Scant yards down the shore, Roderick and Mrs. MacDonald struggled to launch the rough old ferry-boat into the stormy loch.
The little boat was already half in the water, her bow taking the shattering jolt of the breaking waves, her stern crunching on the wet sand as Roderick and the ferry-wife guided her forward.
They had their backs to me, their heads down against the wind, concentrating on their work. It was Rowena, crouched in the boat, trying to control the loosely flapping, unfurled sail, who saw me.
She put her hands up to her face, pale beneath the hood of her cloak, and she shouted something to the others which I could not hear.
Roderick whirled around, saw me, and swore in anger. The ferry-wife merely straightened her back and regarded us all with a lack of interest. She remained by the boat, not looking at us, not looking at Rowena, but watching the cold water that lapped her ragged skirts.
Roderick strode across the rocks to me. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded fiercely.
I was panting and out of breath. ‘You mustn’t go,’ I gasped. ‘No, wait!’ I shouted because he had already, with an impatient shrug, turned back to the boat.
He looked back over his shoulder and smiled wryly. ‘Too late, my good schoolmistress. But I did give you your chance,’ he reminded, laughing into the wind.
‘You don’t understand!’ I shouted back, and running to him, I clutched at his sleeve. He shook me off, annoyed now.
‘Let go of me, woman,’ he said sharply, and then Rowena stood up in the boat, clambered forward, and leapt into the water beside us.
‘Damn you, Elspeth,’ she said, tearful and angry. ‘Why could you not leave us alone?’
‘Get in the boat,’ Roderick said. ‘She can’t stop us now.’
‘But she can!’ cried Rowena. ‘Don’t you see? She will tell Papa and he will follow us in the Creagdhubh boat, or on horseback. We will never get to the train.’
I shook my head. ‘No, no. It is not that. That doesn’t matter. The boat,’ I gasped. ‘The boat is not safe.’ I tried to turn, to face Roderick, for he had somehow slipped behind me.
Then something hit against my head, hard, and the roaring wind and waves rose up around me in one grey whole. Somewhere, far, far away I heard Rowena scream.
The sound of the water never seemed to leave me, but when the greyness slipped away, and I saw around me again, I knew I was on the boat myself. Above me, the dirty white sail billowed and snapped and then shuddered taut as the wind filled it. I realized that the boat was moving fast, before the wind. I heard a voice, surprisingly my own, saying thickly, ‘The boat, the boat is not safe.’
‘Och the boat, the boat,’ the old cracked voice of the ferry-wife echoed my own, mockingly. ‘You would no’ think I had crossed these waters each day for twenty years, now would you?’
I looked up painfully. I was lying on the rough board-bottom of the boat. Above me I could see the squat, strong figure of Mrs. MacDonald, leaning hard on the tiller, her free hand with the sheet-line wrapped twice around, fighting the power of the wind in the sail. Her wrinkled brown face, beneath its tight-pulled shawl, was calm and disdainful.
I dragged myself up, holding to the side of the boat. In the bow Roderick sat, one arm around Rowena who was crying and arguing and saying, ‘But why did you hit her?’
‘Because,’ Roderick saw me move then and looked back at me, ‘as she will undoubtedly tell you herself, if I had not hit her, she would not now be with us. And if she was not with us, she would be up to Creagdhubh alerting the household, as you yourself said, Rowena,’ he reminded her.
‘So instead,’ he went on, ‘she will have a little sail and we will be on our way to Paris.’
‘No!’ I shouted at him, and then turning to the ferry-wife I begged, ‘Turn around before it is too late.’
I reached for the tiller, unthinking, and took her unaware. She shouted, lost her grip, and the boat slewed sideways, shifting heavily.
‘Let her go, you fool,’ Roderick ordered, and he leapt across at me, and the boat tipped wildly. Roderick and I struggled until his strength overpowered me, and he held me against the hard wood while the ferry-wife regained her control on the tiller and the boat turned smoothly downwind again.
She was not so calm now, her old face grim with concentration. The great waves ploughed under the boat, and the old woman fought each time to keep the bow from plunging under the crest in front. White sheets of spray tossed up into the boat, soaking us.
