The Pure Heart

by Trudi Tweedie

  ‘That’s the boy who helped you into the boat?’ he said, thoughtful now. ‘You think you will go back there for him?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said indignantly, my cheeks colouring up. ‘He balanced on the Maiden’s Rock for me!’

  When Marcus didn’t react, I explained.

  ‘It’s this ledge that hangs right over the sea. Suitors balance there – on one leg. To prove they will make a worthy husband . . . it’s a very dangerous thing to do.’

  ‘No doubt very useful,’ said Marcus disdainfully, making further adjustments with the rudder. ‘If one needs a husband who balances on rocks.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I will need!’ I said, annoyed that he was mocking the island way of living. ‘A man to climb the cliff-face to harvest birds and eggs – to provide for our children. We will start a family when I return!’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Marcus, his concentration now on the steering.

  But I was raging and we didn’t talk again for several hours.

  ‘Where are we?’ I said when I eventually grew bored of staring out across the grey waves, at the sun setting pink behind the clouds. Marcus pointed a long finger into the far distance. I could just about make out a group of islands, larger than St Kilda.

  ‘The Outer Hebrides,’ he explained. ‘Though we’ll be sailing around them to get to the mainland.’

  ‘That’s where my father was from,’ I told him, sitting up for a better look. Really, it wasn’t as far away as I had been expecting.

  ‘Should make it to Oban sometime tomorrow,’ said Marcus, handing me a woollen blanket. ‘I would get some sleep if I were you.’

  ‘Then what?’ I said, my eyes still tracing the islands. ‘I thought you would take me to the merchant’s house?’

  ‘The seas are too unpredictable at this time of year to sail around the coast of Scotland,’ he explained. ‘You’ll be taking a wagon for the rest of the journey. I’ll be staying with my boat.’

  ‘Then who will be taking me?’ I said, agitated. ‘You are familiar with this person who will travel with me the rest of the way?’

  ‘Why would I know him?’ shrugged Marcus. ‘Likely, it will just be some errand boy – paid handsomely to deliver you all in one piece. But it will be a long journey – so get some rest while you can.’

  ‘Will you not need me to take another turn at the helm?’ I said, fighting back tears. The sun was dipping down in the west and I was now afraid of what tomorrow might bring.

  ‘I’ll manage,’ said Marcus. ‘Go on now, get some proper shut-eye.’

  We had been lucky with the weather – a strong wind in the right direction and hardly a drop of rain since leaving the bay. This fast little boat would have us to the mainland by tomorrow.

  Despite my trepidation, the motion of the boat eventually had me nodding off. My last thoughts were of the sailor – and how he would stay alert all night to steer, now we were nearing rocky shores?

  But that concern was all too soon to be answered.

  I woke with a start, for a moment unaware of where I was. Above me, the dark sky was clear, leaving the crescent moon bright. The rocking motion confirmed that I hadn’t dreamt the events of yesterday and that I was now many miles away from home, skirting along the rocky shores of western Scotland.

  I looked round for Marcus, but to my shock I could see no one at the helm. It was then that I became aware of a lump of blankets a few feet away – and the rumblings of a man sleeping soundly. A man snoring his head off!

  But how could this be? I sat up fully. How could a boat be left to steer itself through these waters?

  Then I let out the loudest of screams. For the boat was not steering itself at all – there was a tiny creature manning the tiller.

  ‘What is it . . . what’s that?’ cried Marcus, bolting out of his sleep. He sat up straight as I crammed myself into the narrow bow, as far away from the creature as possible.

  ‘God help us,’ I cried, pointing. ‘There’s a devil at the helm!’

  At this the devil also emitted a loud noise, like the gurgle of a gannet. So this was what had made the strange noise in the bay last night!

  I dug my nails into my palms, trying to catch my breath.

  Noises that were not human. Innes had been right.

  ‘It’s OK, don’t be afraid,’ said Marcus kindly. At first, I thought he was trying to comfort me, but it soon became clear that he wasn’t addressing me at all – he was talking to the thing! ‘She’s just an island girl – that’s all,’ he continued. ‘Quite harmless, really. Let me introduce you two ladies – Nell, meet Iseabail. Iseabail, meet Nell.’

