Island (40 page)

They did not know what to do. They did not recognize the man, and they were terrified that he might turn and see them, and they were afraid that if they tried to make a retreat they might cause a sound which would betray their presence. At home they slept upstairs while their parents slept below in a private room (“to keep an eye on the fire,” their parents said); and although they were becoming curious about sex, they did not know a great deal about it. They had seen the mating of animals, such as the cats earlier, but they had never seen a fully aroused grown man before, although they recognized some of the words he was moaning to himself and his imaginary partner. Suddenly, with a groan, he slumped forward as the grey jets of seed spurted onto the south wall of the barn and down to the dry and dusty hay before his feet. He placed his left arm against the wall and rested his forehead against it. They stepped back quietly through the little door and then out of the barn and then they walked rapidly but on their tiptoes through the rain toward the house.

When they entered the porch and the screen door slammed behind them, they heard a voice from within the kitchen. It was harsh and angry and seemed to be cursing, and then the door flew open and they were face to face with their grandmother. At first she did not recognize them in their long coats, and her face remained suspicious and angry, but then her expression changed and she came forward to hug them.

“Angus and Alex,” she said. “What a surprise!” Looking over their shoulders, she said, “Are you alone? Did you come by yourselves?” And then, “Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? We would have gone to meet you.”

It had never entered their minds that their arrival would be such a surprise. They had been thinking of the trip with such intensity that in spite of the day’s happenings they still somehow assumed that everyone knew they were coming.

“Well, come in, come in,” she said, “and take those wet clothes off. How did you say you came again? And are you just arriving now?”

They told her they had come on the smack and of their walk and the ride with the man who had the peppermints and of their visit to the blind woman, but they omitted the part about the man in the barn. She listened intently as she moved about the kitchen, hanging up their coats and setting the teapot on the stove. She asked for a description of the man with the peppermints and they told her he said he owned a store, and then she asked them how the blind woman was. They told her of the tea she had served them which they had left and she said, “Poor soul!”

And then the screen door banged again and a heavy foot was heard in the porch, and in through the kitchen door walked the man they had seen in the barn.

“Your grandchildren are here to see you,” she said with an icy edge to her voice. “They came on the smack from Kintail.”

He stood blinking and swaying in the light, trying to focus his eyes upon them. They realized then that he was quite drunk and having difficulty comprehending. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot and a white stubble speckled with black indicated that he had not shaved for a number of days. He swayed back and forth, looking at them carefully and trying to see who they really were. They could not help looking at the front of his overalls to
see if there were flecks of semen, but he had been out in the rain and all of his clothing was splattered with moisture.

“Oh,” he said, as if a veil had been lifted from his eyes. “Oh,” he said. “I love you. I love you.” And he came forward and hugged each of them and kissed them on the cheek. They could smell the sourness of his breath and feel the rasping scratch of his stubble on their faces.

“Well,” he said, turning on his heel, “I am going upstairs to rest for awhile. I have been out in the barn and have been busier than you might think. But I will be back down later.” And then he kicked off his boots, steadying himself with one hand on a kitchen chair, and swayed upstairs.

The visitors were shocked that they had not recognized their grandfather. When he came to visit them perhaps once a year, he was always splendid and handsome in his blue serge suit, with a gold watch chain linked across the expansiveness of his vest, and with his pockets filled with peppermints. And when they visited in the company of their parents, he had always been gracious and clear-headed and well attired.

When they could no longer hear his footsteps, their grandmother again began to talk to them, asking them questions, inquiring of their parents and of their school work as she busied herself about the stove and began to set the table.

Later he came back downstairs and they all sat around the table. He had changed his clothes, and his face was covered with bleeding nicks because he had tried to shave. The meal was uncomfortable as he knocked over his water glass and dropped his food on his lap. The visitors were as exhausted as he was, and only their grandmother seemed in control. He went back
upstairs as soon as the meal was finished, saying, “Tomorrow will be a better day,” and their grandmother suggested that they go to bed soon after.

“We are all tired,” she said. “He will be all right tomorrow. He tried to shave in honour of your coming. I will talk to him myself. We are glad that you have come.”

They slept together under a mountain of quilts and in a room next to their grandparents’. Before they went to sleep they could hear them talking in Gaelic, and the next thing they remembered was waking in the morning. Their grandparents were standing near their bed and the sun was shining through the window. Each of their grandparents held a tray containing porridge and sugar and milk and tea and butter. They were both rather formally dressed and like the grandparents they thought they knew. The drunk moaning man in the barn was like a dream they wished they had not had.

When they got up to put on their clothes they discovered bits of the blind woman’s biscuits still in their pockets, and when they went outside they threw them behind the barn.

They stayed a week at Canna and all during that time the sun shone and the days were golden. They went visiting with their grandfather in his buggy – visiting women in houses and sometimes standing in barns with men. One day they visited the store and had trouble identifying the man behind the counter with the one who had offered them the ride and the peppermints. He seemed equally surprised when he recognized them and said to their grandfather, “I’m sorry if I made a mistake.”

During their week in Canna they noticed small differences in the way of doing things. The people of Canna tied their horses
with ropes around their necks instead of with halters. They laid out their gardens in beds instead of in rows and they grew a particular type of strawberry whose fruit grew far from the original root. When they drew water from their wells they threw away the first dipperful and the water itself had a slightly different taste. They set their tables for breakfast before retiring for the night. They bowed or curtsied to the new moon, and in the Church of St. Columba the women sat on one side of the aisle and the men on the other.

