Janet was jolted as the cart thudded over the rough ground. It reared over an especially large rock and she was thrown against Hamish who was driving.
“Forgive me, Mistress MacKenzie,” he said.
“It’s not your fault but I think I’d better finish the journey on foot. You can wait here for me. I shan’t be long.”
He jumped down to help her dismount and ended up catching her as her legs suddenly buckled. “Old age is making me clumsy,” she grumbled. As she picked her way over the stones to the shore, she admitted to herself that it wasn’t only stiff bones that made her stumble but an uneasy mind as well. She knew full well that the lighthouse was sprouting ever higher from its rocky bed but she had resisted coming to see it. Everyone hailed it as a bounty and a blessing for sailors. That was true but for her it marked a loss and an ending. While it was growing skyward, imagined but unseen, she could pretend it didn’t exist. This morning though as she sat with her porridge in front of her but no appetite to eat it, she felt her spirit change course and veer into the wind. She would go and look at it for herself. She stopped to catch her breath. There was Hamish still sitting on the cart. He never complained but he was old too now and would be glad of a rest. But who was that coming up behind him? Two people. The one in front was brawny and striding along as fast as if he was on a proper road rather than a rough track. Trailing behind him was a child, a frail sapling buffeted by the wind. Her heart surged up into her throat like a leaping salmon. Surely it couldn’t be? She peered again, screwing up her eyes. The boy was young, maybe six or seven years of age. His head wobbled as if it were too heavy for the sloping shoulders and narrow chest to support. He staggered on uncertain legs like a newborn lamb. She could feel her own legs trembling. She waited, holding her breath, for them to come closer. As they did, she gasped with relief to see that the child was not a ghost after all, only a stranger.
Now the pair were upon her. The man touched his hat. “Good day to you, madam. Thomas Stevenson at your service.”
She remained speechless, staring at the boy, resisting her desire to touch him.
“And this young rascal is my son, Louis. He’s just starting to learn something of the family business.” He ruffled the child’s thick, dark hair that seemed much more vigorous than his slight body.
Janet tore her eyes away and opened her reluctant lips. “I’m Mistress MacKenzie from Big Harbour.”
“The famous Mrs. MacKenzie!” Thomas exclaimed. “I’m delighted to meet you at last.”
The boy had been wriggling under his father’s hand while they were speaking. Now he piped up in a petulant voice, “I’m called Lou at home, not Louis.”
His father’s face showed a struggle between affection and exasperation.
“My first name’s Robert, but I don’t use it and I spell Louis the French way.”
“Do you now?’ Well, we’re very accustomed to using two names in this part of the world. Iain Donald, Angus Niall or Norman Peter. It’s a way of making sure we know who we’re talking about when so many folk have the same surname.”
Louis smiled triumphantly at his father.
“We use nicknames, too. Have you one?” Janet asked.
His father rushed to reply, “He’s not been able to attend school often enough to earn one. ‘The Dreamer’ would suit him.”
“You would be in excellent company then. That’s what Joseph’s brothers called him. They said it in mockery but his dreams proved very useful,” Janet smiled.
“I’ve allowed the wee rascal to distract me from what I wanted to say about your philanthropy, Mrs. MacKenzie.”
She shrugged, “That’s a very big word for lighting a lamp.”
“You’re too modest.” Seeing she wouldn’t be drawn, he continued. “May I show you how our work is progressing? If you would care to walk a little this way? We’ve been fortunate that the weather has stayed fair.”
As they got closer Janet gasped at the height of the lighthouse, reaching up like the tapering trunk of a giant tree. A heavy stone section of the tower swung suspended from a block and tackle. A gust of wind nudged it and men stood braced at the top of the thirty-foot tower, arms outstretched to guide it into position. Janet’s eyes widened in amazement. She had seen a new church being built when she was a young woman still living on Skye, watched the scaffolding placed alongside the walls and the dressed stones being hoisted into place. But she had never witnessed the likes of this tower. It was both gigantic and graceful, a landlocked mast without a sail. She had often wondered how such a structure could ever keep out wind and wet. Now she knew the answer for each huge stone was trimmed so that it fitted tightly against its neighbors. How had the engineers worked out the measurements so precisely? It was a marvel beyond compare. Then she remembered a book that her teacher had showed her, filled with illustrations of the Ancient Wonders of the World.
