That moment after sunrise I saw the troop of figures appear, then round the head of the loch, the Red Cockatoos. I was totally enraptured of the scene, unable to even reflect on how my own feelings were. The morning was so mild, so very mild and clear, perhaps the most mild and most clear of the entire summer. There too was the strange purity of air, almost an emanation from the pure loch water. If this scene could have reminded me of anything it could only have been of the Horsemen of Harris as witnessed by Martin Martin more than two hundred years ago. And yet, perhaps I speak only of the day itself, the actual atmosphere, the light and aural texture, for what could ever be likened to the figures I was now seeing? I was an intruder, and beholding a vision so awful that at once I myself had been transformed into victim. I could see them distinctly, the troop of almost thirty, the red circles of their faces, the unquiet, seeming to contain a frenzy. And a figure had moved too quickly and bumped into the figure in front and the laughter of the pair was immediate, and nervous too, scarcely controlled at all, revealing the anticipation of an event so horrible that hackles arose on the back of my neck, the hairs rising, on the back of my neck; and a shiver crossed my shoulders, I was having to fight hard to resist it, this terror. And were they now moving in single file? They were; rounding the head of the loch still, their hats prominent, and their old-fashioned frock coats. I was seeing them from the rear, their voice-sounds muted but already having taken on a new air, a new sense of something, some unknown thing perhaps and yet known too, as though from the depth of a folk memory, the metamorphosis now reaching the later stages. When they vanished I had to jump onto my feet and twist and turn this way and that in my effort to find them; but they were there, they were there, only behind some foliage, not by intention hiding, being unaware of we watchers.
I relaxed and prepared to wait, sitting now with my elbows resting on my knees, gazing lochwards, away from the retreating figures. And gradually my mind had discovered its own concentration. I remembered Miller’s tale of the loch wherein lies an island and on that island is a loch wherein lies an island and on that island is a loch wherein lies an island and so on and so forth to that ultimate island. And I envisaged the ancient female seer on that ultimate island’s throne squinting at the world with—yes, her irreverent twinkle but also a coldness there too, for the fallibility, the presumption. When I arrived in the glade an elderly woman was there amongst us who did remind me of the ancient seer for she too had a coldness about her that might well have taken my breath away on a different occasion; and lurking there too was an amused expression which I did not like, I could not have liked. This elderly woman was a person set back a pace from the main body, preferring to allow others to take the floor.
But take the floor we did. There was a beautiful girl to the side, modest, her gaze downcast, to the grassy mounds on the edge of the area. She would be mine. Her hair had the sheen and her breasts the concealed manner I knew so well, her body lightly lined beneath the loose cotton dress, and the breeze to her, the lines of her knees and thighs. I could hold her so gently, my hands touching the small of her back, her forehead to my shoulder, dampening my shoulder. There is a life there, a life strong and not to be spent. I put my hands to the small of her back, my palms flatly now to her kidneys, a body of flesh and blood, the warmdh of her breasts and the warmth of her breath through my shirt onto my shoulder. And too the others, the others being there too—for now she was thrusting me back from her and laughing quietly; but as excited a laugh as could ever be imagined, as ever could be imagined; and in the laughter a mischievousness there for me, a mischief, I would try to be catching her and always be missing her by a hairsbreadth. And the others dancing now, the figures of humans, men and women, from the young to the old, all dependent on such as myself and the elderly woman whom I could see seated beside an old man with a brosy complexion, his fine head of pure white hair, listening to her animated chatter with great attention, his hand to the crook of her elbow as though to steady her, to pacify her. Was the elderly woman like me?
But the girl wanted me. She urged me on, urged me on. And I was dancing her on a circle, a reel; and our laughter amidst the laughter of the others, the couples, indistinguishable. It was a rage. It was a fire. We were on fire. We were clinging together. I was holding her so tightly, to keep her now, to keep her safe forever. For it was time, it was the time. And my memory is of a total rapture: the memory of such a moment but without the moment’s memory for I cannot recollect that moment, only of having had such a moment, of our total rapture, the girl with the dark hair and myself.
We were apart now, inches, inches and feet and then yards, and her hands upraised in a question, her frown being followed by a look of an almost sickening resignation; uncomprehending, she cannot comprehend why this is to be, why they are to be in this way, that she is here for this one day, this only day, forever, this poor Red Cockatoo. And I can stare and stare at her, the tears tucked behind my eyes now as they seem always to have been since first I glimpsed the troop at sunrise, my chest and throat of an acidulous dryness.
The others were with her. They were standing to the rear of us in their own grouping, fidgeting, muttering unintelligibly. But soon they were become silent and those who had been staring at the ground now raised their heads. We humans were the interlopers, myself and the elderly woman, the others. And we were having to stand there in our own isolation, watching this heartbreak, these poor Red Cockatoos, their moment having come and now gone, concealing nought from each other, not now, not any longer. And we must continue our watching as this further stage advanced, their thin arms stretching out to one another; and they cling hand to hand in a curious, orchestrated fashion, not looking to one another, as though a certain form of mutual recognition might destroy some very remote possibility of staying the process. And the process cannot be stayed. Even then were their hands tearing from each other as they fought to control their faces, and I searched for my girl but could not distinguish her, for the faces were now all of the uniform red circles, this bodily transformation seeming to induce a mental calm; but even so, there was an air of bewilderment amongst them, and a vague self-consciousness, their feet twitching uneasily, twitching uneasily. I had to turn my face away, glimpsing only the hurried movement of the elderly woman as she did likewise. But for an instant were we looking into the other’s eyes? I do not know, for the screeching had begun and it was all to be over, within a brief few seconds these poor Red Cockatoos would cease to exist.