Page 30 of Some Like It Scot
The dog’s name was Witch? At this point, I was surprised at nothing. I mean, there evidently were mermaids.
“Witch?” I repeated, kneeling down to stroke the dog’s fur.
“Not Witch,Widge,” he corrected, but it didn’t sound much different than before.
I racked my brain for another option.
The boy released an enormous sigh. “Like something’s stuck between two things. Widge.”
“Wedge!”
“That’s what I said.” The boy rolled his gaze heavenward as if sending a silent prayer.
The dog licked my nose, rewarding my eventual comprehension.
“We found him as a pup out on the moor wedged between two rocks.”
I laughed and stood, giving the dog’s head another pat. “And do you have a name as interesting as your dog’s?”
The boy shook his head and studied me with those curious eyes again. “Lachlan.”
“Nice to meet you, Lachlan. My name is Katie Campbell.”
“Campbell?” His strawberry-blond brows shot high. “Well, no wonder ye dinnae know what you’re doin’.”
I stifled my chuckle and pulled my pack back over my shoulder. I’d already heard on more than one occasion that Mull was more McClean territory than Campbell but had hoped the conflict between the two clans died down a few hundred years ago.
Grandpa always said memory was long in Scotland.
Suddenly Lachlan dipped his chin as if he’d made some sort of decision. “If you want to be catchin’ fish, you need to go on the other side of the hill.”
The other side of the hill? I raised my gaze to the green and rocky separation between where I was sitting and what I supposed was the other side.
“Come on, now. I’ll show ye the way.” He jerked his head toward the hill. “I don’t think you’re fit to find it on your own.”
His ready confidence and adorableness had me picking up my flimsy fishing pole and following the boy up the hillside to who-knew-where. But that was one of the perks of travel writing. Many times the best stories came in the most unexpected ways, and following that hunch had defined my career.
So off I went, trailing behind a boy named Lachlan and his dog named Wedge over a hillside on an island called Mull, wearing my vegetable wellies and carrying my fishing pole with carvings of the summer goddess of love. It sounded exactly like the makings of a Monty Python movie... and a perfectly quirky excerpt for my travel blog.
I didn’t have to find weird. It always seemed to find me.
And an hour later, the only thing I’d truly caught was a sunburn and a dozen Scottish tales from my new buddy and his dog, before he headed on “aff to home” and I returned to Craighill with my heart surprisingly full and a story or three tingling my fingertips.
Chapter 7
Graeme
I took the wood-burning knife and carefully detailed the intricate feathers of the European roller I’d carved for my latest commission, allowing my fingers to trace the familiar path along the wood. The slope of the bird’s head and neck awaited more detail, but the glass eye was already set in place, staring at me to ensure I gave appropriate attention to my task. The tiny, detailed scapulars required some of the most intense concentration as they were the smallest feathers on the bird, but the lengthy, crouched position required of me was worth the results.
After all, over the past five years this little hobby had taken on a life of its own. Not enough to take it on full-time—so taking on other carpentry jobs along the island proved necessary—but it had, at least, allowed me some cash to add into my family’s collection to purchase back Craighill.
In fact, it had takeneverythingI’d saved, so I’d cut back on a few purchases the last several months just to make ends meet. And unless I could increase my sales or get more carpentry jobs, I’d have to keep costs low for a while yet. Making renovations to Craighill in my free time had cut into my sculpting, leaving less to offer potential buyers.
I adjusted my hold on the knife and glanced around my workshop as late-afternoon light bathed the room. Various wildlife sculptures hung or posed in different spots, either waiting to be purchased at the next local sale or awaiting shipment to their owners. An entire collection of creatures from Scottish folklore was positioned along atable by the back wall—my first attempts at anything other than the fowl I observed on Mull.
They’d sold well so far online. Selkies, mermaids, caoineag, Nessie, of course, and kelpies, faeries, the Ghillie Dhu, and even a dragon. Seemed folks wanted their faerie-tale creatures in sculpted form, as well as written.
I rolled my shoulders and sat back, returning my attention to the European roller and envisioning the finished product. Bright teal for the native bird’s head and stomach, complemented with brown and perhaps black tail feathers? This wooden sculpture was much larger than the last life-size swallow I’d made for a professor in Edinburgh. I tilted my head, taking in the half-finished fowl, seeing beyond the basswood color to envision a fully painted product. Hmm... and perhaps I could add a tiny bit of darker blue to highlight a wing tip or curve of the shoulder.