She became aware that her mouth was hanging open in amazement and that Mr. Stevenson was watching her. Feeling foolish she squared her shoulders. “It’s very fine. It put me in mind of a picture I saw of the Pyramids.”
“Indeed. I don’t believe anyone now alive knows quite how they were constructed.” Thomas signaled to a man who had been craning his neck to watch the work.
“Let me introduce you to my foreman, Mr. Menzies. He’s worked for me for more years than I can remember, as have many of the men. They travel with us from one job to the next. Do we have any Rona men with us, John?”
He sniffed. “One or two maybe. They haven’t the aptitude for hard work.”
Janet drew herself up to her full height. “You’re very mistaken in that opinion, young man.”
Thomas scowled at him. “This lady is Mrs. MacKenzie. No doubt you’ve heard about her ceaseless work on behalf of seafarers.”
“Aye, indeed,” the foreman said, looking abashed. “Of course we haven’t added the light yet, the most important part. I hope you’ll come to see it when it’s in place.”
Janet decided to be gracious and nodded at him.
“I hope that Mrs. MacKenzie will be our guest of honor when we light the beacon for the first time.”
Janet surprised herself by agreeing to Thomas’s offer. It’s amazing how flattery overcomes doubt, she thought as they strolled away from the lighthouse.
“Stop fidgeting, Louis,” the father scolded the boy who was scuffling stones with his feet. “You’ll ruin your good shoes. Think of the barefoot children living here who would be grateful for a pair of stout boots.” He turned to Janet. “I’m afraid his thoughts are too often away wool gathering. His mother and his nurse indulge him too much.”
She saw how his father’s words snuffed out the gleam in the boy’s eyes, “Mr. Stevenson, I hope you will find time to visit my home while you are on Rona.”
“Thank you. I should like to accept your hospitality.”
“And I’m sure we can amuse you too, young man,” she added, stooping down to look the child in the eye.
Later, before going to bed, she read a chapter from her Bible, its black leather cover softened through much use. Then she checked that the lamp had sufficient oil. How many more times would she light it? She thought about Louis with his handmade boots. They might be made of pliable leather but they still pinched his feet. He needed to feel the grass brush his bare soles and to dabble his white toes in the sea.
Father and son visited her a few days later. “What a pleasure to be in civilized surroundings again,” Thomas Stevenson declared as he looked around her parlour. “Menzies has given us his room to use but it’s cramped. So this is the lamp.” He tapped its gleaming base, “I’ve heard that you can see this light all the way from Portree Harbour.”
She nodded, swallowing her displeasure. No one else was allowed to touch or tend her lamp. She invited him to sit down. Louis meanwhile found a stool by the window and knelt on it, putting his hands on the windowsill and looking out over the wide harbor to the open sea beyond.
“Are you building other lighthouses too, Mr. Stevenson?”
“Aye, indeed, two more on Skye, at Kyleakin and Isle Oronsay. Another in the Sound of Mull. I’m spending my time traveling between them. Thomas Telford left bridges and piers across the Highlands as his memorial. With the Stevensons, it’s lighthouses.” He leaned forward and his heavy features lit up. “There’s still plenty to do in making them more seaworthy and we need to improve the lights themselves. There’ll be more than enough work to keep Louis and his cousins busy.”
The boy turned around. “Look Papa at those huge rocks poking out of the sea. You can see the waves beating against them. They’re monsters waiting to gobble up ships.” His fluting voice hung in the air.
His father glanced at Janet but she sat motionless. Only the grasp of her curled fingers on the arm of the settle betrayed her. “That’s why we need engineers to build lighthouses,” he said.
“Papa, may I go outside?”
“Are you bored already?” Thomas frowned.
“Effie, my maid, can take him out if you wish, she’s a sensible lass, while you have another cup of tea.”
Thomas agreed to both suggestions and settled himself more comfortably in his chair. “As you’ll have gathered, building lighthouses is my passion.” His tide of words lapped her ears gently at first but then gathered speed and pounded strongly. “Most wee lads covet a locomotive for a birthday present, but I was so disappointed when my parents gave me a wooden engine. I was much happier with boats, even a tiny one made out of a walnut shell with a paper sail. Or I would hollow out a hull with my penknife from a piece of wood.”
