A Full Moon Tale of Lewis

It was a dangerous mission, but having had the tip-off, I needed to see for myself whether it was true. Now that I HAVE seen, it’s my duty to share with you the darkness that I have witnessed at the heart of life here in Lewis.

Everything the dissenters say is true. I have been a dupe, but no more. Please, though, if anything happens to me – if you hear that I’ve ‘gone to open a craft shop in Tiree’ or to ‘join the foreign mission’, don’t believe it. The powers that be will say and do anything to prevent the truth emerging.

An operative contacted me via Twitter, and informed me that I am a member of a Calvinist cult, and that I need rescuing and rehabilitating into the real world. He was concerned that I was not only leading a restricted existence myself, but also imposing the same on others. At first, I laughed it off, but then a few things started me off wondering . . .

At the end of last summer, for example, the minister and his wife hosted a barbecue for those of us who indoctrinate young people into our cult via Sunday school and youth clubs. While we sat in the garden, I noticed one of the elders, peering over the wall from the church next door. It was a Saturday evening. What was he doing there, I wondered, and why was he spying on us? Was there something in the church we weren’t meant to see – and was the ‘barbecue’ just a distraction?

I put it to the back of my mind. Months passed, and I was busy stopping people from playing golf on Sundays. But, last week, I realised the true nature of what happens in the church on Saturday evenings.

There is a prayer meeting, but this just provides the brothers with a convenient excuse to gather in the session room afterwards. That is when the real business takes place. And that is where the story takes a sinister turn.

I disguised myself as a cleaner (apron, can of Pledge), and so slipped unnoticed into the building. The door to their meeting room was ajar, and so I hovered, dabbing with my chamois every so often.

They had divided into groups. Some seemed to be devising a strategy for removing washing from clothes lines unseen. An elite group near the window were filling brown envelopes, some marked ‘CnES’ and others with the label, ‘Stornoway Trust’. All perfectly standard and above board. Disappointed at the ordinariness of what I was seeing, I turned to go.

Suddenly, I heard one of the elders calling for quiet. ‘The minister is going to make the call’, he said. I froze, every particle of my being poised for flight, but wanting to hear this mysterious ‘call’. He punched a number into his phone. The room was utterly silent. Peeping through a crack, I could see the anxious faces of the elders, watching and listening. Then I heard the minister’s voice, and his words dropped like heavy, black stones into my heart:

‘Release the sharks’, he said, and hung up.

I looked at my watch. Eleven thirty. Of course, his terrible purpose dawned on me and, sick with terror, I started to move towards the exit. My treacherous foot, however, landed on a creaky floorboard. All at once, the session room door was flung open, and the passage was flooded with light from within. For a brief moment, I thought what a great metaphor this was for the work of the Free Church . . . but something in me rebelled against this indoctrination.

‘What are you doing here?’ the elder asked suspiciously.

‘Just . . . cleaning. There was a bit of dust on the suidheachan mòr’.

Mollified, he nodded, taking in the polish in my right hand. It was as good a disguise as any Wee Free woman could deploy.

‘How much did you hear?’ he asked then. I feigned my best innocent look, the one I use whenever I’m in the presence of the elders.

‘Not much. You know I don’t understand men’s talk’, I giggled girlishly. He seemed satisfied with this, and turned to go back into the room.

My heart hammering, I started to walk towards the outside door, feigning nonchalance. Pursing my lips, I was about to start whistling, when I remembered God isn’t keen on women doing that. Dizzy with relief, I had my hand on the door handle, when I heard the elder’s voice behind me.

‘Wait’, he said, ‘you’re not the cleaner. You’re a different woman. Come here’.

My knees knocking, I did as I was told, and he led me into the session room. The others, still most awfully assembled, looked at him quizzically.

‘She was listening at the door. I nearly let her go, thinking she was the cleaner. But she lied to me; she said she doesn’t understand men’s talk’.

No one spoke. Then, the minister put aside the white cat he had been stroking and rose to his feet. I shrank back.

‘Well’, he said at last, smiling in a deadly,

Presbyterian way – like the glint off the metal plate on a coffin – ‘that was a daft mistake to make. After we put you into an organisation filled with men just like us, after training you to understand how middle-aged Lewismen tick . . . you try to pull that rookie nonsense. Tsk.’

It was true. Everyone knew I had been trained by the Free Church Covert Operations Unit to blend in with men in their fifties, sixties and even seventies. Indeed, it was no secret that my code name was ‘The Bodach Whisperer’. To try passing myself off as any other simple-minded Wee Free woman was just plain daft. Those scones would never rise.

There was only one thing I could say. My training had given me a faultless instinct for uttering exactly the words Lewismen of a certain age want to hear.

‘You’re right’.

He nodded. I could sense that I had regained a little ground, so bravely decided to push my luck.

‘What are the sharks for?’

His steely smile changed at my question. The room was still, except for the sound of sweets being unwrapped. I could see he was weighing up whether or not to trust me. It seemed the balance was about to tip away from me again . . . and then he told me.

I didn’t expect to get away from there after he’d revealed the awful truth. Now I’m on the run, not knowing who to trust, or where to go. There are some people in the Church of Scotland . . . not friends, exactly (well, I mean, they’re Church of Scotland), but they might help me move my lines, teach me some hymns, get a new identity. 

In case that doesn’t work out, though, in case they get to me first, I want to tell you the truth. It’s exactly as a few astute people suspected all along – worse, even. 

We knew about the election rigging, the indoctrination, the application of a six-day contract to every purchase of clothes pegs. But, the extent of the control was revealed to me by the minister that Saturday night.

‘The sharks’, he said, ‘are released now, and rounded up in twenty-six hours. We WILL eradicate Sunday swimming’. As I stared at him, the full horror of his words dawning on me, he laughed coldly, and added – chilling words that I cannot forget – ‘We’re sourcing moles next. They’ll enjoy digging up the golf course’.

It’s probably too late to save me. But you know the truth now. There are people on social media who have known all along, and were dismissed – yes, even by me – as wild conspiracy theorists. Find them. Only they know how things truly are.