‘Rachel, what’s wrong? Are you all right? You – you look as though you’d seen a ghost.’
Ruth’s voice came from a long way. Rachel shook herself and started to her feet just as the door burst open and Hugh McDonald, the young assistant lighthouse keeper, stood there, wind-tossed, rivers of rain and sea running from his mackintosh to lie in puddles on the floor. ‘The smacks are in!’ he shouted. ‘All safe but for one – the Magpie’s on the rocks!’
In minutes the hall was empty but for old Mo lying in his pram, Biddy dozing in her chair, and Mrs Gray rushing to fill the urn in readiness for the men coming in from the smacks.
CHAPTER 10
Grant thrashed in the freezing water, almost paralysed with cold and exhaustion, his brain so numb with shock he barely remembered being pitched from the Magpie into the black fury seething round the Sgor Creags. The spikes of rock had smashed a gaping hole in the Magpie’s hull and she had keeled over to lie half-submerged. With her bow impaled on a shaft of rock, she looked like a dying whale raising her snout above the waves in a desperate bid to resist the relentless pull of the churning depths. Everything had happened so quickly there had been no time to make sense of the jumbled impressions of men shouting, the boat tilting, the fleeting glimpse of Skipper Joe in the wheelhouse, his face twisted in disbelief as he struggled up from the deck, blood oozing from a gash on his cheek. He had thrown his arms round the wheel as if it were a baby and had cried out in protest, ‘Christ, no! Oh, dear Jesus, no!’
‘Leave her, Skipper! She’s breaking up.’ The warning roar had come from Grant, in a voice that didn’t seem to be his, so unreal was the screaming pitch of it. The timbers had groaned, squealing in the agony of dying, as the little boat had been torn apart by the pitiless sea smashing over the deck. Grant had staggered, slithered, screamed as the snarling water reached for him and pulled him down. His flaying hands had caught and clutched at the capping, and for a moment he had lain gasping before he was torn away, lifted by a giant wave, which hurled him relentlessly into the waiting sea. The roar of it filled his head, the embrace of its icy clutches seemed to reach right into his heart and squeeze it, so that it seemed to stop beating. Dan’s white face bobbed near him. Grant reached out but was lifted and tossed towards the rocks. Adrenalin pumped through him, spurring him into frantic activity. Kicking frenziedly he swam for his life. Something black loomed. The Magpie. The water was swirling round her, fighting to claim what was left of her from the teeth of the rocks. Grant knew that he was trapped. Behind him reared the stark treachery of the Sgor Creags, in front of him was the Magpie, no longer a friend but an enemy blocking the way to safety, seducing the sea to rage as it sucked and roared, sucked and roared, into the yawning hole amidships. He stopped struggling and allowed himself to be pounded by the waves. His limbs were growing numb, he couldn’t feel his legs . . . He closed his eyes, waiting for oblivion to release him from a watery hell.
Something rammed itself against Grant’s rib cage and lifted him up. It was a piece of wreckage as big as a raft. His frozen fingers clawed at it and he heaved himself up to lie, gasping, on it. Deep in his consciousness, a jumbled prayer of thankfulness took form. From somewhere close at hand he heard something like a groan. He looked up and though his eyes were burning with pain he saw through a watery blur the black outline of what remained of the Magpie; the mast wavered for what seemed eternity then with a shuddering crack it crashed through the wheelhouse. A trembling scream rose above the snarl of the storm. The sound of it filled him with horror and he moaned softly and whispered, ‘You shouldn’t have stayed, Skipper; you should have let her go.’
The crowd that spilled from the hall surged onto the little strip of shore laid bare by the ebbing tide, some of the womenfolk running to meet the bedraggled fishermen coming from the smacks. Captain Mac and his crew made straight for the boathouse where the Rhanna lifeboat was kept. Righ nan Dul, Keeper of the Light, was an old man now, but tougher and wirier than many a man half his age. He welcomed the solid, cool presence of Captain Mac. They were old friends of many years’ standing, and when it came to dealing with the sea, action rather than words was their keynote. Hurriedly they plotted a course of action, with Righ suggesting that they take the boat to the harbour mouth to see if they could pick up any of the Magpie’s crew.
