it wasn't entirely unexpected; I'd half-known what I'd see on the dark water far below. But the confirmation of it sent a spasm through my. insides. A Russian fishing boat rode the sea down there, and there were men on the decks, staring up as the beam illuminated the edge of that frightening cliff. Worse, one of them was pointing and seemed to be shouting.
I ducked back quickly and hurried across the top of the Holm towards the cradle. There was no time now for hesitation; I must get into it and get going!
Climbing in, settling my feet carefully in the rear corners, I stared up along the thick nylon rope. The angle looked awesome; twenty-five degrees, even thirty! I found I had to keep my weight off centre to let the rope pass my body, and that alone made the cradle lurch alarmingly to one side.
I grabbed the rope and pulled. Nothing. No movement at all! What the hell was holding me back. A scraping sound gave me the answer. My own weight grounded the rear of the cradle. I'd have to move to the front, lean out over the gorge to shift the balance. Two awkward, fearful steps, with the cradle swaying alarmingly and I was at the front, reaching out to grab the line two feet beyond the front eyehole. And now, for the first time I could see down into the abyss, into the narrow gap where the sea, compressed between cliffs, boiled white among the black fangs of fallen rock. Right. Pull! The effort needed was enormous. The cradle slid forward a few inches, desperately slowly. And vs I changed grip, it slid straight back again. One hand didn't seem to be enough to hold the combined weight of the cradle and myself. Pull again! Try harder! Try a long pull and a quick grab. One foot gained, and hands burning from the bite of the twisting rope strands into my skin. Haul and grab, haul and grab! I'd never make it this way, not in a million years. What if .. . I pulled again, forced my body hard against the rope and very nearly turned the thing over. But it held! Again, then. Two feet gained that time, not one. But precarious as hell. Again. And again. Every time I braced my body against the rope, the cradle tried to roll' over and hurl me into the cauldron below. The rope also burned into the skin of my ribs, turning every woollen strand in my sweater into a little scraping blade. But I moved. I was out of the shadow of the cleft. My back and arms already ached fiercely. Even fit and rested I'd never have believed I could do it, let alone in the condition I was in. The rope stretched away in front of me to the fearful face of that grey, sheer cliff. I pulled, braced my body, pulled again. My ribs felt as though they were being scoured. The little pricking agonies of strain began to appear in my thighs, my neck, my back. Pull, pull, pull! Less than two feet gained each time, and shortening. But the distance still to go was lessening, too. Another effort! Pull the bloody thing! Christ! Suddenly I was nearly rolled over. The cradle pivoted upward and for a dreadful moment I was suspended almost horizontally over empty space, staring down in open-mouthed horror at the greedy, foaming water. I lost three feet and about ten years of my life getting back into equilibrium, and began again to fight my way upward.
My strength was going, though. My arms and hands were beginning to exhibit the slight numbness of muscles becoming starved of blood. Each pull required fiercer efforts, greater concentration.. How on earth had anyone done this trip with a sheep in the cradle!
How far to go? I glanced back, then stared up the rope. More than halfway, but more than halfway to exhaustion, too. I knew if once the cradle slipped back down the rope, I was beaten. If just once my grip failed, I'd be whipped back down to the Holm with a force beyond my power to hold.
The something caught my eye off to the right. The searchlight beam was moving! The fishing vessel must be easing forward towards the north end of the Holm. Once it got there, I'd be caught in the light! I pulled and pulled again. Each heave seemed to drain more energy, as though somebody had turned on a tap to draw my strength away and each wrenching effort squirted its quota into the void below. Twelve feet to go. Ten. Eight. Light all around me, but
not the full beam. Not yet. Six – and I was caught, almost blinded again, held in the centre of the light beam. Four, and something buzzed by me and an almost simultaneous crack hit my ears. The cradle jerked as a second bullet actually struck. One more heave!
Not enough. Wood splintered just behind me. Heave! And suddenly I was over' the lip, shielded by the cliff itself, holding on to the rope and clambering awkwardly over the raised front of the cradle. With a sudden zipping sound the cradle whipped away under its own weight, back down the heavy rope. I heard shots but didn't wait to look. I began to stumble instead up the short steep slope ahead of me. I must somehow reach Catriona and get off the island. But Catriona was a mile and a half away. I groaned at the thought end tried to will myself forward with promises to my weary body that if I could just get to the top, it was all downhill. I fell, forced myself up and fell again, scrambled for grips with my skinned and aching hands, dug my toes into the slope, struggled, fell and struggled some more.
I got there on my hands and knees and stayed still for a long moment, letting my eyes roam over the long incline before me. Gravity would do it, if I could stay on my feet; gravity and the wind behind. I forced myself upright and let it happen, leg forward and down, body following, leg forward. After the hell of the rope, the desperate weary upward scramble, this was almost easy! Effort was scarcely needed at all. I was swaying oddly, my body almost out of control, but gaining speed, becoming almost drunk with the sudden wonderful ease of it. That's why I bloody nearly broke my neck. Head high and eyes anywhere but where they should be, I stuck my foot into a rut and crashed down heavily, jarring bones I didn't even know existed, driving the breath from my lungs. I lay there dazed for long moments, incapable of movement, gasping, thinking almost dreamily of the endless madness I'd been through that day, hearing the shots again in my imagination. Then suddenly it wasn't a dream and I was cold and wet from the dew, shivering, thinking about that damned fishing boat and what it would be doing while I lay there. It would be heading the way I was heading, that's what it would be doing! Marasov would want to know, if he hadn't already guessed, what had happened on top of the Holm of Noss. He'd be landing men on Noss to find out. And it was fifty-fifty he would land on Noss Voe, where Catriona was waiting! If not there, the other beach was only a couple of hundred yards away. I must get moving again!
Slowly I dragged myself to my feet and set off down the slope. The slight euphoria had gone. I swayed as I stumbled on but no longer drunkenly. This was pure physical weariness, slack muscles wavering and giving, no longer under real control. Yet my mind was clear. I had no difficulty in concentrating, no difficulty in picking out the next place for each foot to fall. The difficulty lay in placing the foot there accurately. My legs were like jelly, and I was only lurching forward, yet I was covering ground, and quite quickly, too. And after a while a little control came back. Perhaps it was because each step was no longer hard labour and I'd stopped gasping for every breath. There was cool air in my lungs, oxygen flowing into me. My feet began to land where I intended them to land and I found I was in altogether better balance.
I didn't look round. Wherever Marasov's fishing boat might be, I wouldn't be able to see it because it would be hidden beneath the cliffs, and I didn't dare to look anywhere but at the next few feet of ground ahead. I fell again, several times, but never as painfully as the first time, and by now the sheer hard urgency of the need to get away focused my mind on the other need, the need to roll up again and hurry on. I was astonished by the resilience of my own body. With each passing minute it was allowing control to return to my mind. My ribs ached from the rope, my hands were badly chafed and very sore, my feet were developing blisters in Lincoln's awkward, lumbering boots. But I was getting there. Would I be there in time? Damn it, I must be there in time! I needed every second I could gain and quite coldly and consciously I allowed gravity more play; let my body go forward faster. I stumbled again, and was up, almost exhilarated by the speed, and hurrying down that long slope.