Island of Wings (3 page)

Lizzie, who did not understand a word that was spoken, was confused by the scene in front of her. She knew, of course, that her husband's first language was Gaelic and that the natives spoke no English, but she had not heard him speak his mother tongue before. The soft words spilled out of him to form beautiful sentences which ran like water through the air. His voice sounded clearer and more youthful in this language, and she realised that this man who spoke Gaelic was not the English-speaking husband she knew. He seemed inspired and his authority appeared undoubted. She resolved to try to learn something of this tongue as soon as possible. It was essential that she got to know her husband on all levels – but how could she be curious about the dirty, foul-smelling men, women and children kneeling in their insufferable clothes on the rough ground around her? She took a step closer to her husband and gathered her skirts to protect them from the grime on the ground around her.

The minister looked at his new congregation and, if he did not find them quite like the noble savages he had expected, he still understood that there was a lot of work needed to raise them in the scale of thinking beings. The natives were well built and generally fair, although not altogether clean. Some of the young men and women could be considered quite handsome, and many of the bairns had hair the colour of straw. The men wore outfits not unlike those of the fishermen on the Long Isle: coarse woollen trousers and dirty-white woollen jerkins with jackets of the same material as the trousers, generally dyed dark blue or brown by indigo and lichen. The women, on the other hand, he observed with apprehension, were very badly dressed indeed. Their shifts resembled sacks with simple sleeves and a cut-out hole for the head . Their gowns were of a peculiar tent shape, fitted around the body with two girdles; one above the breasts and one around the waist, where some had tucked up their skirts to be able to move more freely. This strange fashion made the women look segmented, a bit like large insects. Most of them were barefoot, he noticed, to his dismay. The men in particular had strange claw-like feet with strong ankles, perhaps the result of climbing the rocks for sea fowl. Everyone's feet were filthy.

The man who had greeted them motioned for them to walk with him up the path, past a large building which looked like a storehouse or a tithe barn, to the kirk and manse. These were respectable-looking buildings with slated roofs; the manse looked out over the bay, whereas the kirk was built in an east-facing position behind it. They were joined by a narrow passage which would allow the minister to enter the kirk without getting wet even in the foulest weather. The builders had only just finished their work a couple of weeks earlier, and the whitewashed houses dazzled the newcomers. The workmen had been supplied, along with the master builder, by MacLeod of MacLeod, the laird at Dunvegan Castle. The plans had been drawn by none other than the great lighthouse architect Robert Stevenson.

It was obvious that the natives were very proud of the new buildings, remaining silent at a respectful distance as the minister walked swiftly up the stone steps of the porch and opened the door for his young wife.

Mrs MacKenzie entered her new home and the minister looked at the back of her neck, which seemed dreadfully thin as she removed her bonnet. Perspiration had formed around her hairline and small chestnut-coloured curls had broken free from the coil at the nape of her neck and rested on the high collar of her travel gown. He was suddenly annoyed that she showed so little enthusiasm for this moment that was so important to him. Why could she not enjoy it for his sake? She had been so quiet all afternoon and she had not shown any kindness or friendliness to the natives. He had, over the last year, introduced her to the educated classes and she had absorbed their manners quickly enough. She could carry herself with polite aloofness but surely it would have been more appropriate to show some caring and compassion for their new congregation, like he himself had done. He watched her dispassionately as she looked slowly around the room, taking in the freshly plastered walls, the carpeted floor and the few pieces of furniture generously provided by the laird. She inhaled quickly as she turned towards him, smiling wanly. ‘It is a pretty house,' she said, breathing out. ‘We will make it our own and it will be as good as any manse on the mainland.' Encouraged by her own words, she linked her arm with his and together they walked through the remaining three rooms: first a study with a heavy desk by a window which faced the bay; the next room was a small bedroom, with two narrow beds against opposite walls; lastly they walked into another bedroom, with a large bed and in a corner a small cot with delicate flowers around a sprig of juniper carved into the headboard. She looked at it greedily as if the cot alone could restore her sense of normality and order. ‘I had it ordered specially,' he said, almost shy now. ‘It is lovely,' she answered quickly, and added ‘Thank you!' with a smile which, for once, reinforced her words. He loved her again then and drew her close to him. ‘As soon as our crates and boxes are loaded off the cutter you can start to make it homely.' He could feel his excitement growing again. ‘It will be very comfortable in time for the birth of the child.'