Captain Mac nodded his bushy white head. ‘Ay, the tide’s on the turn, and I’d say the worst o’ the storm is over – the bugger has blown itself out.’
There were many willing hands to man the lifeboat, which was no more than a long rowing boat. The men piled in, the shed doors were opened, old Joe released the mechanism and the boat slid gracefully down the slip and into the water.
Kirsteen stood a little way back, watching, her heart in her throat, her icy fingers nervously winding together. The wind had abated a good deal, but it still moaned deep in its throat, a sound of menace that struck dread into her heart. The waves were silken, greeny-blue troughs of satin in the light from storm lanterns held aloft all along the shoreline. It was frightening to be standing so close to the pounding sea, seeing the litter of debris held in the clutch of the green swell thrashing against the land; seeing the foam spuming high into the air, carelessly tossing out seaweed and pebbles; hearing the thundering roar like a lion defiantly proclaiming its might, untamed, unconquered no matter how submissive it might sometimes appear. In the excitement everyone had left coats and jackets in the hall. Kirsteen shivered a little in the bite of the wind. Everything, everyone seemed to be in confusion. She felt panic rising in her. Her son was out in that godforsaken sea – out by the Sgor Creags – the rocks that had killed Hamish – been the means of Fergus losing his arm . . . Fergus – where was he? Where was everyone who meant everything in the world to her?
She turned blindly and fell into Shona’s steadying arms. Niall, too, was there; calm, comforting Niall with his strong arms and his soft reassuring voice.
Shona held Kirsteen and murmured soothing words, but her thoughts were faraway – in that relentless sea with the half-brother she cared for more than she would ever admit. Shona drew in her breath and closed her eyes. Niall led them to a spur of rock away from the wind – none of them saw the tall dark figure of Fergus running towards the base of Port Rum Point, scrambling over the slimy rocks to the tiny strip of land that lay exposed along the length of the rocky finger.
‘Come back, Fergus!’ Alick’s voice bounced over the bay. ‘You’ll get swept away on that damt Point! The boat will pick the lads up.’
‘For God’s sake! It’s my son out there!’ Fergus threw back, and plunged on, slipping, falling, picking himself up, squeezing himself round barnacle-encrusted outcrops that dropped down into blackness. Time and again the sea reached out to him, drenching him, plucking at his feet with icy fingers. At one point the water roared into the dank black hole of an enormous cavern. He had to swim in order to bridge the gap and he felt himself spinning like a cork in the mêlée. Terror momentarily engulfed him, but concern for Grant imbued him with power and he lashed out with his legs. His hand brushed a rock and he hauled himself onto dry land once more. Soaked to the skin, his breath ragged, his throat raw and tight, he ran on. It seemed to him he had been running forever with the wind tearing him and the sea lashing him. His eyes were so filled with salt he barely saw where he was going – only the thin irregular ribbon of silver sand kept him from plunging headlong into the water. The black holes of caves loomed like the wide mocking mouths of giants; his world was one of thunderous boomings; of dark towering crags; of searing, biting cold. The wind strengthened and he knew he had reached the tip of the Point. He was whipped and bullied by the elements, and he staggered as he strained his stinging eyes into the heaving blackness.
His eyes adjusted and new shapes emerged out of the wall of water facing him, causing him to tremble with a mixture of dread and hatred of those menacing splinters rising sheer out of the sea. The last time he had seen them at such close quarters was years ago – yet in t
hose moments it might have been yesterday: the horrendous nightmare loomed like a spectre: Hamish’s face floated beside him, his sightless eyes seeing nothing, the blood bubbling from the hole in his skull, the sea all around lathering to a pink froth . . . Fergus shuddered. Never had he thought to face these rocks again. He loathed them with a passion that terrified him.
He stared wildly and saw another shape – a great black snout rearing up to the sky looking for all the world like a giant whale rising for air . . . the bow of the Magpie . . .
‘Grant!’ His voice came out in a rasping bawl. Over and over he called his son’s name, and over and over it was thrown back at him. Rage filled him. The sea would not get his son! Not if he could help it.