Roderick held me down in the cold water that sloshed now inside the boat and said clearly, ‘If you do that again, Elspeth, I will throw you overboard. I am not going to drown for your stupidity.’
‘No, Roderick, you can’t!’ Rowena screamed. She believed he would do it. And so did I. The ferry-wife watched, unmoved. She would not stop him.
The cold water and the pain of his hands forcing me down brought sense back. ‘I won’t do anything, Roderick,’ I said quietly. ‘But please let me up.’
Cautiously he did so, and moved back to the bow, watching me all the while. I knelt in the bottom of the boat, the cold water soaking my skirt. Slowly and clearly I said, ‘Gordon has done something to the boat. It will never reach Fort Augustus.’
A dry, crackling laugh rang out behind me, and the ferry-wife said, ‘And has he been cutting the wee holes in the bottom? Quick lass, find them now, before it is too late.’ She laughed again.
Rowena was staring at me, disbelieving. ‘Have you gone mad, Elspeth? My brother? My own brother? He helped us,’ she said indignantly.
Only Roderick said nothing, and desperately I faced him and said, ‘He knows, Roderick. He has done something to the boat, to drown you all.’
Roderick sat stunned, and I knew he believed me. For the first time, I saw him afraid. Rowena saw it too, and not understanding, cried out, ‘Why are you listening to her? She is lying. It is a trick to make us turn back.’
‘Shut up,’ he whispered, and she looked puzzled at me and back to him. The ferry-wife, never taking her eyes off the rippling edge of the sail and the bow beyond, ploughing ahead, still found time to laugh quietly. She at least was not believing me.
But Roderick was and I saw in his face the growing realization that either way he turned, he was trapped.
Rowena was begging for him not to listen to me, and he turned on her, releasing his anger unfairly, shouting and slapping her. She cowered weeping and terrified away from him, seeing him for the first time as I had always seen him.
‘Roderick,’ I begged, ‘for Rowena’s sake. Turn back. You have lost anyhow.’
‘What do you mean? What has he lost?’ Rowena asked, her thin voice almost carried away by the wind.
I made no answer. Roderick hesitated, and momentarily I thought we were saved. Then he swore and shouted to the ferry-wife, ‘Can you go no faster?’
She peered through the rain at him, her sharp eyes, surveying him amusedly. ‘And what is upon you then, sir, that you are needing to go faster than the wind?’
He cursed her, and she laughed, and we tore on through the wild dusk, Rowena weeping and Roderick peering ahead into the rain for the hopelessly distant shore.
I curled myself against the wet, cold wood, my fingers twined in the chain of the cross Duncan gave me, praying and waiting for the awful unknown moment I knew was coming.
Yet when it came, I was not ready.
The boat lurched sickeningly, sliding sideways, and I heard Mrs. MacDonald mutter, ‘She’ll no’ hold.’ I looked back, frightened, and saw the old woman struggling with the tiller which now sagged oddly. Then a hard wave hit the boat and the whole wooden piece, tiller and rudder, broke free, flopping on the water, loosened screws dangling.
The ferry-wife stared stupidly, baffled.
Then the boat tipped, broadside to the wind. A gust caught the tip of the sail and the boom flung up wildly, jibbing over our heads. White foam crashed over us, and the boat went over, flinging us far out into the icy water.
The cold was unbelievable. It stopped my breath and clutched at my body like some invisible beast. I flailed out in the blackness, and for a moment my head broke the surface into the vague, grey light. I went under again, my heavy, wet skirts dragging me down, but I fought this time, trying to swim.
I broke surface again and glimpsed the outline of the overturned boat. It was close, and a few awkward, wallowing strokes brought me near enough to grasp the wood and cling, exhausted, to the slippery edge.
I heard a gasp from the water beside me, and saw Rowena struggling weakly. I reached out to her, and seeing me she grasped for my hand, catching my outstretched fingers. I drew her nearer until she too could hold onto the boat.
‘Roderick,’ she whispered. I looked around, not seeing him at first, but heard a hoarse voice call my name. I turned to the sound. He had surfaced on the other side of the capsized craft and had swum around seeking us.
