Chapter 11
Tim's bruised hands gripped tightly at the hor...Enbarr's...mane as he lay bent low over the horse's neck.
Had there been any passers-by in this ungodly weather, they might have gasped and, maybe, been scared silly, even crossed themselves! There was a surreal quality about this menacing...apparition...of the rider and his pale mount, reminiscent of the Grim Reaper, hurrying along on his hellbent ride to God knew where.
As to the 'spectre' himself: Tim saw nothing of the landscape rolling by, his eyes staring vacantly in the gloomy distance ahead. His lips were moving, but no sound passed them. His soaked T-shirt and pants clung to his body like a second skin and his hair streamed in the wind, weighed down by the rain. Tim's bare skin, shining with water, was dotted with goosebumps but he felt none of the cold.
And Enbarr untiringly coursed on, ears pointed forward and nostrils flaring. His hoofs never even seemed to touch the ground. He flew through the water, causing much splashing where his hoofs plunged in the surf. His chest glistened and in his wake, more of Manannàn's Horses roared inshore. Lightning added more drama to this tragedy in the making.
Tragedy? Not if he could help it, Tim grimly thought.
Then horse and rider plodded through the soft sand, barely slowing down, and up the lower dune that separated Mungo MacAskill's cottage from the beach below.
It didn't even register to Tim he was so comfortably seated on the horse's bare back. He had mounted horses before, but he wasn't exactly a seasoned horseman.
Sending a prayer of relief to the weeping heavens above, Tim slid off Enbarr's back, nearly going to his knees the moment his feet touched ground. His legs were shaking so badly he thought he'd left them still attached to Enbarr. A sudden weakness made him feel unsteady and a little giddy, too. He deliberately shook the annoying tremors by striding to Mungo's door. Eureka! It worked!
His euphoria was short-lived, though.
He banged on the door. When nothing happened, he added a little hollering in accompaniment to the tattoo on the door.
"Mungoooo! Open up! I need your help! Please open up!"
All his urgent calling remained unanswered as well with the inevitable result he got a little frustrated until it struck him Mungo was most likely down at the village pub on this day.
Without another thought, he spun on his heels and once more, with a grunt, swung his body atop Enbarr and, once again, plunged into a wild ride, but now in the direction of the village.
This was no fancy ride, but Enbarr held his way as man and mount crossed the machair, scaring into flight a flock of swans they passed by. Between them, they sent clods of earth this way and that. Enbarr kept his pace on the rough terrain that was boggy in many places.
Had the situation less dire, Tim might have felt exhilarated – maybe even whooping in total abandonment...at one with nature.
Once, Tim nearly fell off Enbarr and only stayed upright by one hand holding on to the horse's manes, the other firmly around his neck, and pressing his knees in Enbarr's flanks.
At long last – it felt like the ride had lasted hours – he more fell than slid off Enbarr's back and he had to lean against the horse to get his breath back, still liking the physical contact he had with the animal. He was breathing hard and he swore he could hear the thudding of his racing heart – or was it Enbarr's? He didn't know any longer and he didn't care, either. All that mattered now was Ducky. It was Ducky's life that hung by a silver thread.
Little stars darted in and out of his vision and he had to blink a few times to clear it. By then, people had filtered out of the pub and onto the street to see what all the hullabaloo was about. It was still raining, but no longer the fat drops the darkened skies had unleashed before. Above all, it was hardly an everyday occurrence to hear horse neigh and unshod hoofs hit the asphalt in front of their pub!
Tim let go of the support and stumbled towards the door, legs feeling like mush. Someone – two someones – were by his side and supported him by holding him firmly by the elbows and waist till his legs could carry him again without threatening to buckle.
"Mungo..." he panted, looking from one to the other and then the crowd at large.
Enbarr stood by, head up as if the hellish ride had meant nothing to him. An occasional snort and a scraping hoof seemed to punctuate Tim's urgent questions.
"Where's Mungo MacAskill?" Tim's voice sounded hoarse.
Then Mungo was right in front of him, impatiently brushing the others aside who were still flanking Tim, just in case...
"Timothy McGee." He took in Tim's sodden and weary, slightly haunted, appearance and knew.
"Dr. Mallard..." He said, and saw his suspicion confirmed by the flash in Tim's eyes.
"Please, hurry..." Tim pleaded. "The tide's rising fast. He hasn't much longer."
He vaguely remembered someone had thrown a blanket over his shoulders. Another Samaritan had planted a mug in his shaking hands, filled with a hot liquid tasting like a melange of coffee and whisky rather sticking to the palate by the generous amount of sugar.
Feeling a little warmer inside, he did his best to explain in concise terms what had happened, in what state his friend was and the exact location of the accident.
Then, it seemed as everything happened at once as the whole community, which by now seemed to have gathered around him, saw there was no time to loose.
His words were barely cold, when, in no time at all, the dedicated locals had volunteered and had sprung into action. The closest Lifeboat stations being either on Barra or Lewis, it came to the locals to organize this rescue mission.
