I slipped a hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out the small notebook I used to make notes when I was researching something. I pressed my lips together, eyeing the first headstone.
Fr. Maclean, Loyal Soul
I scribbled Maclean, Fr. in my notebook and then moved to the next gravestone. I had every intention of researching each of the names I found here, but the closer I got to each gravestone, the more I realized what a problem that might present. Most of the stones were moss-covered and blackened by the unforgiving Scottish climate. The stones were beautiful in their own way, but it only took me examining the next illegible three to know that I would have my work cut out for me this summer. If I had any hope of reading these stones, I’d need to wash all of them first.
I tucked my notebook and pen back into my pocket and stood. I remembered then what had lured me out here in the first place. A broken gravestone rose from its position in the far corner of the graveyard, the top turned on its side as the angled granite shot angrily into the air. At some point a while ago, the top of the stone had broken in half. It wasn’t hard to imagine with the wind and rain that pelted this coast. My eyes lingered on the engraved part of the stone, but too much of it was covered in moss and lichen to be recognizable. I paused, letting my fingertips drift along the worn, pockmarked granite as I took in what looked like the oldest section of the graveyard.
Beyond the rambling wooden fence that at one time enclosed the headstones stretched the vibrant navy and turquoise loch. It shimmered in a single ray of sunshine, lighting up the previously shadowed corner and revealing two intense eyes peering back at me.
A chill splintered my spine before I shook the fog from my mind and cut my gaze from the intriguing stranger’s.
I didn’t know anything about the man I would be sharing the loch with this summer, but I wanted to know more. So much more.
Fable
With the last rays of misty sunshine setting over Leith Hall, I wandered the first-floor library. My fingertips chased the spines as I imagined what kinds of stories I might find nestled within the deckled edges of the hardcovers.
Lost in Leith’s library, I tried to make rhyme or reason of the floor-to-ceiling shelves of books that covered two walls. I lingered at the end of one shelf, fingers on a dusty paperback, when a giant head poked up from the crimson sofa that anchored the wide windows along the far wall.
“Hey there, buddy.” As soon as I cooed to the old dog, another head popped up, nose in the air as it searched for my scent.
I smiled, hand outstretched as I walked to the dogs. Their giant muzzles were covered in wiry gray fur, eyes large chocolate pools that made me want to curl up with them while I read my next book.
“What do you recommend I start with?” I mused as I patted the first dog on its head. The second curled back into itself, unconcerned with the stranger now wandering Leith. I turned back to the shelves, finding a copy of Robert Burns sandwiched between two beaten-up volumes of Shakespeare.
I picked up a book of strange Scottish tales and legends, flipping open the cover and inhaling the layers of dust that plumed around me. I fingered through the first few pages, surprised when I found a signature of its one-time owner scribbled along the top margin of one of the pages.
“Maclean, Alder,” I read aloud.
One of the dogs perked up with my voice, glancing from me to the stretch of heather and loch out the window. The graveyard was dark with the setting sun; I’d noticed it almost in permanent shade since I’d arrived at Leith a few hours ago.
I hadn’t seen Keats since his initial welcome. The shift in his eyes and the friendly but concise cut of his words made me smile even now. Living at a place like Leith, with only the dogs and the draft to keep a person company, was destined to make anyone a little quirky. I appreciated the old man’s quirks, though, his love for this place clear in the way he ambled around its grounds, giving all his attention to whatever spot he tended at the moment. The deep shadows and rocky crags played tricks on my eyes, the sun perpetually shining on Keats as if he made a point to follow it around all day while the graveyard was shaded in permanent mist and shadow. It seemed stranger now that I viewed it from Leith, the shadows casting longer, the granite cold and unforgiving enough to leave a chill in my veins.
I appreciated that Keats left the curtains open and the old eight-paned windows cracked to allow a breeze. Leith was homier than what I’d expected. From this angle, I could close my eyes and almost hear the pitter-patter of tiny feet running its halls, shrieks of joyous laughter from any one of the families who must have called Leith home over the generations. Dozens of stories must have been born of its walls; a big, drafty house like this anchoring the tiny village of Kylemore must have generated enough gossip to make Granny blush.
I grinned, tucking the Robert Burns at my elbow and about to share the blood-red couch with the two giant hounds who currently claimed it, when a throat cleared, the hard consonants and quick delivery of the words making me jump with surprise.
“Aye, you don’t want to read ole Rabbie Burns. If you want a taste of the Highlands, you’ll want this one.” Keats shoved an old, leather-bound book into my palms.
“Really?” I hesitated, the cover so worn from reading it was hardly legible.
“Why, o’course.” His weathered cheeks rose in a mischievous grin. “Tales of murder and betrayal cast a spine-chilling shadow over Skye. All of the Highlands, really. My favorite story is The Salt Witch. She’s rumored to haunt Leith, but many of the old manor houses up here have stories like this one. When the room temperature drops suddenly and the air fills with the scent of salt and roses, it’s said you’re in the presence of the Salt Witch. Some say her ghostly laments can be heard outside on the full moon. You can still visit the ancient salt caves where she first cast her curse, maybe find yourself a weeping stone for a souvenir and try to decipher the ancient drawings of kelpie and forest children on the walls of the cave. Many tourists come searching for the burial chamber of the Salt Witch, but they won’t find ’er. Some believe her remains are locked in the walls of Leith, her spirit set to roam these passageways forevermore.”
He knocked on the bookshelf nearest to his weathered palm.
“Leith must have countless lore and legends buried in these walls.”
He nodded, plucking another book off the shelf and passing it to me.
“What is this one about?”
“Aye, you don’t want to read that one. It’s a cautionary tale about a horrible fact of life here in the Hebrides. Living alongside wild and dangerous things takes a toll. Great truths are told in great fiction. The Fairy Lover is one such tale. Mind ye not find yourself too close to tha wicked deep, for the fairy lover lives along the edges of the lochs in the northern reaches of Scotland. He lures young women to the loch under the guise of passion, but it isn’t long before they drown in their own reflection.” He leaned in, his gravelly voice sending shivers down my spine. “’Tis this story that’s my favorite.”
He moved out of the room as quickly as he’d come. He reached the door and paused, eyes on me a moment before he grinned. “Beware the loch, fair lass. Its beauty calls, and its dangers are well concealed—like love, I s’pose.”