Island of Wings (11 page)

At that moment the minister, who had been interrogating the
maor
, Donald MacKinnon, about the bird incident, entered the kirk from the passage behind the pulpit. His face was tired and saddened as he looked out over the congregation that he had begun to love. Silence fell over the rough timber pews and naked feet came to rest on the earthen floor. Some thought they heard their minister sigh.

The Rev. Neil MacKenzie turned the pages of his Gaelic bible on the pulpit and read, his voice dry and intense:

Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth: thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate Me; and showing mercy unto thousands of them that love Me and keep My commandments.

He looked up and his eyes rested briefly on Ann MacCrimmon and Marion Gilles, who sat huddled together, before he resumed his sermon:

You will recognise the second commandment from Exodus. It has come to my knowledge that there are people in your midst who believe that superstition may save your newborn children from the convulsive fits which often take their lives within eight days of their coming into this world. This plague, which haunts our island, does indeed seem to be a cruel trick of nature.

But I tell you now that if you want to change your providence you must take heed of the heresy of superstition and image-worship. Our human nature is as prone to this sin as a river to run to the sea. It concerns us, therefore, to resist this sin. The plague of heresy is very infectious and it is my advice to you to avoid all occasions of this sin.

You must avoid superstition, which is a bridge that leads over to Rome – to popery and idolatry. Superstition is bringing any ceremony, fancy, or innovation into God's worship which He never appointed. It is provoking God, because it reflects much upon His honour, as if He were not wise enough to appoint the manner of His own worship. Superstition is Devil-worship!

A sharp intake of breath was heard from the congregation, and Lizzie wondered what her husband had said.

There are evil forces in existence that seek to destroy our souls and sanity. I see how you suffer from the childlessness that afflicts this island. You are isolated amid a hostile ocean, and your very existence in this place increases the spiritual vulnerability of your Christian lives. God holds His hand over those who suffer – His grip never fails – but do you honestly think that God will care for you in this secluded spot when you turn from Him to superstition and witchcraft?

Hear what Paul saith to the Corinthians: ‘The natural person does not accept the things of the Spirit of God, for they are folly to him, and he is not able to understand them because they are spiritually discerned.'

You must not be like these heathens who do not understand the glory of God. You must follow the righteous path. You must work hard and pray sincerely from the depths of your hearts. You must strive for purity and adhere to cleanliness – not just of the soul but of the body – for uncleanness is an evil that brings disease and pain.

He ended the sermon with a short prayer. The parishioners clenched their hands tightly and bowed their heads in embarrassed submission to the Lord they were only just beginning to understand.

*

Later that evening Mr and Mrs MacKenzie sat by the table in the manse. A bruised sky had crept in over the island and a soft rain was falling on the mustard plant that stretched below the open window. Mrs MacKenzie was sewing a new waistcoat for her husband, who was reading from Adam Smith's
Moral Sentiments
. A couple of candles were burning on the mantelpiece, spreading a thin carpet of slow light across the floor. He put the book down and listened to the rain.

‘The dread of pain makes us selfish. It is a naturally directed instinct to care first of all for ourselves and those we love. But those instincts do not foster a peaceful society. Do they not understand that it is the business of God, not man, to ensure universal happiness?'

Lizzie assumed he was talking to her. ‘Eight out of ten children born on this island die of the cramps within eight days of their birth – as long as we are at ease we cannot begin to understand the hardships of these mothers!' She had drawn strength from his weakness, but realised too late that he had not wanted her to answer his question.

He looked at her in surprise. Perhaps he did not know his wife; the thought had not crossed his mind before.

‘It might be good to be able to suffer along with my subjects,' he agreed, but remained unconvinced of the benefit of identifying with the emotions of others. At least he was magnanimous, a guider of spirits and soother of souls. ‘Do they understand that I have compassion for their misery?'

‘I am sure they will understand,' she answered, as no one else could ease his mind, ‘but you must give them time. Your sermon will have made them ashamed of their actions – I could not understand its meaning, of course, but judging from your tone it was very harsh.' She hesitated but as he did not object she continued, ‘They are impressionable and they seemed greatly upset by your reprimands. Perhaps next time you should focus more on the blessings of the Gospel?' She did not want him to worry, but she felt a certain loyalty to Mrs MacCrimmon, whose eyes had shared their secrets with hers. She wished she could hold her husband's head between her palms and stroke his temples, but the act would have been too large for the small room on this evening. Instead she continued stitching her love into his waistcoat. She made an effort to make every stitch equally perfect, although the light was poor.

After a while she yawned and said she was going to bed. He nodded and smiled. Everything was all right then, although he wished that he could have remained a while longer looking at his wife sewing in the blue night.

Two weeks later Mrs MacKenzie gave birth to twin girls. It all happened as it should. The old crone from the village was called to cut the umbilical cords from the tiny bodies and smear the stumps with bird grease. The first to be born was called Margaret. She seemed to be the stronger of the two. Jane slithered out of her mother in close succession, much to the surprise of the minister, who assisted at the birth. The old woman wrapped the girls in linen towels, but rather poorly as there was only enough linen for one baby. Lizzie was concerned that the girls were not washed before being wrapped but was too exhausted to do anything about it just then. She lay back on the pillows with a silent daughter in each arm. She could not help worrying about them, but soon they started feeding and she laughed with relief at their swollen lips and tiny hands that fumbled blindly at her breasts. The minister watched the scene of nativity as the gay sun fell through the window on to the blue-veined heads of his daughters. Their vulnerability was too great for him and he drew the curtains to shield them from the intruding light. But his wife smiled at him and said that the light was good for them, it would make them stronger. MacKenzie felt too large, his hand as it held a tiny foot seemed grotesque and he wondered how he was going to be able to keep his family safe.

