Page 65 of Some Like It Scot
“Seamas?” I repeated. “Is that a really fierce sheep, or is it something even worse? Like a banshee? I’ve heard they live in these parts too.”
He pursed his lips as if in thought. “Banshee?”
“A female spirit with a horrible cry.”
“You mean the caoineag. Aye.” He nodded. “But she doesnae appear in the day. Not her.”
He said it so matter-of-factly I almost laughed. But his very serious expression stopped me.
“Seamas is a hairy coo and a crabbit one at that.”
Hairy coo. Ah, I knew what that meant. I’d been sharing photos on social media of the adorable Highland cows for a few weeks before my trip to Scotland. And I’d promised my nephew, Jake, I’d get some photos of them. And puffins.
“Are there more around besides Seamas? Nicer ones?”
“Aye, they stay up along that bràigh most of the time.” He gestured to a nearby hill. “And there’s a braw view of the Gribun cliffs from up there. If you pinch your eyes, you might even see Tragedy Rock.”
The names in this place! They begged for more information.
“Tragedy Rock?”
Lachlan’s eyes lit. He already had storytelling in his blood and knew a willing listener when he saw one. “Isnae a happy tale, Katie Campbell.”
I love how he used my full name so often. In fact, Graeme did the same thing.
“Well, I like all kinds of stories.”
He drew in a breath, ginger brows raised as if warning me. “’Tis said a young shepherd named John came to Mull to marry his sweetheart, Rona. But a great storm brewed on the day of their marriage.” He spoke with the eloquence likely passed down from his family and recounted the tale probably word for word as it had been told to him. So much like my Appalachian heritage. Stories. They’d been in my blood from a very young age too.
“The storm didnae stop the two from celebrating their union, and after the festivities they retired in John’s nearby cottage built under the cliffs.” He gestured back behind us toward the hill he’d just mentioned.
My body stiffened. I saw the next part coming.
“But the storm continued to rage through the night and loosed a rock, which came tumbling down the hill to land atop the wee cottage, smashing it to bits.”
The last dramatic description was likely added for my benefit.
I released an appreciative sigh. “That is a sad tale.”
“Aye, and their bodies were never found.” His thin lips crooked the slightest bit. “Some say poor Rona is the caoineag heard across the glen in the night crying for her dear John.”
I leaned forward and narrowed my eyes at him. I had to give the kid kudos for effect. “Are you trying to scare me a little bit?”
“You’re naught the type to be easily afeart, are ye?”
Only of sheep.
And maybe a few other things that lived much deeper in my psyche than sheep.
“Noteasily.” I waved toward the flock across the loch. “Except when it comes to sheep, but I must say you’re an excellent storyteller.”
His smile spread wide. “My uncle knows all the tales. Granny too.” He sighed back against the rock. “But my uncle always says to leave a tale with a bit o’ hope, if ye can. So...’tis said that although the remains of the cottage lay crumbled ’neath Tragedy Rock, flowers still bloom in John and Rona’s garden as a sign that true love ne’er dies.”
Love lingers long.
I studied the little boy. Leave a tale with a bit of hope? I grinned. A good life notion too.
We fished and talked a little longer. I took a few videos and photos of the scenery and the one tiny fish I caught. Lachlan encouraged me with all the gusto a disillusioned eight-year-old could muster. Clearly, I was not an impressive fisherwoman.
