Beinn a' Bhuidhne

Like a lidless eye, the loch stared up into the sky. Fluffy clouds drifted slowly aloft, but the sun shone brightly. The black ribbon forked, one going south, the other west into the far distance. Both were roads into memory. The wind whispered through the rough grass and heather. Little heaps of peats were set away from the roadway as it threaded south. The modern addition of wind turbines fell away as altitude was slowly gained. Little huts started to appear, a little way off the beaten track. Some blown apart by the unrelenting and unforgiving wind. "Let's stop here". The car pulled into a lay-by and its engine was switched off. "This is where we went to cut peats". She looked around. The wind sighed through the heather. "We'd leave a jar of jam buried there, and the next year it would be dug out. Just scrape off the mould and it would be as good as new". An old, rusty kettle lay amongst the ruin of the shieling hut. Lochs lay glistening in the distance, where the river ran eastward towards inhabited lands. "Sometimes, we'd start the car and let it roll down the hill". She smiled. "Sometimes, we'd make it all the way into town". The sun was momentarily obscured by a passing cloud, and a little chill fell. But the light came back quickly. The running of the river was the only other background noise. The car door shut, its engine started and the vehicle moved on towards the top of Beinn a' Bhuidhne.

A visit

Darkness slowly crept up the afternoon sky. Lights went on in the village on one side of the bay. A brash, bold light shone across from the edge of town. It lit up the ungated entrance near the sea. Any who wished to do so could pass through at any time of the day, or night. The markers stood silently, some having done so for a century, or two, or even longer. The ravages of time had sometimes taken their toll on the inscriptions. I walked in through the gate and found the stone, and the flowers I had left near it on a previous visit. The sea swished ashore on the shingle beach nearby, the wind blowing coldly from the gathering dusk.

As I turned to walk away, I became aware of a smiling face nearby. It was younger than I remembered it when I last saw it. “It’s OK”, she said. “I was allowed back tonight, it’s nearly midwinter.” I recalled that she had come with me on a walk to the Fideach at the end of June. No place to go to after dark now, and after this visit I’d just walk back along the shore. “Just wanted to know how you were doing”. She looked me in the eye, knowing full well how I was doing. For my part, I knew the answers to the questions that welled up in me. “It went as I expected it to”, she said, her smile fading. “I saw my husband, and my mother, and I had to come along this time”. Many’s a time, she had told me of a dream, where she had met her late husband and her mother on a railway platform. They were going on a train, but she couldn’t come. Not yet. That evening in October, it was time. “I saw you”, she said, quietly. “You tried to make it bearable”. She shook her head, but then her smile returned. “You always had this calming influence on me”.

The moon rose over the village as the darkness became complete. I could still see her, a memory of how she had looked in better days, perhaps four years previously. “I had been worried about closing things down”, she said. “And we had not finished clearing out the files”. I had always been amazed how prescient she had been, knowing full well what was going to happen, and bravely confronting the prospect, taking the actions that needed to be taken in preparation. Nonetheless still buying new spectacles. “You have to carry on now”, she interrupted my memories. “I mean, not leave right now. Step away from your sorrow, from what we had. That is now closed. We had a lovely time, the simple life. You, me, and the cat. Going on bus runs round the island, meals out in the Crown, the County. All those people we met together”. She smiled broadly, and I smiled back at her. “Take that with you. I hope you can stay on in the island. But even if you can’t, I’ll be there. Even if it’s difficult to come here – I’m not constrained to this place”.

The wind wafted in over the wall as the moon drifted over the village. I turned to walk away, and she moved to come with me. “For now, I can only go as far as the gate”, she said, walking to my left. Slowly, we gained the path, lit up by the distant light in the industrial estate. I felt her presence as we proceeded towards the gate, not speaking. The gateposts loomed against the night’s sky, stars blotted out by the distant light. I turned, and her smile faded. No words were spoken as I stepped up to the cemetery gate. “Remember our secret”, she finally said.

And with those words ringing in my ears, I passed through, into the open. I looked back, but total darkness reigned behind me. Nothing was visible, and not a sound could be heard. The sea was still swishing ashore, and the moon hung brightly over the village. Lights twinkled on the far side of the bay, with the lights lining the street leading up from the shore marking the way.

