Peter May - Entry Island

I thought of Ciorstaidh as I walked, and how I had carried her all that way to the castle in the knowledge that giving up was not an option. And I felt the same thing now. I owed it to my family, to my father, and to the animal whose life I was determined would not be wasted.

I have no idea how long I walked in that almost trancelike state. I had left the glen behind me and was up and over the rise, heading for the Sgagarstaigh hill. I had lost the feeling in almost every part of my body and was amazed that there was still any grip left in my hands.

By mid-afternoon there was a slight break in the clouds, sunlight appearing in transient daubs across the moor. I saw a rainbow, vivid against the blackened sky behind it. And away to my left, a first glimpse of the sea. I was tantalisingly close to home. Which was not a thought that I dared allow enter my mind.

My biggest danger here was in crossing the road to reach the path that led over the hill to Baile Mhanais. For I would be in full view of any passer-by. And there was often traffic on that road going to and from the castle at Ard Mor.

It was only now, as that thought crossed my mind, that I realised, with a sudden stab of panic, that I had somehow mislaid my father’s crossbow. That thought alone robbed me of any physical control. My knees gave way, and I dropped to the ground, twisting as I fell to unload the weight of the haunches, and I lay there on the sodden moor with the remains of the stag tipped over at my side.

I tried to recall what I had done with the crossbow. I remembered laying it down with the quiver before leaping on to the neck of the stag. Which was where I must have left it. Lying among the grasses next to the front end of the deer, among all its guts and entrails. How could I have been so careless? It was my father’s prized possession, and I knew that I could not go home without it.

I lay for a long time trying to summon the will and the energy to make the long return trek to recover it. And I could hear my father’s voice in my head. Don’t think about it, boy, just do it.

It took me perhaps twenty minutes to get back to the glen. The crossbow and the quiver lay where I had left them. And not a single bolt fired. I slung both over my back and set off at a trot again towards home.

My spirits lifted now. I felt stronger, nourished by hope and a sense that somehow I was close to achieving the impossible. I took courage from the feeling that somewhere my father was watching me, and that I was making him proud.

I had just come over the Sgagarstaigh hill when I saw them, and dropped instantly to the ground. The hunting party which had shot and wounded the stag was crossing the peat marsh from the road, where a pony and cart waited with the gillie. They had spotted the hind quarters of the deer not a hundred yards away, where I had let it fall, and were approaching it with some consternation. On reaching it, they were suddenly alert. I saw George’s head snapping up, sharp eyes quickly scanning the horizon, and I ducked my head and pressed myself into the grass. I knew I daren’t look up or I would be seen.

I cursed my stupidity for having left the carcass lying in full view of the road. After all that I had been through, to get so close to home and yet still stare defeat in the face was almost more than I could bear.

Eventually I risked lifting my head, and saw them dragging the rear section of the deer back to the road. The gillie and stalker loaded it on to the cart. I could not imagine what they were doing here, and could only think that the gamekeeper had sent them back out to find and kill the wounded animal. Heads were lifted again towards the horizon, and I pressed myself into the ground once more.

When next I dared to look, the party was heading off along the road in the direction of the castle, the meat that would have fed my family with them on the cart. I let my head fall back into the grass, eyes closed. I wanted to weep, but I had no tears left. My defeat and my exhaustion were absolute, and it was fully ten minutes or more before I found the strength to get to my feet and drag myself off on the weary road home.

I saw smoke seeping up through the thatch of the Baile Mhanais blackhouses as I came over the brow of the hill. I was consumed by two things. Fatigue and failure. And almost wished there were no afterlife, so that my father would not have seen how I had let him down.

It was hard to believe that it was only this morning that we had put him in the ground. A lifetime had passed since then, and I had no idea how I was going to face my mother and my sisters empty-handed.

A voice carried on the wind seemed to call my name. At first I thought it was just my imagination. Then it came again, and I looked up to see Kirsty on the hill. This was the lowest ebb of my life, and I didn’t want her to see me like this. But she waved frantically for me to come to her and I could not just walk away.

Reluctantly I left the path and climbed the hill. As I reached her I could hardly meet her eyes, and when I did I saw the shock in them. Covered in the blood and fat of the deer, and soaked to the skin, I must have presented a ghoulish and pathetic figure. ‘My God,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper. But she didn’t ask what had happened. Instead she stooped to lift a large wicker basket at her feet. A checkered cloth covered its contents and she held it out to me.

‘What’s this?’ My voice sounded strange to me, oddly disconnected.

‘Take it.’ She pushed it into my chest, and I grabbed the handle. It was unexpectedly heavy.

‘What is it?’

She said, ‘There is cheese, and eggs, and cold meat. And a quiche from the kitchen at Ard Mor.’

I had no idea what a quiche was, but all I could feel was shame. I pushed it back at her. ‘I can’t take this.’ And I saw anger fire up her eyes.

‘Don’t be stupid, Simon. It’s your responsibility to feed your family. You told me yourself. And if you knew how much I have risked to bring you this...’ She cut herself off, and I was unable to meet her eyes again. ‘There’ll be more. As and when I can get it.’

I felt her hand on my face and looked up, tears brimming along my lower lids. She leaned in to kiss me softly on the lips and turned to hurry away. I stood there watching her go, until she had dipped below the nearest horizon and disappeared from view. I felt the weight of the food in my hands and knew that I had to put my shame aside. I would not go home empty-handed after all.

As I turned to go back down the hill, my eye was caught by a movement. A figure standing at the far end of the path where it cut around the hill towards the road. Two, maybe three hundred yards away. He stood motionless, a black cutout against a grey sky. And it was not until he turned away, and I saw him in profile, that I realised it was Ciorstaidh’s brother, George.

It was Arseneau who met Sime and Blanc at the harbour with the minibus and the news that they had found Norman Morrison.

The wind had felt much stronger on the return crossing and now, as they turned up Chemin Mountain at the end of Main Street, they saw the crowd on the clifftop buffeted by it. A dozen or more police and civilian vehicles were clustered around the Cowell House. Arseneau parked on the road just beyond them and the three detectives walked across the grass to the fence where the crowd was gathered. Perhaps twenty islanders, and several uniformed police officers from Cap aux Meules.

Sime glanced towards the summerhouse and saw a pale-faced Kirsty watching from the porch. He felt a wave of disillusion wash over him and knew that very soon he would have to face her with her lies.

A gate opened on to narrow concrete steps set into the angle of the cliffs, an incongruous grey against the red of the stone. They led down at a steep angle to a tiny jetty, partially formed by a natural arc of rock, and augmented by the same interlocking concrete blocks that made up the breakwater at the harbour. A blue-and-white four-person Seadoo Challenger jet launch was secured to rusted iron rings by weathered ropes and covered over by canvas. It rose and fell violently on the incoming swell. A group of officers wearing orange life jackets was making its way with difficulty across the adjoining outcrop of rocks, carrying among them the lifeless form of Norman Morrison. It brought to Sime’s mind the image of his ancestor’s father being carried back from the deer hunt. When they finally got to the jetty they laid the body down on the concrete, and seawater foamed out of his mouth and back across his face into open eyes.