The Western Isles
Isabel’s boatman pointed out pilot whales and dolphins en route, but she had to lean close to hear him over the wind. It brought back bittersweet memories of cuddling into her father’s embrace years ago aboard a similar boat as he explained how to identify the different sea creatures. She’d felt safe then. Now, one hand gripped the side of the boat; the other held firmly to Blue’s collar. She avoided looking at the dark, choppy water. Anxiety and fear threatened to choke her.
The hurried ride to Trumpan had disheveled her carefully coiffed hair. The wind and the spray played havoc with it. She peeled waist-length strands from her face, glad of the warmth of the riding habit and boots. She pulled the muffin hat as far down over her ears as possible, but it would have been lost to the wind without the hatpin which clung to the last of the braid. Hopefully, Uncle Boyd was correct that her relatives would provide more suitable clothing on the island.
As the boat neared Harris, Isabel closed her eyes and gave thanks the wee boat hadn’t foundered. She inhaled the salty air, and surrendered to the incessant cries of shorebirds nesting in the dunes. But she didn’t keep them closed long, afraid to miss catching a glimpse of the otters and seals that lived in the coastal waters.
She’d felt elegant setting out earlier for her ride but feared she must look like a bedraggled shipwreck survivor to the grizzled sailor who lifted her off the boat and carried her through the shallows.
Blue launched into the water and loped to the beach where he shook himself vigorously then sniffed the unfamiliar air. She noted the difference too. Dungavin was by the sea, but Harris smelled of peat bogs and standing water.
A small, weathered cart waited on the shore, an ancient dray horse in the traces. She’d been loath to leave Storm behind but Uncle Boyd would make sure he was taken care of. The tall sailor plopped her down roughly on the cart’s wooden seat. “This ’ere’s Lady Isabel,” he shouted over the persistent wind to the hunched figure who held the reins.
He was gone, trudging back to the boat before she could thank him for bringing her safely across what could be an unpredictable stretch of water.
She turned hesitantly, surprised to discover the driver was a gaunt, grey-haired, auld woman.
“Fanny,” the crone said hoarsely, flicking the reins to set the horse in motion. “Third cousin once removed from Boyd and yer mam. Ye look like her. Same long, dark hair. Great loss. Yon dog’s a funny color.”
“Aye,” Isabel conceded, gripping the rough wooden seat. “His real name is Danmhairgis, but we call him Blue.”
“Right enough,” the woman cackled as the cart lurched over the uneven terrain.
Isabel hung on nervously as they passed Tur Chliamainn.
“Final resting place o’ the MacRain chiefs,” her relative explained.
“Aye,” she acknowledged, “I was here years ago.”
“I recall,” Fanny replied. “With yer da.”
Evidently, they had met before, but she had no memory of it. “I’m sorry, I dinna remember…”
“Wheest, ye were a bairn, and yer father ne’er did have much time for yer mam’s family.” She sniffed the air. “Too high and mighty.”
Isabel wondered if her distant relative had met Ghalla, but decided against mentioning her stepmother.
“Ye’ll be safe from the Nellis woman here,” Fanny declared with great conviction.
For the first time since the meeting with her uncle on the cliffs, a glimmer of hope sparked in Isabel’s breast.
*
Darroch had known many a seasoned sailor turn green and cast up his accounts during the crossing to Ywst. Even on a sunny day, the wind could whip the Little Minch into a seething salty cauldron.
He never worried about the seaworthiness of his sturdy birlinn galleys and the seamanship of his crews. Apparently, Kyla shared his confidence. She perched atop his shoulders, her little hands clutching his chin, and laughed as the wind filled the sails and spray soaked them through. He’d wrapped her in a woolen plaid, but she seemed impervious to the cold.
“Ye’re a born sailor, lass,” he shouted.
She pressed her fingers into the stubble of his beard in response.
“Loch nam Madadh sighted,” his captain yelled.
Darroch acknowledged Grig’s announcement with a loud Aye. The loyal clansman had plied these waters for nigh on thirty years.
Kyla started to bounce excitedly, drawing his attention to dolphins swimming alongside the galley.
“Dolphins,” he told her, hoping she might repeat the name, but she simply continued to ride up and down in rhythm with the leaping sea creatures.
“Do ye see the rocks in the harbor?” he asked, pointing to the outcroppings in the channel where they were more sheltered from the wind. “They look like dogs. That’s why it’s called the Harbor of the Dogs.”
She stopped bouncing but made no reply. He hoped she understood as she stared at the rocks guarding the approach to Loch nam Madadh.
He was glad of the cloudless sky. There was no more beautiful place than Ywst’s watery landscape glowing golden brown in the sunshine. Even the mountains of Harris were clearly visible on the horizon.
He wouldn’t be taking Kyla with him to Harris. His purpose there was to seek revenge for the insult perpetrated by Isabel MacRain. If there was a way to get his hands on the woman and howl his fury at her, he would. But she was safe in Dungavin, out of his reach. The usual retribution of burning a few MacRain crofts and stealing sheep would have to suffice—for now.
Grig brought the Banamhara safely to the dock and the Lanmara soon pulled up alongside. Satisfied his men knew enough to lash the two vessels together securely, he lifted Kyla over the side into Grig’s waiting arms. She was, at first, reluctant to let go and reached for him once he was on land.
He hoisted her back onto his shoulders and they set off to walk the short distance to Grig’s cottage. Conflicting emotions swirled in his heart. His father’s rejection of Kyla sat like a lead weight in his gut; the desire for vengeance simmered. Yet Ywst’s calming magic was already seeping into his veins, as it did every time he came to the island. Would the ancient spirits that dwelt in the mystical lochs and mountains of the Hebrides free Kyla’s tongue?
