. But who? And why?

  The waters rose in the boat and the stiff wind pushed us past Eilean Bean and towards Nave Island. Perhaps, if the boat sank, as it looked to do very soon, we could save ourselves and somehow get to Nave Island. If the boat sank further out in the open water between Islay and Colonsay there would be no saving us at all.

  I explained my plan to Seamus, while I turned the rudder to steer us into the island.

  “Muirteach,” he cried, “I cannot swim.”

  Indeed, most island men cannot. We are lovers of boats, not swimmers like the seals, for all they say the MacPhees are descended from those selkies. However I had learned to swim as a young child. I believe some doctor—probably the Beaton himself or one of his family—had recommended it, telling my mother it might strengthen my legs. And the skill had proved of use, from time to time, when things had fallen overboard or other such happenings occurred.

  “It does not matter, Seamus,” I told him with more confidence than I felt. “You will just be grabbing onto some of the planking and I will swim us both into the shore. You can kick a bit, to help us along. Do you understand me? Do not let go of the planking and keep me in your sight. If we loose each other when the ship goes down, you must find me and holler if you are not seeing me right away. I will find you.”

  The water was up to out knees at this time, and I stopped bailing, it being of no use, and busied myself those last few seconds with throwing the rowing benches overboard in the hopes that they would float so that Seamus could be grabbing onto one.

  The rocks of Nave Island were almost past us and I began to fear we would not be making them. If we missed them there were only the tiny Balach Rocks to the North before the open sea of the channel. I grabbed the rudder again and gave one last tug on it, turning the boat sharply toward the Na Peileirean, and of a sudden I heard a loud crack as the mast broke off and crashed down into the water, missing Seamus by just a few feet. His face was white and I saw his lips moving in a prayer, although I could not hear what words he said, as the water came rushing over the gunnels and the boat finally broke apart and went down.

  I caught a glimpse of Seamus, overcome by a white wave crashing over the deck, and I shouted to him, then started stroking the water with my arms, trying to swim towards him as the boat fell away from under my feet and the water engulfed us.

  Chapter 16

  It seemed a lifetime before I found Seamus, although in reality it could only have been a moment or two. He held onto the fallen mast like a barnacle, his head just above the waters and his hands white with the effort of his grip. The rain was coming down in earnest now and the waves were choppy as I joined him in grabbing onto his mast.

  “Seamus,” I managed to say between gulping for air, “Hold on tight, and I will swim us to shore.”

  He nodded without speaking, his eyes large in the angles of his face.

  I glanced around and could see the rocks of Nave Island. The tide had turned and was now coming in, and I thought that perhaps, with luck, it might bring us into the shore. I managed to position myself alongside Seamus and held onto the mast with one arm while I pulled with the other. I kicked the water as well, but I have never had a strong kick when swimming.

  “Seamus, kick your legs. There, yes,” I encouraged him as he began to kick. And slowly we began to move towards the shore.

  The tide helped us, and at the last, the rocks of the north side of the island came towards us with a rush and I feared we would be crushed. But somehow we clambered onto the slippery
rocks, and then clambered a little higher, out of the reach of the waves, until like seals we sat shivering on the highest point and looked westward, where our boat had been, but we saw no trace of it in the gray waves.

  Shivering, we watched the gray sheets of rain fall on the choppy waters, and then the squall passed away towards westward and a pale sun came out. We roused ourselves, clambered up the rocks to the grassy top of Nave Island, and headed towards the chapel.

  It is said that Nave Island used to be home to some of the culdees, and even that Saint Adamnan lived there long ago, but, for myself, I can think of no setting less hospitable. Perhaps that is what they were wanting, those early priests. The island, for all that it is not far from the main land of Islay, has an air of remoteness about it. At least it did so on that day, as Seamus and I made our way towards the tiny chapel visible on the eastern edge of the island.

  It was slow going. My bad leg cramped, and I could hear the sound of Seamus’s teeth clattering together as he shivered. I did not know anything of the island and simply prayed that someone was at the chapel who would see to us. For succor we badly needed that day, such water rats as we were.

  The chapel was a small gray stone building, which sat on the edge of the island, looking over a promontory towards Gortantaoid Point on the main island. It blended in well against the rocks and water behind it, so that it was almost invisible. As we approached we could see a two or three small houses near the chapel; one would be the priest's, I surmised. Perhaps the others belonged to fishermen, although why anyone would live on such a cold and dreary place I could not fathom.

  An older man wearing the robes of a priest looked up from the garden he had been tilling. “Whatever is it, then?” he asked, a quizzical expression on his weathered face. Briefly I explained, leaving out the bit about the sabotage. Let him think us incompetent sailors if he must. Best not to give too much away, I thought, not sure myself why I was not so forthcoming.