‘Father.’ He thought he imagined the sound but it came again faintly and without hesitation he plunged into the element he feared more than any other. A spike of rock bit into the flesh of his hip but his mind was so preoccupied he felt no pain. It seemed a miracle to him when, in that freezing hostile world, he came upon his son clinging to a great plank of wood that had wedged itself between two rocks.
‘Hold onto me!’ Fergus ordered.
Grant let go of the wood and Fergus felt himself sinking under the weight of him. Naked fear ripped through him and his limbs went rigid. A pinpoint of light pricked into the darkness then disappeared, but in that split second Fergus had seen a small familiar figure standing on the Point. Lorn or Lewis? He didn’t know which . . . he felt himself spinning in a void as waves of faintness washed over him. The water swirled round his legs, sucking, pulling, Grant was a dead weight against him and they both went under . . . Fergus kicked and wildly flayed the water with his arm . . . water flooded his lungs . . . he and his son were caught in a whirling underwater current that wouldn’t let go. Grant thrashed wildly and they both bobbed to the surface . . . and miraculously a lifejacket was there within their reach.
‘It’s all right – Father, I’m here – hold onto this.’ It was the voice of a child, a breathless, weak voice.
Lorn! How could it be Lorn! That tiny boy with the weak heart and skinny body. ‘Go back, for God’s sake go back!’ Fergus rasped. The child was gasping, struggling for air, but his thin little arms were reaching out, holding on, keeping his father’s chin above water . . .
‘Hold on!’
Alick’s voice! Cool, calm Alick who had always been quite at home in the sea . . . Now other arms were there, too, carrying Grant and Lorn to safety, and now it was just Fergus and Alick, Alick uttering soothing words of encouragement, cradling his brother, taking him to the haven of dry land. Fergus was aware of figures moving, familiar voices tossing hither and thither. His chest heaved and he choked out the sea from his lungs.
‘This – this is getting to be a habit – you pulling me out of the Sound,’ Fergus joked feebly.
Alick laughed, but it was a trembling, weak attempt. With frantic fingers he loosened the collar at his throat. ‘It – wasn’t me this time – it – was Lorn who saved you – foolhardy – brave wee brat – I couldn’t stop him.’ The pain reached up to his neck and seared through his jaws. He had never known such agony, it was crushing the breath from his body, forcing him to lie down near his brother. All around him was blackness, blacker than the darkest night. Only the blob of Fergus’s face above him was grey.
‘Alick! Are you all right?’ Fergus, barely recovered from his own hellish experience, looked at his brother lying gasping on the sands and felt he was caught up in a nightmare without end. He forgot himself, his chattering teeth and numb limbs. ‘Alick!’ he cried again harshly. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I – think – big brother – I’ve come to the end of my holiday. Us city gents are – too soft for midnight swims – can’t breathe – I think – my heart.’
Fergus raised himself onto his knees. ‘I’ll get help – hold on –’ But Alick’s trembling hand reached out to stay him. ‘No – no – stay – stay with me. I’ve always been afraid – of the – dark. I need you – big brother.’
Fergus gathered his brother to his breast. The wet hair beneath his fingers was plastered with sand and gently he stroked it clean. Alick’s breathing was more laboured, his head heavier than it had been a moment before . . . Fergus’s thoughts flashed back to boyhood days, of Alick relying on him, leaning on him – worshipping him . . . and tonight, the two of them fighting, Alick proving that he was quite a man – had been for years without Fergus being aware of the fact. And now – Alick was dying – dear God! He was dying! The pain of love, for someone he had always taken for granted and who was now about to leave him, shot through him like a knife. He caught his brother’s head to him and touched the wet hair with his lips. ‘You don’t need me – I need you,’ he sobbed harshly.
‘An unusual way to end – an unusual holiday – but then – I was always a one for anything – different . . .’ gasped Alick painfully. The last of his strength went into the hand clasped round Fergus’s arm. ‘You know – even when I hated you – I loved you – I never quite grew up, you see – big – brother . . .’ His hands relaxed and fell away, his head lolled to one side, and with a little sigh he died peacefully in his brother’s embrace.