Somebody had lit a fire in the grate for their arrival, and Mrs MacKenzie returned to the first room to heat some water for tea. Through the window she could see the islanders still lingering outside. She turned her back to them and busied herself with the kettle. Its cool metal surface seemed reassuring and she gripped it hard with both her hands for a moment. She wanted to speak, to say something normal and appropriate for an occasion such as this, a young woman moving into her new home, but her throat was thick and she feared her voice would not carry.

Neil MacKenzie opened a heavy door at the end of the hall, which led through the short passage, past a storeroom and a dairy, into the kirk. He entered in the east end by the raised platform where the pulpit stood. It was a simple room with plastered walls and a high ceiling, the rafters still bare. The last of the evening light was falling through four lancet windows on to a double row of rough pews. The earth had been packed into a slightly slanting floor. Although the kirk had been built by hands far from home and not skilled in ecclesiastical architecture, the minister was pleased with the austerity of the room, which reflected well the prevailing fashion of Highland churches. He stood at the pulpit and looked out of a window at the mackerel sky above the bay. Suddenly overcome by pious emotion he sank to his knees, his dark hair falling over his eyes as he bowed his head and thanked the Lord for the opportunity which had been presented to him: ‘Gratitude be to the Lord who affords us constant reason for gratefully recognising His protecting care and unmerited kindness.'

The glorious morning sun was painting Lizzie's face as she rested on the porch. She felt her cheeks glow pleasantly as she drank in the scent of honeysuckle and deep sea carried on the summer breeze. She found it difficult to comprehend that this island had been her home for barely two weeks now – already it felt like an eternity. The days were growing heavy with her pregnancy, but at this moment her world was close and comfortable around her. The new life she carried stirred occasionally under her heart and she wished that it could see through her eyes the emerald hills sparkling with dew and the still sea of the most beautiful velvety blue. A couple of seals were asleep in the bay, their bodies drifting like drogues in the water while their heads bobbed on the surface like shining black buoys.

Her husband had been busy with his ministerial duties. He had visited all the houses in the village and he had preached two sermons which had been attended by all, though the level of ­concentration amongst the congregation had been somewhat low, Lizzie reflected. She herself had not visited the village yet. She had been exploring the glebe and the outhouses, but she had not yet ventured far from the manse. The only reason for this omission, she convinced herself, was that she had been so busy with unpacking their crates and boxes, brought ashore from the cutter before Captain MacLeod and Mr Bethune set sail for Pabbay again.

A steady stream of natives had been visiting them in the manse, bringing gifts of
gugas
– young gannets, dressed and prepared for eating – along with eggs and milk. She had stood by her husband's side while he greeted the guests and thanked them for their gifts in that soft language that separated her from him. Her face had strained with the expressions of hospitality and gratitude she had worn for the natives as they smiled kindly and curiously at her. One of the families had brought a puppy, a small dog of no particular breed. It was playing now at her feet, and she smiled as its clumsy paws prodded suspiciously at a shell recently dropped ashore by a gull. It was not a pretty animal, with its short legs and long black body. It had a brown face with pointed black ears. She could think of no name for it at present, but she liked it enough to realise it deserved one. Annie would have known what to call it, she thought, and reminded herself to ask her sister in the letter she had started the other night. Mr Bethune, who had not been satisfied with the rents supplied by the natives for their laird, had said that they could expect another boat from the taxman before the end of the summer. Supplies ordered to last the natives through the winter would be delivered on this occasion and Lizzie hoped that the taxman could bring her letters to Annie and her parents back with him to Harris.

