Entry Island

I can’t move, and for a moment I panic, thinking that I am paralysed. Before realising that a man lies on top of me. I manage to pull my legs from under him, dragging myself up into a half-sitting position against the wall of the blackhouse behind me. And I see that the man who lay on me is Donald Dubh. He is looking at me, eyes staring. But he sees nothing. There are other bodies on the path. Men, women and children. Most still alive, but dreadfully injured. I hear the muted moans of semi-conscious villagers in pain. Somewhere in the distance a woman is wailing. I roll my head to one side and see her running away across the shore, feet sliding and slithering in the shingle. Two constables chase after her. They catch her near the jetty and beat her to the ground before starting to kick her mercilessly.

It is like my worst nightmare. But there is no waking from it. Further up the slope, between the first two blackhouses at the top of the village, estate workers led by the distinctive ginger head of George Guthrie are dragging an old woman from her house. Old Mrs Macritchie. Eighty if she is a day, and bedridden for months. I remember that she was one of the women who were there the day my mother gave birth to Murdag.

She is still lying on her mattress as they drag her from the house and tip her into the mud. Her nightdress rips open, and I see her pitifully pale wizened old body. Her cries of protest are trapped in her throat like a swallowed whisper. And they start to kick her, these men. I cannot believe I am witnessing such inhumanity, such total absence of compassion. I look away and feel tears searing my cheeks, bile rising in my throat.

I scan the village through my grief. Most of the villagers are gone, it seems, though I have no idea where. And I know that I must get away before George and his crew find me. For then I would be as good as dead, too.

I manage to get to my knees and fall into the narrowest of alleys between two houses. It is damp and dark here and smells of human waste. I crawl along the space on my knees and elbows to where the barns behind the houses are built almost into the side of the hill. The ground rises steeply here, thick with heather and fern, rock breaking through thin topsoil. I get to my feet and pause to draw breath and steel myself. The moment I have climbed above the level of the houses I will be in plain view to anyone in the village. It will take a monumental effort to reach the top of the hill, for there is no path and it is almost vertical in places.

Someone is sure to give chase. But they will likely take the track up from the village, which is the long way round, and if I have the strength for the climb it will give me a good head start.

I reach above my head to grab handfuls of heather root and start pulling myself up the first few feet, searching for footholds. I am propelled by a mixture of both fear and anger, straining muscles in my shoulders and thighs, and I climb quickly. Up now above the roofs of the blackhouses. A quick glance to my left sees one going up in flames. Just as at Sgagarstaigh, the men from the estate are armed with flaming torches, setting fire to roofs and doors.

I hear a shout go up below. I have been spotted. At first I daren’t turn to look, and keep climbing, spurred on to even greater effort. Clambering over an outcrop of rock now, before sprawling flat when I get to the top of it, and rolling over to look back down the hill. Flames leap up from more roofs. I see my own blackhouse on fire, and remember all the summers my father and I laboured to strip off the thatch for fertiliser before renewing it for the coming winter. The roof timbers send sparks showering up into the mist as they collapse.

A group of constables have detached themselves from the others and are running up the path to try to cut me off. But not twenty feet below me I see George Guthrie in direct pursuit. His face is upturned, contorted by effort and determination, and is almost as red as his hair.

I am on my feet in a moment, and throwing myself up the slope with renewed vigour, slithering and sliding as my hands and feet search for grip. Mostly I am having to pull myself up with my arms and aching shoulders. When finally I reach the top of the hill I stand up straight on shaking legs and look back down on the village that was once my home. The whole place is ablaze. A cheer going up as another roof collapses.

Away to my left I see a long line of villagers being led up over the rise towards Sgagarstaigh hill. Those who can’t walk are crammed on to carts with what few belongings they have salvaged. Many of the men are in irons, stooped and bloodied and struggling to stay on their feet, struck on the shoulders by batons if they stumble.