Fergus gathered him up and cradled him as if he was a baby. All around him the wind moaned, the black night closed in like a mourning blanket. A sob caught at his throat. He wanted to shout his hatred at the sea, which had robbed him of so much, to scream, to give vent to useless wrath. Instead, he sobbed quietly.
‘We’ll take him, lad.’ Bob’s voice came softly, gentle hands drew him up and led him away, and as he stumbled along he saw not where he was going for his tears.
Some distance away everyone waited anxiously for the life-boat to come back. The lanterns picked it out, bucking towards the shore, the keel grounded, and an army of willing helpers plunged into the water to pull her up. Annie stood a little way back, her shawl clutched over her head, her limbs immobile and stiff.
‘We got them all but one.’ Captain Mac’s voice was gruff as he jumped from the boat.
‘Which one?’ Old Joe’s voice was tense. ‘It – isn’t young Grant?’
‘No, he was rescued from the Point – it’s Dokie Joe. He’s trapped in the Magpie, a goner from all accounts.’
Righ shook his head. ‘Ay, and there is no way we can reach him until the old girl breaks up – even then . . .’ The remainder of his words went unsaid, but everyone knew what he meant. The Sgor Creags had been known to hold onto a body till it was no more than a skeleton picked clean by seabirds.
Torquil Andrew turned on his heel and trod heavily over the shingle to Annie. Without words he put his arms round her and drew her close.
‘Oh no, oh dear God no,’ she said, leaning against him and sobbing. ‘It’s a punishment – a punishment, I’m tellin’ you, Torquil.’
‘Weesht now, mo ghaoil, you mustny think like that. Dokie stayed wi’ the boat – he could have got out but he stayed wi’ her – it’s the way o’ things.’
Rachel stood alone in the cold dark embrace of night. She watched Torquil leading her mother away. In that moment she knew that her father was dead. Her great brown eyes stared wildly into space. Her big, dour, adored father had been taken by the sea. She felt her world crashing round her. He had been her security, the only person she had ever really trusted. She loved her mother, but she had always been aware of her mother’s weaknesses, her inability to cope with loneliness. Her father hadn’t been weak; he had been strong, strong, strong; he had been faithful – and he was gone from her. Her lips trembled and formed the word ‘Dad’. She wanted to shout it aloud but her voice was locked inside forever . . . Arms were enclosing her, Jon’s strong young arms, holding her close, reaching out and soothing her in her moment of greatest need. He said nothing, just knelt beside her and held her. She laid her head on his shoulders and his long sensitive fingers stroked her hair. Then she felt herself being lifted up and carried away through the night, and as he strode with her he murmured, ‘
I’m here, jungfräulich, I will stay with you as long as you need me.’
Ruth watched and squirmed against her mother’s painful hold on her shoulders, every fibre in her longing to run to her friend to give her comfort, but Morag Ruadh’s hold grew stronger, her voice when she spoke was without emotion. ‘No, Ruth, you will come home with me and pray to the Lord to give Rachel strength – her mother too.’ Her lips twisted as she thought of gay, vivacious Annie with her lust for life and her discontent when her husband was away at sea. ‘The Lord works in mysterious ways, mark my words. Sinners must be punished one way or another –’
‘Rachel has done nothing wrong!’ Ruth cried passionately. ‘Why should she be punished! You’re afraid of her – that’s why you try to keep me away from her! She’s strong and good and beautiful and she’s my friend – and – and I won’t keep away from her when she needs me most. I won’t! I won’t!’
Morag’s face flamed red, her hand shot out to crack her daughter hard on the face. ‘You learn to get your facts right my girl! I wasny meanin’ Rachel, though she is just her mother all over again. Never – never speak like that to me again. You will obey me, you will obey the Lord’s word. You are a daughter of God, do you hear me, child?’
‘I am my father’s daughter,’ sobbed Ruth, but even as her mother yanked her away she wondered, as she had wondered so many times lately, just whose daughter she really was – it might be better to think of herself as God’s daughter after all.
Children of Rhanna Page 19