Sun Dance (20 page)

This touched a raw nerve with already nervous banking members on the board. “UK is a case in point. Two Scottish banks, now virtually taxpayer owned, happen to have a number offshore subsidiaries to help with their clients’ profits at both company and individual level which are not subject to record in Britain. Guernsey, Gibraltar, Cayman, etc. all maintain offshore registrations which do not fall under UK taxation schedules. It’s rather uncomfortable for holders of funds in these tax havens to find the eyes of Her Majesties Collector of Taxes now able to pry into their accounts.”

An uneasy shuffle went around the boardroom. “Indeed, as a result of this possible exposure, billions of pounds have already moved very smartly to new homes, Hong Kong, Panama, Singapore, and of special interest to me, into Dubai. I shall say no more except to add, it is in the latter United Emirates that I have considerable influence and some of the funds to which I just have referred can, I’m sure, be made available to Nuen. Thank you for your attention gentlemen.”

Sir Joshua resumed his seat. Smiles, nods, and gushing words of thanks came from the Chairman. It went exactly as he planned. What he didn’t disclose, two a billion dollars, just a phone call away, were available from an oil sheikh wishing to diversify into nuclear Let the board sweat a little, thought their scientific advisor, timing will be of my choosing.

Coffee, biscuits and general chatter, Chairman Anderson signalled Goldberg to his side. They moved away from the table and displaying an obvious concern he spoke quietly, “Well done Josh, but look, do you think I should inform the directors of the thwarted cyber-attack on the control system of our Sea Island reactor last week? After all, the virus was deflected without having an emergency shut down, or God help us, worse. If that bit of news leaked out, Nuen’s equity will fall like a stone.”

Anderson was an anxious man. Another implication alarmed him to an even greater extent. A precipitous jail sentence would result from an oversight of this magnitude. He’d lain awake for the past few nights, wondering, worrying. Who could he depend on who was completely discreet, shrewd enough to offer sound advice? Who to trust? It had to be Goldberg.

“By the way, Josh I haven’t told the UK Atomic Energy Authority either. I’ve kept it in house. Only your good self and that chap on the monitor knows, so far as I’m aware. I’m ninety-nine percent certain that’s the case. Anyway, a useful bonus should keep him on our side. I am bit worried about the data records, they might show up on the next inspection. It’s kept me awake for a week. What do you think?”

Far better that Anderson be solely to blame should this gross oversight come to light. Privately delighted at his Chairman’s invidious position, Goldberg, looking deliberately over the man’s head, allowed several minutes go by before bending confidentially and speaking in a low voice, “Don’t trust any of your Board Members, especially not the bankers. Say nothing and don’t think bonuses, it’s a bad principle. Just give that employee a few shares and maybe he’ll not want to damage the Company,” Inwardly amused at the thought of creating more sleepless night for the Chairman he added in his silkiest voice, “unless of course some ferreting media outlet offers him mega bucks.”

A look of alarm registered in Anderson’s eyes but conscious of showing weakness he snapped, “Sir Joshua, one other matter, I want action on that UK nuclear waste facility and pronto; a hell of a lot rides on it.”

Furious at the Chairman’s superior manner Goldberg abruptly turned his back and left the meeting without replying. Descending the wide marble stairway he paused to view a full length portrait in oils of the first Andrew Anderson, founder of Nuen. It hung at a turn in the stairs and clever lighting ensured the painting dominated the Company’s spacious hallway. Under his breath Goldberg sneered, another aloof bloody Scot. They always imagine they’ve an ancient pedigree somewhere in the cupboard. I hate the lot of them.

A sardonic smile reached the corners of Sir Joshua’s flabby mouth,

“That portrait deserves a fresh coat of paint.”

Eilidh lay asleep. I stood watching her quiet breathing. I’d lain on the wooden floor beside her bed all night and in the closeness of reaching up to hold her hand sleep had been immeasurably happy. She lay with an arm still outstretched, more attractive than I had possibly imagined in all my months of seeing her in my thoughts. No need of makeup, health shone from a clear skin tinged with the vigour of fresh air and sunshine, her face elegant and refined, slender jaw, thin shapely nose, her lips slightly parted in the tranquility of untroubled sleep. A beautiful woman, natural and feminine. How could a single glance on a train bring us together, forge the strength of my emotions? Her golden hair, thick and wavy spread loose across the pillow. I reached to stroke it but drew back, afraid to waken her.

An empty island awaited sunrise. Early light reflecting off the bay flittered through the tiny window onto my night’s crumpled covering. Silently folding the rough woollen blankets, I put them to one side and in the half light my hand touched something which felt like leather.

Gingerly my hand traced to a cut handle. My cursed briefcase. Any memory of the wretched item being in the house had been forgotten, completely erased by the mystery of yesterday. Its half bent shape leant repulsively against the wall. Dimly on its flap I could make out the black initials, H.M. Without any reason it produced a grotesque feeling of menace. Its God-forsaken contents, my reports on the dangers of radio- active material, imbued a simple briefcase with a presentiment of catastrophe, awful and sickening. Did it stand between me and escape? I glanced to the bed- stand between us and our future?

Did it move? I recoiled. Impossible and yet its shrunken blood stained leather became a hideous malformed object shrivelling before me. In dread, I backed to the door and stepped outside.

Out into a crispness, the herald of sunrise and the freshness of atmosphere innocent of malice. Revulsion towards the briefcase vanished as quickly as I’d been affected. The harmony of my surroundings lifted any unease. I set my face to climb the hill. Away from the back of the house ran ground that once supported family after family. A thousand years, three thousand, who would know what history rested below this soil? And my people, the last to turn a furrow. Affection for its uncared acres grew at each upward step, urging possession, demanding what by dint of a thousand years was mine.

