ME06 - Story

Night came, an impenetrable blackness of roaring, merciless sound. This was the birthing. A new child had entered the world, a child which would grow quickly, mature then die and become forgotten. But before that it would be loved.

The gale howled with demonic fury, shrieking, screaming, and vengeful. The surf, unchecked for three thousand miles, smashed against the battlements of Rubha Robhanais. Boiling seas exploded like thunder on black rock, flinging a hail of spray fifty feet into the air. Lifted by fierce winds it became as one with the lashing rain and was blown obliquely across the headland of this wild shoreline.

To the south the inhabitants of Steorabhagh had long secured their dwellings against the storm, closing shutters, pulling curtains and locking doors before huddling around their firesides. They waited, frightened, praying for the storm to abate. In the firelight ashen faces reflected their fears. The banshee wind raging down chimneys laughed hysterically at these puny beings with tightened lips and rolling eyes.

It was not a night for the faint hearted for, throughout the world, there can be no greater terror than a ruthless winter storm of the North Atlantic.

Yet for Shona MacDonald, the storm and the night held no fears. She was a child of the dark, a daughter of the storm, a maid of wild places. This was her world and in it, overlooking the incensed turmoil of Cunnel Bay near the hamlet of Eoropaidh, she was excited by the delirium of the savage night.

In the galley kitchen she was safe and secure behind the thick walls of the disused lighthouse which was now her home. As she prepared her evening meal she hummed to the Wagnerian opera being performed in the amphitheatre of the night. The soprano of the wind, the bass of the sea, the chorus of the rain. It sent the blood coursing hotly through her veins. She raised her eyes heavenwards. "Soon." she whispered, "Soon, my love. Be patient."

The storm crashed and screamed like a caged animal. She nodded as she stood by the oven. "I know, my precious, I know. I will come to you when the time is right."

The savage darkness vented its wrath and flung its tantrum into the unseen clouds. She laughed and chided it gently as she would an errant child. The maelstrom pouted and throughout her meal it sulked, muttering and grumbling around the lighthouse. She smiled to herself. Her lover was frustrated, annoyed and yet, feigned disinterest.

She knew better for she also knew her lover well and soon would be unable to contain its unbridled desire for her. Beside the roaring fire she read, waiting, listening, while around her the storm continued with its petulance. She taunted its pettiness with her inactivity, distancing herself by sinking into the written words, allowing her thoughts to merge with those of the author. Yet, somewhere, deep within hidden recesses, she was conscious of the first stirrings of her own desires. The liquid warmth of a sensuous tide ebbing and flowing within her, a flickering need which was still just a candle glow but would soon ignite into a flame of passion.

She kept it subdued as evening waxed into full night. With the fire dying to a dull glow and the clock chiming an hour before midnight, Shona MacDonald knew it was time to join her lover. She laid aside her book and rose from the chair. She sensed her awakening.

The storm, too, also sensed this. Its petulance was pushed aside by eagerness as it gathered itself for the union between human and nature. This elemental opera was nearing the final act.

The ritual of securing her home was done with methodical slowness while she savoured the joys and pleasures awaiting her, until finally her sanctuary was barred to intruders.

She climbed the winding staircase towards the altar where she would sacrifice herself to the might of her beloved, casting off her clothes as she ascended towards her private heaven within the raging turmoil outside.

Pale lighting illuminated the glow of her naked skin and the softness of her flesh. It glinted on the heavy tresses of her Celtic dark hair which cascaded around her slender neck and shoulders. The curve of her spine, the full swell of her hips, and the shapely firmness of her thighs all gleamed golden in the yellow reflection.

The last vestige of clothing, white, fragile, silky, fell to the stone stairs and was left, abandoned, where it lay, while she, the vestal virgin of the night stepped into the throne room at the pinnacle of her tower.

The circular lamp-room was devoid now of the great light which had once cast its bright ray across the distant sea and was empty of machinery. Only the large, antique bed with its brass railed foot and head pieces and satin covered mattress occupied this domed haven.

She closed the door and stood in the warm darkness. "I am here, my love." she said quietly.

The storm roared out its lust for her. She succumbed to its demands and spread-eagled herself upon the satin-adorned sacrificial altar to await the pleasures of her lover.

Fierce wind became caressing fingers. Lashing rain turned to fond kisses. Pounding surf was the heartbeat of her enthraller. No longer was the storm a monster, a thing to be feared. Instead, she was a thing of beauty and love.

Shona let herself relax. Her breathing deepened. Her eyes closed. She gave herself to this wonderful creature of the night.

Oh, but she was a beautiful lover, this storm, as she aroused within Shona the heat of passion. The woman’s body began its slow dance of temptation and naked flesh whispered softly on pink satin.

She, the storm, tantalised her as she cavorted and writhed around Shona. The woman whimpered softly, mewing while her head rolled slowly from side to side with pleasure. Nerves tingled; sinews became taut, loins warmed quickly to the constant attentions of the storm. The dance continued to the tumultuous opera of the darkness which was nearing its finale.

The coupling between nature and human merged into a single entity of sound. The crashing of the ocean was the uncontrolled thrashing of the woman. The staccato hammering of the rain was the pummeling of her hands on trembling nakedness. The shrieking wind was the long cry of pleasurable anguish from Shona’s rasping throat.

In a wild, frenzied crescendo, storm and woman peaked in delirious, unfettered passion which exploded with such violence Shona was rocked to the very core of her being. For one brief moment which seemed to last a lifetime, they, the lovers, hung, tense and with bated breath on the edge of the precipice before swallow-diving into the abyss and plunging into the warm, dark depths of contentment.

The silver sea was calm beneath a blue sky speckled with white cloud. At daybreak the exhausted inhabitants of Steorabhagh - Stornaway - crept timidly from their dwellings, blaming the woman to the north for the wildness of the night. Relieved that the storm had finally passed they began to reassemble their daily lives, thankful the Western Isles were again at peace.

On the northern most tip of the island sunlight warmed the lamp-room of the lighthouse. Shona, descendant of the Lords of the Isles, Witch of Rubha Robhanais, slept contentedly, cradled in the golden light which spread across the Atlantic headland known as the Butt of Lewis.