We Float Upon a Painted Sea

High up on Mullach Sgar, McIntyre stepped out of the observation pod and into the early morning light. He lifted his head to the slate grey sky and winced as the shards of light penetrated his eyes and needled the visual cortex of his brain. Trying to blot out the sound of the sirens, he staggered to the edge of the cliff and cast his gaze out over the ocean. There in the distance, the wave rose up like a dark wall on the horizon, indiscernible at first but growing in stature and velocity as it propagated towards the shallower waters encircling the islands of St Kilda. The wind preceding the wave hit him hard, flipping his large frame like an autumn leaf and almost knocking him to the ground. Stunned by its ferocity, he watched in wonder as the body of water finally broke against the shoreline with a terrible roar, the crest of the wave rolling and turning over until it collapsed in on itself. A foaming white discharge of detritus pounded the cliff face with an almighty force, sending spouts of sea spray two hundred feet into the air. As if excited by the commotion on the other side of the island, the rusting fishing trawlers bounced in the floating harbour, only settling down when the wave passed the archipelago and the sirens stopped.

This wave was different, thought McIntyre. Certainly different from the ones the islanders had become accustomed to. It was more powerful. Much more powerful. It had originated from a usual source, out in the west and not from the shale rigs. It had also taken him by surprise. If there had been the usual prelude to the tremor causing the wave, oystercatchers filling the air with their shrill alarm calls or the dogs in the village starting to howl, he didn’t hear it. Moreover, with each tremor, he had come to rely on small but discernible changes in his own body, but today there was no compression of the lungs, or quickening of the heart, not even a tingling sensation running the length of his spine. It was the same with last night’s quake, arriving as it did during the ceilidh. He had felt nothing. He blamed the poitín.

His mouth was dry and viscid and a surge of nausea churned the contents of his guts. On occasions such as this, when his hangover reached seismic proportions, he would pay Sheila a visit and acquire one of her herbal potions. She was the Island’s main source of homeopathic remedies, locally grown hemp and even mandrake root, when a more radical and unprocessed painkiller was required.

He started down the gravel path to the village, stopping only once to piss behind a sheltered outcrop and then again at the harbour, to reassemble a stack of rotting lobster pots which had fallen over during the tremor. He caught the news headlines from an information bulletin at the ferry terminal. The newsreader delivered her monologue in a typically laconic style, reporting state dogma concerning the curfew, the continuing state of emergency and the police response to the riots spreading from the shanty towns and into the city centres on the mainland. McIntyre tried not to be distracted by her breasts spilling out of her low cut blouse, but he did note the absence of news relating to tremors and monstrous waves. Also, nothing of the Government’s ineffectual response to the floods, the energy crisis or the nation’s crippling budget deficit. In an unemotional voice she finished her address, stating the world’s leaders had finally given up trying to reach an agreement allowing them to sign the 2066 Manhattan Declaration on climate change. This digital necromancer could not even end with a good news story, thought McIntyre.

When he arrived at Sheila’s croft he noticed her staff and muck boots were missing from the front doorstep. Always a clear sign she wasn’t at home. McIntyre headed to the beach where she was often found collecting kelp, picking up crabs or harvesting shellfish. She once had a thriving business selling handcrafted wind chimes and dream catchers make from drift wood, or whatever detritus the ocean had thrown up on the shore. The troubles on the mainland, or what folk were calling the Change, put an end to most of her enterprises.

He drew his eyes along the contours of sand. No Sheila. He walked to the Glen, the first of the artificial biomes created on the island, and followed the burn uphill. Trampling over the ancient ruins of a drystane dyke, he found her sitting on a log, smoking a hemp cigarette. Sheila fired up her Kelly kettle and said,

“I was wondering when you would show up.”

