Children of Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  Anton and Babbie both sensed her loneliness and the latter said with a laugh, ‘Dance with Anton, will you, Kirsteen? He’s got far too much energy for a tired old nurse like me.’

  Anton was panting for breath but gallantly extended his arm. ‘I would be honoured, Frau Kirsteen. You have grace, and I have a feeling you will not tread on my toes like my Babbie – her “feets” are growing more like Biddy’s every day.’

  Amidst skirls of laughter he whirled Kirsteen away and Babbie said to Shona, ‘You know, if it was any of my business I’d give your father a good talking to, keeping Kirsteen waiting for him like this. He could easily have left the sheds to Matthew and Donald. It isn’t often Kirsteen gets a night out. It will serve him right if, when he does arrive, she gives him the cold shoulder. He deserves it.’

  Shona didn’t say anything because Babbie had just voiced her own sentiments. Shona’s deep blue eyes flashed. She thought of her own marriage with Niall. There had been a lot of rough patches but they were far outweighed by the smooth. Niall was an easy and wonderful person to live with, though often he had his hands full trying to deal with the frequent temper tantrums she threw. Shona sighed. Life would never be easy for someone living with a McKenzie, and she realized how lucky she was to have Niall and how fortunate her father was to have Kirsteen.

  Alick shivered a little as he stood in the shelter of the porch where he had come to puff his pipe and get a breath of air – and to wait for Fergus. The wind tore in from the Sound, bringing blasts of salt-tainted rain in its freezing breath. Through the darkness Alick saw the sea, tossing and heaving, a white swirl of rollers that boomed and crashed into the harbour where they lost some power but were still vicious enough to heave themselves over the road and plosh against the sturdy walls of the cottages, some of the droplets showering Alick as he stood watching, awed and fascinated by the might of the elements. Voices floated and he stiffened – one of them belonged to Fergus. Matthew and his son, Donald, now a tall, fine-featured young man, went past Alick into the hall but Alick intercepted his brother with the accusing words, ‘So, you’ve finally made it. What did you have to do? Re-build the dairy?’

  Fergus was immediately on the defensive, his misery over his row with Kirsteen having resulted in a slow build-up of wrath against Alick. ‘Just supposing I was! If I had to rely on you for help the damned place would be around my ears by now!’

  ‘Oh, c’mon, big brother, Matthew and Donald would have managed fine between them,’ Alick’s voice was cool and controlled. ‘Why don’t you come right out and admit you were playing for time? Piling the punishment onto Kirsteen, making her suffer just a little bit more, nursing your grievances like a bloody baby! Well, sulking bairns don’t make men big or turn them into all-conquering heroes . . .’

  ‘You’ve a damned nerve!’ exploded Fergus. ‘Mind your own bloody business and get out of my way or you’ll be sorry you interfered. I don’t intend to get soaked to the skin while I stand here listening to you whining.’

  ‘Me, whining? Well at least I say what’s in my mind instead of putting the cork in and letting my grievances fester away like rotting sores! You’d better watch out, Fergus, don’t push Kirsteen too far. If you think she’s in there moping you’ve another think coming. She’s a lovely and rather special lady, the men are queuing up to dance with her. One of these days you’ll waken out of your petty little stupor and find she’s not so willing to come running back at your high and mighty command – there’s other fish in the sea you know.’

  ‘Ay, and by God, wouldn’t you like to be one of them!’ cried Fergus harshly. ‘We’ve already had a taste of you and your ill-controlled lust! It’s strange how you invite trouble, from the day you walked, you lunged from one buggering mess into another. It’s because of you we’re in the damned state we’re in now – but of course,’ he said, laughing mirthlessly, ‘you must know that already! It seems you and Kirsteen have been chatting cosily behind my back.’

  ‘Too bloody true, but hardly cosily! That day of the picnic – when you were fawning over my wife – your own was so flaming miserable I made her tell me what was wrong. By Christ! What she had to say made me feel uneasy all right. It all came back, all the things I tried to forget but never quite managed.’