The Sunken Garden

The tree's boughs swung in the gentle December breeze. Many a time had it been agitated by the gales of the north, but this day was quiet. The short daylight hours of winter were drawing to a close. Old autumn leaves rustled along the path leading past the tree. There had been another one, but it had succumbed to a January storm, some fifteen years previous. Memories stretched back further, of laughter, children playing in its shadows, the summer sun beaming down. Not this day, when the sun would barely reach the little feature over which the tree towered. These last couple of years, it had been recovered from wild and unfettered growth of plants and trees. Soon, a sundial would keep time and plants were due to be added in an orderly fashion. The paths led a couple of dozen yards in the direction of the woodland beyond, almost looking like the Greek letter ψ. However, the work was not yet complete. A small figure began to approach the tree. She walked slowly, aided by two sticks and two other people. Her white head stood out amongst the shadows under the tree. Looking around, the memories crowded round, of yesteryear, with young children laughing, having fun. She stopped by the tree and glanced at the garden which was still being worked on. An improvement. Gingerly turning round, she glanced up at the tree, its boughs gently swaying above her. Perhaps subliminally talking of past visits. Darkness almost imperceptibly deepened. She sighed and made to turn round, supported by the sticks and her companions. Slowly, she disappeared from sight. From the Sunken Garden. From the monkeypuzzle tree.

I was there, that day in December 2019. She had just been told of a life-ending illness, and this was her last visit to the Castle Grounds. Many lasts were to follow, and the end came the following October.

When I visit the Castle Grounds now, it is rare for me not to visit the Sunken Garden. I stop by the monkeypuzzle tree and look past the sundial. And I remember.

Hallowe'en 2020

One day, a carpenter walked over the hills of Harris from his home at Bogha Ghlas on Loch Seaforth to Luachair, on the shores of Loch Reasort. After finishing the job at one of the houses there, the people told him to take any remaining planks with him. On the way back, his footsteps on the rough track came regularly, but what was that strange echo? Intermittent echoes of the footfalls? No, couldn't be. A double take on each footstep? Not either. Tap tap. Tap tap. The man shifted the planks on his shoulder to adjust for balance and continued. The dark face of Stulabhal reared up ever closer, and he thought the tapping sound was an echo of his footsteps from that great rockface. He had not experienced that before, having made the journey many times before. But his mind was in such turmoil that he could not remember that. The great empty valley of Langadale stretched before him, but his descent to the river, nor the crossing, nor the ascent to Vigadale remained with him. All he heard was tap-tap, tap-tap.

The sun was once more setting by the time the carpenter reached the bridge at Bogha Ghlas. He saw his cottage ahead, but there was no light inside, nor any sign of motion outside. The approach of any passer-by was usually sufficient to bring his wife outside, but not that day. The 'tap-tap' that had been haunting the man since leaving Luachair had gradually ceased. He threw the planks off his shoulder, and they fell to the ground in a loudly clattering heap. He called for his wife, but heard nothing. Opening the door, the cottage was dark, the fire cold. The bed was occupied, but there was not a living soul about.

Tap tap. Tap tap. The next morning, the carpenter was hammering a coffin for his spouse. And he suddenly remembered what the noise was he had been hearing all the way from Luachair the day before. Tap tap. Tap tap. The noise of his hammer, building a coffin. The noise of the carpenter's hammer, over in Luachair, as it too built a coffin for its master.

Short story XXVI

The two lighthouses winked out their warnings. Their characters were not synchronous, but every few minutes, their signals coincided. The skies above were ink black, but a veil of innumerable stars stretched from horizon to horizon. A gentle swell ran ashore, culminating in an almost apologetic 'plop' as each wave ran out onto the sand. Shells were briefly carried up, but then rapidly streamed down with the returning tide. No wind blew that night. The marram grass in the dunes stood still, not a blade bent in the cold night air. The birds of the sea were quiet. To the southeast, low over the tops of the dunes lining the beach, Orion's belt rose into the sky, followed by the stars of the winter night. When Sirius appeared, the scene was set. A shadow appeared on the rim of the dunes.

