Children of Rhanna

by Christine Marion Fraser

  The men carrying Grant stepped out of the shadow of Port Rum Point and Kirsteen ran forward, so full of relief at seeing her son alive she couldn’t speak.

  ‘It’s all right, Mother,’ he said through chattering teeth. ‘I’m not planning to leave any of you for a while yet – I never managed back for the ceilidh, but at least I’m home.’

  Kirsteen looked up and saw Lachlan running towards the Point. Lewis, who had been watching the unloading of the lifeboat with interest, was running too, as if drawn by some sort of telepathy towards the little group some distance away.

  ‘It’s Lorn,’ Grant murmured, the impact of recent events only now starting to come home to him. ‘Would you credit it – the spunky wee bugger dived into the sea and kept Father afloat . . .’

  Kirsteen was gone, racing with pounding heart to her youngest son. Grant looked up to see Fiona staring down at him, the soft curves of her slender body outlined against a watery light breaking through the clouds. She felt strange, light-headed, filled with something she could put no name to. Before she could say anything he said, as teasingly as his frozen lips would allow, ‘Well, well, if it isn’t wee Robin – all dressed up in a frock like a real girl. Are you disappointed to see I’m still alive and kicking?’

  Anger rose up in her. She tossed her head. ‘I might have known it would take more than a drop of the sea to kill a McKenzie!’ she spat vindictively.

  ‘Ay, we’re a tough lot,’ he retaliated without spirit. Without another word Fiona turned on her heel and walked over to join Mary, who was enquiring of a group of fisherwives if they had seen anything of her husband . . .

  It was almost three a.m. when Kirsteen eventually made her weary way upstairs. Lachlan, concerned for Fergus because of the weak lung he had had since his accident, had ordered him up to bed an hour before. He had gone with surprisingly little objection, his shoulders bent, his steps dragging. But he wasn’t asleep. He lay very still, staring at the ceiling, his eyes hollow in his white face. Kirsteen went over to the dressing table, and, planting her hands on its smooth surface, she stood with her fair head bowed, every muscle in her body sagging with tiredness.

  ‘How is everyone?’

  She whirled round to look at him. ‘Fergus – I – I thought you’d be asleep.’

  ‘Sleep! How can I sleep after what’s happened? I wonder if I’ll ever sleep again.’

  She clasped her hands and stared down at them. ‘You mustn’t worry about the boys – Grant is sound asleep, he’s young and strong and is only very badly shaken up. Lorn – well – I can hardly believe he’s all right after what happened, but he is – oh, naturally drained of course. Lachlan has told me to keep him in bed for a couple of days. Mary – she – Lachlan gave her a sedative. I don’t think she’s really taken in what’s happened yet. She kept saying she didn’t know how she was going to tell her sons.’

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ Fergus said, his voice full of disbelief, ‘I’ve been lying here feeling I’ve imagined it all – I can’t believe he’s really dead.’

  Kirsteen felt sorrow engulfing her and she put her hands to her face. ‘I know. Oh poor dear Alick! He’d been so good to me this holiday – so patient and kind, I don’t know what I would have done without him.’

  ‘Don’t rub it in,’ Fergus said, his voice heavy with grief, ‘I feel hellish enough as it is – as if everything is my fault. We had a fight earlier and he beat the hell out of me! My little brother turned the tables and fought back. He laughed about it – said how good he felt that everything we had buried for so long was at last out in the open.’ He bunched his knuckle. ‘And just when we might have made a go of things he died pulling me out of the sea. What does it mean, Kirsteen? It all seems so senseless – he was only forty-seven.’

  Kirsteen said nothing. It seemed there was nothing she could say to ease her husband’s torment of mind. He turned his head to look at her, noting her stillness, the feminine fragility that gave her such grace and beauty, the strength that emanated from her.

  ‘Kirsteen,’ he said, speaking her name softly, savouring the sound of it, ‘Alick had a great respect for you – also I think he’d always been a little bit in love with you. Perhaps he was never really aware of it himself, but he loved you enough to face up to me tonight – to tell me things I was too damned stubborn to admit. My darling, darling Kirsteen, I’m so sorry for everything – I’ve missed you so – I need you –’

  She raised her head and saw his dark eyes burning into her. The room was in lamplight, shadows danced and played, everything was soft and dim. His trembling hand reached out to her. ‘I love you, oh God how I love you. I need you more than I’ve ever needed you in my life – you’re part of me, Kirsteen.’