  The devil made a familiar chattering noise and I looked up to take in the tiny darkened figure.

  ‘What . . . is it?’ I whispered. For it was by far the most terrifying thing that I had ever seen, despite it being scarcely two foot high – the size of a toddler. But it was no child, nor was it surely human.

  ‘Make it go away,’ I said, my voice no more than a hoarse whisper. ‘Throw it over the side or something.’

  At this Marcus became agitated. ‘I’ll throw you overboard before my little Nell, make no mistake,’ he said angrily. ‘How on earth do you think I’ve been sailing this thing for days on end through all kinds of weather? I’d be good and drowned by now if it wasn’t for that “thing”.’

  Nell gave out an animalistic cheer whilst I lay helplessly on the deck.

  ‘Nell sleeps in the hold in the daytime,’ Marcus said, pointing to the small cabin door at the back of the boat. I could make out the direction of his finger, but my eyes didn’t dare follow to the fiendish silhouette cast across the helm by the moonlight. ‘I’ve trained her to take over at night whilst I sleep,’ Marcus explained casually, rummaging in his sackcloth. ‘Here, take an apple, Nell,’ he said to her. ‘Have yourself a break . . . get to know our new stowaway.’

  ‘No . . . please,’ I insisted, but the thing did as it was asked, and its grotesque outline moved from the back of the boat to settle on the deck nearby.

  I forced myself to look, my body convulsing in slow horror at the arms carpeted in black hair and the moulded clay-like face. At first, I thought it was wearing a hood but now I saw that it was entirely covered in fur, its hairline reaching low over round black eyes which seemed devoid of white around the iris. Bizarrely, the creature wore a dainty green waistcoat – just like the one worn by Marcus, with matching shiny trousers.

  The whole spectacle was diabolical.

  ‘You do realize that she’s a monkey,’ said Marcus tiredly, letting out a long yawn.

  ‘A monkey!’ I repeated.

  ‘I’ve trained her well, haven’t I?’ he said.

  ‘A monkey!’ I said again, for I was trying to think what such an animal might be.

  ‘Yes, a m-o-n-k-e-y,’ said Marcus, spelling out the letters like this would make more sense to someone so slow. ‘It’s a type of ape.’

  ‘I know what a monkey is!’ I said fiercely. ‘I’m not stupid.’

  And I wasn’t lying, because now I thought of it, I’m sure Father had read me a story once about one. He said that they were intelligent creatures capable of all manner of tricks. But I needed to get a hold of myself! I wanted to prove that I wasn’t just a meek island girl. I had to prepare myself for all manner of the unfamiliar in my year away from the island. I took a deep breath as Nell made a jabbering sound before biting into her apple with substantial-looking teeth.

  ‘You were not supposed to wake up whilst she was working,’ said Marcus with a little more sympathy.

  ‘As long as there is nothing else shut up inside that cabin?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Marcus, yawning widely, ‘but a few crates of dried biscuit.’

  At the mention of biscuits, Nell looked up from her apple.

  ‘You can have some when your night shift is over,’ Marcus instructed the monkey, whilst lying back down. ‘She’s wild about biscuits is our Nell. And I must get more sleep.’

&nb
sp; ‘Really! You are to leave that thing in charge?’

  ‘Well, you are far too inexperienced a sailor,’ said Marcus, his voice muffled by his covers.

  ‘And this animal . . . she knows the way?’

  ‘You will find that this is not so unusual,’ said Marcus drowsily. ‘People train up monkeys for all kinds of tasks these days.’

  Nell resumed her steering duties with an air of importance, looking out towards the shore to make adjustments. She didn’t look my way again, but I sensed that I’d hurt her feelings.

  ‘Stay up and stare if you like,’ muttered Marcus from under his blankets. ‘Just don’t disturb me again.’

  ‘No . . . I’ll get some sleep now too,’ I said steadily. ‘We seem to be in good hands.’

  I had no idea why I said this – whether I was sorry for insulting the monkey or was afraid she might scratch me with her horrid furry hands while I slept.