Like a slow train, the conversation moved through the subjects of the tremors, the waves, last nights ceilidh, the arrival of strangers to their shores, the surveillance satellites above their heads, the curfews on the mainland and an absurd accusation of witchcraft. Finally they arrived at the subject of McIntyre’s hangover and today’s visit from his commanding officer. On the Commandant’s last visit, he had threatened to put him on a charge for being under the influence of alcohol whilst being on duty. McIntyre needed to disguise the signs: his eyes, his breath and the smell of booze on his skin. Sheila enlightened him oral odours from overindulgence of alcohol mainly originated in the gut. She produced a rhizome from her rucksack, saying it would be good for his digestive system and also help with his flatulence. McIntyre told her he didn’t suffer from excessive flatulence. Sheila crowed with a contrary nod of the head and flap of the hand. She found a flat rock and using the back of her knife, crushed the root. She imbued the paste with a liquid from a potion bottle, counting out loud all three drops and presented the elixir to him on a piece of bark. McIntyre sniffed it.

“What is it?” he said, “It smells rank. Will it make me sick?” Sheila examined him with curious eyes. She took a draw on her hemp cigarette and said,

“I’ve never known you to be sick. I only see you when you’re after a hangover cure. Worryingly, that’s a lot.”

Sheila produced a frying pan from her rucksack and placed it over the fire base of the Kelly kettle. She cooked them a meal consisting of freshly picked mussels, wild fennel, slices of homemade soda bread and mushrooms.

Later, McIntyre walked Sheila back towards her croft. As they drew near, they could see three women standing at the gate to her cottage. Two were carrying placards. They were conducting a silent protest, presumably aimed at Sheila, thought McIntyre. One of them he recognised as the wife of Padruig McKinnon. He had been at last night’s ceilidh. His memories were still clouded by the moonshine, but he remembered the floor of the village hall had descended into a maelstrom of colliding bodies after an argument over whether to end with Strip the Willow or the much easier Gay Gordons. During the ensuing argument, the band started playing and the McKinnon clan, losing patience with the hold-up, went straight into the Cumberland Square Eight. Anarchy erupted. All accepted dance routines had been abandoned and decorum was cast to the wind. Drunkards indulged in the reckless practice of throwing their partners into the path of other dancers. Some missed their targets and slammed into walls or landed on tables, scattering bottles and tumblers to the floor as they landed. He didn’t see it himself, but one of the islanders had told him Padruig McKinnon had been hurled out of the hall doors with such momentum he had carried on down the brae, arms and legs flaying and never to be seen again. On his walk back to the observation pod, McIntyre’s temporary home since his wife threw him out, he had heard a loud snoring noise coming from inside a stone bothy, the previous inhabitants of the island called a cleit. When he shone his torch inside, Padruig McKinnon lay amongst a flock of dishevelled sheep sheltering from the rain. He could understand Mrs McKinnon’s resentment, espoused to a man who preferred the comfort of a cleit in the hills and the company of sheep to the marital bed. He had some sympathy with her sign calling for a crackdown on illegal distilled poitín. Sheila had little time for poitín. Why the protest was being directed at her was a mystery.

The other two protestors he recognised as the Commandant’s wife and mother-in-law. He had the misfortune of running into them on several previous occasions. They would sometimes accompany him on his visits from the mainland, taking the opportunity to conduct their firebrand missionary work for the Lords of the New Church. It normally turned out to be a futile gesture and looking along the deserted village street, today was no exception. He studied the oldest women’s haggard face. Her placard prophesied an impending apocalypse. Given recent global disasters, a statement not requiring the greatest level of foresight, he thought. Still, he assumed mankind’s destiny would not be concluded soon enough for this old harpy. The Commandant’s wife stood in silence, her hands clasped in prayer. Sheila smiled at the protesters and then turned to McIntyre. She kissed him with faux passion on the lips, started up the garden path and closed the cottage door behind her.

McIntyre said his farewells and walked to the floating harbour. From outside the Harbour Master’s office he could smell the Commandant’s cheap mousey aftershave and hear the crackle of the shortwave radio. He drew in a last lungful of salty air, turned the wheel lock and entered the building. There he was, thought McIntyre, sitting at my desk, deep in prayer, propped up by several cushions and wearing his cap indoors to give the illusion of height. The Commandant stood up. He had an expression like he had been sucking lemons for breakfast. He approached McIntyre, his arms out-stretched and ready to embrace him, saying. “Maranatha!” McIntyre stepped back and drew him a quizzical look. “It’s the Church’s new salutation,” said the Commandant.