  She had no recollection of crossing the room, she was only aware of his nearness, his lips kissing her hair, kissing away the tears from her eyes, caressing her ears, her neck, her breasts. The power of their love for each other reared up out of grief and misery. His body was hard against hers. Slowly she undressed and got into bed to lie down beside him. They spoke no words; there was no need for them. His arm came round to draw her in close to him, his lips touched her hair, her face, her mouth. They lay quite still in one another’s embrace, savouring the close, warm comfort of being together again. They were enclosed in a sphere of their own, worlds removed from reality, each so aware of the other they were lost in the exquisite joy of their reunion. The grief and uncertainty of tomorrow would wait; tonight was theirs – fleeting, intangible, unforgettable. The dawn would bring renewed awareness of the world outside their love, but it could wait – it must wait . . .

  Rachel stood very still, her hands immobile by her sides, her eyes seeing yet barely believing that the crumpled broken body thrown so carelessly by the tide onto the sands was really her father, her big, hard-bodied father who had strode so tall through life. The tide had carried him round Portcull Point to Mara Òran Bay, Bay of the Sea Song. She saw him as he had been, tough, sullen, his surprisingly gentle brown eyes lighting up at sight of her and her small brothers waiting for him at the harbour. She saw him striding homewards through Glen Fallan, mock severity in his glance at sight of her grubby knees and dirty face; then one huge hand would reach out to her while the other felt in his pocket, pretending not to find the sweets and toys till with a show of amazement he allowed the bulging pocket to give up its treasures. How could that man now be this poor pitiful sodden lump? The men had covered him quickly, but not quickly enough. She had seen his crushed chest; the congealed blood clogging his mouth, matting into his beard.

  The morning was gentle and warm; the sea shimmered blue; the sky was wide and boundless; seabirds were making a noisy fuss as they poked for molluscs among the seaweed left by high tide. It was all as it had been, as if there never had been a storm – as if the world could never be anything else but serene and warm and bright – as if her father had never lived – or died. Rachel saw, she heard, her eyes remained dry, but silent screams thrust up inside her skull like shock waves inside a subterranean cave: booming, reverberating, pounding – yet unheard in the world outside. Everything that could be released by the human voice was locked away inside. She was a small cauldron of seething emotions that could find no outlet.

  Her mother was standing by Dokie Joe’s body, her hands over her face, her shoulders shaking. She looked small and young and vulnerable. Torquil Andrew appeared round Portcull Point and soon his arms were protectively round Annie. When he glanced up and saw Rachel, he held out a hand to her, but she stared past him into nothingness.

  From the clifftops Ruth looked down and saw her friend standing alone and her heart brimmed over with pain for the little girl who had always run free but who now stood as if held by invisible fetters, a tiny statue, silent and unmoving. Ruth drew in her breath and began to limp towards the cliff track, but her mother emerged from the house and saw her. ‘Ruth!’ Her tone was imperative. ‘Wait you there, your grannie needs you to run a message.’

  Ruth lifte
d her head defiantly and kept on going down but her mother’s hand on her shoulder stayed her abruptly, and she swung round. Her heart was beating very fast. She feared her mother’s wrath more than anything else in the world because it was such unreasoning, unthinking anger.

  For a few moments, Morag said nothing. Her green gaze travelled down to where Rachel stood on the beach. Morag shivered. The little girl always made her feel uneasy – she dreaded the open frankness of the big expressive eyes, she couldn’t take the accusation in them. Rachel couldn’t utter a single word yet those eyes of hers said it all. ‘You must leave Rachel alone, Ruth.’ Morag’s voice was strange and faraway. ‘She has something in her that’s gey strange – she’s no’ a normal wee lass – she has – the power.’

  Ruth’s heart bumped, but she cried, ‘Leave me be, Mam. Rachel has God in her, really in her – and she’s just lost her father. Let me go to her, please, Mam . . .’

  The blood had rushed to Morag’s face and she began to shake her daughter till her golden head became a wobbling blur. ‘You wee bitch! If I’m no’ mistaken the de’il has got at you. What is it that’s changed you, Ruth? You were aye such an obedient wee lassie before.’