Well past midnight. The streetlights had long since gone off, and only the odd light shone from some of the houses. Each stood alone in its own patch of land, never far from the rocky shore. The sea lapped ashore, but there was no discernible sound. Sheep lay asleep, some in the tarmac of the roadway, as if to absorb some latent warmth. The day had been sunny, but only for a few hours, and had long given way to the night. Stars winked over the water to the east, and outlined the bulk of low hills in the background. A lonely car slowly purred its way through the township, presently pulling up outside one of the houses. The two occupants alighted, slammed the doors shut and walked up to a house. Their voices carried on the still night air, before they disappeared inside and were shut in behind a door. A cow lowed in the distance. Navigational beacons blinked offshore, marking the hazardous passage. The lights in one house were presently extinguished. Nearby, cats from the township prowled in the undergrowth. A shadow disappeared, as Sirius rose in the southeast.

The last light faded to the southwest, as warm airs wafted ashore. The ocean swell ran ashore, inexorably, as it had done since time immemorial, and would still be doing beyond the age of man. A sward of sand ran the length of the coast, for hundreds of miles. Groups of people sat outside, enjoying the late spring warmth, quietly enjoying a pint or a glass, munching a few bites to eat. A few intrepid souls were out in the waves, as wisps of high cloud wafted slowly by. Lights went on in the beach side cafes, and the houses beyond. The stars of the south came out as the sunlight whisked off west, with Orion's belt almost overhead, Sirius not far below. Although Sirius is the brightest star in the sky, Canopus, some way below it, is a good second. Oh, the two lighthouses would never see it. Neither would the scattered township of sheep and marram grass.

The wind started to blow, bending the blades of the marram grass towards the northeast. The swell slowly rose, until the beach was fringed with white foam. Seaweed was pushed ashore, gathering up just beyond the tideline, as the tide began to fall. Beyond the dunes, the flat lands stretched towards the hills lining the horizon. As the sun rose, bird calls punctuated the start of the winter's day. Vestiges of green remained, a memory of or promise towards summer. Dark browns and dull yellows reminded of the current season, winter. No one moved, although as the tide fell, a line of footprints began to emerge from the dunes.
The sand swirled into the dunes from the beach, whipped up by the strong winds blowing in from the ocean. The footprints were soon lost from sight, covered by seaweed, filled in by sand or washed away by the surf. Beyond the dunes, the houses stood in their scattered loneliness, almost bowed down into the winter gale. They looked out over the pristine curve of the beach, beyond which the tower of the lighthouse rose to the west, and further islands loomed on the horizon. The roads lay empty, with few venturing out. Best to hunker down, and wait for the winds to abate.

The cold wind howled in from the north, winter on its last legs, but reluctant to relinquish its hold. In frustration, it threw hailstones across the landscape. Rain lashed down, horizontally, as the wind ramped up to galeforce. Shaking the bare branches of the rowantrees, it thundered in the chimneys and whistled in the telegraph wires. The landscape was once more wiped into a curtain of grey, through which a lonely shadow appeared. It turned a corner, upon which the sun suddenly flashed through the clouds, splashing colour across the fields - but only for a moment.

With a whimper, the storm faded away and the sun finally came out. Not for long, it was westering already. The road was empty. The rowan tree did not dare stand up straight, best be prepared for the next onslaught. Some stories they have to tell, do the old rowans. You'll find them around a lot round here. Always on the windward side of a house, sheltering it from our perennial gales. Sometimes, you'll see a rowan tree near just a heap of stones, or a chimney stack. All that is left of what once was a home. The rainwater trickled down the drains on either side of the road. A car whizzed past, splashing up spray from the earlier rain. As the sun dipped towards the horizon, shadows grew long.
In the last light of the day, the wind whispered through the grass. Where previously, there had been colour, now only outlines remained. A sheep, a cow. Fence posts, sometimes leaning at precarious angles. Abandoned bath tubs and various pieces of agricultural machinery, rusting into the ground. The contours of the hills stood out darkly against the skyline. As daylight faded altogether, the wind sighed through the branches of the rowan. A shadow flitted towards the house.

