By day and night
the crosses stand
as the waves rolled
them ashore
Looking south
whence they all came
to end on a
wave splashed rock
The seven seas
held no fear
for "fear na bàta"
of the heather isle
But the eagle swooped
that stormy night
and new year broke
with broken hearts
We now know
that all know
what was suffered
in nineteen nineteen
The island does not forget
who sacrificed their all
on its very shore
that new year's morn
Showing posts with label iolaire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label iolaire. Show all posts
Short story XXV
Mol. Not an English word. It's Gaelic. You won't get much more of that language in this story, this writer is unfamiliar with it. But Mol means a shingly beach, something that's quite common in these parts. The one that this story is going to be about is not easily found, if you don't know about it. It's off the beaten track, and even the beaten track is a difficult proposition in inclement weather. But it's not about the track, or how to get to the beach overland. Because, it's about the headland as well. The heathery headland. The shingly beach of the heathery headland. Mol Linginis.
Mol Linginis is now quiet. One of those corners of the islands where nothing ever moves. Oh, the odd sheep may amble through, nibbling the grass. The surf sloshes ashore at regular intervals, a bit more fierce when the wind is up. Quite a sheltered little place, really. Above the shingle is a small valley, and in its heart sit the remains of a few homesteads. It's half a century now, a little more, since Mol Linginis was left behind, and the last of its people went to their final resting place. The rowans remain beside the walls, and remember them. The south wind rustles their leaves.
Can't you remember, the south wind whispered. The rowan leaves rustled, turning fitfully in the wind. They remembered alright, the houses intact, the people quietly going about their daily lives. Lives being born, lives lived, lives that ended. Their sorrows, their joys. Their dreams, their despairs. The ones that left, never to return. The ones who left, through compulsion, for other pastures. The rowan sighed in the wind. The little stream trickled down the valley floor, to disappear into the shingle below the heathery headland.
Murmuring in its overgrown channel, the little stream made its way through Mol Linginis. It did not need reminding of what was once there. It remembered the day the last ones left, and the empitness left behind. The times a roof fell in, leaving the wild winds a free reign all around. Quietly, the stream disappeared into the shingle, into the Mol. The waves lapped ashore from Loch Trollamaraig beyond. Evening fell.
The dark sea heaved in long swells. On one corner of land, a lighthouse blinked its unseeing warning. A few miles north, the waves petered out on an unlit shingley strand. Round the corner, pinpricks of light could be made out across the water. But there was no occupied habitation at Mol Linginis to emit light. Loch Trollamaraig lay in darkness at its feet, its waves crashing ashore unheard. What they carried ashore remained hidden as yet.
Impenetrable darkness blanketed Mol Linginis. Not a single pinprick of light was visible from the Mol. None of the habitable houses left in the township was occupied. The slow pulse of the throbbing swell washing ashore continued unabated. The song of the stream, trickling in its overgrown bed, never stopped. Inexorably, the eastern horizon turned from black to deepest red. The rough outlines of islands became visible against the light of the new day.
Jagged teeth emerged into the red dawn, which also painted Mol Linginis a blazing colour. The Rough and House Island stood out in the distance, where they previously had lain hidden in the darkness. The swell imperceptibly rose, until it was thundering on the Mol. What it carried ashore was seen by nobody. The insouciant sheep were not interested. The homesteads overlooked the shingle, but did not see. The path into the little valley lay untrodden. For now.
The sun painted the surface of the sea a cardinal red as it rose above the mainland mountains. Like a path stretching east to west, touching Mol Linginis. Only the birds on the Rough and House Islands had watched the boat drifting past on the current, in the dawning light of day. Slung low in the water, partly filled with water. Nobody could see what was in the boat. There was nobody on the Galtanach that could.
The lighthouse winked its final flash of light, from above the white and red bands on its tower. Grey Island light is just round the corner from Mol Linginis, and looks out towards the Rough and House Islands. The sun took over the lighting of the paths of mariners across the Minch. One craft drifted slowly westwards, away from the jagged teeth of the Galtanach. None were watching from the shores of the Empty Quarter.
Not all made it home, that night. Only a quarter of them did. Not all were found, that day. A third of them were not. At least those that were found did not have far to go. Perhaps fifty yards to come ashore. Fifty yards too far, in that dreadful night. Some swam ashore, or tried to. Some took to the boats, or tried to. One boat drifted away, on the turning tide. It was not spotted from the nearby shores, or by passing mariners. The Blue Men of the Minch carried it round Kebock, past Milead, and through the Sound of Shiant, at the breaking of the day. Mol Linginis waited, still, quiet, breathless. Smoke swirled from the demure thatched houses, from where none stirred. At the noon hour, the boat ground ashore on the Mol. When the villagers made their discovery, the sun’s light was fading on that winter’s day. News had reached from the north, of one of their number not coming back from the war. The sea had taken – but on this occasion gave back. History does not record where his final resting place was. The shadow of an eagle passed high overhead. They nest in those abandoned hills, just across the water from Mol Linginis. Eagle is the English word for that magnificent bird of prey. I said before that my knowledge of Gaelic was very limited. But I do know the Gaelic for eagle. Iolaire.
