Island of Wings by Karin Altenberg Page A

incredulously but said nothing. He came to stand next to her at the window, their shoulders not touching, and as the boat approached the landing rocks he said to her calmly, ‘It is important that I exercise my authority as the spiritual guardian of the island in these situations.’ He walked out of the manse then, and she, diminished now, watched him from the window as he strolled nonchalantly down the path past the store towards the rocks.
    Donald MacKinnon and a couple of the other men were holding the boat steady as the two gentlemen and the three crewmen stepped ashore. The taller of the two passengers removed his hat and put out his hand to greet MacKinnon and the other men. He greeted them heartily in English and they answered as gaily and politely in Gaelic, quickly followed by a question which the newcomers did not understand. By this time Neil MacKenzie had reached the rocks. He extended his hand to the young man, saying, ‘Welcome to St Kilda, sir. I am the resident minister by the name of Neil MacKenzie. To whom do I owe the pleasure?’ MacKenzie studied the man in front of him; he was tall with thinning fair hair and a narrow nose that made his face look rather long. He was not exactly handsome, the minister noted, but he looked like a cheerful and agreeable man.
    â€˜I am pleased to meet you, sir,’ the younger man exclaimed. ‘George Clayton Atkinson. I am a naturalist and artist from Newcastle and this is my brother Dick, who is also a true devotee of the beauties of nature!’ He indicated the other gentleman, who was nearly as tall but darker and slightly heavier. ‘I say, what is it that these kind people ask us?’
    â€˜The natives enquire whether there is any war raging in the Empire. This is always their first question to a visitor – we are rather isolated here.’
    â€˜Of course, I understand. You can reassure these peaceful souls that there is no war raging within our borders at present – apart from the usual domestic and political squabbles of course!’
    Neil MacKenzie looked relieved and relayed the good news to the islanders before turning back to the young travellers. ‘What is your business on the island?’
    â€˜We have come to make a study of the birds and wildlife.’ Mr Atkinson’s voice was somewhat slurred and the minister thought the two brothers looked a bit unsteady after their long journey. He shook hands with Richard Atkinson, who had kept in the background thus far, and addressed them both. ‘From Newcastle, you say? Do you know of the artist and ornithologist Thomas Bewick? I have his book on British seabirds in the manse – it has been an invaluable source of information to me since I came here!’
    â€˜How uncanny!’ cried George Atkinson. ‘Bewick is my mentor – indeed it was he who suggested that I should undertake this journey to the Hebrides!’
    â€˜Ah, my dear friends, I cannot say how pleased I am to welcome you to St Kilda. We will have a lot to talk about no doubt, but it can wait a while I am sure . . .’ MacKenzie was interrupted by loud laughter from the St Kildans, who were welcoming the crew the Atkinson brothers had hired for the crossing. They seemed to be exceedingly well received and no wonder, for they were a merry group and they had brought a supply of whisky for the journey which they were willing to share.
    Dick looked on with a slightly worried expression. ‘I hope they will not keep serving these islanders whisky at the same pace as they served us.’
    The native men and women were emptying the boat of its sails and movables and as soon as this was done they started hauling the small vessel on to the rocks under a particular cry from MacKinnon the headsman: ‘ Robh maht na gillean, Robh maht na gillean – shid I, shid I! Well done, lads – there she goes!’ There was much laughter and chatter.
    One of the native men cried, ‘