Seasons on Harris (42 page)

“Yes, it was Adam's book that altered my whole life. Not just because of its popularity but…well, let me see to y'tea first…”

We had moved from the hut (a sudden cacophonous downpour on the metal roof made conversation virtually impossible) into the warm intimacy of his home across the road.

The place had all the thick, stone-built durability of a typical Hebridean black house, and the neatness of the living room, with its cozy fire, reflected John's meticulous, everything-in-its-correct-place sense of order.

“Can y'manage a wee bit of cake too?” he asked.

“Absolutely!” said Anne as we settled into the armchairs by the glowing peats.

He was back in no time with a full tray, teapot steaming and plates with sliced cake and cookies. One never said no to such hospitality and, as was the custom, one always tried to empty the plates in gratitude for the host or hostess's generosity. The only challenge was, as we had learned much earlier on, to pace ourselves.

John didn't seem ready to tell his tale yet, so the conversation rambled and we let him do most of the talking.

First it was about boats. “I work maybe on six or so a year, on average. The
birlinn
is one of my favorites. Not much bigger than a large rowboat but, at sixteen, eighteen feet, she's more like a small, sturdy ship—integral keel from bow to stern giving you stability, yet it's still a light craft for its size. Nice narrow bow, good for rowing and direction—she slides through the water—but a wider middle to reduce roll and pitch.”

Looking outside the rain-streaked window, I pointed to one of his boats set proudly on blocks outside his workshop. “That's far bigger than Adam's boat.”

John laughed. “Ah, yes, well, that's my private project. Three years in the making. Thirty-eight feet and solid oak. It's a replica of Joshua Slocum's
Sea Spray
. It's for myself—a sort of retirement fantasy. I've no plans of following Joshua's explorations but…well, some nice extended cruising would be a great pleasure to me in my dotage. 'Course that's assumin'I ever get any dotage. I've just started a boat-building class at the
school in Tarbert. Always wanted to try that. I've got half a dozen really keen students at the moment and it's hard work—but a lot of fun. My feelin' is if I can help even just one of these lads stay on-island and build boats rather than movin' off, it'll all be worthwhile.”

Then the conversation switched to fishing boats and the depleted fishing industry in general. “If I had my way,” said John with almost religious fervor (we learned later that he was a highly respected elder at his Leverburgh church), “I think the whole of the west coast of Scotland should be closed off and kept as a fish-nursery area for at least ten years. The Minch particularly. It's getting completely fished out. We should just allow creels and long lines—no more major commercial fishing until the stocks revive.”

“And scallops. Would you include those?” I asked.

“Of course. Cut out the dredging. It wrecks the breeding grounds at the bottom and you end up with piles of broken scallops—no good for eating. Dive scallops are the best. The ones who're doing it on-island make a good living at it, but they have to be careful and not too greedy. It's not just the depth you dive, it's also the amount of time you're underwater. Regardless of depth. I know about that firsthand. I used to do it—along with many other crazy things: crofting, working in the Glasgow shipyards, boat chartering. A lot of lives in a single life!”

“And talking about single…are you?” I asked, wondering when we'd hear the story of his unexpected fatherhood.

“Oh, right! Yes—I was goin' to tell you…right. Well, as I said, it's all Adam's fault. Here was I, living a pleasant sort of bachelor-type existence, minding my own business, building my boats and whatnot. And then, talk about coincidences. Someone—a young lady—very recently was reading through Adam's
Sea Room
on the ferry from Tarbert to Uig and suddenly realized that this boat builder described in his book might just be her own father. I wasn't even aware of her existence, of course. I didn't even know she was on this Earth. Her mother had never told her—or me—who the father was. She only said sometime last year that I was a boat builder from Lewis. Now her mother lives there and my new thirty-five-year-old daughter lives there too, with her own family in Point of Lewis. It also turns out I've got three grandchildren!”

John MacAulay—Boat Builder

John paused, obviously still beguiled by his new discoveries. “Ah—but look now, I'm getting ahead of m'self! So—she was reading Adam's book and she knew there weren't too many boat builders left on the island today and realized that it may be me that's her father. So when she was back on-island she decided she'd come down by herself, not knowing, of course, what to expect or what kind of welcome she was going to get or anything. And she arrived out of the blue and well…it was just great! Love at first sight! Straightaway I could see myself and my family in her. Very much so. Now that's about three months ago and we all spent this Christmas together and we're the best of friends now. But I did call Adam to tell him the story—and I also told him not to write any more books! It's sad, of course, that I missed out on all the younger years of the grandkids—but well, at least we've found each other now and we
speak several times a week. And I'm even friends again with her mother. So that was a really nice coincidence…it's all been quite hectic. Wonderfully hectic. Not just with my newfound family but everyone they're connected with too.”

Anne loved the story. “You're so…lucky!” she said, laughing.

“Yes, yes, I am. Still can't quite believe it.”

“Of course that's what some say about your seal-folk book…,” I said, a rather tactless segue of mine back to the primary reason for our visit.

“What?” asked John, a little surprised.