Mol Linginis is now quiet. One of those corners of the islands where nothing ever moves. Oh, the odd sheep may amble through, nibbling the grass. The surf sloshes ashore at regular intervals, a bit more fierce when the wind is up. Quite a sheltered little place, really. Above the shingle is a small valley, and in its heart sit the remains of a few homesteads. It's half a century now, a little more, since Mol Linginis was left behind, and the last of its people went to their final resting place. The rowans remain beside the walls, and remember them. The south wind rustles their leaves.
Can't you remember, the south wind whispered. The rowan leaves rustled, turning fitfully in the wind. They remembered alright, the houses intact, the people quietly going about their daily lives. Lives being born, lives lived, lives that ended. Their sorrows, their joys. Their dreams, their despairs. The ones that left, never to return. The ones who left, through compulsion, for other pastures. The rowan sighed in the wind. The little stream trickled down the valley floor, to disappear into the shingle below the heathery headland.
Murmuring in its overgrown channel, the little stream made its way through Mol Linginis. It did not need reminding of what was once there. It remembered the day the last ones left, and the empitness left behind. The times a roof fell in, leaving the wild winds a free reign all around. Quietly, the stream disappeared into the shingle, into the Mol. The waves lapped ashore from Loch Trollamaraig beyond. Evening fell.
The dark sea heaved in long swells. On one corner of land, a lighthouse blinked its unseeing warning. A few miles north, the waves petered out on an unlit shingley strand. Round the corner, pinpricks of light could be made out across the water. But there was no occupied habitation at Mol Linginis to emit light. Loch Trollamaraig lay in darkness at its feet, its waves crashing ashore unheard. What they carried ashore remained hidden as yet.
Impenetrable darkness blanketed Mol Linginis. Not a single pinprick of light was visible from the Mol. None of the habitable houses left in the township was occupied. The slow pulse of the throbbing swell washing ashore continued unabated. The song of the stream, trickling in its overgrown bed, never stopped. Inexorably, the eastern horizon turned from black to deepest red. The rough outlines of islands became visible against the light of the new day.
Jagged teeth emerged into the red dawn, which also painted Mol Linginis a blazing colour. The Rough and House Island stood out in the distance, where they previously had lain hidden in the darkness. The swell imperceptibly rose, until it was thundering on the Mol. What it carried ashore was seen by nobody. The insouciant sheep were not interested. The homesteads overlooked the shingle, but did not see. The path into the little valley lay untrodden. For now.
The sun painted the surface of the sea a cardinal red as it rose above the mainland mountains. Like a path stretching east to west, touching Mol Linginis. Only the birds on the Rough and House Islands had watched the boat drifting past on the current, in the dawning light of day. Slung low in the water, partly filled with water. Nobody could see what was in the boat. There was nobody on the Galtanach that could.
The lighthouse winked its final flash of light, from above the white and red bands on its tower. Grey Island light is just round the corner from Mol Linginis, and looks out towards the Rough and House Islands. The sun took over the lighting of the paths of mariners across the Minch. One craft drifted slowly westwards, away from the jagged teeth of the Galtanach. None were watching from the shores of the Empty Quarter.
Not all made it home, that night. Only a quarter of them did. Not all were found, that day. A third of them were not. At least those that were found did not have far to go. Perhaps fifty yards to come ashore. Fifty yards too far, in that dreadful night. Some swam ashore, or tried to. Some took to the boats, or tried to. One boat drifted away, on the turning tide. It was not spotted from the nearby shores, or by passing mariners. The Blue Men of the Minch carried it round Kebock, past Milead, and through the Sound of Shiant, at the breaking of the day. Mol Linginis waited, still, quiet, breathless. Smoke swirled from the demure thatched houses, from where none stirred. At the noon hour, the boat ground ashore on the Mol. When the villagers made their discovery, the sun’s light was fading on that winter’s day. News had reached from the north, of one of their number not coming back from the war. The sea had taken – but on this occasion gave back. History does not record where his final resting place was. The shadow of an eagle passed high overhead. They nest in those abandoned hills, just across the water from Mol Linginis. Eagle is the English word for that magnificent bird of prey. I said before that my knowledge of Gaelic was very limited. But I do know the Gaelic for eagle. Iolaire.