“Well, I’m not in your church.”

“I forgot you’re an unbeliever. Most of you islanders are.”

“Yet, I am a devout believer in personal space.”

“I find it hard to believe you are devout about anything, apart from demon drink.”

“The Community Council still refusing your request to open the chapel or have you and your family finally given up trying to convert us?” The Commandant ignored the question, his eyes now settling on an antique pewter quaich on the McIntyre’s desk. He examined the Celtic engravings and Latin inscription. He grunted his disapproval. McIntyre pressed a pad mounted on the wall and waited while a montage of 3D digital maps and images appeared. McIntyre said,

“I heard you were on holiday? Did you unwind a wee bit? Did you swim with the sharks and the dolphins, or just paddle with the crabs and dog whelks? I used to enjoy a paddle in a rock pool when I was a boy - one of my first memories actually.”

“Any spiritual benefits I gained from the holiday have been annulled by this awful news,” affirmed the Commandant. “Jansen and Lennox are still out in the cutter checking the west and north coast to confirm the shipwreck reports.”

“I thought we were told to stand down and probably for good reason. There was a tremor only an hour ago. It was followed by another huge wave. It’s not safe to send a cutter out.”

“How was I to know there was to be another wave? No matter, Jansen reported back ten minutes ago.”

“Did he find anything?”

“I don’t know. There was too much static on his transmission and then he cut out.”

McIntyre was distracted by the sound of a lobster boat’s four stroke engine. He gazed out the window and when the vessel came into view he recognised the pilot from last night’s ceilidh. One of the MacNeil twins, he thought. He couldn’t be certain which one, but he had heard Donald MacNeil had gone blind after drinking a toxic batch of poitín and was at a Glasgow clinic having a new set of retinal implants. McIntyre left the office and ran the length of the jetty until he caught up with the boat. The fisherman greeted him with a broad smile showing his impressive set of veneers. Putting the engine into neutral he said in a voice as rough as gravel,

“Madainn mhath.”

“Aye, and yourself, Lachlan,” said McIntyre raising a half-hearted hand in response. He was in little mood for making cordial conversation or preventing reckless fisherman from taking their boats out in treacherous conditions.

“It’s Donald,” replied the fisherman.

“I’m sorry Donald, I thought you were Lachlan.” Donald MacNeil kept smiling and said,

“Don’t worry, it’s a common mistake. I get confused which one I am myself sometimes.”

“How are the new eyes?”

“They’re fine, Mac, just fine. I got back from Glasgow yesterday. I’m still getting used to them.”

“How are things back on the mainland?”

“It’s a scary place Mac. Curfews by night and rioting by day. It’s going to pieces. I was glad to come home.”

“Aye, I heard things are getting out of hand.” Both men nodded, acknowledging each other’s concerns. Finally Donald MacNeil said,

“Hey, did ye see that Mac? Did ye see the tremor?” McIntyre found it amusing the islanders would always refer to the experience of the tremors in visual terms.

“Aye, I did.”

“And last night’s tremor was the worst yet. It was different from the usual tremors from the shale rigs. And the wave? It came from way out in the Atlantic, Anton Dohrn or the Rockall Trough. English Pete told me you moved into the observation pod, up on Mullach Sgar after the wife threw you out? You must have seen the wave?” McIntyre ignored the reference to his wife, he didn’t want to provide the island gossips with more information than they needed, or deserved.

“I must admit, I slept through that one,” said McIntyre.

“I heard you were dancing.”

“Was Lachlan telling tales again? Where is he?” Donald MacNeil pointed below to the deck.

“He’s sleeping off his hangover. Six O’clock this morning and he was still mad with the drink. It must have been some ceilidh and a tremor thrown in for good measure. I’m sorry I missed it.”

