Hallowe'en 2020

One day, a carpenter walked over the hills of Harris from his home at Bogha Ghlas on Loch Seaforth to Luachair, on the shores of Loch Reasort. After finishing the job at one of the houses there, the people told him to take any remaining planks with him. On the way back, his footsteps on the rough track came regularly, but what was that strange echo? Intermittent echoes of the footfalls? No, couldn't be. A double take on each footstep? Not either. Tap tap. Tap tap. The man shifted the planks on his shoulder to adjust for balance and continued. The dark face of Stulabhal reared up ever closer, and he thought the tapping sound was an echo of his footsteps from that great rockface. He had not experienced that before, having made the journey many times before. But his mind was in such turmoil that he could not remember that. The great empty valley of Langadale stretched before him, but his descent to the river, nor the crossing, nor the ascent to Vigadale remained with him. All he heard was tap-tap, tap-tap.

The sun was once more setting by the time the carpenter reached the bridge at Bogha Ghlas. He saw his cottage ahead, but there was no light inside, nor any sign of motion outside. The approach of any passer-by was usually sufficient to bring his wife outside, but not that day. The 'tap-tap' that had been haunting the man since leaving Luachair had gradually ceased. He threw the planks off his shoulder, and they fell to the ground in a loudly clattering heap. He called for his wife, but heard nothing. Opening the door, the cottage was dark, the fire cold. The bed was occupied, but there was not a living soul about.

Tap tap. Tap tap. The next morning, the carpenter was hammering a coffin for his spouse. And he suddenly remembered what the noise was he had been hearing all the way from Luachair the day before. Tap tap. Tap tap. The noise of his hammer, building a coffin. The noise of the carpenter's hammer, over in Luachair, as it too built a coffin for its master.

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.

Empire of Stone

In the Empire of Stone
A stone ribbon
threads through
heather-clad stone

In the Empire of Stone
A rivulet sings
a stoney song
on its never-ending cascade

In the Empire of Stone
a wreath of golden sand
wraps below the green sward
lining the ancient hills

In the Empire of Stone
hearts were broken
on unforgiving rock
where lives foundered

In the Empire of Stone
rocky inlets
lined by distant homesteads
on the eastern shore

In the Empire of Stone
where rocks roll
small and large
up and down the hills

In the Empire of Stone
rearing up to the sky
the tallest peaks
in these outer isles

Although clouds may lower
to shroud its distant beauty
Chi mi'n Tir
the Empire of Stone

Short story XI

The loch stretched out in front of the carpenter, surrounded by hills on either side. The setting sun painted it gold, even more so now that the wind had died down. The eastfacing slopes of the hills were hidden in shadow, as he walked down the last few hundred yards of the track. A few houses, that was all the settlement comprised of. The people had sent for him to make repairs to their abodes, after a month of storms. It was not his first time to Luachair, in fact it had been there that he had met his wife. He smiled as he remembered their final embrace, earlier that day, as they parted company for a day or two. Tomorrow, he would be working on the houses and the day after, he would retrace his steps the dozen miles or so across the hills to Bogha Ghlas. The sun dipped behind the horizon as he stepped through the door of his father-in-law's house. A roaring fire and a pan of stew over it awaited him, as did the equally warm welcome of his relatives.

Shadows lengthened over the hamlet of Bogha Ghlas, as night stretched its velvet fingers from across Loch Seaforth. A little later, the lights in one of the cottages were extinguished for the end of the day, the mountains across the water having dissolved into darkness. No further sound was to be heard from the cottage. Not that night. Nor the next.

"Now, that should stop that roof from leaking", the carpenter said to his father-in-law. "I wasn't surprised that things had started to shift, what with all those storms." The older man nodded. "I wonder if you could come out with me in the boat this afternoon", he continued. "Catch some fish down the loch, and you could join us for supper again tonight. It's now too late return?" The carpenter agreed. "I told her that I'd be back in two days, so I'll be quite happy to come along". Not long after, the wee boat was bobbing on the waters of the loch, a couple of miles to the west. The southeasterly breeze had driven them a bit further down Loch Reasort than usual, but the older man had reassured the carpenter that it would soon veer southwest, and they could tack for home. What he did not realise was that the windshift would also herald a very sudden shift in weather.

