Chapter Four #2
“A prince of the deep builds a tower on his rock for his bride, while he is disguised as a working man,” Elga said, nodding.
Meg sighed and leaned her chin on her fist. Through the window, the sky was taking on the blue of morning.
She loved and respected her great-grandmother, growing up on Elga’s endless stories of ancient heroes, gods, goddesses, mythic trials, and magic.
As Caransay’s oldest inhabitant, Elga was in a way its mystic and its bard, respected by all.
Elga seemed more eccentric and stubborn with age, clinging to the old ways, the legends and superstitions, and she sometimes practiced spells and charms as she had always done.
Mother Elga lived in a medieval world in a way. The rest of the world had moved on, while she kept to her beliefs, certain they were right.
Though Meg loved Caransay and its isolated traditions, she felt removed from the world of her childhood.
Living on the mainland had changed her. Wealth, education, and privilege had given her a pragmatic and modern bent, though she saw the benefits of both the mainland world and the older island ways.
Time rolled slowly and reliably in the Hebrides.
Here on Caransay, tradition, routine, and simplicity ruled beautifully.
She would not interrupt that or expect it to change with the times, as life had forced her to do.
Besides, following the old ways had caused her deep hurt.
“Mark me, that man is the one,” Elga said. “You made a binding promise with the kelpie by bearing his child. Now you must honor your agreement.”
“I have honored and paid more than anyone can know.” Meg fought back sudden tears.
“It was our bargain as much as hers, Mother,” Thora said. “Margaret did that for us, for the island. Our homes and our livelihoods are safe. We have all we could ever want, thanks to the blessings that came to her, and thanks to her generosity.”
“The luck of the kelpie,” Elga said stubbornly. “Good fortune, and a sweet little lad too.”
“The good fortune came to me through my maternal grandfather’s will,” Meg said.
“And would not have come to you at all if the other heirs had lived,” Elga said. “Unexpected luck, just after your marriage to the kelpie. He made that magic happen.”
“No water horse could have arranged that much money,” Meg said as her patience slipped. “There is no magic. And he is not my husband!”
“He is. You did not resist him that night, girl,” Elga said. “Once the kelpie loves a woman, he will haunt her dreams and hold her heart forever.”
Meg set down her teacup with a loud clink. “Mr. Stewart is not my husband,” she insisted.
“One night with him decided that,” Thora said. “The child decided that. Such marriages are still made in Scotland. Now that he is here, he should marry you for everyone to see.”
“And then what, we dive into the sea?” Meg asked.
Elga huffed a laugh. “Happiness will keep him a man for you. I believe it is so. Find him and tell him who you are. Riches and happiness await. I’ve seen your fate in the fire and in the water.”
“Enough!” Meg burst out. She would never marry the cad who tricked her that night. “He is just a man. Leave it be!” Truly, she had never told her grandmothers how he had left her there to sail off with friends. “I am going up to the Great House,” she said, standing.
“No need to fret over the truth,” Elga said.
“I have letters to write. Send Sean up to the house after he has had his breakfast and does his chores. He will have lessons with Mrs. Berry in reading and mathematics today. If the weather holds, we will take him to the beach to play.”
“We will come too,” Thora said. “We like Mrs. Berry. And small Anna loves to play in sand.”
“Small Anna likes to eat sand. Come up later.” Meg took up her shawl and went to the door.
“We will have a ceilidh to celebrate when that lass finally sees the truth,” Elga told Thora.
“He is very handsome,” Thora said. “What woman could resist a man like Stewart?”
“I can.” Meg closed the door behind her. She should have resisted him before dawn.
Out on the machair, Dougal Stewart had gone, and the sun was bright over the sea.
*
His shelter was snug and cozy, the walls plastered thick to cut the wind and muffle the sound of rain.
Barely ten paces side to side, the single room was warmed on cool nights by a coal brazier, and cozy during the days when the sun beat on the thick thatch roof.
The small windows let in sea breezes, sometimes rain or blown sand if he forgot to close the shutters tight.
The best luxury of his little hut was privacy, for many of the huts were shared.
He had a canvas hammock, a small cupboard, a wooden chair, and a table large enough to hold maps, charts, and a lamentable number of documents and letters.
As supervising engineer, he also kept a daily progress log crammed with figures and observations.
The Stevenson firm and the lighthouse commissioners expected to be informed regarding problems as well as progress.
The wind howled and the night was heavy with rain. Dougal felt weary and achy from another long, trying day out on Sgeir Caran. He and his men had drilled and hammered their way through solid rock for hours in a beating sunshine relieved only by sea spray and splashing waves.
While out there, he had paused now and then to watch seals cavorting on the rocks, and laughed with the men watching the antics of dolphins playing in the waves.
Later, upon returning to Caransay, he and the crew had eaten supper in a tent and had gone off to their various huts to rest. But Dougal often stayed up late to work on notes, reports, maps, and drawings by lamplight.
He knew Alan Clarke and Evan Mackenzie, another engineer, would be doing the same.
