Page 23 of The Last Kelpie

“Nae, I buy it from one of the locals, along with milk that I use to make butter.”

“You could just buy it at the town grocer.”

“I dinnae like going among all those people. I go only when I have to pick up things I cannae make myself. Besides, the cheese they sell doesnae keep as well.”

“Hard cheese does.” I shook my head. “You don't have electricity?”

“Nae, dinnae even ken how to get it. Wouldnae be able to pay for it, even if I did.” He shrugged. “I'm fine as I am.”

“You could get a cooler.”

“A what?”

“It's a big plastic box that is insulated. When you put ice in it with other things that need to be kept cold, it will keep them cold for several hours, sometimes over a day.”

“Interesting.”

When the food was ready, we took our plates outside and down to the dock. The dock extended maybe twenty feet into the water, the boards weathered gray by sun and rain. No boat moored there. It was just the dock. We sat on the wooden boards, our legs dangling over the edge. Áedán pulled a small pouch from his pocket and scattered seeds on the dock. Within moments, birds appeared—sparrows and finches, landing fearlessly near his feet.

“They know you,” I whispered.

“I've been feeding them for a hundred years. They teach their children to come, and then those children teach their young.”

We ate in comfortable silence. The food was simple but good. We had warmed the bread over the fire and laid slices of cheese on it to melt. The vegetables tasted vibrant and decadent, cooked in butter and salted lightly. I'd seen a greenhouse on the way to the dock, so I assumed Áedán had grown the vegetables himself. It made the meal feel special. He was sharing what he had grown and made himself with me.

Áedán fed the birds between bites, making soft clicking sounds that brought them closer. One landed on his knee. He didn't move, just smiled and scattered more seeds.

“You're different today.” I glanced at him, trying not to stare.

“How so?”

“Less guarded.”

Áedán considered this. “You've shown me who you are. I trust you enough to show you who I am.” He tossed a seed to a particularly bold sparrow. “You should laugh more. You're always so serious.”

I felt heat rise in my face again. “Your continued existence is a serious matter.”

“I appreciate that, but must you be serious all the time?”

I bit my lip. “I suppose not.”

We fell into an easy rhythm after that. Áedán told me stories about the birds, the tourists who sometimes wandered too close to his cottage, and the time a film crew tried to shoot a documentary on the loch and he spent three days making their equipment malfunction.

I found myself laughing more than I had in months. Maybe years. He had a way of telling stories that made even mundane things funny. There was a timing to his delivery that caught me off guard. It was as if he were proving to me that I could relax around him.

Áedán drew his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. “I'm glad you're here.”

“I'm glad you've let me stay.”

He sighed. “Ten years isnae all that long to a kelpie. But when you hear lies aboot yourself, over and over, a decade becomes an eternity. After a while...”

“After a while, what?”

He looked at me. His eyes were dark, tired, and infinitely sad. “After a while, you start wondering if maybe they're right. Maybe I really was a monster all along.”

“Then I'm very glad to be here. Because it's time you heard the truth.”

“What truth?”