  ‘Goodnight, Nell,’ I added cheerfully to further confirm my faith in her abilities. I pulled the covers over my head so I didn’t have to look at Nell any more. ‘See you in the morning!’

  At some point, I fell back to sleep.

  Iwoke with a jerk. I’d been dreaming that a furry creature was clawing at my face but when I sat up I only saw a cloudless blue sky and Marcus steering at the helm; there was no sight of Nell.

  ‘She’s back in the cabin . . . asleep,’ said Marcus. Then he pointed towards the shore. ‘We’ve made good time.’

  ‘What?’ I said, getting up quickly. The boat was a good bit nearer to land and I could make out a harbour.

  ‘But . . . we can’t be here already!’

  Nausea bloomed in my stomach as I realized that leaving Marcus was imminent and the second leg of my journey, to goodness knows where, would soon begin.

  ‘But you’ll not just leave me here,’ I said. ‘You’ll make sure I’m in good hands before you sail away.’

  ‘Why don’t you see if anyone has arrived yet?’ said Marcus, taking one hand away from the steering to root around for something. He held out a short metal tube.

  I reached over and took it from him. It was lighter than it looked, like it was hollowed out inside. ‘What is it?’ I said, taking it from him. ‘And how will this tell me if someone has arrived?’ I thought that Marcus was playing a trick on me, something that would once again make me feel dumb and unworldly.

  ‘It won’t tell you,’ said Marcus. ‘But it will show you.’ He took the rod back and held one end over his right eye. ‘I think that I can see our man there, waiting on the beach,’ he announced. ‘And there’s his wagon and horses . . . all ready to go.’

  I looked over at the beach and squinted my eyes. There were a few dark shapes in the harbour, but they were tiny, far too far away to make out such details.

  ‘You’re making it up,’ I said indignantly.

  ‘Here, you try,’ said Marcus, lowering the metal rod. ‘Go on, take a look.’

  I took the rod back and held it up to my left eye. It was indeed hollow, though it had a disc of glass covering the end that pressed into my eyeball.

  ‘Other way round,’ said Marcus bossily. ‘Look through the other end and close your free eye.’

  I did as he asked but expected nothing to happen.

  The metal formed a cold ring over my eye as I pointed the rod towards the harbour. At first, I saw nothing but a blurry circle of light but several seconds later the glass disc at the end of the tube began to change form.

  I dropped the rod into my lap with shock, for the scene Marcus had just described swooped right up on me, like it was happening right there in the boat, just a few feet away. A man sat in a cart pulled by two black horses. I could even make out his coat, his long black boots.

  ‘Careful, careful now there,’ said Marcus, angry now. ‘You’ll crack the glass dropping it like that . . . those things are not easy to come by, you know.’

  ‘But . . . what is it?’ I said, staring at the stubby length of metal lying in my lap. ‘Is it some kind of magic?’

  I had always prided myself on not believing in things that did not have a rational explanation. But this journey was testing me.

  ‘No, it’s just an eyeglass,’ sighed Marcus. ‘It makes far-off things seem closer, that’s all. It’s all to do with how the daylight hits the glass.’

  ‘Let me have another look,’ I said, fascinated now.

  ‘Fine,’ said Marcus. ‘But no dropping it this time.’

  ‘Why, it’s wonderful!’ I exclaimed.

  But the shore was looming near now and I didn’t need an eyeglass to make out the grumpy-looking man abandoning his cart to walk to the water’s edge.

  I looked to Marcus for reassurance as he helped me over the side of the boat. But he paid me no mind, heaving my trunk into the shallows where it floated momentarily before being hauled out and up across the sand by the wagon driver.

  Marcus climbed back into his boat and picked up his oars.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure, Iseabail McCleod,’ he said. For the first time, it seemed to me, he met my eyes properly – though I was too far away to see his expression. Then he leveraged the oars to turn the faded eye painted on the bow of his boat to face back out to sea.

  ‘Goodbye.’ I waved after him pathetically. ‘Goodbye, Marcus Amanza.’

  It took me a while to get used to being inland, for despite despising the ocean, not having it in my sights made me giddy, like a part of my soul had been wrenched clean away. Still, with every turn of the wagon’s wheels, my excitement grew about arriving at the merchant’s grand house.

