Read Online Island of Wings by Karin Altenberg - Free Book Online Page A

us that our whole neighbourhood back in England would be able to smell our return to their society – is that true?’ He was blushing violently now.
    Mrs MacKenzie, who felt that she had something to contribute, started to speak at this point, but her husband interrupted her: ‘The stench in those hovels is villainous enough! I dare say that you will bring a souvenir of a rare and delicate perfume when you leave Hirta, but I assure you that Mrs MacKenzie and I do whatever we can to keep the manse as free of foul smell as possible. You will be quite safe here!’
    At this they all laughed and the brothers glanced at each other, confirming their relief at being housed in the manse.
    After lunch the three men set off towards the clachan . George asked if Mrs MacKenzie was not going to join them, but the minister replied that she took little interest in the rest of the island and preferred to stay around the manse.
    Lizzie did not let on that she had overheard the comment. She looked at her husband’s back as he walked brashly across the glebe between the gentlemen brothers. Is this the man for whom I left everything?
    White clouds were sailing the skies above the island, carried swiftly on the strong westerly wind. Every now and again the sun came out to steam off the remains of the morning mist which had lingered in the shade. The men soon broke into a sweat as they climbed the short distance through the dewy grass towards the cluster of rude huts in the centre of the amphitheatre of enclosed land. The hamlet lay snugly under the peak of the mountain they called Conachair , or the Roarer, because the wind and the gales would often sound around its summit. As they walked, the minister often stopped to point out features in the landscape, and the two brothers marvelled at the beauty of their strange-sounding names – Cnoc na Gaoithe, or the Knoll of the Wind, Gob Chathaill, the Point of the Wailer, and Laimhrig nan Gall, the Landing Place of the Strangers. A peaceful-looking silver stream that dropped into Village Bay was called Abhainn Ilishgil – the Deep Stream of Evil.
    George Atkinson looked around in wonder – the grandeur of the place far exceeded any expectations he had previously had. The rocks and cliffs around the bay were the most magnificent and sublime precipices that he had ever seen during his extensive travels in the British Isles.
    The clachan of houses lay about a hundred yards from the sea. They were around thirty in number, and as the gentlemen approached the open yard in front of them George was for the first time met by the smell of fulmar oil, joined to the powerful odours of the profusion of putrid bird carcasses and unwashed men and dogs. Nothing could have prepared him for this stench. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat and held it over his nose. As they drew closer to the houses he could see that a great many bird carcasses were jammed into cracks in the stone walls by their bills, thus drying in the air. Dogs were chewing on discarded bones and offal. A group of children were playing with some fulmar heads, feeding them to the dogs. George was appalled to see a girl of about four or five years old trying to pull the neck of a gannet over her foot as a stocking. The minister followed his gaze and explained. ‘They often make shoes out of the necks of gannets – they cut the head off at the eyes, and the part where the skull was serves as the heel of the shoe and the feathers on the throat offer warmth and waterproofing. They generally only last a couple of days, but at times there are so many birds that they can wear these disposable socks almost daily.’
    The three men could hear voices, and the minister led them towards a house which was slightly larger than the others and lay in the centre of the hamlet. A group of men were sitting on a ledge formed by a wall protruding from the low roof of the building. They looked comfortable enough