November story - #6

Complete silence ruled, where many once congregated in summer. Paled charts adorned the walls, blackened kettles rested on rusted grates, and old photographes, slowly turning sepia through sheer old ages, hung above the fireplace. Many of the faces had gone from this world, now only living in others' memories. Cups stood on draining boards, where they had been left, one forgotten autumn ago. Their abandonment often confirmed by the state of the locks, holding the doors against the weather. Rusted shut, for good. The wind gently blew around the sheiling huts. Dozens would spend long forgotten summers there, fattening up their cattle for the harshness of winter. Merry voices echoed along the valley, games played and meals made. All gone with the winds of change. Six days they would tend their kyne and enjoy the open space of Cuidhsiadar. On the seventh day, their spiritual needs were tended to in the old chapel, high up on the clifftop, south of the sheilings. But that too now stood roofless, derelict and open to the mercies of the harsh Minch winds. The low sun cast shadows, but some moved. Filiscleitir had attracted attention, but attention whose intentions were diametrically opposed to the use of the chapel there.

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