The Church of St. Columba, said their grandfather, was called after the original chapel on the island of Canna. St. Columba of Colum Cille was a brilliant, dedicated missionary in Ireland and he possessed
Da Shealladh
, the second sight, and used a stone to “see” his visions. He was also a lover of beauty and very strong-willed. Once, continued their grandfather, he copied a religious manuscript without permission but believed the copy was rightfully his. The High King of Ireland who was asked to judge the dispute ruled against Colum Cille, saying, “To every cow its calf and to every book its copy.” Later the High King of Ireland also executed a young man who had sought sanctuary under the protection of Colum Cille. Enraged at what he perceived as injustice and bad judgement, Colum Cille told the High King he would lead his relations and clansmen against him in battle. On the eve of the battle, as they prayed and fasted, the archangel Michael appeared to Colum Cille in a vision. The angel told him that God would answer his prayers and allow him to win the battle but that He was not pleased with him for praying for such a worldly request and that he should exile himself from Ireland and never see the country
any more, or its people, or partake of its food and drink except on his outward journey. The forces of Colum Cille won the battle and inflicted losses of three thousand men, and perhaps he could have been the King of Ireland, but he obeyed the vision. Some said he left also to do penance for the three thousand lives he had cost. In a small boat and with a few followers who were his relatives, he crossed the sea to the small islands of Scotland and spent the last thirty-four years of his life establishing monasteries and chapels and travelling among the people. Working as a missionary, making predictions, seeing visions and changing forever that region of the world. Leaving Ireland, he said:

“Did he ever go back?” they asked.

“Once,” said their grandfather, “the poets of Ireland were in danger of being banned and he crossed the sea from Scotland to speak on their behalf. But when he came, he came blindfolded so that he could not see the country or its people.”

“Did you know him?” they asked. “Did you ever see him?”

“That was a very long time ago,” he laughed. “Over thirteen hundred years ago. But, yes, sometimes I feel I know him and I think I see him as well. This church, as I said, is called after the chapel he established on Canna. That chapel is fallen a long time ago, too, and all of the people gone, and the well beside the chapel filled up with rocks and the Celtic crosses of their graveyards smashed down and used for the building of roads. But sometimes I imagine I still see them,” he said, looking toward the ocean and across it as if he could see the “green island” and its people. “I see them going about their rituals: riding their horses on Michaelmas and carrying the bodies of their dead round toward the sun. And courting and getting married. Almost all of the people on Canna got married before they were twenty. They considered it unlucky to be either a single man or woman so there were very few single people among them. Perhaps they also found it difficult to wait,” he added with a smile, “and that is why their population rose so rapidly. Anyway, all gone.”

“You mean dead?” they asked.

“Well, some of them, yes,” he said, “but I mean gone from there, scattered all over the world. But some of us are here. That is why this place is called Canna and we carry certain things within us. Sometimes there are things within us which we do not know or fully understand and sometimes it is hard to stamp out what you can’t see. It is good that you are here for this while.”

Toward the end of the week they learned that there was a government boat checking lighthouses along the coast. It would stop at the point of Canna and later, on its southern journey, also
at Kintail. It was an excellent chance for them to get home, and it was decided that they should take it. The night before they left, their grandparents served them a splendid dinner with a white tablecloth and candles.

As they prepared to leave on the following morning, the rain began to fall. Their grandmother gave them some packages to deliver to their mother, and also a letter, and packed a lunch with lobster sandwiches for them. She hugged and kissed them as they were leaving and said, “Thank you for coming. It was good to have you here and it made us feel better about ourselves.” She looked at her husband and he nodded.

They climbed into their grandfather’s buggy as the rain fell upon them, and carefully placed their packages beneath the seat. On the road down to the wharf they passed the lane to the blind woman’s house. She was near the roadway with the two black dogs. She was wearing her men’s rubber boots and a large kerchief and a heavy rubber raincoat. When she heard the buggy approaching, she called out,
“Co a th’ann? Co a th’ann?
Who’s there? Who’s there?”

But their grandfather said nothing.

“Who’s there?” she called. “Who’s there? Who’s there?”

The rain fell upon her streaked and empty glasses and down her face and along her coat and her strong protruding hands with their grimy fingernails.

“Don’t say anything,” said their grandfather under his breath. “I don’t want her to know you’re here.”

As the horse approached, she continued to call, but none of them said anything. Above the regular hoofbeats of the horse her voice seemed to rise through the falling rain, causing a
tension within all of them as they tried to pretend they could not hear her.

“Có a th’ann?”
she called. “Who’s there? Who’s there?”

They lowered their heads as if she could see them. But when they were exactly opposite her, their grandfather could not stand it any longer and suddenly reined in the horse.

“Có a th’ann?”
she called. “Who’s there?”

“ ’
Se mi-fhìn,”
he answered quietly. “It’s myself!”

She began to curse him in Gaelic and he became embarrassed.

“Do you understand what she’s saying?” he said to them.

They were uncertain. “Some of it,” they said.

“Here,” he said, “hold the horse,” and he passed the reins to them. He took the buggy whip out of its socket as he descended from the buggy, and they were uncertain about that, too, until they realized he was taking it protect himself from the dogs who came snarling towards him, but kept their distance because of the whip. He began to talk to the blind woman in Gaelic and they both walked away from the buggy along the laneway to her house until they were out of earshot. The dogs lay down on the wet roadway and watched and listened carefully.

The visitors could not hear the conversation, only the rising and falling of the two voices through the descending rain. When their grandfather returned, he seemed upset and took the reins from them and spoke to the horse immediately.