The rowan's bare boughs flexed in the wind, unseen in the darkness. Stars now shone brightly overhead as the moon sank towards the western horizon. The two lighthouses blinked, every few minutes in unison as their characters coincided. Some would say that a rowan would tell stories, tales of the families that had lived their lives in the house by which it stood. And, more often than not, a family would move away. Overseas, across the oceans. The rowan would lament their departure, telling their story to the wind, its anguish at their leaving and its hope for a return. Even as the house lost its roof, its windows, its walls - the rowan would grow tall. But here, the house stands firm in the teeth of the winter storms. The rowan shelters it, and hears the stories of its people.

The door fell shut. Darkness reigned, under a myriad of stars. Nothing moved in the house. From one of the neighbouring properties, the faint sound of music rose into the night sky. Although there was no streetlighting, the path was clear to see. So often, torches and streetlamps just dazzle. The shadow disappeared down the roadway, and a profound silence ensued. The rowan shivered in the night breeze.

Canopus and Sirius rose high in the spring sky as the swell ran ashore. Music rang out from the waterside bars and restaurants, while some people cavorted in the waves at the water's edge. Although darkness had long since fallen, the warmth of the day remained. Groups of people remained outside, talking softly into the night. A shadow moved among them, unseen, unperceived. It presently disappeared towards the strand - did it go into the sea?

Was it an echo, or imagination? Lively music spilled from brightly lit windows, left open in spite of the coolness of the night. Dancers swirled around the floor to familiar strains, whilst musicians and singers took turns. The House of Music. The moon shone in the western sky, highlighting the bare branches of the rowan. As if through coincidence, one of the singers launched into a song about the moon, which would light the way. A cloud rolled across the face of the westering moon, and the music faded. Only the sound of the Atlantic surf remained, carried inland on the mild night breeze. It blew through the branches of the rowan, swaying them as if it was telling a tale. A tale of the House of Music.

Stars scattered across the heavenly dome as if painted with brush strokes. That night, it did not matter where they were viewed from, it was a dazzling display. A shooting star completed the spectacle. It was past midnight, but time was not of the essence. The waves of the ocean thundered ashore, and the nightwind rustled in the blades of grass. The light in the house went out, after a little black shadow jumped out of a window. Off for its nightly foray for rodents. Not long after, although temporally irrelevant, the door opened. For moment, the shadow stopped to look round. There would be no return. Sensing those spiritually close, even if geographically distant in many cases, it reached out. With a smile, so familiar in life, it stepped down the road, a bounce soon turning into a dance. In daylight, a broad smile would have adorned its face. In this sphere, a singing voice would have been audible. Passing through the machair, it reached the dunes, and ran down to the water's edge. It stopped, for a final pause. The smile dropped, and the music faded. The little black shadow was suddenly startled by an inexplicable, searing sense of loss. Turning round for a final time to face the dunes, the shadow bade a silent farewell to this world.

Short story XXIV

At the cross-roads stood a collection of old buses, in varying stages of decay and delapidation. The main road was empty, ribboning away towards distant hills in one direction, and up a gentle incline headed north. One branch led along the shores of a sealoch, fringed by tidal mudflats and low, rocky hills. The other branch angled away steeply up the nearby hillside, then veered left towards the trapezium shape of Roineabhal. Nothing stirred.

The flock of sheep waddled its way along the rough track, up from the fank. Perched on the quad-bike, the shepherd slowly followed them behind, with his trusty collie dogs keeping the sheep under control. Roineabhal presently appeared round the corner, its dark green shape looming up against the skyline. The track skirted the hillside, towards a brief encounter with the road, before veering north into the boggy interior. The line of white signs for passing places came into alignment for a brief moment as they marched towards Roineabhal. Nothing else stirred.

It was possible to climb to the summit of Roineabhal from where the road crossed over its southern shoulder. Looking back, the lone walker could espy the distant houses in the village and the long ribbon of the sealoch disappearing towards the east. The landscape to the north was a confusion of water and land, difficult to discern where land ended and water began, or where water ended and land began. Even with a map, it could be treacherous. The walker knew that. A distant noise drew his attention. Was it traffic on the road?

The noise receded again. The wind sighed in the grasses and the rocks, feeling chilly as it was funnelled through the pass east of Roineabhal. Grey clouds slowly moved overhead as the road angled down along the slope. No traffic moved at all. Stretches of water extended this way and that, but the roadway was steadfast in its motion through the watery maze.