  A blast of wind hurled Fergus against Alick. The rain whirled and lashed about them, they were so close each could feel the other’s heavy breath; in the darkness the brothers glared at each other, the pale blurring blobs of their faces only inches apart. Fergus felt dark bubbling rage overwhelming him. The truth of Alick’s words had hit him like a sledgehammer, then, suddenly, Alick’s fist shot out to land Fergus a blow on the face that sent him reeling backwards, away from the shelter of the porch, into the wind and the sleety rain that stung his eyes, blinding him for a minute. But Fergus’s reactions were only momentarily suspended. Springing forward he caught Alick by the collars of his jacket and hauled him round the side of the building. The raging of a nearby burn was as nothing to the all-consuming rage that sped through his veins, charging him with a power that rendered the slightly-built Alick helpless. With a snarl Fergus pushed his brother into a rickety hayshed and threw him against the piled-up bales of hay. Then Fergus advanced, his black eyes throwing sparks in his deathly white face. ‘You asked for this, little brother,’ he gritted, and his knuckle of bunched steel smashed into flesh and bone.

  Alick shook his head to clear it but he didn’t cower away as he might have done in days gone by. Fear ripped through him but instead of making him submissive it bolstered him into action. Dancing to the middle of the floor he faced the towering mass of bone and muscle that was his brother. ‘Right,’ he said quietly, ‘all’s fair in love and war, so the misguided saying goes. And with that in mind we’ll do this fairly.’ Tucking his left arm behind his back he went on tauntingly, ‘I was the cause of you losing your arm, as you’ve just reminded me – and I wouldn’t like to have an unfair advantage over a one-armed hero – so – come and get me.’

  The soft light from the hall windows filtered in through the door of the shed allowing Fergus to see the dim figure of his brother standing watching him mockingly. In a blind fury Fergus lunged, but Alick intercepted the blow with an upward toss of his hand and before Fergus could regain his balance he was catapulted across the shed by an expertly-placed punch, which made his head spin. Surprise lowered Fergus’s defences and he wasn’t prepared for the next crack that sent him sprawling among the hay bales. Rage boiled in his blood, but as well as anger there was something else, something that reached down, plucking at the churning cauldron of his emotions: this was his brother fighting him, the one-time blubbering, apron-tied boy for whom he had fought endless battles, who was now fighting back – at last he was fighting back. Briefly, Fergus wondered when the change had come about. Certainly Alick had seemed different after the hellish nightmare all these years ago: the man in him had begun to creep out. But this – when had this happened? With little physique behind him, he was holding his own, winning by tactics that made Fergus look blundering and inexpert. Admiration flooded Fergus’s being even as he went into the fray with his brother. They sparred, punched, hurt each other, while outside the wind howled, and the music spilled from the hall. Then, almost simultaneously they called a truce and collapsed onto the hay, panting, half-laughing, half-ashamed, wordlessly gathering breath from heaving lungs. Alick took out his hanky and dabbed a split lip tenderly before he said apologetically, ‘We’re even now for those years ago when you beat the hell out of me and I went scampering away with my cowardly tail between my legs.’ He took a deep breath and in the darkness he smiled though it made him wince. ‘God! I feel hellish – I’ll ache for days – yet, I’ve never felt better in my life! We’ve never spoken about things – just locked it all away, now I feel I’ve crawled out of my hole to see daylight for the first time in years – and – it’s a bloody marvellous experience, if you see what I mean?’

  Fergus gulped a lungful of air. ‘I know what
you mean all right – what I don’t see is how – how –’

  ‘How I learned to use my fists? The Army taught me a few tricks, Fergus. I took up boxing for a giggle – well, I was always one for a giggle, as fine you know. But I became quite good at it – so much so I earned myself a bit of respect from the other lads. A good feeling that – to be respected – to feel self-respect.’

  ‘You kept it dark enough.’

  ‘Saw no point in boasting – I did too much of that in my time and found I kept getting smaller instead of bigger . . . Anyway, tonight you dug up my well-kept secret.’ He passed Fergus a cigarette and they sat on the hay bale puffing companionably for a few silent moments then Alick said deliberately, ‘I just had to get a poke at you back there. You’re so bloody stubborn, you’d never have listened to me otherwise. You feel pretty peeved because Kirsteen threw me in your face – right? Do you know why she said the things she did? It was a kind of chain reaction. She was terrified the twins were going to turn out like you and me – one being made to lean, the other to be leaned on – history repeating itself, if you like.’

