would be lurking. She recounted the tale of how he fell foul of the minister and nearly ended up in Canada and of how when he returned to Skye he knew exactly the best place to dig his well. Her words gained power and speed, a waterfall of sound, praising his life and keening over its ending. Maybe some of the folk there disapproved of what they saw as an old heathen custom but she knew that Pappa would have been pleased.
On the morning of the funeral she looked around the house for the last time.
‘What have you done with the mirror?’ Her father’s voice echoed behind her. She almost expected to see him reach out to turn the old mirror’s speckled face outwards.
When they all lived in the old house he would duck down in front of it to make sure his cap was on straight before rushing to the door, flinging it open and rubbing his hands together, ready for the day ahead. Now she plodded to the door, her head drooping, but as she eased it open she straightened her shoulders and strode out towards the church. When she arrived she was greeted by kind looks, firm handgrips and soft voices, but something was askew, out of kilter. Sitting down on the hard bench she closed her eyesfor an instant while she wondered what was amiss. The thought struck her, a chill gust that seeped into her bones. She had become a guest, a visitor in her native place, when she left tomorrow the door would close, sealing her on the outside.
Reverend MacLeod conducted the service. He was old now, his face swathed in a cloud of snowy hair but his voice was still powerful. But to Màiri his words were sounds without meaning, beating waves and howling winds. She was an orphan now. The frayed rope anchoring her to home had ripped free and the storms were hurling her out to sea. Listing and low in the water she kept herself afloat for the rest of the day until she could sink exhausted into bed.
To her surprise she awoke the next morning to find the storm within her abated, but she had a terrible thirst that could only be quenched by a drink from the well by the old house. As she plodded up to it she could feel the spate of words from the wake still swirling through her, surging down the waterfall and pouring out to the sea. They formed rows of waves, pulling out into the ocean, urging her to plunge into their songs as she had done in her youth.
The hills have changed, the marshes
Even the clouds in the sky
Where once there were warm-hearted people
Now there are sheep.
When I came to my old home
Where my people lived
I was welcomed bitterly
By barking dogs.
Tears ran from my eyes
As I stood there
Remembering my people
Now sleeping in the grave.
I looked for the spot by the fire
Where my mother once sat
Giving us lasting joy
With her love and pride in us.
The old house was deceptive. From a distance it looked unscathed, but as she came closer she could see that the thatch was mangy. She put her shoulder to the swollen wood of the door until it lolled open. In the corpse chill within she found the dark part of the floor where the hearth had been. As she kicked the blackened petals of ashes they released the smells buried deep in the stones; the reek of drying fish, the damp hay breath of cattle and the sharp red burst of rowans bubbling into jam.
Sobbing, she ran out, not stopping until she was up in the hill pastures. She knelt down to ease her racing heart and noticed a scrap of cloth snagged on thistles. It fluttered, a frail tattered flag, and for a wild moment she wondered if it was a fragment from her own torn shift all those years ago. She shook her head at her silliness. No, it must belong to a present day child, escaped with her friends to play among the silent houses. Would this child, like her young self, have gone back home tired but exultant to be scolded about her rough, boyish antics?
And all too soon it was time to return to Inverness. Her memories of her return to Skye had to be tucked away while she dragged her thoughts
On the morning of the funeral she looked around the house for the last time.
‘What have you done with the mirror?’ Her father’s voice echoed behind her. She almost expected to see him reach out to turn the old mirror’s speckled face outwards.
When they all lived in the old house he would duck down in front of it to make sure his cap was on straight before rushing to the door, flinging it open and rubbing his hands together, ready for the day ahead. Now she plodded to the door, her head drooping, but as she eased it open she straightened her shoulders and strode out towards the church. When she arrived she was greeted by kind looks, firm handgrips and soft voices, but something was askew, out of kilter. Sitting down on the hard bench she closed her eyesfor an instant while she wondered what was amiss. The thought struck her, a chill gust that seeped into her bones. She had become a guest, a visitor in her native place, when she left tomorrow the door would close, sealing her on the outside.
Reverend MacLeod conducted the service. He was old now, his face swathed in a cloud of snowy hair but his voice was still powerful. But to Màiri his words were sounds without meaning, beating waves and howling winds. She was an orphan now. The frayed rope anchoring her to home had ripped free and the storms were hurling her out to sea. Listing and low in the water she kept herself afloat for the rest of the day until she could sink exhausted into bed.
To her surprise she awoke the next morning to find the storm within her abated, but she had a terrible thirst that could only be quenched by a drink from the well by the old house. As she plodded up to it she could feel the spate of words from the wake still swirling through her, surging down the waterfall and pouring out to the sea. They formed rows of waves, pulling out into the ocean, urging her to plunge into their songs as she had done in her youth.
The hills have changed, the marshes
Even the clouds in the sky
Where once there were warm-hearted people
Now there are sheep.
When I came to my old home
Where my people lived
I was welcomed bitterly
By barking dogs.
Tears ran from my eyes
As I stood there
Remembering my people
Now sleeping in the grave.
I looked for the spot by the fire
Where my mother once sat
Giving us lasting joy
With her love and pride in us.
The old house was deceptive. From a distance it looked unscathed, but as she came closer she could see that the thatch was mangy. She put her shoulder to the swollen wood of the door until it lolled open. In the corpse chill within she found the dark part of the floor where the hearth had been. As she kicked the blackened petals of ashes they released the smells buried deep in the stones; the reek of drying fish, the damp hay breath of cattle and the sharp red burst of rowans bubbling into jam.
Sobbing, she ran out, not stopping until she was up in the hill pastures. She knelt down to ease her racing heart and noticed a scrap of cloth snagged on thistles. It fluttered, a frail tattered flag, and for a wild moment she wondered if it was a fragment from her own torn shift all those years ago. She shook her head at her silliness. No, it must belong to a present day child, escaped with her friends to play among the silent houses. Would this child, like her young self, have gone back home tired but exultant to be scolded about her rough, boyish antics?
And all too soon it was time to return to Inverness. Her memories of her return to Skye had to be tucked away while she dragged her thoughts
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