The hut stood forlorn at the shore of the loch, with Roineabhal towering over it. Waves lapped ashore, spurred on by the breeze. Its sign intimated that it was in use by a local fishing group, and a boat was tethered to a mouldering stake nearby. The sun peeped through the clouds, making occasional mirrors blink off the surface of the water. Water had also filled up the boat, and little ripples were blown across there too. A car was parked nearby, but appeared to have been there a long time. Its windows were steamed up, grass grew up the tyres and mould was encroaching. No tyre-tracks were visible in the sandy trail leading to the hut from the nearby road. This swept north to cross the outfalls of Loch Langabhat.

The road remained strangely empty. Its white kerblines angled up the slopes of Roineabhal, and curved sharply west across the outflows of Loch Langabhat. Another hut, lying a few hundred yards off the road, again with a derelict vehicle left outside. A deep rut led down towards the water's edge, but its swirling depths were anything but inviting for boating. The door swung open and shut on the breeze, but nothing else stirred.

After the sharp dogleg crossing the Langabhat outflow, the road smoothed into a gentle curve. The link to the Bernera road followed the Grimersta River system north, but this was soon left behind. The conical shape of Coltreasal loomed up ahead, closing off the northwestern end of Coire Geurad. Which is where a small rowing boat lay abandoned on the shore. It was ever so slightly unexpected to see smoke rising from the rudimentary dwellings higher up the hillside, not far from the roadside.

The road junction was deserted. One branch led north, towards Kinlochroag. The other angled south, within sight of another loch, with a house on the far bank. But that was of no interest. None would even think of going near it. The forbidding bulk of Scalabhal reared up in the middle distance, but the road gradually veered away from it. Upon crossing a stream, the remains of habitation could be made out. A hint of smoke seemed to curl from one roof, which had remained intact.

The rowan bent in the strong breeze, whistling up the loch. This ended where the rivers ended that voided into it. Ended too had the lives of the few houses that stood above the water's edge. Strange names, which had settled into the dust of lives left behind. The end of the road too. There had been plans to extend it further south, into Harris, but nobody felt there was much point. Nobody lived at Luachair anymore, or at Crola, or at Ceann Loch Reasort. Boarded up were what remained of windows, no longer reflecting the light of the setting sun. Only the rowan remained, the wind mournfully singing in its branches, of lives born, lived and ended there. The dark hills fringing the loch as it marched west, until Taran Mor shielded what lay beyond, the island of Scarp, and beyond that, the Atlantic. So many had crossed that water, leaving behind their old life for a new one far away. The road ended here too, 14 miles from where it had started. Leading through the empty interior of Lewis, where sometimes people lived. Oldest of all, below Scalabhal, some twenty centuries back. The shieling settlement at Coire Geurad. You'll be hard pressed to find the Road of the Rowan. It does not exist on the ground. You can go to Balallan, to the South Lochs junction - only three roads leave from there, not four. Roineabhal stands in splendid isolation, as does Loch Langabhat. No roads touch either place, nor is Coltreasal scarred by such an intrusion. The house by the loch is private beyond privacy, and only a private road leads there. The Queen's Highway does not. The Road of the Rowan can be found by those who go looking for the dwellings of old, abandoned under duress or voluntarily. It leads everywhere in the Long Island. If you know where to look.

Short story XXIII - part 10

I watched a dull grey pencil stripe beginning to separate sky from darkness to the east. I had finally been met at Hamnaway, but not in the way that was arranged. Beeping satellite phones, morse code signals from the sea, before dawn.

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.

Short story XXIII - part 9

Very, very quietly the boat edged into the loch from the sea. Ahead, to the east, a line of grey announced that daybreak was near. The night vision camera revealed the house near the shore and two tents at its side. A pinprick of light was pointed at the incoming craft, on and off, making out a message in Morse code. What the night vision camera did not spot was the evidence that the message was futile, as the object of the communication had moved out of sight. The other tent was empty.

Short story XX

Slowly, the lady strolled through the tall grasses. To the west, the sun was setting in a dazzling display of colours. The wind howled in from the sea nearby, occasionally carrying a speck of foam. Finally, just as the last rim of the sun disappeared behind the horizon, she reached the top of the dunes. A crescent-shaped beach lay below, pounded by ocean waves. Her hair streamed behind her on the gale. To her, the wind carried more than just the icy cold of a winter storm. It carried solace. Forgetfulness.