Iolaire 1919-2016
Another day dawns
into another year
Glancing up northwest
where the memories abide
Headed home
that fateful morn
hopes dashed
on the Beasts at Holm
Nigh on a century gone
The memories raw
The teapot stands
where it stood in '19
Awaiting those
who would never return
from the depths
out at sea
From far away
my mind's eye beholds
the tower on the hill
overlooking the old town
We remember forever
those gone on ahead
in the service of their country
they gave up their all
New Year
As darkness falls
light yet spreads
from windows lit
by warmth within
As cold winds howl
and dark rains lash
the huddled houses
round the shore
Expectation grows
past the midnight hour
they're safe now
home soon
She bucked on the waves
guided by distant lights
obscured by spray whipped
by the winter gale
Her guidance awry
her crew seeing blind
her sailors powerless
to save her from certain doom
The light obscured
the prism darkened
the ancient reef
lay in her path
The rockets mistaken
the cries unheard
the waves took nearly all
on board
A cold morning broke
windless and calm
leaving them scattered
on eastern shores
When New Year comes
the island mourns
those promised to come
on the Iolaire
light yet spreads
from windows lit
by warmth within
As cold winds howl
and dark rains lash
the huddled houses
round the shore
Expectation grows
past the midnight hour
they're safe now
home soon
She bucked on the waves
guided by distant lights
obscured by spray whipped
by the winter gale
Her guidance awry
her crew seeing blind
her sailors powerless
to save her from certain doom
The light obscured
the prism darkened
the ancient reef
lay in her path
The rockets mistaken
the cries unheard
the waves took nearly all
on board
A cold morning broke
windless and calm
leaving them scattered
on eastern shores
When New Year comes
the island mourns
those promised to come
on the Iolaire
At dusk
A blaze of glory
fades to the southwest
quietly
the wings of darkness
beat west
draining colour from the sky
the lighthouse winks
taking the place
of the distant hills
as I look southeast
whence I came
some days ago
others were also
coming northwest
but never regained
the shores
of their native island
alive
the faint echoes of their cries
continue to haunt
the houses of this island
fades to the southwest
quietly
the wings of darkness
beat west
draining colour from the sky
the lighthouse winks
taking the place
of the distant hills
as I look southeast
whence I came
some days ago
others were also
coming northwest
but never regained
the shores
of their native island
alive
the faint echoes of their cries
continue to haunt
the houses of this island
Iolaire, 4 December 2012
A heap of stones
by a stone spike
looking down
on a limpid sea
Like distant boats
the islands sail
along the horizon
far to the south
The sun twinkles
in countless mirrors
as it slowly sinks
to its solstice bed
The waters flow
slowly to reveal
a rock or two
under the other spike
Not unlike
a stony leviathan
lurking in the
seas down below
The wind rises
in a bullying crescendo
wintry squalls
obscuring the lights
Which is which?
Rona, Milaid
Arnish, Tiumpan
The time: 1.55 am
by a stone spike
looking down
on a limpid sea
Like distant boats
the islands sail
along the horizon
far to the south
The sun twinkles
in countless mirrors
as it slowly sinks
to its solstice bed
The waters flow
slowly to reveal
a rock or two
under the other spike
Not unlike
a stony leviathan
lurking in the
seas down below
The wind rises
in a bullying crescendo
wintry squalls
obscuring the lights
Which is which?
Rona, Milaid
Arnish, Tiumpan
The time: 1.55 am
Iolaire, December 2012
Cold
water
waves
wind
Sea
rock
ship
wreck
Shore
swell
down
death
Dawn
calm
light
survived
http://www.adb422006.com/iolaire.html
water
waves
wind
Sea
rock
ship
wreck
Shore
swell
down
death
Dawn
calm
light
survived
http://www.adb422006.com/iolaire.html
Iolaire
Frantic beat the hooves down the road to the coast
Low sweeps the beam of the lighthouse over the waves
High rises the swell to crash on the beasts
Not lit, not shown up, lurking under sea
High fly the rockets but two hours past midnight
Hidden from view, beyond the glance of the prism
Mistaken for feasting, but no less the opposite
There's only one rope and too many waves
Boyling on the rocks, beyond the reach of succour
Carried ashore, but bereft of all life
Spared years of carnage, taken at the step of the year
Dawn breaks cold and cruel, one up the mast
Lived at the shore, returned on the strand
Returned in death to the isle of their birth
The teapot stands cold, the bed unslept in
Two hundred and five, sixty not found.
Low sweeps the beam of the lighthouse over the waves
High rises the swell to crash on the beasts
Not lit, not shown up, lurking under sea
High fly the rockets but two hours past midnight
Hidden from view, beyond the glance of the prism
Mistaken for feasting, but no less the opposite
There's only one rope and too many waves
Boyling on the rocks, beyond the reach of succour
Carried ashore, but bereft of all life
Spared years of carnage, taken at the step of the year
Dawn breaks cold and cruel, one up the mast
Lived at the shore, returned on the strand
Returned in death to the isle of their birth
The teapot stands cold, the bed unslept in
Two hundred and five, sixty not found.
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