Short story XXIII - parts 1-8

I started short story XXIII in July 2015. This is a reminder of the parts I wrote then.

The engine droned monotonously as the bus went down the road at a steady speed. The hills on the southern horizon were blue under the summer sun, as the lochs winked in the distance. Far away to the southwest, one hill stood out. At this distance, it wasn't all that conspicuous. Taran Mor, standing guard at the mouth of Loch Reasort. Of the forty passengers on board, only one or two could pinpoint the hill. The others, visitors to the island, had their minds on their imminent visit to the Callanish Stones.

The engine droned monotonously as the bus went down the road at a steady speed. The hills on the southern horizon were blue under the summer sun, as the lochs winked in the distance. Far away to the southwest, one hill stood out. At this distance, it wasn't all that conspicuous. Taran Mor, standing guard at the mouth of Loch Reasort. Of the forty passengers on board, only one or two could pinpoint the hill. The others, visitors to the island, had their minds on their imminent visit to the Callanish Stones.

We laughed as we reached the double-tracked section of the Uig road, between Kinloch Roag and Loch Croistean. "The B8011 (M)", my driver smirked. "I remember it being single-tracked, and going round all the houses in Enaclete", I replied. "It's certainly taken minutes off the drive, and made it safer". Soon, our mirth was cut short as the road reverted to its single-tracked, winding state at Ungeshader. "I've been told, by the way, that you'll have to walk from Carnish," my driver presently said. That was a disappointment. "The jeep that was to have taken you to Hamnaway is out of action, broken down near the house. Nobody else has a vehicle that can tackle that sort of road". However, I soon found out that not all vehicles were even able to tackle the Queen's highway that is the B8011.

The gentle, green slopes around Carishader, the stark valley west of Miavaig and the broad swathe of land around Uig Sands lay behind me. Utter silence was only broken by the wind sighing through the heather, and the clatter of water in the rocky channel. Mealisbhal, the island's highest mountain, reared up to my right. "You'll be met at Hamnaway", my friend's words echoed in my mind. Hamnaway. Eight brutal miles away to the south. I glanced round, and could just make out his vehicle crossing the bridge across the Red River. The yellow strand gleamed dully under the low cloud, but I turned my back on it as I resumed my slow, painful journey along the rough track. South. And even beyond Hamnaway, my journey would head south. "Mind if I join you?" came the voice. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

In the far distance, the bay of Hamnaway shimmered under the low cloud. We just about emerged from under the grey pall, the woman telling me the stories of the outlying shielings, where the villagers of the district would take their cattle during the summer. She was going round to check out their locations. No, we were not going to share tents, thank you. Where I was going to head south from Hamnaway, she would make for the moors east, towards Morsgail. I did not tell her of the boat that would be awaiting me. After a few more hours of hard, ankle-breaking walking, we finally reached the shoreline. Not a breath of wind stirred, allowing the midges a free for all on unprotected skin. The sun peeped from under the cloud, as its edge rolled in from the west. The house was unoccupied and locked, so we pitched up a little distance to the south. The sun set. We chatted away in the gathering darkness, the wavelets making a brief sound as they washed ashore. No other sounds were audible. Night fell.

"Have you heard from Eva yet?" As if on cue, the satellite phone beeped, and a message appeared on the screen. "At Hamnaway. Nearly gave me the slip at Carnish. You have six hours."

A beeping noise awoke me. As if a text message had come through on my mobile. None had arrived, and there was no signal. None of the providers even came through. Quietly, I opened the tent's front flap and glanced at the other tent. Did the noise come from there? But surely, she couldn't have a signal either? My friend's words echoed in my ears. "You'll be met at Hamnaway". The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I had been met at Carnish.