The lady slowly walked down the narrow road to her house, the drains on either side nearly flooding after the heavy rain. The crescent beach could be seen some distance away to the north, fringed by the frenzied surf of a winter storm. She stopped by the gate to her cottage. The memories blown away by the wind were awakened again in the relative calm of the valley. The lady lifted her head, and for a moment she was transported back in time. A car pulled up in the turning point, and a friend hopped out. "Hey, how are you today?" The memories fled back into the shadows.

At the time of the previous solstice, the lady had been the happiest person on the planet. It was the zenith of her life, as it had been the zenith of the year. Light never went away, always lingering on the northern horizon at night, quickly returning after a few hours of near darkness. But this was now the winter solstice, and darkness was never far away, even in the middle of the day. Particularly on a stormy day like today, with low cloud scudding overhead, with frequent harsh showers. Hail clattering down as it did, where elsewhere snow would have whirled. It was the nadir of the year; and the nadir of her life. In the summer, things could only get better, she thought. "Come with me, " the friend said, after being offered a cup of tea. "You'll be on your own, and mulling things over." The lady did not take much persuading, and a few minutes later, the two were motoring down the single-track road into town. "When did the stonemasons say the tombstone would be installed?" the friend asked.

Rain streamed down the window, with the wind howling outside. No ferry today - the boat was tied up alongside on the far end of the street. Nobody stirred abroad in that first gale of the autumn. He had just made it on the ferry the night before. As promised. Neither of them paid much attention to the conditions outside. Many, many weeks had to pass before they could meet again. He worked abroad, on the far side of the world, and could only come home once or twice in the year. Today was one of those days. Although as yet unaware, the lady received a present from him. Not one you unwrap in a few seconds. But it was one she had been hoping for, each time he came to visit. And now it was going to happen. In nine months' time.

As autumn deepened and darkened, the nature of the present became known to the lady. Not always pleasant, but some times, the harder roads lead to greater rewards in the end. By the time Christmas lights started to twinkle in the almost day-long twilight, the immediate effects had begun to wear off, and she began to prepare to receive the rewards. Still quite some way off, though, even when the calendars changed onto a new year. Those around her began to perceive the change in demeanour, even though nothing was readily apparent. Yet. Even when a severe storm blew tiles off the roof, ripped overhead cables from their insulators and spat spume and seaweed from the sea onto the village streets, her glow never ceased.

The lady looked at the little face, which had just come into the world. The pains of labour but a distant memory, she smiled at her new son. The midwife and doctor had both left the cottage but minutes earlier, that warm June afternoon. What a present to receive, indeed. And to top the surprise, its giver unexpectedly walked in the door. What a timing, through sheer coincidence. "I've got a new job", he said. "But this is so precious", and for a few moments he got acquainted with his new son. "Next week, I'm starting in the North Sea. I'll be able to come home every fortnight". Emotions gripped the couple as the prospect of a better family life shone brightly before them. Overhead came the sound of the Coastguard helicopter, clattering its way across the islands.

Another helicopter down in the North Sea. The news sent chills up and down the north of Scotland. Who would want to fly in one those things anymore? Who would trust the operators to put safety before profits? So many accidents, and nothing seeming to be done about it. Change the operator, change the choppers, use boats. But all that it did nothing to bring back those lost in the chilly waters of the German Ocean.

A heartrending wail emanated from the cottage near the ferry. The giver of presents was also lost in that crash.

Sobbing disconsolately, the lady wandered through the house, and finally found the cot with her baby son in it. Seeing his precious face appeared to calm her down, or at least help to focus her mind on something else for a few moments. Enough to compose herself to pick up the phone and share the dreadful news. Preparations were set in motion, and after a couple of days, the mournful procession wound its way down to the cemetery by the sands. Shivering from barely contained emotion, the lady stood through the ritual, not being able to look on as the coffin was lowered down. Her friend helped her away from the sad place. The lady staggered in the direction of the crescent shaped beach nearby, her friend in close attendance. "Come", the friend said calmly, with feigned control. "There is one who needs your attention more now. He would have wanted you to do that. Not stay here, you can't do anything here anymore." The gulls wheeled overhead on the summer breeze. "Come" and the lady allowed herself to be accompanied to the car.