  ‘Hell no! I never saw it like that,’ Fergus groaned.

  ‘Neither did Mother, but sometimes love can be blind and very blinding.’

  Fergus gripped his brother’s arm roughly. ‘Thanks – for helping me to see,’ he said awkwardly.

  Alick laughed. ‘Think nothing of it, big brother. I owe you some favours – and now, it’s time you and Kirsteen got down to brass tacks and decide what you’re going to do about Lorn’s future. Oh, don’t start! I got it out of Kirsteen yesterday. She’s beside herself with worry and had to tell someone.’

  ‘Ay, no doubt.’ Fergus stood up. ‘I think – we’d better show our faces at the ceilidh,’ he said sheepishly.

  ‘Do you think they’re worth showing?’ chuckled Alick. ‘I feel as if an elephant has pushed me into a door. Here – take my hanky and clean yourself up a bit.’

  ‘I suppose we could always say we just bumped into each other.’ Fergus’s deep laugh boomed out, and with arms thrown around each other’s shoulders, the brothers went to join the ceilidh in a jubilant mood and were able to slip into the softly lit hall virtually unnoticed. Everyone was intent on enjoying themselves. Bruised faces and cut lips weren’t uncommon at the height of a good ceilidh. Tam and one or two of his cronies had already come to good-natured blows over the location and ownership of the hidden whisky, and they were now ensconced in a corner re-creating the scuffles with avid enjoyment.

  Across the crowded room Kirsteen’s blue eyes met Fergus’s dark gaze. Although she was apart from him she saw the hungry yearning in the burning glance he threw at her. Her heart skipped a beat, her cheeks reddened. The notes from Jon’s fiddle poured into her and made her tremble. It was as if she was hearing the music for the first time since the start of the ceilidh. Warmth flooded her being. It was going to be a perfect evening, nothing could go wrong now – now that she had interpreted the messages of love, desire – forgiveness – flowing out of the beautiful black eyes of the man she loved with such intensity it was an ache in her heart.

  CHAPTER 9

  Out on the Sound of Rhanna lightning forked into the wind-crazed surface of the water. All day long the smacks had battled against the raging seas and the men were haggard with exhaustion. They had left Mallaig early, when the sky had given no hint of the brewing fury sweeping with insidious speed from the south-west. The sea had been calm, deceptively so, and it had remained like silk till the menacing banks of purple-black cloud had started rolling over the sky, blotting out the gold and the blue, spurring the waves to restlessness. By the time the men had realized a storm was in the offing, they were far out in the Atlantic and it was too late to turn back. Howling winds attacked the small boats, pushing them through endless successions of deep troughs. Smatterings of hail and snow whirled and eddied, blotting out the horizon, confining visibility to a few yards. The Magpie rolled and pitched and Grant staggered up from the fo’c’sle, feeling too sick to join the rest of the crew in the hearty meal of bacon, eggs and beans the cook had just prepared. He had managed to gulp down some hot black tea sweetened with condensed milk, but even that lay heavy in a belly delicate from a heavy bout of drinking the night before. He had matched dram for dram to keep up with the rest of the men, but now he told himself it was the last time – he wasn’t a man yet and no amount of hard liquor would ever make him one.

  The mate was at the wheel and he threw Grant an amused smile as the boy brushed past him and out of the wheelhouse. The wind caught and bullied him, spicules of ice froze his lips to numbness and he gasped for air. His belly heaved and he was catapulted across the sopping deck to be hurled against the rails with such force he felt as if he had been punched by a giant hand. He retched and his vomit was thrown back at him by the wind, making him shiver in disgust and recall vividly but too late Skipper Joe’s warning, ‘Never spew into the wind, she’ll just throw it back at you like confetti.’ Grant coughed and spluttered. He had thought he knew it all, but every fresh trip out at sea warned him he was a mere novice . . . A vision of his mother flashed into his swimming head. Thank God she couldn’t see him now – grey, splattered with vomit – his father wouldn’t much like the sight of him, either. Fergus was a man who could hold a good dram. Vaguely Grant wondered if such a man had ever been foolish, had ever taken too much to drink – been sick with it . . .

