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the living, and the world of men was closely linked with the rock, the sea and the birds with which they shared these elements. Time and space seemed suspended, so that here and now was always and everywhere.
    When she reached the glen with the magnificent drystone enclosures Lizzie turned to look down at the bay and the village. Far below, the sea was so still and clear that she expected to be able to see the fish swimming in the shallows. A fine line of white foam where the surf hit the shingle beach adorned the water’s edge like a rope of pearls. There was no smoke coming from the huts in the clachan . Fuel was scarce on the island, which lacked both substantial trees and peat, and during the summer months it was used for cooking only once a day. She could see some fields of barley, lit now by the midday sun. The meadows, yards and stock-pounds were empty as the cattle and sheep were enjoying the summer pasture on the other side of the island. From the manse she had watched the women as they set off, twice a day, to milk the cows that grazed the fine grass of Gleann Mòr. It was probably a long walk, she thought, as the women would be gone for many hours at a time. They were often singing together as they walked, and their tunes, which sounded ancient and alien but pretty enough, were sometimes carried on the breeze across the bay where they would echo in the air above the glebe.
    The puppy had slowed down ahead of her and was fighting bravely against a passive cluster of speedwells which grew next to a drystone dyke. Its ears were pointed and it growled threateningly as it stared into the innocent blue eyes of its opponents. Lizzie suddenly laughed and stretched her arms as if to embrace all the beauty of the day. She felt like a girl again, her feet were so light that they did not seem to make a dent in the grass and gone were her anxieties and her feelings of inadequacy. The frightening magnitude of her decision to marry the minister and follow him to this place was replaced by a relieving insouciance. She was Lizzie, she was her own self, and Mrs MacKenzie was no concern of hers! She felt light-headed and hot and pulled off her bonnet to let the sun and the wind dry the perspiration from around her face. How she wished she could walk with the girls of the village to Gleann Mòr; she would sing their songs and learn to milk the cows and live as close to the rocks and the sea as they did.
    She resumed her walk; youth was in her step and in the flush of her cheeks and she could see no harm in climbing a bit higher. The slope was steeper now and the grass gave way to rocks covered in lichen. A couple of willows were crouching beneath an outcrop – they had been forced by the wind and the weather into submission. Lizzie was delighted to see a young boy of eight or nine years old coming towards her from the higher ground ahead of her. He was fair and pretty and looked an image of health although his clothes were tattered and filthy. She thought how beautiful these children would be if only she could wash them and clothe them in proper, fashionable garments. She greeted the boy cheerfully in English, and he looked up in alarm as if he had only just laid eyes on her. ‘ Cia mar tha thu ,’ he answered shyly from under his fringe. His voice was branded by the characteristic lisp of the St Kildans. The mutual greetings were followed by an awkward silence as they both realised that the conversation could go no further. Lizzie smiled at the boy and indicated with her hand towards the ridge; then she waved and turned to go. The boy was suddenly alert, the shyness all gone. He gestured towards the high grounds, shaking his head as he spoke quickly and eagerly. His pale eyes were the colour of freshly caught herring and he looked quite worried. Lizzie, touched by what she interpreted as concern for her welfare, laughed and said teasingly, ‘You are as bad as my husband.’ Then she added coquettishly,