When news came in of the wave hitting the west coast of the island, the ceilidh had been in full swing. Lennox, who was on duty at the time, had gone up to the village hall and informed him the seismic detection system had been activated. Even though it was getting dark, and he was drunk, he had wanted to take a cutter out to conduct search and rescue operations, but orders came in from the Ministry of Defence and Surveillance (MoDs) they were coordinating the response. McIntyre and his crew were instructed to wait for further instructions. One of the locals had called to say, he saw a squad of terra-drones, terrifying looking military-class droids, being transported to the island’s military base. He wanted to know if the they under threat of invasion. The Commandant finally made contact and afterwards Lennox insisted he went home, or to be specific, back to the observation pod where he was living rough. McIntyre drew a critical eye across the lobster boat and said,

“I hope you’re not taking her out, particularly if you’re only just settling in a new set of eyes?”

“After the amount of poitín I heard you drunk last night, my eyes will be in a better state than yours this fine morning. Anyway, we’re just picking up some crab pots close to the shore - not that we’re expecting anything.”

“It wouldn’t be a new batch of poitín from Barra would it?” Donald MacNeil grinned playfully and replied,

“God no Mac, that type of activity would be highly illegal and what with all the Feds arriving on a helicopter in the middle of the night, only a fool would...”

“How do you know about Feds arriving?”

“English Pete told me.”

“All the same, we don’t know the extent of yesterday’s damage.” Donald MacNeil disturbed his train of thought. He pointed to the ocean and said,

“I see some of the rigs took a battering and English Pete told me a ship run aground at Loch a Ghlinne? A Green Movement ship no less. The military arrested most of the survivors.”

“Aye, English Pete seems to know more about what’s going on this island than I do. Eight years on these islands and I’ve never met English Pete. Why is that?”

“He keeps to himself. He used to work for the National Trust, but when they were disbanded he stayed and devoted his life to protecting the puffins. He won’t leave them for a minute. He was upset about the wave. The last puffin colony in the world he tells me. He’ll be even more upset this morning.”

“I’ll need to pay him a visit one of these days. Anyway, the military won’t allow us land access to their section of the island so Jansen and Lennox have taken a cutter out to take a look. We’ll know more when they get back.”

“I’m heading to Boreray. How’s it looking down there?”

“There’s a lot of debris floating out on the ocean and the forecast is for a force 7 gale. I shouldn’t let you…” Donald MacNeil swatted the air as if to dismiss his protests. He said,

“I’ll just turn the bow into any big waves and ride them. See you for a drink, down the Puffin?”

“Aye, you might but I would rather you wait…” Donald MacNeil put the engine in gear, cupped his hand to his ear and gestured he couldn’t hear McIntyre over the mechanical sound. The lobster boat passed out of the floating harbour leaving acrid fumes dispersing in the air. McIntyre coughed. He rolled a hemp cigarette, lit it and watched as the boat made its way out to open sea.

The islanders were a hardy and adaptable people, he thought. Originally from the mainland, many of them were contracted to bioengineer the island and make it fertile. More arrived to work on the micro-climate control project and the biomes, but curiously some decided to stay; most likely to escape the troubles back home. The island seemed to be on the periphery of the modern world where the pace of change was slower. They had never experienced the same problems with drugs, crime and pollution as they had on the mainland. While folk from the city fretted about their diet, credit card debt and not meeting work targets, island life revolved around a more palpable world: the sea, fishing, the weather and good poitín were the main topics in the Island’s local brew shack.

In his opinion, city dwellers generally cared little for nature unless they were inconvenienced by the winter snows or floods. They were surrounded by a sterile environment of concrete, tarmac and tinted glass. They felt detached from the living planet and not part of it, but the change in the environment had affected all. Even on the island. The search for methane hydrate had brought more strangers to the shores of the island. Some assimilated with island life, others didn’t. When the tremors first occurred the natives would curse and mutter expletives under their breaths but now they were part of everyday life. Something they reluctantly accepted. There were some jobs but not as many as had been promised. It was said a number of drilling accidents had polluted the sea around the island with hydraulic fracturing fluid and the local marine life had started to die back. The production company denied responsibility, ironically pointing to global warming resulting in changes to ocean currents, temperatures and acidification. The military presence never mingled, he thought.

McIntyre watched the lobster boat hurdle a large swell. He held his breath and then gasped in relief when Donald MacNeil waved to him in the distance. Smiling, he returned to the Harbour Master’s office. He examined the Commandant’s face. He was expecting his skin to be tanned after his holiday, but it was a shade of grey only described on a painter’s chart. McIntyre said,

“One of the local fishermen is feeling brave enough to take a boat out...”