I reached a hand to him, and he grasped it, floundering to my side. He was stronger than either Rowena or myself, but the icy water would exhaust any swimmer in seconds.
He raised his head from the wooden planks briefly and grinned. ‘It would seem you were right, my schoolmistress,’ he panted.
‘The ferry-wife,’ I whispered. ‘Where is the ferry-wife?’ He let go with one hand, looking back into the darkness.
We saw her at the same moment. She was yards from the boat, splashing frantically amidst the waves. Each crest broke over her old head. I knew her heavy woollen garments, taking up the water, would drown her.
There was not much good in Roderick, but he wasn’t a coward. For a last moment he clung almost longingly to the boat, fighting the decision. I knew as well as he did that he could not save her, and I suddenly cried out, ‘No! Don’t go!’
He grinned again and released his hold on the boat, setting out to the old woman with faltering strokes. He reached her and she clutched in panic at him. For a few moments he held her grey head above the surface, even dragging her a foot or two nearer to us.
Then one great wave broke foaming over their heads, and when it had cleared, they were gone.
Rowena stared uncomprehending at the black, rolling water.
We were alone. Suddenly the world had closed in to a stormy night-circle of which we were the centre: Rowena, myself, and the fragile hulk of wood to which we clung.
There was nothing to see but darkness, nothing to feel but cold and the pain of our fingers clawing into the sliding, slippery, wet hull of the boat. The noise of the wind and the slapping, crashing waves had become solid substance like the wood and the cold water.
I thought of the faraway holy island where the green stones were found, and I thought of Duncan and that spring day at the chambered cairn.
His song came back to me as I had heard it tonight, and the two lines changed themselves in my head.
By God’s light my foot find,
The old pathway to thee.
I clung to the peaceful vision and tried not to think of the hundreds of feet of black water below me.
I extended my left hand along the wood until it rested beside Rowena’s, so that I would know if she began to lose her grip. She held close to the wood, her eyes closed, not really seeming to know what was happening.
In the depths of my mind a new vision was growing, coming up as from the deep water; I thought of the water-horse, rising to meet us from its magical watery den.
‘Not that,’ I said aloud, and then I heard a low, splashing, rushing sound, different from wind or water, and I looked up in sheer terror.
Before me the white, billowing sail of the Creagdhubh boat arose like a guardian angel.
Uncle Iain was at the tiller, and Duncan stood in the bow with a lantern, the fierce wind whipping at his hair, searching the water for us.
I let go with one hand, and waved and shouted. I heard the answering shout, and the boat come around into the wind. Uncle Iain held to the tiller as the sail dropped the wind and fluttered and flapped loosely.
Duncan guided the boat towards us with an oar, bringing it as close as possible.
Rowena had opened her eyes, but looked about dully, unaware either of the danger she had been in or the safety that was approaching.
I cautiously loosened her grip on the wood, and eased her arm to Duncan who hauled her limply into the boat.
Then his arms were about me, lifting me easily from the water, as he had done long ago from the bog at Cnoc nam Feidh.
Once again I clung sobbing to him, knowing nothing but the security of his strength and the same comforting Gaelic words.
After a long time, I raised my head and saw that the sail was again billowing out and we were sailing fast before the wind as we had done with the ferry-wife.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked weakly.
‘Fort Augustus,’ Duncan replied. ‘We could beat back, but it will take all of the night.’
I saw Uncle Iain then, in the stern of the boat, one big hand on the tiller and the other gently stroking the dark wet hair of his daughter. Rowena curled beside him like a child.
‘The others,’ I whispered, trying to explain.
‘They are gone,’ said Duncan. ‘The loch gives no one back.’
Then suddenly the world made no sense any more, and the whirling lost figures of Gordon and Roderick and the old ferry-wife spun round and round me and dissolved into endless night.
Chapter Eighteen
I awoke in the morning, in a bed in a room I did not know. It was a low, narrow room with a small, crooked window through which the sun shone.
