Island of Wings by Karin Altenberg

could make out five people on board the open vessel. Two tall men in hats were standing idly by the bulwarks, looking towards the island.
    â€˜There seem to be two passengers,’ said Mr MacKenzie importantly, needlessly confirming her own observation. ‘Indeed I believe them to be gentlemen!’ Lizzie could sense that her husband’s excitement at the prospect of meeting the strangers was as great as her own, although in contrast to her he had made several friends amongst the natives. He was especially attached to Donald MacKinnon, who was the headman of the St Kildans. MacKinnon was still a young man, but he had earned the respect of his kinsmen and they had recently elected him to represent them in dealings with the taxman and to settle disputes. MacKenzie was also very fond of John Ferguson, who was unusually intelligent and who could read and write a little and helped out with the religious education. But even so Lizzie knew that her husband missed the company of learned and civilised men. She had done her best to engage him in what she thought would be intellectual conversations, secretly reading old copies of the Edinburgh Review , trying to memorise some of the arguments presented by the authors, and then reproducing them in conversation. At such times the wish to please her husband was greater than the humiliation at her weakness being exposed. She knew that he craved the company of these gentlemen as much as she did, and she suddenly felt a hot surge of jealousy. As a man he could easily befriend the guests, but she would not have the opportunity to enjoy their company in the same way. Oh how unfair! Had she not suffered the isolation more than he had? Lizzie had never contemplated her home before coming here. The house of her parents had been a place to live: no more, no less. But it was not the place itself she missed. She longed for the familiar smells, tastes and sounds that had made her belong in that place which she could no longer clearly remember. Would she be able to feel at home in this place and yet be forever alien? She could already feel the strangers putting a wedge between her and her husband. Suddenly she dreaded their arrival. She could have cried for her own weakness – she was too desperate to see their faces and hear their voices.
    By now, Mr MacKenzie had changed into his black coat and white cravat and looked every bit the Glasgow gentleman that he had once, if briefly, been. He was talking to her while he moved agitatedly about the house, telling her to draw the best chairs close to the fire and look in the storeroom at the back for the bottle of claret they had kept for a special occasion. Lizzie was not concentrating; through the window she could see the natives gathering on the landing rocks to greet the visitors. Men, women and children were milling around in a turmoil. Lizzie had never seen them so excitable and emotional. She had often watched them from the windows of the manse as they went about their business around the hamlet and she had been struck by their leisurely movements; the men especially seemed to be characterised by extreme laziness.
    â€˜Let’s go down to the rocks to meet them – why don’t we go now?’ she enquired of her husband somewhat too languidly. ‘Be still, dear.’ He gave a short laugh and patted her on the shoulder. ‘I will wait a moment yet – you wouldn’t wish me to appear as easily excited as the natives, would you?’
    â€˜I suppose not, no.’
    â€˜And I will go on my own.’
    â€˜But . . .’ Her voice faltered as he gave her another stern look.
    He avoided her bewildered gaze and dragged his dark fringe out of his face with the fingers of both hands. ‘You had better stay behind to tend to the luncheon. We do not want these gentlemen to think that the minister’s wife does not do her duty, do we?’ he said humorously, knowing that he was hurting her. She looked at him