rotting carcasses that were the pews, pushing up through the cracks in the floor. There had been a stained glass window at the landward end of the church, but the glass had never been there in Philip’s time. His father said that he barely remembered it himself, that it had blown out in a big storm when he was a little boy. The family had been quite glad of it, actually. They had grown tired of taking the boat out on Sunday mornings, and the local minister really hadn’t the time to fit such a small, inaccessible congregation into his rounds.
The only object that had stayed perfectly unchanged was the white marble altar, which had been planted parallel to the shore, at the top of the aisle. Philip stood in front of it now, holding his shovel. He was wondering where to build his hut. If he built it inside the church, he would have the advantage of having one ready-made wall—two, if it was in a corner. But he wasn’t sure about the idea. He wasn’t sure if it was right to build a hut in a church, even a derelict one, and it would be more difficult to hide it if anyone should come out to the island. No, he would have to make it at the far end, where not even Francis would go.
He went out through the door shaped like a bishop’s hat and into the churchyard. It was still used by the family. Though one of Francis’s jobs was to pull the weeds away from the graves, they grew with a ferocity that no one could keep pace with. Philip’s father had suggested that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let Owen Mór’s sheep loose out there for a while, but Francis refused to entertain that notion either.
The place was wild with grass; it was knee-high on the path, it grew in clumps at the foot of the headstones, it sprouted from the granite slabs on top of the graves, though there was no soil to sustain it there. Moss and lichen covered the headstones, so that the lettering had become barely legible. This Philip’s father said that one of these days they should bring out paper and charcoal to do a rubbing, before the words were lost forever.
A ring of yew trees encircled the churchyard, a sign that his family believed they were going to heaven. But the trees had the opposite effect. It was dark under their canopy, even in the middle of the day. The roots curled themselves into the graves and the branches twisted into the contortions of the wind. Philip had been told to never, ever eat their berries, that he’d be dead in minutes. He wasn’t quite sure he believed it.
He wandered amongst the stones, running a hand along the lettering, the lichen rough and staining his fingers. The churchyard wasn’t even a quarter full. Though his family had been buried there for a century and a half, there was room, by his calculations, for another four hundred and fifty years’ worth of Campbells. He wondered whether the island would still be here then. He had learnt in geography that it had been created millennia ago, and that it would probably be around for at least another thousand years. In that case, there wasn’t enough room for all the Campbells who would live at Dulough after this Philip. He walked over to his grandparents’ grave; they were buried by the low drystone wall that marked the divide between holy and unholy ground. His father had tried to explain the difference between places you could bury people and places you couldn’t. For example, you couldn’t just bury someone in the garden, you had to put them in ground that had been consecrated by the church. His grandparents’ grave was the newest and best looked after; they had the same headstone. His other grandparents were still alive; they lived in Dublin.
Sticking the spade into the ground, he looked out to sea. It was a gesture he’d seen Francis perform many times on the mainland. He was glad to be rid of the weight of the shovel, the awkwardness of it. He looked about for a good place to start building. It was difficult to find a level piece of ground, and one
The only object that had stayed perfectly unchanged was the white marble altar, which had been planted parallel to the shore, at the top of the aisle. Philip stood in front of it now, holding his shovel. He was wondering where to build his hut. If he built it inside the church, he would have the advantage of having one ready-made wall—two, if it was in a corner. But he wasn’t sure about the idea. He wasn’t sure if it was right to build a hut in a church, even a derelict one, and it would be more difficult to hide it if anyone should come out to the island. No, he would have to make it at the far end, where not even Francis would go.
He went out through the door shaped like a bishop’s hat and into the churchyard. It was still used by the family. Though one of Francis’s jobs was to pull the weeds away from the graves, they grew with a ferocity that no one could keep pace with. Philip’s father had suggested that it wouldn’t be a bad idea to let Owen Mór’s sheep loose out there for a while, but Francis refused to entertain that notion either.
The place was wild with grass; it was knee-high on the path, it grew in clumps at the foot of the headstones, it sprouted from the granite slabs on top of the graves, though there was no soil to sustain it there. Moss and lichen covered the headstones, so that the lettering had become barely legible. This Philip’s father said that one of these days they should bring out paper and charcoal to do a rubbing, before the words were lost forever.
A ring of yew trees encircled the churchyard, a sign that his family believed they were going to heaven. But the trees had the opposite effect. It was dark under their canopy, even in the middle of the day. The roots curled themselves into the graves and the branches twisted into the contortions of the wind. Philip had been told to never, ever eat their berries, that he’d be dead in minutes. He wasn’t quite sure he believed it.
He wandered amongst the stones, running a hand along the lettering, the lichen rough and staining his fingers. The churchyard wasn’t even a quarter full. Though his family had been buried there for a century and a half, there was room, by his calculations, for another four hundred and fifty years’ worth of Campbells. He wondered whether the island would still be here then. He had learnt in geography that it had been created millennia ago, and that it would probably be around for at least another thousand years. In that case, there wasn’t enough room for all the Campbells who would live at Dulough after this Philip. He walked over to his grandparents’ grave; they were buried by the low drystone wall that marked the divide between holy and unholy ground. His father had tried to explain the difference between places you could bury people and places you couldn’t. For example, you couldn’t just bury someone in the garden, you had to put them in ground that had been consecrated by the church. His grandparents’ grave was the newest and best looked after; they had the same headstone. His other grandparents were still alive; they lived in Dublin.
Sticking the spade into the ground, he looked out to sea. It was a gesture he’d seen Francis perform many times on the mainland. He was glad to be rid of the weight of the shovel, the awkwardness of it. He looked about for a good place to start building. It was difficult to find a level piece of ground, and one
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