The seasons wheeled past, almost unnoticed. From the dusky greys, dark greens and black browns of winter, to the bright blues and yellows of summer. The lambs heralding spring, from the vestiges of snow. The leaves fluttering from sparse trees, blown off on autumnal gales. The lady’s years grew, as did her young son. Soon the time came for him to join others of his age, down at the village school. Some came from far, off the little island buses. Others from the village itself. That first morning, all children sat in a circle, telling about themselves and their home. “My mother is Mary”, finally came Thomas’s turn. “My dad was called Jim. I never met him.” After a few seconds of gasps, the teacher signalled for silence. Thomas continued, unabashed. “He died in a helicopter accident”. The youngster manfully made his way through the big words, looking the teacher straight in the eye.

Short story XIX

The fair town, they called it. Translations never work properly, do they. Strung out from high to low, tapering out to sealevel at the end of the loch. Beyond the junction, the one lone house, under the dark hill. Yes, I remember it well. It's all been changed now. The house is, I mean. The landscape never changes, that'll outlive us all. But when I first caught a glimpse of her, when she first joined me walking back along the old road. Ach, that's past history. She's long left. The hills still remember, though. The loch still remembers.

The river lazily meandered towards the sea. It was in no hurry, going in big sweeping bends. Even when salt water was reached, the sea was still miles away. Nobody was paying attention. Their eyes were turned inward, the group in mournful black, high on the hill above the river. A chapter closed, a marker placed, slowly to weather away. Only memories remained. The kindness of the people had helped to soften the loss somewhat. But after the cakes were eaten, the tea poured and tributes paid - that's where the pain resurfaced. It won't do to look back too long. It's not what she would have wanted me to do, and in a while, I shall obey her wishes. But at this closing of a chapter, I will take you back down memory lane. Up the river, the river of the salmon valley, to its source. If source there be, in this country of endless water.

Widening into an expanse of water, lazily reflecting the blue sky up above. The river lost itself into the loch, only to reemerge from the other side. An uncustomary heatwave blanketed the land, leaving the water as an irresistible lure for those perspiring in the heat. Well, by local standards it was hot. It's not often that the eighties are crested on our thermometers, and the school had sent its children home early that afternoon. A group of them had taken off into the moor, and the hills, near and far, shimmered in the heat haze. Innocently, they had shed nearly all garments and lowered themselves into the water. A perfect summer beckoned, school was nearly finished at any rate. Looming on the distant horizon was the prospect of the big school in town, fifteen miles away. I was one of them that gallivanted, splashed and cavorted in the peaty waters. She was another of the half dozen. Her smile was perennial, and although a girl, I did rate her as a close friend. As the sun moved across the skies and started to angle to the southwest, we headed home. Dark clouds had started to billow up over the hills across the loch, and we only just made it to our doors before the downpour started.

Frost glistened on the blades of grass. Brown and yellow, they gently bent in the cold easterly breeze. The sun rode low in the morning sky, mid-winter wasn't far away. The community gathered for the Sabbath service, well wrapped up against the December chill as they filed towards the church. Us youngsters were also expected to attend. Until recently, we just accepted that as part of life. But now, distractions had inexplicably reared their heads, and they were far more alluring than a service in church. We hung back, allowing our elders to enter the church first, and they nodded as they acknowledged the polite gesture. The church building allowed us to disappear beside it, and when the elders at the doors checked that there were no more comers - they couldn't see anybody. When the door slammed shut, a muffled giggling and laughing emerged from the bushes on the other side of the building. We had foxed them - or so we thought. I soon found myself in conversation with her, engrossed to the exclusion of all else. And thus it was that I failed to spot her father, attracted by the rather unexpected sounds of mirth, marching in on our little group. And thus it was that on the Third Sunday of Advent I was unceremoniously frog-marched into our village church, for everybody to behold. Held by one ear by her father, who was holding on to his daughter by her arm. Everybody turned round - and I've never experienced such a red face. No further retribution was necessary. Humiliation was complete. For a second the little three-some stood. I briefly caught a glimpse of her eye, which twinkled with a hint of a smile. The humiliation slid off me like water off a duck's back.