Some boatmen from the local salmon farm had offered a boat and others had assembled rescue kits and anything that might come in useful. A very old man – rather his young grandson - even brought what looked like a large, weathered, pole of sorts.
"Piece o' flotsam. Nuffink goes tae waste, here. Must've come from the Americas. Mebbe handy for leverage." He spat a large chunk of tobacco, as he and the lad and another man took the piece of driftwood timber to the boat.
Tim was thinking, rather incongruously, how this man looked pretty much like a piece of flotsam and jetsam himself.
It was decided they'd get there faster by boat than by car, which soon had the mob moving to the small quay where a handful of men expertly jumped into one of the boats.
The local vet offered to drive his Land Rover as close as possible, surmizing he would get there in time to transport the victim to the only hospital on the island if such be necessary. Aine hopped into the car, leaving Mungo in charge in the village.
Tim directed his steps towards the boat, but one of the men who was in the act of undoing the mooring lines, advised him to stay where he was.
"Sir, we know where it is. There really is no need for you to come with us. Please, let yourself be checked. Mungo will call for the doctor. You are obviously in need of medical help. We'll get your friend off those rocks."
Mungo tried to hold Tim back but the younger man, despite his not too peachy state, agilely worked his way past him, thinking what magic a mere flash of his NCIS badge could've worked, had he brought it with him; jurisdiction be damned.
Not heeding the man's objections, Tim descended the ladder and unceremoniously hopped into the boat, fixing the men with a glare cultivated by years of association with Gibbs. Thus he made it crystal clear he wasn't going anywhere else but with them to rescue his friend who was stuck on some sodden rocks on the most northern side of that beach.
The men sighed resignedly and, tossing a life jacket to Tim, powered the boat. Tim slid down to the bottom, little caring his butt was getting soaked more than it was already from his wild ride on a wet Enbarr, and it felt like it was already colder than the ass of a snowman. He quickly donned the life jacket, pausing and frantically grabbing a lifeline with every heavy bump on a wave.
When he was appropriately 'dressed', he sat up again and stared keenly ahead, his hair streaming behind him, the salt stinging his eyes and wind and spray whipping his face.
All the tossing and bopping made him slightly nauseous and dizzy – the headache had become his constant companion - but he stoically braved it out, unyielding stubbornness and determination fuelling his strength. He was getting more nervous and restless as the boat coursed along at its top speed.
The islanders handled the boat expertly in these treacherous conditions. Not that it was a smooth ride. Anything but! The waves were choppy and the boat appeared to jump them like a springbok. It was heavy going and there wasn't much longer Tim could endure this stomping. His stomach was in knots already.
Then, one of the men on the lookout shouted excitedly, jabbing his finger towards a spot at the end of the beach and the helmsman navigated the boat hence.
Tim crawled forward and peered intently in the gloom. Again, he felt his heart roaring wildly in his ears, anxious about what condition he would find Ducky in.
The heavy surf and adverse conditions worked against them as they tried to beach the boat. As soon as the bottom touched ground, Tim was out and plodding through the water and onto the beach, breaking into a run towards where he'd left Ducky, praying like he'd never done before in all his life.
More than once, he stumbled and cursed his clumsiness.
They all arrived at the rocks at the same time and found Ducky just moments away from drowning. His upper body and head were afloat but every now and then, a wave washed over him that left him spluttering and gasping for air. His body now being afloat combined with the current was pulling on his injured leg. No way could he endure this much longer.
Ducky was barely aware help had arrived. Tim, still having his life jacket on, positioned his body under Ducky's and took a hold under each of Ducky's armpits, thus keeping the weakening man in a more stable position. His backside connected painfully with the sharp rocks below.
"Hold on, Ducky." Tim was muttering encouraging words in the other's ears.
Ducky mumbled something incoherently.
"We'll get you out, soon. Promise."
The others had immediately set to work and discovered the pole did after all come in handy.
Another wave came rolling in and doused them all but the locals picked up where they'd left and after some considerable time, they managed to get the trapped foot loose, setting Ducky and Tim helplessly adrift in the surf. From one dangerous situation right into another.
Luckily, Tim succeeded in pushing both of them away from the rocks into the deeper water. Still holding Ducky whilst half breast stroking towards the beach, somewhat hampered by the clothes.
One of the men came alongside and, between them, they pulled Ducky onto dry land where Aine was waiting. The vet had made good time and both were waiting beside the Land Rover until their medical expertise was needed.
Now that they were both safe and sound again, Tim felt the sudden drop of the adrenaline rush and there was nothing left to keep him on his feet any longer so he simply folded into a sodden heap on the sand beside Ducky.
They were transported to the only hospital on the island where Tim was diagnosed with nothing worse than a very mild hypothermia, exhaustion and some cuts and bruises which would heal in no time. His hands looked worse than they actually were and were bandaged up.
Ducky was off a little worse, suffering a torn ligament in his ankle and a moderate hypothermia. His body showed multiple bruises and contusions, none of which were too bad.
- -.-. -. . .
