Tìoraidh Ma-tha
By
Stuart Mackay
Copyright 2015 Stuart Mackay
Cover By JD Allan
1
Generations had walked the same ground as the villagers now walked for possibly the last time ever. Tomorrow this dying community would be dead. This would be the last night they would lay down their heads and sleep where their forefathers had done the same for hundreds of years before them.
“Do you think they would understand?” asked Donnchadh as they walked among the graves of their ancestors.
John turned to look at him, moisture on his face, Donnchadh did know if it was from the harr or tears, he nodded, and then looked out over the sea, “probably not, but we have to go to survive,” he turned towards his lifelong friend, he placed his hand on his heart, “we will always be together in here,” he said as he patted his heart.
“Are you scared?” asked Donnchadh, a slight hesitant in his voice.
John grinned at him, “maybe not scared,” he shook his head unable to properly answer the question.
“Do you think we will change?” Donnchadh turned to look as Aonghus Gillies approached them.
“Donnchadh, Seathan,” Aonghus nodded at both men, he called John by the Gaelic pronunciation. “Hard to believe, we will be gone tomorrow,” he continued in the Gaelic.
Donnchadh nodded towards the ground, “will they forgive us?” he asked in Gaelic.
A fierce biting wind from the sea added to the answer, Aonghus turned towards the sea, “to live, we have to let things die,” he turned and nodded towards the bay, grinning at a distant memory, he turned to John, “and if it wasn’t for your grandfather, I would have been lying under your feet more than 60 years ago,” John smiled knowing he would hear the story again, but this time, it may be the last. “Your grandfather saved my life, and Uilleam MacKinnon’s too.” Aonghus turned towards a stone that marked where his friend now lay, “we had been swept out to sea and your Grandfather, a man of few words,” he turned and grinned towards John, “before anybody knew what was happening he was fighting the white horses, dragging us back from our deaths and towards the land and the loving embrace of our families.” Aonghus wiped away a tear, he turned to Donnchadh, “forgive?” he shrugged his shoulders, “but I think they will understand.” He slapped Donnchadh gently on the shoulder, “but you boys should be thinking of all the woman out there who want to meet a Hirta man.”
John and Donnchadh exchanged grins, before John turned towards Aonghus, “we will miss the wise words of our elders.”
The men were silent for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts, the only sound was the breeze that was coming from the Atlantic.
“You must be looking forward to seeing your son again?” asked Donnchadh trying to lighten the mood, “and meeting your grandchildren for the first time.”
Aonghus slowly nodded his head, “It will be good to see Tosdach again,” he looked at John and smiled, “I’m glad we had a son, so i could honour your grandfather.” He looked at the ground and shook his head. “It’s just. Not everyone speaks Gaelic in Inverness,” he looked at the younger men, “including my own grandchildren. My English is poor.” He seemed to feel ashamed as he said it.
John cut him off. “Then it will be good for your grandchildren to learn the language of their forefathers, and learn how they lived.” He looked at Aonghus and felt sorry for him, to have lived a long life speaking one language and having to learn English in order to speak to his own family.
Aonghus smiled at the men, “I will,” he replied in English.
“And as you said, there could be women looking for a Hirta man to take care of,” added Donnchadh resorting back to the Gaelic, “even at your age.”
Aonghus nodded at them, “I will leave you boys to the rest of your night,” he looked around the village, “I want to,” he paused for a few moments, “say goodbye.” He didn’t wait for a reply before walking away in the direction of his wife’s grave.
“Goodnight Aonghus,” replied John and Donnchadh in unison.
“Goodnight,” replied Aonghus in English.
“It’s going to be hard for the elders, they really only know the Gaelic,” said John once Aonghus was out of earshot.
“Maybe the Gaelic will die like Hirta,” stated Donnchadh, “nearly all the tourists that come here don’t speak it, what if we are the last generation, the young ones here will go to school and only be taught in English.”
“We won’t let that happen, we will make sure they can speak it,” replied John, silently remembering back to his childhood when he had started to use the name John and not the Gaelic Seathan, “you may have a point,” he added in a hushed reluctance.
2
John and Donnchadh spent the rest of the early evening walking around the village, they said goodbyes to places from their childhood, the only place they knew, they had never left the island and tomorrow they would leave and never return.
John looked up at the dying sun, the last sunset they would ever see from their home. “I think we should have a drink.”
Donnchadh kicked a loose stone and then looked at John, “a drink, I think we should drink all we have.”
“Aye, saves carrying it in our bags,” replied John, “might as well spend our last night here toasting our forefathers.”
“Every last one of them,” added Donnchadh.
“Have we got that much whisky?” asked John.
They clinked their bottles together and toasted each other, they were sitting in the same cleit that that had been their hideout since they could walk up the hill to get to it. “Hard to believe that this will be the last time we will be sitting here,” announced John as he looked around the cleit in the weak light that a few candles were offering.
“I’m sure we will find somewhere similar when we get to our new homes,” replied Donnchadh.
John looked at him and shook his head slightly, “you should convince yourself before you speak out loud.”
Donnchadh grinned at him, “you may be right, but,” he didn’t know what to add.
John took a large drink from his bottle, “let’s look forward. What are you looking forward to the most?” he looked at his friend, “apart from woman.”
Donnchadh took a sip of whisky, “I’m looking forward to working with the forestry.”
“Aye that could be fun,” John shook his head, “they give us jobs in our new lives, working with trees in a forest,” he cast his hand towards the opening of the cleit, “Hirta, the land of no trees,” he took a drink and shook his head, “the only trees we have ever seen were in the school books from our childhood.”
“Water,” John looked at him a confused look on his face, “they say that they have water in your home, there is a thing they have that gives you water, whenever you want,” he shook his head, “it’s just there.”
“What was that thing that tourist told us about when the last ship was here?” asked John, Donnchadh just shrugged his shoulders, “the thing that you sat in and it took you somewhere instead of walking.”
“Oh aye,” he replied, “I can’t remember what they called it, but it sounded strange.”
They were both quiet for a while, each in their own thoughts and concerns, after a few minutes John looked up, “do you think they will try and keep us apart?”
“Why would they do that John?”
“Just. People came here to look at us and how we live. What if they want to change us? I mean, the best way of doing that would be to keep us apart,” he replied.
Donnchadh thought for a moment. “We won’t let them.” He noticed the concern on his friends face. “Do you think we will see M
orag?” he asked instantly changing the mood in the cleit.
John smiled at a distant memory, “is Glasgow near where we are going?”
Donnchadh thought for a moment, “I’m sure we could walk there or use one of those things you were talking about, but I’m sure there are plenty of women who look like Morag waiting for the young men from Hirta,” he added with a grin.
“What if they don’t want to talk to us?” replied John.
Donnchadh grinned, “I’m not interested in talking to them.”
John picked up some dirt and let it fall between his fingers, he couldn’t see it as the light had almost died from the day but he felt it, he wiped his hand on his trousers and took a large drink of whisky from the bottle in his other hand, “we can’t forget where we have come from.”
“John, when the last of us die, whenever that may be, that will be the last connection with Hirta, nobody is going to come back here,” replied Donnchadh, he took a drink from his whisky to get rid of the bad taste in his mouth from what he had just said.
John reached for the empty bottle of whisky and started to fill it with soil from the ground.
“What are you doing?” asked Donnchadh.
He held up the bottle, “a little something to make sure that we never forget.”
Donnchadh looked at him as if he was daft, then he reached behind himself and grabbed an old bottle, filling it with future memories. John grinned as he watched his old friend fill his bottle.
The cleit was silent as both men