  Old Isabel came out of her cottage, anger in her kindly old face. ‘Ach, will you leave the bairn alone, Morag?’ she implored. ‘What is ailing you now I’d like to know? Go on the way you’re doing and I warn you – the bairn will grow up to hate the sight of you.’

  Morag whirled round to face her mother. ‘If it’s any o’ your business, Mother, I will no’ be havin’ my lassie mixin’ wi’ that wee – that wee witch down there! She’s a wild one. She has a funny look to her, I’ve seen that look before – she has the de’il in her and no mistake.’

  ‘And where have you seen it, Morag?’ asked old Isabel ominously. ‘In the mirror? If I didny know better I wouldny be wrong in thinkin’ you have become the daughter of the de’il. I canny believe betimes that you are the same lassie I bore from my own body, for through the years you have changed, Morag, and that’s a fact – ay, and fine your poor auld father and myself know it for you have led us a fine dance in hell for more years than I like to think.’

  The grip on Ruth’s shoulder had lessened and she hurried away, hating herself for leaving her beloved grannie to Morag’s fury, yet unable to stop herself from doing so. She reached the beach and Rachel raised her eyes, for the first time recognizing someone outside her private hell. The two little girls clung together. Ruth felt the tension in Rachel’s body and her heart brimmed over with compassion. What if it had been her father lying crumpled and dead on the cold lonely sands? The idea was unbearable. He was her whole life. She couldn’t imagine an existence without him.

  Old Joe came over and pushed some things into Rachel’s hands. ‘These were in his pocket, lass,’ he said kindly. ‘They will have been meant for you and your wee brothers.’ Rachel stared down at the toy cars and the flute. Before he had gone away, her father had promised to bring her back a flute ‘so that you can play fairy music to me when I’m tired, lass’. Rachel felt that she was going to fall down and never get up again, so much did her legs shake beneath her.

  People were crowding the beach, a few tourists but mainly villagers who stood in sad-eyed little groups discussing quietly the tragedies wreaked by the storm. Canty Tam’s voice floated loudly and clearly. He was proclaiming to all and sundry, ‘I was after knowin’ last night that the Uisga Hags would have a Rhanna man; it was a night just perfect for all the witches of sea and land to get themselves up.’ His eyes gleamed as he leered vacantly in Rachel’s direction. ‘Ay, and the evil caillichs were no’ content wi’ just one – oh no – they had to have another – a McKenzie, too.’ He leaned further sideways. ‘Of course, there are some who have the power to call the witches, ay indeed. Witches know their own all right – a fine job they made o’ Dokie Joe –’

  Ruth leapt at him like an enraged animal and he was thrown to the ground, terror in his pale blue eyes. ‘Shut up! Shut up!’ she sobbed passionately and began violently to tear at his hair. Dugald ran down the path with Jon at his heels, the former to pull his daughter away from Canty Tam, the latter to run to where Rachel stood immobile. Jon fell on his knees beside her and pulled her to him, his arms strong and comforting. ‘Cry, cry, jungfraulich,’ he implored her, his own eyes wet at the feel of her slender small body bending trustingly to him. ‘Cry, my dear little maiden,’ he whispered soothingly. ‘It is the only thing that will help to wash away your pain.’

  Rachel responded to his impassioned plea. She lay against him, her eyes wide and big and staring, and from them the tears rolled, spilling faster and faster, and all the while Jon soothed her with words of comfort and reassurance.

  Among the rock pools some distance away, Lewis sat watching the scene in Mara Òran Bay. There was a strange look in his eyes. He knew that he ought to go and say something kind to Rachel, but he couldn’t face any more grief and suffering. He had come here to get away from Laigmhor and all those shocked, dull-eyed people bowed down with the burden of grief. He couldn’t bear to see the pain in his father’s eyes, the numb shock on Aunt Mary’s face, the sadness in his mother’s glance. Laigmhor was filled with the presence of death and the strange sickly feeling of illness – Lorn’s illness. His brother was in bed, weak and breathless, his flying pulse bringing a frown of concern to Doctor McLachlan’s face. Lewis loved his brother but couldn’t bear it when he was ill. He hated and feared illness and unhappiness, and when Lorn was ill he felt ill, too. Lewis shuddered. His thoughts strayed back to Lorn – Lorn who was soon to go away from Rhanna to the uncertainty of a big town hospital where he would lie on an operating table while doctors did things to his heart that might make him better – or might kill him. Shona had told Lewis that morning, and he had backed away from her shaking his head and saying, ‘Don’t tell me any more, I don’t want to know.’ She had looked at him strangely. She always gave him the impression that she knew what he was thinking. Those beautiful blue eyes of hers had regarded him with frightening perception on several occasions and this morning she had said, ‘Och, come on now, Lewis, you have to be told. Father asked me to tell you. I only found out myself yesterday from – from Uncle Alick. Lorn will be going away soon and Father and Kirsteen will need our help. Lorn will need all the support we can give him.’