Reaching the crest of the hill and unprepared for what lay below, I sat on an outcrop of rock to gaze down upon a vast open bay. Gently shelving sand followed a perfect curve. Without cliffs, its enclosing headlands tapered into an expanse of sea, cast in a deep mauve. Far, far distant, ranging away to the northeast, jagged mainland peaks tipped the horizon, indigo and mystical. I waited, absorbed by the immensity of an unfolding landscape. Revolving, unknowable, indifferent to the despoiling of what it had spawned, as it had breasted earth’s peaks and ridges longer than life had existed, so the sun burst across the sea, glorious and golden and I longed for Eilidh.

I sat, and sat, alone with the sun in the silence of its rising. Alone? From the crags of the Hill of the Shroud there came a raucous call. I looked up. Fingered black wings spiralled high above me. A raven greeted the first warmth. Its single call, harsh and arresting.

The Viking saga, written by my great, grandfather, ranged through my head. The eye of wisdom pecked from the dead crone by a raven and fed to its nestling chick. In that acute awareness which defeats the passage of time nothing separated me from the generation which brought it here. The raven circled, cawed again. A greeting, a warning? In its wisdom, what did the raven foresee? Destruction, death?

Amidst the rising sun the story lived, banners unfurled, longboats crunched the sand. Bearded giants leapt gunnels, shrieking fiends, swords spilling guts, axes slashing limbs. I saw the clefted head bleeding on the sand, watched the kneeling, sobbing, women. From the encompassing elements of sea and fiord the longboat men had found a new home. Amidst the beauty of this island, they had bred my forebears. Intimate as the great orange orb of the sun will be to a man alone, I heard the laughter of children.

Down by the tiny fields of tumbled dyke I ran breathless, to the door of the old home, “Eilidh, Eilidh!” I called excitedly. Her bed was made. The room empty. A stab of concern ran through me. Back outside, I looked about urgently. There, in a bay of our own, a head bobbed out of the water. Not dark as the seal would be, but golden in the first rays of sunrise breaking free of the hill. And seeing me, she waved.

Waving both arms eagerly, happy at her in sudden appearance, I turned to the stone beside the door. Seat of many thoughts by Eachan’s telling. Maybe of the trance that relives yesterday. Perhaps of the gift of ‘sight’ that opens tomorrow. Naturally, as to a chair of long habit, I sat. The people were on the fields, bent to the cutting of their harvest, gathering it in hand bound sheaves. I could see them; scaling the bird cliffs, fishing the mackerel sea, pendant nets dripping the moonlight jewels of a cresent night. And the laughing children from the playground of a hill, long climbing days, collecting honey from the wild bees’ nests, how bright the bird song hill of summer flowers.

The peat hearth of winter, childbirth pain and firelight suckle. The driving rain on huddled thatch and the drum of a thunder sea that fed young hearts, glistening- eyed at granny’s knee, stout manhood tales of longboat morn, of crashing seas sunrise torn and Raven banners born.

I rose still bemused by the weirdness. Had the stimulation arisen from the force of my hilltop vision, the longboat, children’s laughter, or the raven’s croak? By what freak of inspiration could they summon up themes related to the island of a thousand years ago or insert themselves in to a train of thought? The speed of writing those few verses had imperative command of dictation. The thought came strongly to me; by some means I was a pawn of supernatural elements which lingered amongst the island’s feel of the natural and un-spoilt ways.

I watched Eilidh swimming amidst the colours which were transforming the day. The last sparkle of dew still on the green sward, white sand against the blackness of rock, a turquoise bay pouring itself into the ultra marine of the Atlantic and presently there was a woman running towards me, golden and beautiful.

Eilidh stood before me barefoot, a towel about her, laughing as she shook her hair. Shyness overcame me, embarrassment and excitement together. I blushed deeply, looking only into her merry eyes. “Eilidh,” was all I could muster. She laughed, “Hector, I presume?” and pretending to be serious, “one egg or two?” My tongue loosened, “two, please, if I may, one only, if they’re not from Ella’s hens.”

She skipped into the house. I could hear singing and laughing through in the bedroom. Before long the rattle of dishes sounded in the kitchen. Time I became useful. Putting my head in the door, “Anything I can do to help?” Eyes smiled from under arching eyebrows and handing me a galvanized pail, “Would you like to get more water, please?

Swinging the bucket, I made for the burn. Tucked a little from its bank I came upon the well, a neat circle of built stone. Water straight off the hill, filtered by the soil. I scooped a cupped handful. Cool and sweet, without any taint, fresh as the breezes on its source. I walked back to the house, my first steps towards remoteness living.

Putting the pail down in the kitchen and shaking with excitement I caught the woman around the waist. “Eilidh, I’m going to live here.” I whispered into her hair. She twisted to face me. Her arms went to my shoulders, “Oh, Hector” she breathed my name softly. Her arms circled my neck. I bent, our eyes joined. The depth of attraction reached my inner self as no emotion before. Our eyes closed and in the security of shared passion we kissed, the eager kiss of longing.

An outgoing tide left bare the stonework of the jetty, a tribute to hands that could cut and craft. Red and purple sea urchin inched their way across its rocks. Stranded starfish, orange bright on white sand awaited the sea’s return. Seals, dark and idle, hauled out on the sloping rock of the farthest headland and slept away the lull. Only the gulls busied themselves, strutting and probing the limpid pools which remained. From time to time a cloud would block the sun. A shadow would flit across the bay before sunlight returned and sand and sea glistened once more.