Such a huge project required a great deal of detail work to ensure that the resulting structure was safe and solidly built to last the ages.
Finishing his current report for the commissioners, he wrote a note to David Stevenson, the brilliant engineer who had recommended him for the job on Sgeir Caran; Dougal had assisted him in the nearly impossible task of building a lighthouse on Muckle Flugga, a challenging and inhospitable environment.
Out on Sgeir Caran, Dougal was finding similar issues related to safety and a design that suited the location. He fully trusted his worthy and experienced crew, and knew that they could build a fine lighthouse on Sgeir Caran, one that would serve many for centuries.
Sealing the envelope, he reached into a small wooden box to retrieve a recent letter from Lady Strathlin—more correctly, from her Edinburgh solicitors, Dundas and Grant.
Be assured that you shall not build on Caransay without Lady Strathlin’s permission. Despite your parliamentary order, we will stop this enterprise. Your structures will come down, if not by Nature, then by legal writ.
Dougal frowned, reading the threat again.
Structures? Could they mean the huts occupied by his men?
The huts the Caransay harbor were protected by a high headland and would not easily blow out to sea, though huts had done so on other sites.
But these could withstand high winds and heavy storms for the most part.
Some storms, he knew well, were relentlessly powerful.
Regardless of legal threats, Dougal intended to see the lighthouse completed.
Somehow, he had to convince the baroness and her lawyers of the worth of this project.
He not only wanted to end their protests—he wanted their full support.
The project, the island, and its people would be better for cooperation when possible.
Turning the page over, he read the curious postscript that he had noticed earlier. It was the first direct contact he’d had from Lady Strathlin in this ongoing ordeal.
Mr. Stewart,
I wonder if you know that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of birds make their homes on Sgeir Caran each year.
They may lose that security if a lighthouse is situated on the rock.
A magnificent pair of golden eagles also nests there each year, and all year the rock hosts gannets, puffins, shearwaters, and little storm petrels that nest in small niches on the rock.
Gannets are sometimes hunted cruelly elsewhere, bludgeoned in a horrid ritual called “the hunting of the Guga.” But on Sgeir Caran, all the birds are safe, protected by ancient tradition and honored by local islanders.
We must protect these birds. I ask that you recommend to the commission that they find another location for the lighthouse. I understand the need for a light to aid seafarers, and I applaud the courage of the men who would build it. But I beg you, sir, to erect your high tower elsewhere.
Yours sincerely, Lady Strathlin
Birds! A new action in this little war of words. Dougal sighed. Each letter was like a chess move and countermove. He never knew what might come next, but he had begun to enjoy the game.
But the birds introduced an unexpected challenge. He had heard of the lady’s charitable acts and knew she preferred privacy. He knew little else about her. Now he knew that she cared about the birds that lived on that rock.
To be sure, that did give him pause. But the project had to go forward.
Sometimes he imagined the baroness to be a formidable older woman; other times, he thought of her as a magnificent, mysterious, beautiful young creature.
He rather hoped the latter, but respected the former as well.
Whomever she was, he sensed that she liked their little game of wills.
Through her lawyers, her responses could be commanding, haughty, plaintive, even witty.
But this personal message about the birds tugged at his conscience.
He had a grudging respect and a sincere curiosity about the baroness. He did not care for her lawyers at all and dismissed them out of hand. She was the driving force, that was clear.
Her handwriting intrigued him too, now that he had a note from her. It was not the wobbly hand of an elderly lady, but flowing, feminine, confident, educated. It was the hand of a well-educated woman who might indeed be younger than he had initially thought.
Although she might have a younger companion who wrote her letters. That could be. His elderly Aunt Lillian rarely wrote her own notes these days, dictating letters to his sisters, who lived with her.
If the little handwritten note from the sainted baroness was meant to cajole him, he would not relent. And he told himself that birds would adapt to any changes on their rock, and likely still flourish there. He would tell the lady that.
Smoothing a fresh piece of foolscap, he dipped a pen in ink.
Madam,
I am dismayed that your solicitors did not better inform you. Even as I write this, I am installed in comfortable quarters on Caransay with a view of Sgeir Caran. This evening’s sunset was most spectacular, and the northern lights graced the sky last night. The weather is glorious at the moment.
The wind howled strong enough to rattle the door, and rain gusted against the shutters. Dougal eased his back against the stiff wooden chair and squinted in the oily lamplight.
I appreciate your concern regarding the wild birds on the great rock. I assure you it is not my intention to disturb Nature or to significantly alter that rocky isle.
I have seen gannets and puffins. They seem content even with men arriving on the rock. The stormy petrels are elusive, but that is their nature. I have not yet seen the golden eagles. When I do, I will give them your regards.
He signed the note, sealed the envelope, and dropped it in the mail pouch for Norrie MacNeill to post at Tobermory. He would tell Norrie about the letter for Lady Strathlin. If the lady planned to visit Caransay, Norrie would know, and deliver it directly to her.
Another move on the chessboard. He doused the light and sought his cold cot.