  But Lewis was angry with Shona for telling him – there was enough unhappiness to cope with. He was angry at Lorn, too. Lorn’s weakness had always made him uncomfortable. All along he’d had to appease him and reassure him about things, more for his own sake than Lorn’s because in appeasing his brother Lewis was in some measure comforted himself. By rights they should have had wonderful times as twin brothers – they could have had a lot of fun – if only . . . Lorn’s dark eyes floated into Lewis’s mind, rebellion and impatience fighting up out of them. Lorn wouldn’t be afraid of hospitals – he would go through anything to be as fit as any other boy . . . Lewis felt suddenly ashamed, yet his shame didn’t lend him any strength.

  He glowered over lowered brows to Mara Òran Bay: more death, more unhappiness. He threw a pebble in the air and, reaching up to catch it, he saw that it was a ‘fluffy cloud day’. The cheerful face of a clown grinned over the sky. Lewis’s heart lightened. Wait till he told Lorn about that – but the face of the clown was changing, the big lips were slowly turning down – even the clouds were in mourning.

  Lewis felt unease shivering through him. He put his chin in his hands and gazed far away over the shimmering sea. One day he would be a farmer like his father, but first he was going to enjoy himself. The world was big and wide and wonderful . . . Rachel was looking towards him, and though she was some distance away he felt her wild turbulence reaching him, touching him. Rachel was dumb, but she was so full of vibrant life she didn’t need words to convey how she felt. She was like him, thirsty for all life had to offer, taking happiness where and how she could get it – yet, there was something in her that wasn’t in him, only he
didn’t know what it was. He looked up. The clown was smiling again. That was how a clown ought to look.

  The clear notes of a flute were borne to him on the breeze. Jon was walking with Rachel and she was playing the flute – not a sad tune, either – one that was light and gay.

  Lewis stood up, his earth-brown curls tossing in the breeze, his blue eyes brilliant. It was all right to go to Rachel now; she had turned her back on the pathetic bundle that had been her father and she was playing the flute.

  Lewis ran, his sturdy tanned limbs carrying him swiftly to Rachel’s side. She didn’t look up at his approach, but kept on playing, her fingers moving nimbly. Her black curls were dancing in the breeze, he noticed, and there was a sheen of blue in them where they were touched by the sun. Her body seemed totally relaxed; the curve of her lashes swept the rounded bloom of her golden cheeks; she looked as she had always looked – a sun-kissed waif, a child of the sea, the sky, the sun. She was like him – death was something she turned her back on in her search for the sunshine. She raised her eyes to look at him, and the expression in the deep dark pools made him draw in his breath; they were pain-racked, filled with pathos, torture, despair. Her naked soul was in her eyes, and Lewis knew that carefree little Rachel would never be the same again, that part of her – her vitality, her childhood – had died the moment her father had taken his last shuddering breath out there in the sea that swirled ceaselessly round the stark pinnacles of the Sgor Creags.

  PART III

  SUMMER 1956

  CHAPTER 11

  Lorn opened his eyes to see fingers of sunlight pouring through the window to make a golden pool on the mellow varnished wood of the floor. Lazily he stretched and drew a deep satisfying breath. How good to breathe like that, to feel life and strength surging through his veins. How good not to feel breathless or faint any more. He stared for a few moments at his upstretched arms and frowned a little – they were too skinny; he would have to get some muscles in them, to work and work till they were hard and strong. From where he lay he could see the rugged thrust of the peaks of Ben Machrie – he would work till he was as strong as a mountain – well, he grinned – as strong as dear old Conker anyway.