The final semester at university was over. The mortar board had balanced on my head, the robes slung over my shoulders and the scroll placed in my hand. She had passed with even more flying colours than I had, and we were on cloud nine, on the train north. Apart from graduating successfully, there was also the prospect of employment, completely unexpectedly, at home. Usually, people would anticipate a career elsewhere in Scotland, the UK or abroad. Not in their native Hebridean island. But ours had been an exception. Perhaps we had not noticed the smiles of people around us. Perhaps the glow we emanated shielded us from others' comprehension. It was no consequence. A new life beckoned. An idea formed in my head, and I acted on it by impulse. In Inverness, I made the excuse of getting some supplies for the rest of the journey and scooted off into the Eastgate Centre, right beside the railway station. We met up again on the Ullapool bus, and I showed her the foodstuffs I had quickly bought as well. A couple of hours later, we were sailing down Loch Broom, past Achiltibuie, with Scoraig on the port bow. As the boat emerged into the Minch, a gentle swell bore us across the water. We stood out on deck, watching the mainland hills recede behind us, with Skye cloudlike on the southern horizon. As dusk encroached from the east, I scanned for the first sight of the double blink of Tiumpan Head. When I did, by a quarter to eight, I tapped her on the elbow. When she glanced round, I took a deep intake of breath and asked her THAT question. Her answer was in the affirmative.

Three came along, in the end, in the space of six years. All born in the fair town, where the long water stretches east and the hills frown darkly to the south. It was like a rerun of our own youth, as they grew older. Fishing and swimming expeditions to the lochs in the interior, having to be dragged to the village school, where they made their many friends, and forged the bond to the island, a bond for life. Her smile never changed, although the years slowly took a hold. Our bond for life grew stronger, and that was needed that one dark day, twenty years after we came off the ferry, promised to each other. That day, when our number went down by one. When the policeman came into the kitchen with that furtive, lost look in his eye, telling us about a crash on the Soval bends, on the road into town. And we had to support each other, when we looked on the face of the one whose dreams and promises would never come true.

The unblinking eye stared into the endless sky above. The breeze ruffled its surface into wavelets, deepening the reflected blue. We had this last afternoon to ourselves, before the family would come across for that anniversary party in the evening. It would be a busy one. Both of our two offspring still alive would bring their own children along, and then there would be the cousins, nieces and nephews. No, it wasn't the time of year to cavort about in the loch. We had our woolly hats on, as there was still an early spring keenness in the air. But the first lambs had already started to appear in the fair town, and there was a distant promise of summer. Not speaking, we slowly ambled through the dark, seemingly lifeless heather, and rustled through the dead grass. Yellows, browns and blacks still dominated. Slowly, our path veered away from the watery interior and led us towards a small gorge. The river cascaded through this, until we returned to the main road, leading us back to the fair town. By coincidence the service bus came down the hill, and very considerately stopped to give us a lift.

The sun rose in a sea of red over the loch. The hills in front turned from black to dull green. Angry clouds billowed up from the west, soon obscuring what sun there was. The house stood empty beside the road. A lorry, full of possessions and memories, pulled away, heading for the main town to the north. The day had finally come. Oh, they had told me time and time again. After she was gone, I just couldn't cope anymore. My daughter took me in the car, and stopped outside the cemetery in the next village. She opened the gate and drove up the access track, in order that I didn't need to climb the hill. Her grave was not far from the cemetery gate. My sight blurred as I read the inscription, but my emotions were otherwise in check. I straightened up as best I could, glancing round, probably for the last time. Oh, I'd be back here one day, probably not too far in the future. To join her. Memories flooded back as I glanced where the river was meandering into the interior. Memories. I bit back my sorrow, turned around and went to sit in the car. My daughter drove back down to the main road, and turned right. We had left Balallan earlier. We now took only a few moments to turn the corner by the war memorial, to leave Laxay behind. The turn-off at Keose, then the fateful bends at Soval, that had claimed one of my three children. I closed my eyes as my driver skilfully and carefully negotiated the treacherous curves. The sign welcoming folks to Kinloch was left behind. I had left my life behind.