“And did you make a lighthouse to go with them?”
He laughed, “Of course. My father showed me the plans he had drawn for the lighthouse on the Bell Rock. I spent the whole of one winter making a model. I was so proud of it. One day I stood it on a stone in the stream, surrounded by my fleet. How the light shone out bravely. Then I was called in for my tea and rushed inside. The heat was too much for the glass. It exploded and the whole thing toppled into the water.”
“You’ve improved the design since then,” she smiled.
His face was serious. “It was a necessary lesson. The first rule is to build safely and not endanger lives. It’s a heavy responsibility that Louis will need to learn. I worry that he’s so flighty.”
“He’s only a wee scrap of a lad yet.” She stood up to look out of the window. “I wonder what they’re up to.” She cried out and Thomas leapt to her side. Effie, little bigger than a child herself, was struggling to carry the boy back to the house. Forgetting her age Janet ran out behind Thomas.
“He’s an awkward fellow, always falling over,” he muttered, fear leaking into his words.
They found the child struggling for breath, his skin clammy and eyes fever bright.
“What have you done to my son?” Thomas pulled the boy from Effie’s arms and cradled him.
The girl didn’t understand the words but she read their meaning. “Bha e air a dhòigh’s e a ‘cluich ceart gu leòr, a’ lúbadh airson na corragan aige a’thumadh anns a’ ghlumagh am measg nan chreagan an sin. An uair sin thuit e gu h-obann mus b’urrainn dhomh a ruigsinn. Chan eil mi a’creidsinn gun do thuislich e. Thuit e mar clach às an adhar. Dh’fheum mi na gruaidhean aige shuthadh’s steal mi uisge air an aodann aige gus an do thill e chun tìr nam beò.”
She sobbed and turned to her mistress who was stroking Louis’s head where it rested in the crook of his father’s arm. Without taking her eyes off the child, Janet translated Effie’s words.
“He was happy playing, bending down to dip his fingers in the rock pool when suddenly he fell before she could reach him. She doesn’t believe he tripped. He just fell like a stone. She had to rub his cheeks and splash water on his face to bring him back to the land of the living.”
“She pushed him while he was playing and knocked him over,” Thomas bellowed, making the child in his arms twitch and Effie whimper.
“No, she did not. Louis fell over in a swoon before she could get to him,” Janet said in a quiet voice. She mouthed to Effie to go back to the house and find blankets. “You said yourself he’s inclined to fall over. We must get him into bed.”
She tugged at Thomas’s sleeve. He lurched after her on tottering legs, his eyes staring. Once inside he laid Louis down. Janet’s fingers sifted through the black hair flopping over the boy’s forehead to touch the skin beneath.
“He seems to have a fever,” she said.
She watched as vexation, tenderness, and terror scudded across Thomas’s face.
“He has these turns. We’ve taken him to so many doctors but none of them can make sense of it. He recovers after a few days in bed. I hoped he was growing out of it. That’s why I brought him with me this time, against his mother’s wishes. He’s not well enough to travel with me now but I can’t wait here for him to get better. I’ve so many other lighthouses to visit.”
“Well, he’s most welcome to remain here. We’ll take care of him until you can return.”
His face softened in relief. “Thank you for your kindness. My wife and I are from big families but he’s our only one. He’s always been delicate.”
So it was agreed. For the first few days the young boy slept most of the time, sometimes so deeply as if he were unconscious, at other times shouting and throwing his limbs about. Janet and Effie took turns to watch over him and soothe him when he awoke from a nightmare. He seemed to have the same recurring dream, especially when the wind was hurling itself at the house. He would call out that a strange horseman was galloping by with his face covered by his cloak. Staring open-eyed, skewered by terror, eventually he would respond to a calming voice and fall asleep.
“What’s he dreaming about? It sounds like the Devil’s work to me,” whispered Effie one night when she was awakened again by his howling and ran to find Janet soothing him.
“Nonsense. He’s only a wee lad who’s often ill enough to think that he might not last the night.”
“Do you think he’s having visions of some terrible disaster that’s going to happen?”