The puppy was licking her hands now, its eyes revealing a pathetic yearning for something which she failed to interpret. Instead she blushed as she remembered the hot eagerness of her husband, who had lain with her last night. His kisses were still burning on her skin like a fever. He was very careful these days out of respect for the baby inside her, but he was as ardent as always and she was pleased that their bed was so warm and close, although it sometimes worried her that the tenderness kindled there was often lost in daylight.

The minister was sitting at the desk in his study. His gaze would occasionally rest on the beautiful view of the bay outside the window. He was thrilled with his new parish but concerned about the state of the congregation; he was particularly worried about the quality of their accommodation and the nature of their faith. He was writing in his notebook:

Eight years ago my friend Dr MacDonald wrote in his report to the Society that the St Kildans had ‘some knowledge of the chief doctrines of the Bible, but that their knowledge was of a traditional and theoretical rather than of a scriptural and practical character'. This statement seems to be true still. In fact I myself have noted a serious lapse in their understanding of moral obligation. The St Kildans seem to have been very attentive to Dr MacDonald's powerful sermons although I suspect that they were mainly charmed by his great eloquence and energy but had not enough knowledge or insight into the Scriptures to be able to follow the arguments. I have noted a similar distraction when I have preached. I fear that they are too ignorant of the leading truths of Christianity and the practical effects thereof to profit from my sermons. Something must be done, under the influence of the Spirit of God, naturally, to make the doctrines of Christianity enter into their hearts and minds. I am planning to hold meetings every Wednesday evening to teach them, clause by clause – indeed word by word, if necessary – the shorter catechism.

He leaned back in his chair and flipped the pen between his long fingers. Perhaps they would also benefit from being able to read and write, he thought. Very few of them seemed to have mastered these skills. He would need to set up a school. The teaching would have to be conducted in Gaelic but perhaps his wife could help to try and teach them some English – that would perhaps bring her out of herself. He sighed as he pondered the monumental task that lay ahead of him.

There was also the issue of the hygiene of the members of the congregation. It was difficult to accept that there were Christian souls in these modern times who lived in such filth. Their dwellings were not much better than the burrows of the puffins, and many of them only owned one set of clothes so that they had to borrow garments from their kin on the unusual occasion when they wished to wash their attire. He had even noticed that some did away with this altogether. He returned to the notebook with a disgusted look on his face:

The St Kildans live in oval-shaped houses which are more like hovels than human dwellings. The houses are covered in grass and rubbish and can from afar be mistaken for burrows. They live close together in a
clachan
without any apparent structure to it. The walls of the buildings are as thick as they are high, about seven feet, and hence there are no windows to let the light in. The only source of light is a hole where the straw roof meets the wall, which also serves as a smoke outlet. Due to the thickness of the walls the wooden door opens on to a passage which leads into the byre end of the house. In order to reach the living area you have to make your way, in complete darkness, past the animals which dwell there in the winter, to the living area shared by men and dogs. There is no furniture as such, just a few utensils such as a couple of iron pots, a wooden chest or two, a few wooden plates and an iron lamp fuelled by fulmar oil. The beds are dug out of the thickness of the walls and the entrance to these grave-like beds is two by three feet. Ashes, dirty water and far worse are spread daily on the earth floor and covered every few days with more ashes. This way, they tell me, the thickness of the floor accumulates over the year so that by the springtime, before this human manure is dug out and spread across the fields, the inhabitants have to crawl around their houses on their hands and knees. What is more, they literally dive down into their beds at night, as the level of the floor is higher than the entrance to the ‘grave'.

They tell me also that it can at times be very difficult to enter the building in wintertime. This is due to the fact that in front of the doorway, and extending well into the tunnel, is a hollow into which are thrown all the portions of the birds not used for food, the entire carcasses of those not edible, and all and every abomination you can imagine. I do not wish to think about the horrors I will have to crawl through in order to visit my parishioners when winter comes. God almighty! How can people survive under such circumstances? They do not seem to be too bothered by the standard of their living and maintain, in the most laconic way, that their ancestors built these houses and lived in them for a thousand years which in itself proves that they are good houses. But they do wonder why it is that they are not as strong as their forefathers appear to have been! I thank the Lord that my olfactory senses are so poorly developed.