The Setting of Another Sun
PC Hugh McTaggert stood on the quay in Portlochlie harbor, gazing to the west. He was a tall rangy man with dark curly hair, and a humourous face with laugh lines at the corners of the eyes.
But tonight he was not laughing. He walked out to the very end of the breakwater and gazed to the west again, long and long, waiting for the sun to set.
According to the official report, Sgt. Neil Howie had never reached Summerisle. When it was determined that he was overdue, communication had been established with the single shortwave radio on Summerisle, in the business office of the laird of the principality. There had been much alarm, and aircraft and boats had been dispatched from the mainland, and even the notoriously standoffish island had lent its resources, searching all quarters for the missing sergeant.
It was a lookout in the crow's nest of the 3-masted schooner Rose of Summerisle who first saw flotsam and raised the cry. The wreckage of Sgt. Howie's little seaplane had been found. Young strong men of Summerisle pulled for the wreckage in the schooner's rigid inflatable, and began to search through it. A large piece was winched to the surface, the schooner's diesel engines thundering as the power winch took up the slack and dragged up waterlogged debris which had been kept floating by trapped air. There was a lot of blood in the shattered cockpit, mingling with the seawater than ran through the broken instruments. It was photographed from numerous angles for the investigators, taking special note of the registration numbers, but there was no way to bring it to shore and the slender schooner was listing dangerously from its weight. So, it was cut loose to sink. The men of Summerisle threw a handful of coins overboard after it, and poured an entire bottle of good single malt whiskey into the sea. The sergeant's overnight bag was found floating, but no body was ever found. This spring the Gulf Stream waters that surrounded the island were especially warm, following an unexplained deviation in the last growing season, and in these balmy waters, sharks were not unknown. It was fortunate, in the official opinion of the Constabulary, that the sailors of Summerisle knew the waters around their island so well, the currents and the deeps and the underwater eddies. They were able to find the missing plane so quickly, it was said, that it was almost as if they knew where to look.
Although affianced, Sgt. Howie was a single man, and so PC McTaggert, as Sgt. Howie's second, together with the Chief Constable of the West Highland Constabulary himself, had gone first to the cottage of Howie's widowed mother. She had received their news first with disbelief and then tears, then with a straight-backed strength that McTaggert had no trouble recognizing. It had been she who led them to the home of Mary Bannock, and sat down with Mary and her mother to relate the terrible news.
Their Neil was gone, Mrs. Howie had told Mary gently, holding both her hands on the kitchen table. That little seaplane . . . they had found a defect of some sort in part of the ruination of the craft. At least, thank God, it must have been quick for him. There, poor bairn. Cry all you need to. Mary wailed on her mother's shoulder, and McTaggert used the telephone in the parlor to call for Doctor, who had come quickly enough with a shot for the distraught woman when he heard what had happened.
There had been quite the spate of activity then - investigation, a few recriminations, and a verdict: accidental death, lost at sea. After the investigations were finished, a matter of some weeks, there had been a magnificent memorial service at the Episcopal church Howie had belonged to. The service was attended by policemen from all over the Highlands. There had been a small stir among the churchgoers when a terribly elegant couple was ushered to the front, he very tall and slim in a magnificently tailored dark suit, and she a brilliant natural blonde in an utterly correct navy suit and tasteful, costly pearls. The only fault that the avidly watching locals might hope to find was that she wore no hat. The Chief Constable had gone and spoken to them, and reported back to his wife that it was none other than Lord Summerisle himself and his fiancee, Miss Rose MacKinnon, mistress of the island school. These two worthies gave their solemn and undivided attention to the long church service, although they participated in none of the prayers. Those who were sitting close enough during the service to see did not mistake the sheen of tears in His Lordship's dark eyes, nor the concerned glance and comforting squeeze of his hand by the blonde lady at his side. Afterward, it was explained to the priest and the Chief Constable that Lord Summerisle felt responsible for Sgt Howie's death, since he had been on his way to Summerisle when the accident occurred. And over nothing but a silly prank someone had played, as their Rowan was alive and well and would be in school with all the other girls when Miss Rose returned two days hence. A shame, such a great shame.
Afterward, as His Lordship stood speaking with the Chief Constable, Miss Rose stood with Sgt. Howie's mother and the group of ladies of the church who were assisting her. One of the ladies had commented on His Lordship's somber mein. Yes, Miss Rose had said candidly, His Lordship has been very upset. He feels responsible. He insisted on coming today . . . I do so hope that we haven't intruded upon your grief.
Not at all, Miss, Howie's mother had replied gently. His Lordship mustn't feel responsible. We're honored that you and His Lordship would take the time to come all the way here, and by sail too, to attend, when you'd never even met my son.
Oh, said Miss MacKinnon, turning her blue, blue eyes toward the approaching peer. With everything I've heard said of Sergeant Howie, I feel that I know him. His Lordship bowed over Mrs. Howie's hand, his face grave and pale. The peer inquired after the welfare of Sgt. Howie's fiancee. Upon being told that she had felt unable to attend and was resting at home in seclusion, the pain in His Lordship's eyes was obvious. I feel completely responsible, he said. Never, Your Lordship, said Mrs. Howie. My son was doing his duty. His Lordship seemed much moved by Mrs. Howie's quiet strength, and bent again to kiss her hand.
After the condolences were finished the elegant couple departed for their hired car, the chauffeur waiting to open the Bentley's door for them. Such a handsome pair, people said later. How well it speaks of His Lordship that he takes such responsibility for something so completely beyond his control. Such graceful folk . . . somehow, they looked as if they don't really belong in this world.
Hugh gazed to the west, and gazed and gazed, waiting for the right moment. When the sun lowered almost to the unusually clear horizon, he drew himself up straight and saluted the sun three times.
"He has flown with you now, my Lord Nuada, and understands the truth. Grant Neil eternal life among the host of his own god, who loves him. Clothe him in blossom and green. I have done what I have done, for love of those I love, and those I live separated from will now be safe again." Tears began to trace their way down McTaggert's cheeks. "Forgive me, Neil," he said softly. "It was the only way." And he tossed what he was carrying onto the sunset water, and turned away to walk home.
Evening gulls clucked and mewed along the breakwater, or stood on the rocks and preened. A couple of them, riding low on the ripples like mallards, bobbed along, past a branch of apple blossom that floated on the gilded water.