  A thirty-foot wall of water crashed over the stem, sucking it down into a trough as deep as a ravine. For a heart-stopping eternity Grant choked in a watery world, his knuckles white as his hands clamped round the rail like a vice. Gasping for air Grant slithered down the slanting deck – straight into the arms of Dokie Joe, whose tight black curls and grey-flecked black beard made him look older than his thirty-five years.

  Dokie’s eyes were narrowed to slits in his sea-drenched face as he glared into Grant’s salt-reddened eyes. ‘What the hell do you think this is?’ he yelled above the wind. ‘A bloody joy ride? Get into the wheelhouse and give Dan a hand. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  ‘Ay, ay, Skipper!’ shouted Grant and fought his way to the shelter of the wheelhouse.

  Dokie Joe was soon back inside the wheelhouse as well, smiling now, his white teeth startling in a face whipped to mahogany-brown from years of fishing in all weathers. Through the whirling hail and snow – now turning to sleet – he had caught a glimpse of land. ‘Port ahead, lads. Old Righ’s light is shining like a bloody great star on top of a Christmas tree. I’ve never seen such a beautiful sight.’ His mask of toughness fell. ‘I tell you this – out there in that cruel bugger o’ a sea I had my doubts, ay, I had my doubts – but,’ he said, taking the wheel from Dan, ‘the old girl got us home. She’s all right, is old Magpie. I mind when I bought her and my mother saw the name on her: “Paint it out, Dokie”, she told me, “call her something else. Magpie is unlucky, it will bring sorrow.” Ay, but the superstitious cailleach was wrong, for I aye knew the old girl had a reason to her name – magpies pick up anything that’s worth something, and on every trip my old girl gets to the herring shoals first.’

  Dokie Joe was thinking about Annie even as he peered through the blizzard for a sign of the markers at the mouth of the harbour. Dokie thought of her warm curvaceous body pressed close to his in bed. Tonight he would lie with her after all, make love to her . . . Back there he had had his doubts about ever seeing his family again, but now he could almost feel the silk of Annie’s breasts against his hard hairy chest . . . a pulse beat in his groin . . .

  Dokie Joe’s hand tightened on the wheel. The Magpie was bucking wildly in the tide race swirling into the harbour. He revved up the engine in an effort to pull the boat further back into the open sea so that he could make a wider turn into the harbour, but the Magpie didn’t respond. Instead, she submitted to the pushing, bullying wind at her stern and pitched headlong towards the long dark finger of Port Rum Point. Dokie felt fear crawling over his skin, and despite the freezi
ng cold deep in his very bones he felt sweat breaking over his body. His rough voice bawled out orders, which the crew scurried to obey. They trusted their skipper – he knew the sea, its moods, its wiles. In his fight with it he often behaved like a ferocious tiger; and in his admiration of its delusive beauty he became soft, resilient, relaxed as an alert cat; it was as if it transferred its moods to him like a lovely temperamental mistress might induce love, hate, respect, anger, admiration in a besotted lover. Dokie knew the sea all right, and that was why now his heart thudded up into his ears and his brusque comments were laced with oaths. His lips were pulled back in a snarl over his teeth as he held tightly to the wheel. The boat leapt and plunged like a mad dog and Dokie knew – he knew where the Magpie was taking him. The Sgor Creags! They were waiting for him and his men, always they were waiting, like grey, patient vultures waiting for prey. He stopped cursing and cried in a muffled voice, ‘Oh God, help us!’

  Quite suddenly Rachel’s face bounced into his terrified mind. He felt her presence very strongly, as if she was standing beside him in the wheelhouse of the Magpie . . . He shivered and moaned slightly. Strange – she was a strange wee lass . . . he didn’t understand her, but God! he was proud of her . . .

  The Magpie bounced before a mountainous wave which caught her and smothered her in a wall of grey water. When it receded the men saw the Sgor Creags in front of them. Dokie Joe wrenched at the wheel but nothing happened. The boat was like a paper toy being sucked into the whirlpools that raged round the reefs. Dokie Joe’s reddened eyes widened in horror. Those bloody rocks! They were reaching for the Magpie, pulling her towards them as if they were magnets and she were held in a vice-like grip from which there was no escape. The cruel grey pinnacles of rock reared up, gnarled, racked, twisted by time and wind into grotesque shapes; they towered like spectres over the frail little boat, while the churning fury of the dark rolling sea battered her hull.