As she spoke with Norrie, she glanced in Dougal’s direction, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sunset light. Her gaze met his across the beach, and he felt a tug within like the turn of a key. Again, he thought of the exquisite sea fairy he had dreamed about one wild black night when he had been in a bad way.
He shook his head, looked away. He needed some sleep. The exhausting pace of the work lately had made him imaginative and maudlin.
At the water’s edge, members of his crew hauled up another boat, the vessel they used daily to cross back and forth to SgeirCaran. Today, they had drilled and hacked into black basalt, cutting more of the foundation cavity for the lighthouse. As resident engineer, Dougal supervised every aspect of the work and often lent a hand with the actual physical labor. He had come ashore in another boat just minutes earlier, tired and gritty from the day’s work.
He tensed and relaxed his shoulders to lose some stiffness, and craved a wash, fresh clothing, a hot supper, and time alone in his hut to study plans by lamplight. The engineering log needed to be filled out each day with a report of progress, and he needed to check and recheck facts and measurements against the plan before the next phase of work began.
He glanced up and down the crescent of white sand that defined Caransay’s small natural harbor. Fishing boats were tied along the single-stone quay, and more boats tilted on the sand. Two headlands, tall and dark, framed the beach like enormous sentinels. The black rock that composed them matched the basalt of the reef within view of the beach.
Overhead, seagulls called and reeled, and waves swept over the pale, soft sand. Dougal savored the salty breeze that fingered through his wavy brown hair and fluttered his vest and collarless shirt; he did not wear stiff collars or neckcloths out here, and only sometimes grabbed a coat, for he needed to move freely for the work he did. Children raced past him, laughing, and a few scrambled up the nearest headland, calling out as they followed a path there.
The beauty still stood with Norrie. “Who is the lass?” Dougal asked Alan Clarke.
“Norrie MacNeill’s granddaughter. She is visiting. Lives off Caransay somewhere.”
“Ah.” That explained why he had not seen her here before.
“I hope she will be at the Friday ceilidh,” Alan mused. “Last time, I sat beside Norrie’s auld mum all night. Mother Elga tellsa good tale and sings a fine song, but with the fiddles and drums going strong, I wanted to dance.” He chuckled. “The lads and I notice that Caransay does not boast many unmarried lassies. And you arranged for us to stay here for months, even a year.” Alan laughed. “Some of us are looking for wives. Some of us just want to dance and court.”
“You will all work harder without a bonny distraction.” Dougal grinned.
“So will you, clever lad, wi’ nae fine lassies to flock after you as they do in Edinburgh and Glasgow, I have seen that. Och, and look! There goes my heart.” Alan set a hand on his chest with flair as Norrie’s granddaughter walked toward the headland with long-legged grace, skirt swinging neatly over bare feet. She waved toward the children climbing the rock, calling up to them. “What a pity if she’s a married lady.” Alan sighed dramatically.
“If not, perhaps you will have a chance.”
“I doubt it. See that tall fellow coming toward her now? Oh, see the smile she gives him. It breaks my heart to think that bonny thing is married or claimed.”
“Aye, well,” Dougal commiserated. A tousle-haired man wearing the baggy jacket, trousers, and boots of a fisherman joined the young woman. She smiled up at him, then stepped forward to snatch the shirttails of a small but bold child and pluck the blond boy before he could climb the headland slope with the others. She took his hand.
“Must be her bairn, the wee blond lad,” Alan said.
Nodding, Dougal felt an unexpected stab of disappointment, as if he had found his wee sea fairy at last, but she was married and beyond his reach. As Alan asked about the next day’s plans, Dougal replied, forcing himself to look away from the bonny lass and her family.
Turning, he narrowed his eyes against the sunset glare on the ocean waves and looked toward Sgeir Caran. Less than a milefrom the island, the massive black rock thrust up through the waves, silhouetted against the bright sunset. Sgeir Caran was the largest formation in the archipelago of the Caran Reef, a wicked cluster of rocks that littered the sea like great thorn, many of the treacherous points hidden below the constant sweep of the Atlantic.
Most of the time Dougal only thought of Sgeir Caran in terms of the challenges it presented to the work, or thought of its geology, the weather, the physics of wind and wave force and so on. But in some moments, when the light was extraordinary or the mist dense and deep, the rock appeared otherworldly, an ancient portal for legends and magic. One night, years back, he had nearly drowned out there, saved by what seemed to be kelpies and a fairy creature. He would never forget it or understand it, and it came into his mind more often than he wanted.
Do not be a fool, he told himself. He must fasten his attention to the here and now. Hard enough to work out on Sgeir Caran every day without the distracting dreams of what was past.
“She will find you,” Alan said.
Dougal turned, startled. “What?”
“The Baroness of Strathlin. When she hears we’re about to quarry stone from her island, she’ll come after you.”
“There’s not much Lady Strathlin can do now but accept it. I hear she keeps a manor house on this island and comes here now and then. When she comes next, I intend to win her over to see the value in the work that must be done here. The lighthouse will benefit her island.”
“She might whaup yer for causing her grief. Old hag,” Alan muttered. “Though I have nae met the lady, we can be sure she is a nasty old thing.”
“I will find out soon enough. I am invited to a soiree at her home in a few weeks.”
“She fights you every step of the way, she does.” Alan Clarke shook his head.
“Her solicitors have done most of the fighting for her.”
“The lady has nearly two million pounds to her name, they say. A staggering amount. Your fine inheritance is a wee sum compared to that. If she knows your project needs money, she will pull hard on the purse strings.”
“To her credit, she gives to charities and contributed to the cost of the Fife bridge collapse.”