“Well—that they seem to have problems believing some of your stories…”

John laughed and nodded. “Oh aye, that's understandable, I suppose. We're a hard-nosed Presbyterian bunch on this island. Some people get a little nervous…well…y'know…about the more mythical, mysterious aspects of our culture. To them it can seem like a return to…I don't know…pagan elements, fairies…waterhorses…the Blue Men of The Minch…the
Sruth na Fir Ghorm
…all that stuff the church doesn't like. ‘Long nights in the black house' legends and the fishermen's tales. But y'know, when you've spent your life in boats out on the water, there are always things happening. Strange things. I've got a lot of respect for The Minch and its stories. When I was young I spent deep time out in the fishing boats around the islands and boy!—could those old salties come out with their ‘trawler tales.' Sitting together around the cooking stove when it's black and stormy, you'd hear things that you remember forever. Mysteries that last. Of course, they were very superstitious, these fishermen. The tales were taboo except when they were all together…and from what they told me, they hauled up some pretty strange…creatures…in their nets.”

“Creatures!? What kind of creatures?” I asked, trying to put flesh on the skeletal bones of John's mysteries.

“Did you ever see any of these ‘creatures'…did anything in particular happen to you that made these mysteries real?” Anne asked.

John chuckled. “Och, no, not really…I'd love to give you a true ‘I was there' tale, but honestly, I don't think I can. My book was not so
much about making the myths even more mysterious, but rather trying to research them and explain how the seal-folk legends could actually be based on historical fact.”

“But one of the blurb quotes on the back of your book says that you ‘reopen one of the most fascinating puzzles of Scottish maritime history and leave us with as many questions as answers and the mystery surrounding the seal-folk of legend remains
…'”

“Well, that's as may be. What I tried to do was to remove at least some of the nonsense. I tried to show that the
silkie
legend of seals assuming human form and being unable to return to their seal homes without their mysterious sealskin belts was, in actuality, based on sightings of Norse kayak-men often seen around these islands in the seventeenth century and long before. They traveled independently over huge distances, wrapped in sealskin clothing and kept watertight in their sealskin kayaks by a tight belt around their waists. They couldn't set out on their journeys without such a belt. They'd sink in no time. And so the legend of the magic belt and the shape-shifting transformation from men on land to sealskin-encased individuals on the sea began—and endured. There are even traces of very early Norse encampments in the bay north of Ness. They were small people—possibly linked to the Sami Laplanders—the Finn folk. There's even an island near Ness—Pygmy Island—that's possibly linked to a resting place for these ‘little folk.' The funny thing is that the Gaelic for the island is
Luchruban
…which sounds a lot like the Irish term ‘leprechaun'…”

“So myths and realities slide easily back and forth into one another,” I suggested.

“Too easily. The Grimm brothers were masters of the art…” He reached out for a copy of his book. “Listen to how Jakob Ludwig Grimm described these Finn folk:

“So already—reality is merging into myth…”

“Oh, yes—and isn't that how most myths emerge?”

“Through myth-takes!” I suggested.

John laughed. “Or a mixupery—or a mixery, as opposed to a true ‘mystery.' And also, out of all this mixery came tales of ‘second-sight' abilities. One of our most notable lives here on the island, as I'm sure you've both found out by now. Let me just read you a bit more:

Anne laughed. “A very talented species.”

“No, but listen—it's fascinating what published twentieth-century researchers have come up with,” said John on an enthusiastic roll. “Robert Crottet wrote in a 1947 article entitled ‘Children of the Wild' about a special subrace known as the Scolt (Scott?) Lapps: ‘Nature has preserved in them the powers we generally call “second-sight.” Telepathy among them is a commonplace…we need to know that on the confines of Europe there are some people who preserve these special powers we have had to lose in our constant endeavor to master nature, and sometimes even its creator.'''

“And have you had any personal experience with ‘second-sighters'?” I asked.

John chuckled again. “Ah—you're trying to get me tangled up with ‘the mysteries' again! I'm the one who's trying to sort them out by showing the links between historical fact and maritime folklore—all inexorably intertwined.”

“Yes, I know. And you've done a great job with your book. It's just that I wondered…I made a note of something in Fiona MacDonald's book
Island Voices
[frantic search through my notebook]. Ah, here it is. This is an elderly woman describing her second-sight premonitions:

I closed the notebook. “So—does that sound familiar?”

John smiled. “Familiar, yes. But it's still a big mystery to me—although the best mystery I've ever experienced is finding my new family!”

“Yes, I bet it is,” said Anne.

“Y'know,” I said, shifting the focus a little, “if only you could direct some of your expertise to resolving the mystery of poor old Harris Tweed and its constant misfortunes…”

“Ah, yes,” said John with a slight sigh of relief, possibly glad of a change of subject. “Now, here's a real dilemma where some second sight could be most useful. Problem is, weaving's been up and down for decades. Every few years it goes up. Then down again. Harris was never the main weaving area anyhow, despite its name. It was up in Lewis around Stornoway and Carloway. Most children were once taught to weave as a matter of course. My mother and father, like most folk, weren't full-time weavers. They did it when they could or when the demand was up. It's strenuous work, particularly on the old Hattersley looms—you need strong thigh muscles for the foot pedals, and a good eye for the weft, for broken threads and the like. But I'm sure it'll come back. With some changes. M'be a wider range of colors and a lighter fabric for the ladies.”