Island of Wings Read Free Page A

days, when his modesty was greater and he could not keep the fallible man in him at bay, he merely thought that these were the islands where he would find goodness, peace and redemption.
    As the sea and the wind and the air were holding their breath around the ship, the Reverend returned from his thoughts, only to find he was looking at a mirage floating on the horizon. His eyes were fixed on a dark shape that balanced in and out of focus. At that moment he heard the lad ring the bell and the Captain’s cheerful call of ‘Land ahoy!’
    The Reverend turned to see his wife beside him. She looked a bit pale, he thought. Her eyelids were thin and dark, the lashes thick as she looked down into the water. He had been conscious of her rather serious discomfort that morning but had been discreet enough not to mention it in front of the crew. He believed that had been the right thing to do, and she was strong enough to take care of herself. He suddenly felt a rush of unreasonable happiness when he thought about the baby inside her and about the island in the distance. There was a son waiting to be born to herald his quest. ‘Are you quite comfortable, my dear?’ he asked, his voice warm now, and put a protective arm around her. ‘Oh yes, I’m fine now that we can see land again,’ she answered as she leaned into him, grateful for his sudden affection. The couple continued to stand like that for some time as the ship was slowly approaching the islands. If she wasn’t exactly aware of the nature of her husband’s thoughts and affections at that moment, Lizzie reflected, at least their souls were resting comfortably against each other.
    The archipelago grew out of the low clouds like bad teeth in a weak mouth, the rugged sea cliffs bleakly lit from behind by the sun, which was setting somewhere far out in the west. Gradually the islands took on individual shapes in prehistoric shades of grey. Captain MacLeod pointed out the different islands: Hirta, the largest and the only one that was permanently inhabited; Boreray about five miles to the north-east, with its threatening stacks – Stac Lee and Stac an Armin – the highest sea pinnacles in all of Britain, he said; Soay, about two hundred yards to the north-west of Hirta, was still out of sight. The Norse-sounding names rolled off the Captain’s tongue as softly as a snowfall. The lofty peaks and sheer sea cliffs of Hirta were covered in cloud, but as the ship approached through the dull swell the wind grew stronger again and the mist started to clear.
    A myriad of seabirds were circling the ship now, and the noise of their calls was deafening to the sailors who had heard nothing but the silence of the sea all day. There were gannets – whitewashed and graceful with heads that looked as if they had been dipped in custard – and fulmar, skilfully skimming the surface of the waves. The lonely albatross that had overtaken their cutter earlier in the day was nowhere to be seen. To their left they could see the ridges of Dùn. Captain MacLeod pointed out that the name indicated an ancient fort, and the crown of the ridge did indeed look like the terrible battlements of the castle of a dark lord. As the rock sloped steeply towards the sea it gave way to low grass, and the sailors could soon make out the shapes of innumerable nesting puffins. Their clown-like appearance was greatly enhanced by the tragicomic sound of their old man’s laughter, which rode eerily on the waves: ho, ho, ho. In one place the sea had gnawed a narrow portal through the rock. It looked like the eye of a needle, and the wind which threaded through it whispered a tune which, when it joined the song of the birds, put a peculiar feeling in the hearts of the mariners.
    Lizzie drew closer to her husband. She was speechless and did not know what to make of this island which was so unlike any other place she had ever seen or even imagined. How could anyone live