*
Fanny’s croft on Harris wasn’t far from the harbor, but it seemed to take an eternity for the old horse and cart to negotiate the terrain. They lurched over rock, skirted bogs and slipped on wet grass. Even Blue picked his way cautiously in the cart’s wake, shaking off the drizzle from time to time.
Isabel gave up hope of her riding habit surviving the trek. The rough wood of the seat pinched her bottom, even through the costly velvet that was already streaked with muck. She regretted glancing back at the bed of the cart. Smears of animal dung and wisps of wool caught on the rough wood left no doubt as to what the conveyance transported. She pinched her nose to settle the nausea roiling in her belly.
They passed a handful of crofters’ cottages, then came at last to one that looked more like a rocky outcropping than a dwelling. A thatched roof shrouded a squat dwelling. It hardly seemed large enough for a person to stand upright inside. Only on closer inspection did it become evident the croft was man-made of grey dry-stone walls packed with earth. The brown straw thatch had borne the brunt of many a storm. Stone slabs placed haphazardly here and there weighted it down against the buffeting of the persistent wind.
“Still keeps out the rain,” Fanny muttered, as if sensing Isabel’s thoughts. “Wet sheep reek to high heaven.”
Isabel’s confusion lasted only until she stepped inside the humble abode. Narrow stone steps led down into the living space which had been dug out of the earth. She held on to the rough walls as she took one uneven step at a time, peering through a thin pall of smoke. At the far end of the dwelling, she made out a planked half-wall that separated off another area. The bleating and the stench of dung could only be coming from sheep on the other side of the makeshift partition that looked more like a fence than a wall. Barking loudly, Blue loped towards the enclosure.
Isabel patted her thighs and called him back. He obeyed reluctantly and slumped down at the foot of the steps with a weary groan. She knew how he felt.
“Ye’ll get used to the woolly beasts,” Fanny reassured her. “They keep a place warm. Stand by the fire while I get ye some proper clothes.”
Fearing she was trapped in a nightmare, Isabel trudged across the packed dirt floor to the stone hearth in the center of what appeared to be the only habitable room. She held her hands to the warmth of the peat fire. A blackened kettle hovered over the flames, suspended by a series of metal loops. When her gaze wandered the length of the chain to the rafters, she wrinkled her nose at the sight of fish hung to dry and suddenly understood the reason for the smoke in the air. “There’s no chimney,” she murmured.
“Aye, the smoke eventually works its way out,” Fanny explained.
“That’s why the walls are black,” Isabel replied, immediately wishing she hadn’t sounded critical.
Fanny looked around her home as if noticing the blackened whitewash for the first time. With a shrug, she motioned Isabel to sit on a three-legged stool, then eyed the muffin hat. “Yon bonnet has no ties. How do ye keep it on yer head?”
Isabel reached up, pulled out the hatpin then yanked off the hat with a flourish. She sifted her fingers through her long hair, glad to be free of the tight band around her forehead and the last of the braid.
Eyes wide, Fanny took the pin and examined it as if it were some holy relic. “Fancy that,” she whispered.
Isabel stifled the urge to reply that women in ancient China had used hatpins centuries before the birth of Our Lord.
The fire’s glow began to chase away the chill of the voyage and the uncertainty of the future, but steam rose from her damp clothing.
“Let’s get ye out o’ them togs afore ye catch a fever,” Fanny advised. “We dinna want the sheep ailing.”
Isabel hesitated. She understood the importance of livestock to a crofter, but there was apparently no privacy to be had for humans in the dwelling.
“Dinna fash,” Fanny said. “Sheep dinna ken if ye have clothes or nay. I’ll fetch a shift and a nice warm plaid. We’ll dry yon bonnet. Might rain later.”
“I’ll need help getting my boots off,” Isabel said reluctantly, lifting the hem of her skirt.
Fanny snorted. “Saints alive. I ne’er saw such footwear.”
Isabel half-expected her to refuse to help, but the auld woman straddled each leg in turn and heaved and puffed and swore until the boots were tossed to one side.
Muttering under her breath, she wandered off to rummage in a small cupboard built into the wall.
Isabel peeled off her clothing, then felt chilled. Hugging herself, she took the opportunity to look around. Two or three precarious shelves loaded with dusty brown bottles clung to one wall. Dried herbs hung from every nook and cranny, their aromas not unpleasant. A spinning wheel sat in a corner. The frame of a huge weaving loom dominated a large portion of the small dwelling. To Isabel’s untrained eye, it looked like a complicated conglomeration of pedals, frames and long strands of wool. Taller than she was, it dwarfed the box built onto its side, apparently to provide a wee bit of privacy for the only bed in the house. The cubbyhole seem to float in mid-air. Climbing into it would be something of a challenge.
A niggling doubt crept into her mind. Did her relative expect they would share a bed?
“Ye can sleep there,” Fanny declared, handing her a shift and making no effort to hide her perusal of Isabel’s nakedness. “I’ll kip by the fire.”
A shiver raced up Isabel’s spine. It was uncanny how the woman seemed to know her thoughts. “You live here alone?” she asked, pulling the garment over her head, surprised by the fine quality of the linen.
“Aye.”
Since no more information seemed to be forthcoming, Isabel said, “’Tis good o’ ye to give me shelter.”
Fanny shrugged. “That’s what kin do. I’ll teach ye to spin and weave so ye can make yerself useful. Besides helping with the sheep, o’ course. I’m off to return the horse and cart.”
Isabel frowned. “It doesna belong to ye?”
“Nay.”
Without further explanation, the auld woman left Isabel alone and feeling isolated.