Entry Island

And there, among them, is my mother. Herself in irons. Her face streaked with blood, staggering, almost running to keep up. Small, rapid steps, limited by the chain that loops between her ankles. Annag and Murdag running at her side, catching her arms to stop her falling.

My sense of guilt is crushing. I have let them down. I have betrayed my father. And worse, I know there is nothing I can do about it.

I hear George’s breath now, hard and hollow and tearing itself from his chest. He is no more than ten or fifteen feet from the top. I stoop to pick up several rocks and throw them at him. One strikes him on the shoulder, and he lifts an arm to protect his head. In doing so he loses his grip and slithers back down to the rocks below. But I am distracted by the shouts of the constables on the path, who are heading off across the hilltop towards me.

Their shouts turn heads among the lines of villagers being forced away towards Loch Glas, and I see my mother and sisters look in my direction. But there is no time to dwell on my guilt. I turn and run for my life. Away across the crest of the hill, following a track worn by the hooves of countless deer, winding its way through the heather, circumventing great chunks of rock that lie at odd angles across the slope. Splashing now through a small stream in spate. Arms pumping, head back.

Away to my left, and far below, I see the arc of silver sand that is Traigh Mhor, and the stones that stand as silent witness to the generations who have gone before me. They are a stark reminder that it is my relationship with Ciorstaidh that has brought this calamity upon us.

For the first time I glance back and see George in dogged pursuit. Several hundred yards behind him the constables are losing ground, weighed down by heavy boots and rain-soaked uniforms. But George is fast and fit, well-fed and fuelled by fury. I know that in the end he will catch me.

I grit my teeth and run on, arms and legs pumping air into screaming lungs. Away off to my right now, I catch a distant view of Ard Mor nestling between two hills, the flat leaden calm of the bay beyond almost completely lost in the rain. And I keep going, the slope of the land and the deer path pitching me back towards the coast, where thirty-foot cliffs of black rock have held back the relentless assault of the Atlantic ocean since time began.

I see distant islands through the mist, and in a rare break in the low cloud, a shaft of weak sunlight splashes silver on the surface of the sea.

The machair along the cliff tops is relatively flat, the grass well-grazed and short. Thistles catch my bare feet as I run, skipping over rocks and splashing through patches of bog. My spirit urges me to keep going, but my body is yelling at me to stop. I am almost blinded by sweat, and through it I see the machair fall away to a partially hidden cove where the silver of its tiny stretch of sand is almost phosphorescent in the froth of an incoming tide. I follow the track down to the beach and I know that George is going to catch me there. No sense in expending more energy. As my feet sink into soft sand I realise it is time to stop and face him.

I stagger to a halt, leaning forward for a few moments, my arms taking my weight on my thighs, trying to catch my breath. Then I straighten up and turn around.

George is almost upon me. Just a few yards away when he slows to a stop, breathing hard. His ginger hair is darkened by the rain and his sweat, and falls in lank curls all around his forehead. He looks at me with such hatred and contempt that I very nearly wilt under the force of his gaze.

‘You little shit!’ he says. ‘Did you ever in your wildest dreams really believe you could be with my sister?’ He draws a long-bladed hunting knife from a sheath on his belt and extends his arm out to his right, the haft of it firmly grasped in his fist, the blade glinting in my direction. ‘I’m going to gut you like the animal you are.’ He glances over his shoulder back along the cliffs. There is no sign of the chasing constables. ‘And not a witness in sight to say it wasn’t self-defence.’

As he advances slowly on me, I plant my feet wide to brace myself for the assault, keeping my eyes fixed on his knife hand. He is so close to me now I can smell him. I feel that he wants me to meet his eye. But I won’t take mine off his knife, and decide on an impulse to take the initiative. I hurl myself forward, turning side-on so that my shoulder hits him full in the chest, and I grab his right hand with both of mine.

We crash to the beach, with me on top, and all the air is expelled from his lungs in a short, painful explosion. I twist his wrist and forearm, forcing him to release his grip on the knife, and it goes sliding away across the sand.