In the end, of course he could not. On the fourth day Jane gave up suckling, and after another day Margaret followed suit. They did not cry much but lay breathing with their eyes closed, head to foot in the pretty cot with the sprig of juniper carved by the workmen from Dunvegan. Lizzie tried to pour warm cow's milk blended with a little whisky into their mouths, but after another day their gums were clenched together and it was impossible to get anything down their throats. Soon their bodies were ridden by convulsive fits. Wave upon wave of cramps would toss the girls as if they were riding out a great storm at sea. The little bodies seemed to struggle against excessive torments until, on the eighth day, their strength was exhausted. Jane, who was the weaker, died first, in one breath, one moment, one life. Margaret struggled on for another three hours before she too gave up and joined her sister, just after midday on the sixth day of August.

Perhaps now I will be able to pray, Lizzie thought, and maybe they will be saved.

The minister went to the Point of Coll. He shouted soundlessly into the waves, and his knees were bloodied on the rocks as he bit at his prayers: ‘Lord, why did you have to take Margaret and Jane? Why did you take their brother, Nathaniel? I continually ask You forgiveness for my sins. I serve You as faithfully as I can. My children were innocent, Lord. Do not let them suffer for the sins of their parents. I am weak and unworthy, I know, and the children were the fruits of my lust. But their souls were white and pure. Did You not see their beauty? What suffering do I need to endure in order to redeem myself for William's death? Would not one death have been enough?'

He realised this was not the way to speak to the God he had chosen to serve, and he slumped wretchedly on the rocks. He wanted the world to make sense, and as he lay there, with the waves sighing miserably around him, it occurred to him that God wanted him to suffer with the islanders and become their equal. Had he not told Lizzie only a few weeks ago, after the incident with the tortured bird, that it might be good to suffer with his subjects? He shuddered in admiration of God's omnipotence. He had been too proud, that must be it! He had not been humble enough, and God had exercised justice. It was cruelly perfect, and the minister thanked his Lord for revealing this mystery to him.

A group of women had gathered outside the manse as the minister returned. They looked at his trousers, which were torn and bloodied at the knees, and the shirt which was ruffled and dirty, but MacKenzie had known the lowest depth and could not be ashamed.

Mrs MacKenzie was sitting impassively by the cradle. Somebody had covered the girls so that their faces, frozen and deformed in the last, monstrous cramps of the eight-day illness
,
could not be seen. Marion Gilles was standing by Lizzie's side stroking her hair, but the latter did not seem to notice. She looked up as her husband entered the room. ‘I want them to have a proper burial,' she said factually. ‘With a coffin each,' she added. He looked at her with greater compassion than his heart could afford to waste. ‘Of course I would like that too, but you know there is no wood on the island,' he answered carefully. ‘I don't care – I will find some myself if I have to!' Lizzie cried, and stood up. Marion Gilles looked questioningly at the minister, who said a few words to her in Gaelic. She nodded sadly and left the room. Mr MacKenzie put his arms around his struggling wife to calm her. ‘Why?' she cried softly now against his shoulder. ‘I don't know, my love,' he said, because he could not tell her the truth, ‘but God will answer our prayers.' He knew that sounded weak but could not yet admit to her that the children had died because of his shortcomings. ‘I want the coffins,' she demanded childishly. ‘Yes, yes,' he soothed her, ‘but our loss is not greater than the loss of the other parents on the island, and there just isn't any timber that can be spared for coffins.' Then, as if it would somehow make a difference to her grief, he added, ‘I will ask the taxman to bring some when we see him next.' She knew of course that he was right. She also knew that her grief could not be important – that she was insignificant in all this.

A couple of the local women, including Marion Gilles, came back that evening to wash and shroud the twins. Lizzie managed to smile gratefully at them and wondered if she would have found the right words to express her feelings if she had known their language. The women served her tea brewed with St John's wort and she slept exhausted through the night. As she got up to fetch some water from the well the following morning the door struck something as she tried to open it. She pushed carefully and stepped on to the porch. There on the stone step in front of her lay two small wooden coffins. She knelt down to examine them. They were quite crude and of varying dimensions and they had been put together from odd bits of wood; the sides were partly constructed from a barrel and the lids contained fragments of washed-out driftwood whitened by salt. One of the coffins contained the wooden sole of a fisherman's boot, and the other one part of a wooden plate.

Lizzie remained on her knees. She recognised this generous gesture by the St Kildans whom she had tried so hard to avoid getting to know. A group of children were peeping around the corner of the manse, shuffling and hushing. ‘Did you make these?' she asked with tears in her eyes. ‘Thank you, oh, thank you so much – they are truly beautiful!'

The funeral service was brief. All the St Kildans – except for Mrs MacCrimmon, whose labours had started – turned up to the unmarked grave site as the makeshift coffins which sheltered the tiny bodies of Margaret and Jane were lowered into the ground. As her husband offered the souls of their daughters to God Lizzie thought of the tortured gull. Her husband had told her that the women on the island hated the black-backed gull as they somehow connected it with the death of their children. The women would often take a gull's egg and suck out its contents, only to replace it so that the gull would roost on an empty shell for the rest of the summer. Lizzie, still struggling to believe in the God who had taken her girls away, wished that she too could free her mind and create a mythology of her own like the St Kildan women had done. She wished that she could find some sense to her situation.

The morning after the burial she rose early and dressed in her plain blue dress and straw bonnet. She packed a basket with some bread and a few apples. MacKenzie was astounded. ‘Where are you going?' He needed her close and unchanged.

‘I am going to visit Mrs MacCrimmon – she must have had her child by now,' she answered determinedly.