“Fishermen?” interrupted the Commandant, shifting his eyes to the ceiling, “they’re not fishermen. I come from a long tradition of fishermen.”

“You mean aquaculture surely? Running a fish farm in Harris hardly makes you the Old Man of the Sea.”

“I still know a fisherman when I see one.”

“What else are they to do apart from picking up crabs?” The Commandant grumbled,

“As long as that’s all they are doing. I heard reports some fishermen have been unloading the odd crate of poitín with their catch of the day. Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about fishing. We have a natural disaster on our hands.” McIntyre expanded the 3D map of St Kilda to display more of the British Isles. He pointed to the North Atlantic fault line stretching north to Iceland and then he drew his finger back to Rockall Bank. He stated,

“It’s obviously not a natural disaster. I mean, there’s no history of natural seismic activity in the Outer Hebrides. There is a fault line running the mid-Atlantic ridge but no plate boundary subduction zones. We’re used to waves hitting the island, but only from the east and not on this scale. A wave caused by methane hydrate drilling on a stressed fracture wouldn’t cause a wave of this magnitude. It’s possible a submarine landslip caused it, but even then the Coast Guard and not the military would be leading search and rescue. I think it was a military operation. If it was a natural occurrence or as a result of shale drilling, why the news blackout? Why have MoDs instated a no-go zone within a forty mile radius of St Kilda?”

“True. When I contacted them I was put through to some MoDs big cheese called John Gordon Cluny. He was a cagey bastard but he confirmed the no-go zone applied to all non-military personnel. He said MoDs will be coordinating search and rescue operations for now. I told him he was full of mince and I smelled a rat.”

“What did he say?”

“He said to follow orders or he would pull some strings and I would be cleaning out public toilets back in Stornoway.”

“So apart from the new hydrogen fuelled ferry sinking and the damage to the rigs, what else do we have?”

“There are a few other complications. According to one of my contacts in Norway, a Green Movement ship tried to disrupt a Russian drilling operation in the Arctic. A few Hedge Monkeys got arrested and one got shot, but the ELF captured several Russian security personnel and ransomed them in exchange for activist prisoners. The ELF also sabotaged a Russian oil rig and a military surveillance base so they couldn’t be followed.”

“Who the hell are the ELF? And what has this got to do with our operation?”

“The Earth Liberation Front are a group of eco-activists who are on the MoDs terrorists watch list. My contact believes after being feed by the ELF, the GM ship fled here, to St Kilda. Unfortunately, a Russian surveillance ship picking up their trail so it’s possible it was also hit by the wave, hence the MoDs involvement.”

“But you can’t confirm this?”

“With the Prophylaxis satellite network being down and the MODs muscling us out of the picture, I can’t be certain.”

“Find out what they are up to. Use your contacts. You used to work in Communications, didn’t you? Isn’t your brother some Government big wig? Ask him.”

McIntyre turned away from the Commandant and walked to the window - he didn’t want him to see his face flush with irritation. He resented his elder brother, Raymond being brought into the conversation. He hadn’t heard a word from him in eight years, and then last week he received a message requesting he contact him as a matter of urgency. He ignored it. McIntyre rubbed the temples of his head to alleviate the pressure spawned by his hangover. Finally, he said,

“One other thing. The MoDs research centre up on the hill is being mothballed.”

“So I was informed,” replied the Commandant. “I’m not sure what they did up there, but I’ve heard some rumours, so no bad thing in my opinion. What was left of the local shale industry was destroyed by last night’s wave, the climate control research project has ran its course and the military are winding down. I suspect this station will be next for the chop, but until then we have a job to do. I know this is against our orders I want you to take a cutter to Rockall Bank and see what the MoDs are up to. When you are done, report straight back. I might even forget about last night’s drinking session, and won’t put you on a charge.”

McIntyre walked to the boathouse wondering how the commandant knew about the ceilidh and he had been drinking. In the village, a small gathering of islanders had collected by the floating dock. Some were fixing new frack off placards on the lampposts, others were lifting plastic crates from a fishing boat. A new batch of poitín.