“No, I do not. That’s enough. Your job is to comfort him when he awakes, not to scare yourself with foolish imaginings.”
Finally, the fever stopped thrashing him and he slept soundly for a night and a day. When he awoke in the evening, he had returned to himself. Janet found him sitting in bed, alert but hollow eyed. “I’ve got a cover like this on my bed at home, all made out of different pieces,” he said as if they were resuming an interrupted conversation.
“A patchwork blanket, like this?”
“When I’m in my bed at home I play at the land of Counterpane. I have all my toys with me. I can shake the covers to make my boats sail over the blue patches or make hills for my soldiers to march up.”
“Is that so?”
“I like the colors on this counterpane, wee blue patches of sea and sky and brown for the fields.”
“That’s very fanciful. When I look at the pieces, they remind me of the people who used to wear the clothes the patches came from.”
“Who wore that piece here, the one that’s the color of oatmeal?”
“Well, that’s from a gansey worn by my grown-up son, Murdo, who lives in Stornoway now. He was very fond of it and wore it until it was more holes than wool. He said I knitted luck into the stitches. He always had full nets when he wore it. See the cable stitch there? That’s for the ropes that keep the sailor safe.”
“And what about that dark blue that looks like the deep ocean?”
She smiled, “That comes from a gown I had as a young lass, before I was married. It was a heavy cloth that rustled when I walked.” She pretended to scowl. “Don’t look so astounded, young man. I might seem as old as Methuselah to you now, but I was as young once as you are now.”
He grinned and the dark surface of his eyes gleamed. He pointed at another square. “That piece of brown tweed?”
She hesitated, scraping at its surface with a fingernail.
The boy’s face caved in. “I don’t like that one. It’s rough and dark like the cloak the horseman wears in my dream.”
Janet shook her head. “That one belonged to a wee boy, not a man. It came from a pair of breeks my younger son wore.”
“He died, didn’t he, before he became a man?”
She looked directly at him, “He did die, but he’s at peace with the Lord now.” Seeing the haunted look on his face, she continued, “He was a happy lad. He didn’t die from an illness and neither will you. Look at how much better you are now, well enough to pester me with questions. Now, have you seen this lovely scrap of red tartan?”
He nodded and she was relieved to see his face no longer looked troubled.
“It came from a skirt my daughter Catherine wore when she was your age. I only had the one daughter and she used to complain that all her dresses were dull things cut down from her brother’s clothes. So for her birthday one year I made her a new skirt, even though it was an extravagance.”
‘Did she like it?’
“She loved it. She wore it until it was much too short for her.”
“Look, it’s gone dark outside. When I was ill and couldn’t sleep my nurse used to lift me out of bed. She carried me to the window to see the lights in the houses across the street. I used to wonder if there were any other sick boys looking out, too. Of course I’m much too big to do that now.”
“That’s just as well for there aren’t any lights to see here.”
“The only light is the one from your big lamp in the window that shines for the sailors to see.”
“It is indeed.”
“Cummy used to tell me stories as well.”
“Your nurse? Did she now. What sort of stories?”
“She read the Bible, a chapter at a time, all the way through and from The Book of Martyrs and The Pilgrim’s Progress. Lots of psalms too.”
“The Good Book must have been a comfort to you.”
His face clouded and he whispered so quietly that Janet had to bend down close to hear him. “But I’m afraid in the dark that if I sleep I’ll never wake up again. I would be dead then and maybe go to Hell.”
Her heart ached for him. “Don’t you know that children never go to Hell because God knows that they’re innocent souls?”
He stared at her in wide-eyed amazement. “I never knew that.”
“Well, I know that because I’m so old. Do you know anyone as old as me?”
He shook his head.
“That proves I’m right then. Does your Mama tell you stories, too?”
His eyes dulled. “No, she isn’t very strong and I mustn’t trouble her or she’ll get a bad head. Papa is away so much. He did try reading to me from a big book about inventors but I didn’t like it. What stories do you know?”
“I know plenty. Stories about Finn McCoul and his big black dog, Bran. About the fairy folk, the seal people and the Salmon of Knowledge.”
She laughed as he shook his head in wonderment. “You haven’t heard those? Well, you sleep well tonight under that old quilt with all its memories and I’ll see what tales I can tell you tomorrow.”