On the walls was a pale, flower-sprigged paper. The door frames and window frames were painted wood, simple and rough.
I ran my hands across the bed. The blankets were heavy and hand-woven, surmounted by a hand-crafted quilt. The bedstead itself was painted wood. I became gradually aware of sounds: summer birds singing outside the window, and the sound of rushing water.
I sat up, frightened. The sounds meant something.
Then I remembered everything, and for a while I curled into the soft feather-pillows, weeping, not caring where I was, remembering only why I was here and not home at Creagdhubh.
The sound of bells came through the window, startling me, for I had not heard that sound since London. I rose, cautiously, feeling stiff and finding my hands to be raw and scraped from clinging to the overturned boat.
I stepped to the window and looked out. Below was a small square of garden, vegetables and autumn flowers mixed. And beyond the hollyhocks and marigolds and late summer roses was a river, bright blue and shining in the sun.
Over the river, a grey stone-tower rose from among tall beech trees. The abbey tower. I was in Fort Augustus and the bells of the Benedictine abbey were ringing this Sunday morning.
Beyond the abbey, the river, River Oich I knew it to be called, ran into the wide waters of Loch Ness, as blue and as gentle as an English mill pond in the morning sun.
I shook my head; last night seemed impossible. My aching hands told me it was not.
There was a gentle tap at the door and automatically I called, ‘Come in.’
A woman entered the room, middle-aged, her short, solid, peasant figure broadened by layers of rough handmade garments; tweed skirt and heavy knitted jumpers piled on top, a profusion of warm autumn colours. She had the softly pink cheeks and shining, healthy skin that were the gift of the damp native climate.
Her dark hair, streaked with strands of grey, was pulled into a bun and surmounted by a woollen kerchief.
‘Och, dearie, you should not be up and about already,’ she muttered gently, while guiding me quite forcefully back to the bed. I really felt quite well, but it was easiest not to protest, and I still found it difficult to think clearly.
‘Now you wait there for your tea, lass,’ the woman said, tucking quilts around me. Then she was gone, and I relaxed in the very comfortable bed.
I could begin with my many questions when she returned. I thought about
Duncan, remembering him beside me in the Creagdhubh boat. And Uncle Iain. They must be here somewhere, and Rowena also. I forced myself to recall carefully the moments of our rescue. Yes, Rowena was safe also. I would not think about the others just yet.
In a few moments there was again the gentle tap on the door, and the woman stepped back into the room, this time carrying a tray with an earthenware teapot and a bright, flowered cup and saucer. These were placed beside my bed and she scampered silently out, returning almost immediately with a bright red knitted bedjacket.
‘Here,’ she said, ‘you must put this on.’ She handed it to me and began to pour the tea.
‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘But I am quite warm enough,’ I protested. The room was warm and the simple woollen nightdress I was wearing was more than sufficient.
‘Och, you cannot be letting your young man see you in nothing more than your nightdress,’ she exclaimed, her eyes opening wide with shock.
‘My young man?’ I said, and then as she giggled and pointed coyly to the doorway, I understood.
‘Of course,’ I said seriously, and dutifully put on the immense and extremely woolly bedjacket. When the very last button was buttoned right up to my chin and the quilts were pulled nearly as high, my hostess seemed satisfied that decency had been properly served.
‘Shh,’ she whispered and crept conspiratorially to the door. She opened it a crack, beckoned with one finger and then as Duncan stepped into the room she scampered out shutting the door behind her in a wave of giggles.
‘I am thinking we have scandalized the whole of the village,’ said Duncan, and then catching sight of me in my mountains of red wool, he said amazed, ‘What is that that you are wearing?’
‘Hush,’ I said. ‘You were not to see me in my nightdress,’ I explained, laughing weakly.
‘I am seeing you in a flock of sheep,’ he said. Then he came to the bed and put his arms around me, and it was lovely and I said, ‘Go away, for heavens sake. Supposing she comes back.’
‘Aye, then, she would have us away to the kirk and married before luncheon, no doubt. And I would be just as pleased,’ he said smiling, but letting me go.
Christabel's Room: A spellbinding Victorian gothic romance Page 16