Dark clouds raced up from the Atlantic and fell over the precipice of Taran Mor into Loch Reasort, past Lamadail and into the bay of Diriscal. The southeasterly wind veered sharply southwest and rose a rapid crescendo to galeforce. The small craft was tacking round to return to Luachair, a few miles to the east, but it proved impossible to lower the sail before it pulled the boat over. Hidden by the bluff to the east of their village, the people in the houses of Diriscal did not see what was happening out in the loch. The light had become quite dull, and squalls of heavy rain limited visibility.

The family in one of the cottages at Dirascal was commenting on the bad squall that had struck earlier that afternoon, when there was a knock at the door. An older man, clothing soaked, held on to the boulders that made up the blackhouse. "Help", he rasped. "My boat overturned in the loch. My son-in-law..." and he broke down. The family helped him inside, put a blanket round his shoulder and sat him close to the fire. Others rushed down to the shore, where they found another man, lying face down and motionless. He too was carried into the house, but the spirits of life had already departed his sodden frame. Wracked by sobs, the old man managed to tell the story of their disastrous fishing trip. Darkness had by now fallen, and conditions were deemed to be too severe to venture the two mile trip over the hill to Luachair. That night, lights remained on in that house. They never come on in the cottage at Bogha Ghlas.

"Take his planks with you." The words echoed in the mind of the carpenter's brother-in-law, at midday the next day. "I can't begin to imagine how my sister is going to take this", the man was thinking. His footsteps on the rough track came regularly, but what was that strange echo? Intermittent echoes of the footfalls? No, couldn't be. A double take on each footstep? Not either. Tap tap. Tap tap. The man shifted the planks on his shoulder to adjust for balance and continued. The dark face of Stulabhal reared up ever closer, and he thought the tapping sound was an echo of his footsteps from that great rockface. He had not experienced that before, having made the journey many times before. But his mind was in such turmoil that he could not remember that. The great empty valley of Langadale stretched before him, but his descent to the river, nor the crossing, nor the ascent to Vigadale remained with him. All he heard was tap-tap, tap-tap.

The sun was once more setting by the time the carpenter's brother-in-law reached the bridge at Bogha Ghlas. He saw his sister's cottage ahead, but there was no light inside, nor any sign of motion outside. The approach of any passer-by was usually sufficient to bring his sister outside, but not that day. The 'tap-tap' that had been haunting the man since leaving Luachair had gradually ceased. He threw the planks off his shoulder, and they fell to the ground in a loudly clattering heap. He called for his sister, but heard nothing. Opening the door, the cottage was dark, the fire cold. The bed was occupied, but there was not a living soul about.

Tap tap. Tap tap. The next morning, the carpenter's brother-in-law was hammering a coffin for his sister. And he suddenly remembered what the noise was he had been hearing all the way from Luachair the day before. Tap tap. Tap tap. The noise of his hammer, building a coffin. The noise of the carpenter's hammer, over in Luachair, as it too built a coffin for its master.

Langadale

The path of leisure
slowly rises
from the bovine village
at the side of the sea

Mountains loom closer
Stulabhal's hump
blocking the western sky
before the valley is reached

Lonely Langadale
overshadowed by
dark looming peaks
light only from the north

The only way out is up
And Stulabhal's cliffs
frown whichever
way you go

Teileasbhal I once stood upon
I crossed from Bunabhainneadar
I crossed to Bhoisimid
and from Langabhat

But I shall always return
from whichever direction
to stand by the river
in Langadale

Langabhat

A lone trail
angles up by the stream
steeply
up into the mountains

Leading nowhere
ending nowhere
except by the shore
of the lonely loch

It carries those
who come for sport
to carry back meat
what once was a stag

It carries others
who fish upon the loch
overshadowed
by the montains

The long water
born of streams
sourced high in the hills
stretching to near Ròineabhal

Finally to cascade
down to the sea
near the old circle
of standing stones

But Langabhat
At the heart of the island
crowned by the mighty Harris hills
continues to hold me captive

Stulaval

Now derelict on the shore of Loch Reasort
Little Luachair stands
Years back a carpenter came
over the hills from Bowglass

After job's end he was left
with some planks
which he carried back
below the frowning cliffs

A sound of hammerblows
echoed below the face
of stern Stulaval
Regular and slow

Turning around
the carpenter espied
nothing
and nobody

But the tapping
continued
Soon he descended
over the hills into Vigadale

Reached home but
his hearth was cold
and nobody around
except his wife, no longer alive

The carpenter hammered
his wife's coffin
An echo of the hammerblows
Below cold Stulaval