Chapter Text
(Mo) Faodail | (My) Lucky Find
‘S iomadh oidhche fliuch ‘us fuar
Ghabh mi cuairt ‘us mi leam fhìn
Gus an d’ ràinig mise ‘n t-àit’
Far an robh gràdh geal mo chridh’
- Gradh geal mo chridhe, anonymous
Prologue | August, Side A: the Hare & the Osprey
The rumour appeared in flashes of dulled gold and downcast eyes, sleek and elusive beneath the murky surface of village gossip.
“There’s a ghost walkin’ among us,” old Mrs MacAllan warned, wedging a chisel beneath the jagged shell of a barnacle. “Blown in fae the south.”
Soap peeked over her boat’s upturned hull, once-blue like the waters it took to, and set his sponge aside. The scum line was as gone as it’d ever be, what with having decades to marinate, a halo of green engrained into the paintjob.
“Ghosts can be excitin’.”
Mrs MacAllan tossed a trio of barnacles into a bucket with the others, beaks twitching. She and mum were getting together that night to make a seafood stew with them and roast whatever was left with garlic, so Soap didn’t care much that he wasn’t getting paid with pounds sterling. Overhead, the ship mast he’d strung up on the boat house’s beams swayed in its slings.
“Ye’re a bright loon, John. The only excitin’ ‘hing in yer life should be university, nae whatever shite a boy like that tracks into this village.”
He’d heard that Marion Douglas had finally sold the wee cottage kissing the edge of her property long before he’d caught a glimpse of the family who were moving in, end of July. Carol noticed the real estate sign up front was gone one day on her drive by into town a few weeks back, then told Jean while getting her brie rang up at the deli, and Jean asked Stewart if he knew anything as he wrapped up four rashers of bacon and some black pudding for her – if the butcher knows, everyone else is sure to follow. Marion confirmed the rumour over tea and a scone as Julia took her lunch order, and anything the café lot got hold of spread like wildfire.
“I cannae help but be curious,” Johnny conceded. One of his sleeves slipped, and he pulled it up by its cuff with his teeth because his fingers were caked in grime. “I’ve heard more about that new family than I’ve seen of ‘em, but every’hing I hear is different.”
Mrs MacAllan rounded the boat, a palm pressed flat to its ancient timber for support. Her head was more grey than black now, and her back got stiff easy after longs years in her youth spent carrying baskets of peat with her grandmother, who’d kept working the moors of Shetland until the day she died. Her pewter eyes settled heavy on Soap, always steady for as long as he’d known her where her hands were growing less so by the year.
“John, that lad walks like he’s got death on his heels and isnae that concerned aboot shakin’ it affae him. Ye’ve done well by nae listenin’ t’ all what word is passed around so thoughtlessly here, but this time—” Mrs MacAllan peeled off her gloves and rolled Soap’s sleeved up past his elbows, then wiped away a smudge of algae on his cheek with her thumb. “This time, it might serve ya well t’ pay it mind. Pickin’ out truths fae the slurry a’ breugan has always been a strength of yours, after all.”
Where launching ramp met loch, an oystercatcher waded through the shallows with no particular goal in mind. Its lithe body rocked with each sure-footed step, slow-blinking red eye glinting like a ruby set into tarnished silver. It skimmed its thin beak through the surf half-heartedly, eating nothing, only going through the motions of a hunt for the sake of it.
Even the birds here are stagnant, Soap mused in the privacy of his thoughts. Maybe some new faces would do us all some good.
Mrs MacAllan sent Soap up the hill to fetch coffee, citing cold fingers. The wind was picking up and Loch Bhuineadh shivered with it, gooseflesh rising on its surface with each gust. Any traces of salt and warmth on the perpetual wind blowing eastward in from the ocean were filtered out by the trees which consumed much of the valley, leaving behind only a sharp, pure breeze. It chased Soap up from the boat house to Mrs Macallan’s cottage, snatching what few petals her poppies lining the path up had retained.
Soap washed the vegetables for that night’s dinner while the coffee brewed, looking beyond his own reflection in the window at the loch. His eye followed the belt of black stone where its waters kissed land until he reached Alltanabhraighe, humble and dwarfed by the mountains which rose lush and green and streaked with veins of granite shale. A fine dusting of purples and pinks blanketed the peaks like summer snow, resilient heather growing where so little else could.
Mrs MacAllan bustled in through the door just as he was decanting the brew into three mugs, setting one aside for her to place next to Mr MacAllan’s portrait on the windowsill, leaned up against a potted fern.
“Whatever that family was leaving behind, we can only hope that it does not follow them here. Let us have faith that prayers will be enough to keep it away.”
“Amen,” Soap breathed, and watched as the wind whipped the loch up into a frenzy in the wake of his false beseeching of God.