  But the wagon driver wasn’t for giving anything away about my destination. For the entire journey, which took over a week, he barely responded to my constant questions and observations as the metal rims of the wheels bumped along the muddy tracks.

  I was in awe of the forests, entire hillsides coated with beautiful trees but all the driver could muster was that they were ‘full of bears’.

  Then came the villages. Then towns with fine timbered houses. At a market square, butchers’ shops dangled rabbits whilst bakers flaunted wafts of hot bread. Next to the shoemaker there was a shop brandishing a mixing bowl above the lintel of its door.

  ‘What is it that place trades?’ I said, pointing. There were no windows at the front or any sign of what it might sell. ‘What kind of shop is that?’

  To this the driver gave me one of his rare replies. ‘An apothecary – makes up medicines and potions,’ he said, sniffing the air sourly as we passed. ‘Most of it is nothing short of witchcraft. You’ll be finding out all about apothecary where you’re going!’

  But on the subject, he would not be drawn further. One early morning and several coaching inns later, the horses started to pull the wagon over higher ground. The bleak moorland felt unseasonably cold, the dew hardened to a thick crust of frost. Abruptly, the driver pulled on his reins and pointed into the distance, at a grey line across the horizon.

  As I focused, it revealed itself to be the sea.

  Could it really be that we had finally run out of land? That we had crossed from one side of this vast country to the other?

  ‘This is as far as I go,’ he announced, swinging his boots off the wagon and dropping down heavily on to the hard ground.

  But I didn’t understand. The only signs of habitation were wisps of smoke curling up from a hamlet in the valley below.

  ‘You can’t just leave me here,’ I said, indignant.

  But the driver busied himself with hauling my trunk out of the back of the wagon.

  ‘I’ll freeze to death!’ I said, looking wildly about.

  ‘Through there,’ said the driver, tipping his head in the direction of a copse of frozen trees. ‘You’ll find the house soon enough.’

  It was then that I made out a pair of thin gateposts skirting the moor. Like ghostly stalagmites they pierced the slate-grey sky, their bases blending in with the iced heather. A rough path wound through the posts, down into the trees.<
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  ‘Why not take me a bit further?’ I protested. ‘Surely your wagon could pass through those posts . . . or even just go around them?’

  But something spooked the lead horse and it began whinnying and rearing up on hind legs, the other one following suit. The man calmed them in a foreign tongue before turning back to me. ‘They won’t go no further,’ he sighed, his voice for the first time showing warmth. ‘Neither will I, come to that.’

  I could now see a tower sticking up beyond the trees. ‘Why? What’s in there?’

  ‘I’ve already said too much, I’m afraid,’ said the driver, climbing back up on to the bench seat.

  ‘But really . . . you have said nothing much at all! You have not told me a thing about this place to which I must go alone!’

  ‘Not my place to say,’ he said, tipping his hat. ‘Goodbye, miss. And God bless.’

  And with that he jiggled his reins and his horses galloped off gratefully in the direction of the village.

  I watched the wagon wind its way around the ridge where the track forked down to the village, the driver not turning nor faltering in his decision to leave me here. Tiny flakes of snow began to fall, icy wispiness coating the posts in eerie silence. Winter must come early here.

  I took a deep breath and willed myself towards the trees. If I didn’t get going then my bare toes would soon freeze.

  The sealskin trunk slipped easily over the icy ground to the stone posts. If they were gateposts, then where was the gate? Maybe they were simply markers to where the merchant’s land ended and begun.

  Each post was shaved flat on four sides and tapered to a pinnacle which drew the eye to the metal grey sky, like a pair of fat needles. With one finger, I scraped the frost from the one to my left, uncovering a swirling pattern in the grain. But as I removed more frost, forms took shape. Individual images began to emerge, so numerous and intricate that at first I had mistaken them for the natural pattern of the stone.

  Serpents, birds, beetles, a man with the head of a dog, another with the head of an eagle. Assuming they ran the length and breadth of the pillar, there must have been thousands of these strange pictures buried beneath the covering of frost. I turned and cleaned a patch of the other post, finding identical decoration there.