* * *
They watched her until she disappeared around a corner. Dafydd thought his sister the bravest person he had ever met, but riding alone into the island she looked so small.
“Damn, the Empire will be so proud of her,” Giles said.
“Whatever it is she’s up to,” William said.
“That’s my sister.”
26
Caitrin had never been on such a small island before. To her right, the Atlantic Ocean drove waves forward with so much insolence it seemed as though she was looking up at them. One after another, they transformed from ranks of collapsing green walls into hissing plains of brilliant foam. The sky was immense, the air felt cool and clean, and Caitrin inhaled deep breaths. She was newly alive. The road meandered across the machair—the undulating, thin-surfaced land peculiar to the Outer Hebrides—but there was something missing, although she could not at first discern what. There were rocky outcrops, tufts of wild grass bending against the wind, and sheep dotted everywhere, along with a few tiny houses scattered at random. But the landscape was not complete. What was missing? She finally saw the absence. Trees. There were no trees on the island.
Caitrin’s legs were tired, her hair wild, and her face flushed from the wind by the time she got to Castlebay. The village was aptly named. It was a scattering of stone cottages built around a semicircular bay with a half-dozen fishing boats, and the ruined Kisimul Castle, a square block of granite sitting on a small island in the middle. Pier Road, composed of a half-dozen slate-roofed, granite-block houses with the post office in the middle, ran along the western side. Caitrin had no trouble finding Barbara MacNeil’s house. She knocked on the front door. A middle-aged woman wearing a floral-pattern pinafore answered, and Caitrin knew instantly it was Barbara MacNeil. She had a mother’s face and seemed unperturbed at a total stranger knocking on her door so late in the year.
“Hello, I’m Caitrin Colline.”
“Would you be Dafydd’s sister?”
“So he is known abroad.”
There was a glimpse of a secret smile as Barbara answered, “He is, and William and Giles too. They bring their wives here. I’m Barbara MacNeil.”
“Hello, Barbara. I’d like a room for a few days, and Dafydd said this was the best place on the island.”
The smile grew a little stronger. “The best place for what?”
Caitrin had no answer.
“I’m teasing you the way your brother and his friends tease me. Come in out of the wind. We’re having Arbroath smokies for lunch. Duncan brought them from Auchmithie.”
The interior was small but gleaming, florally decorated in both carpet and wallpaper, and smelled of furniture polish. It was a comfortable house.
“Your room is upstairs at the front,” Barbara said, as though she had known all along Caitrin was coming. “It has a grand view of the bay. When you’re ready, come down and eat with us.”
“Us?”
“We’ll have no visitors this time of the year, so it’s just you, me, and my son Duncan.”
“Thank you,” Caitrin said and hurried upstairs. The double bed filled most of the room and the bedspread, like the walls and carpeting, was floral-patterned, this one made up of gigantic red roses with large bees. There was a small wardrobe with a mirrored door, a bedside table, and a light. She went to the window. Barbara was right. It did have a grand view of the bay, and through her binoculars she could easily read the fishing boats’ names. She washed, dragged a brush through her curls, and went downstairs.
And instantly fell in love with Duncan. He was close to her height, slender, with the reddest of hair to match hers, and an open, charming face. She guessed he was about sixteen. He vibrated with eagerness—a big-pawed, flopping-tongued puppy of a lad. He heard her coming downstairs, introduced himself, and led her into the kitchen. She felt at home. Barbara sat at the head of the table, while Duncan sat opposite Caitrin with a constantly mobile smile on his face.
“You are Welsh?” he said.
“You have a good ear.”
“It was easy.” His smile became a grin. “It’s a soft-edged accent, a lot like ours.”
“Help yourself and do not be shy, or Duncan will devour everything.” Barbara pointed to the dishes in the center of the table.
The Arbroath smokies were smoked haddock and with potatoes and neeps made a nourishing meal.
“I have come to like haggis, capercaillie,” Caitrin said as she sampled the fish. “And now I like Arbroath smokies too.”
“Are you staying long with us?” Duncan asked.
“Just a few days.”
“I’ll show you the island.”
“Thank you, Duncan, that’s very kind of you, but I need to stay in Castlebay.”
“Why?”
“Duncan, manners,” Barbara said, but it was the gentlest of admonitions. It was obvious Barbara dearly loved her son.
“Sorry,” Duncan said. “Before you go, you have to climb Heaval, though; it’s the highest point on Barra.”
“I might.”
Duncan was not to be so easily deterred. “You can see your future from the top.”
“Oh, is that a good thing?”
Duncan shrugged and tried again. “You’ll have a fine view in all directions.”
That got Caitrin’s attention. “Can you see from the mainland to the harbor?”
