He told me later that he tore his jumper on purpose, beyond repair. He had been on our island before, had seen me selling our wool goods, and resolved to speak to me the next time. That season I saw him three times. He would buy things from me and I would ask him questions about the sea. They were most certainly silly questions, but his patience had no limits. If he tired of talking about types of fish, or selkies, or how to tie the most impossible knot, or how big a whale is…he never let on. He would answer me in his calm voice, and fiddle with his new jumper.
I felt sad saying goodbye at the end of that first season, but he said he would write to me and he did. In our letters, our conversations became more meaningful. His words were sweet, his thoughts deep, and his wit quick. There was a part of himself he seemed only able to express in writing.
The second season I had butterflies the first time I saw him. I felt strangely shy. Having shared so much of ourselves in our letters, it felt as though I was meeting him in a new way. He had arranged to work in the harbor that season instead of going out on the fishing trips. He had done this to spend more time with me. It was his idea. I felt a million times more enviable than my thin waisted and lace knitting sisters. I would happily live unmarried until I was 80 if it meant finding this kind of love.
Calum was a quiet man when it came to most people. He was very kind and helpful. But he didn’t say two words if one would do. But with me he was different. He would talk to me for hours, as we lay in the bottom of a boat counting stars, or walked across the machair counting wildflowers.
As the season came to an end, we sat at the water’s edge and amid the hustle and bustle of the harbor, he quietly told me he wished to marry me. I loved him deeply and told him yes. It was Sunday, and they wouldn’t set out to fish until the next day. He made plans to approach my father that evening. They were aquatinted as most folk are who come and go on the island, but he knew nothing of our love. As we prepared to part ways that afternoon, I straightened his jumper, picking off invisible bits of fuzz. He gently pulled my hands down and kissed my forehead. “If you keep picking I won’t have a jumper at all.”
Later that evening I heard Calum knock on the door, saw my father step outside. I couldn’t hear Calum’s words, but his tone was vulnerable, calm, sincere. I only heard my father speak a few words, and then the door closed. I could hear gravel crunching under Calum’s boots as he walked away. I straightened up, smoothing my apron, full of anticipation as my father came inside. But he simply said “no” as he met my expectant eyes.
I was bitterly angry with my father. I was worth more to him as an old maid working on the croft, and he had no interest in marrying me off to a quiet fisherman of average means. And that was that. I cried tears of intense frustration and despair. Did nobody else think it unfair that a person’s fate could be decided so swiftly by another? Why didn’t it matter that I was in love? Was I not the one who would actually be living this life being chosen for me? Later that night I crept through the shadows into the village, where I found Calum sitting on the stone wall tossing pebbles into the swelling tide. I wept into that jumper. The jumper I had made, whose stiff newness had given way to the shape of his chest and shoulders. It smelled like him, as I buried my face into his neck. He whispered my name, but for once, I was not at ease, I was not calm. I said desperate things about running away together. But he couldn’t bare to think of my reputation being tarnished, of my family ties being severed. He made me promise to wait a year before we talked about going to such lengths again.
He left me with a flat piece of whale bone on which he had carved the image of a single ocean wave.
“It’s only the ocean between us,” he said, holding me close one last time.
His face as his boat disappeared into the fog-shrouded harbour has haunted me for nine years now. Ever calm, ever kind, ever soothing.
We had promised to write, but I never heard from him again. Three years later, on his deathbed, my father told me he had burned Calum’s letters until they stopped coming. He HAD been writing to me. My heart wrenched in two, and I felt physically ill. My dear, sweet Calum was left to think I had turned my back on him. My father didn’t ask forgiveness, he just stated it like a fact as mundane as how many sheep were in the pasture, or what mother was cooking for dinner. “We needed you here,” was the only answer he gave to my heartbroken, “Why?”
I wrote to Calum after that, but my letters came back to me. I didn’t know he had left his home, and I concluded that his heart was too broken to read my letters. I resigned myself to a crofting life, and found some comfort in the sea, and soothing in the wildflowers. My sisters raised their families, my mother went on as she always had, and my brother still found reasons to call me Captain Catherine. But I had lost the will to steer my ship.
______________________________________
I couldn’t see the lighthouse until we rounded the smaller isles. The approach to the island was from the far side, which gave me a chance to see many of its features as we sailed past. There were beautiful inlets, strangely shaped sea stacks, a hidden sandy beach, and even a waterfall dropping off a steep cliff. As the lighthouse came into view, I was struck by how charming it was. It was a whitish cream color with a light brown band around the top. The keeper cottage looked spacious, painted to match the tower. The light made its way around again and winked at me. What an idyllic place to live. Or perhaps not if it was loneliness that drew you there. I wondered if Calum had found peace, if he was happy on his island.
As we drew closer, I was suddenly overcome with fear. Would Calum recognize me? Would he be happy to see me? Was this incredibly selfish? He had been through so much since we parted. He thought I had turned my back on him. I was so driven by my desire to see him again, to right a wrong, that I didn’t stop to think.
I snapped back to the present as I heard barking. I could see a white dog bounding along the stone wall, its head popping up periodically as it kept pace with the boat.
“That’s Archie, sounds fierce but the only thing he’d hurt is a midge, and even then he’d probably feel bad about it. Hey Archie, good boy!”
“Well little one, I hope you like dogs!” I said to the kitten. As unfazed as she was about everything else, I felt sure she would be just fine.
At the crest of the cliff, I could see a man with white hair and a neatly trimmed beard, clearly an older man.
“I didn’t realise there was anyone else on the island,” I said.
“There isn’t,” Angus said as he waved to the man. “Calum minds the light by himself.”
My heart plummeted to the soles of my feet. How could I have been wrong? I was sure I recognised the voice. And Angus had said the keeper’s name was Calum. I had connected the dots too hastily and got my hopes up. I felt empty, drained in an instant of the hope that had been clearing the cobwebs from my soul. “You’re a daft, naive fool” I muttered under my breath. I wanted to stay in the boat. But it would have been rude (and odd) not to assist Angus, and hand over the kitten I had demanded to deliver myself.
We were drawing closer and the kitten was getting underfoot. As I tried to catch her, Angus was tying up the boat. I couldn’t see the man on the cliff anymore, but I had lost interest in him, and busied myself gathering up the kitten and some other things I had brought to leave with her. We alighted and started up the winding path that snaked its way up to the lighthouse. I trailed behind, cursing my skirt for getting in the way and slowing me down as usual. Angus had disappeared around the cliff and the sound of enthusiastic voices told me the brothers had been united. Archie was barking excitedly and I heard the voices trail off. I began to think they had left me and gone inside. But as I rounded the corner, I froze, face to face with the white-haired man.
My heart stopped, and my breath caught in my throat. It was my Calum.
“Cat!?” My name fell off his tongue in apparent disbelief. His rough hand sought the cold rock wall.
“Calum,” I barely managed to whisper his
name but as I did, years worth of heartache lost their grip on my soul.
The white hair was his only feature that had aged. It was still thick and wavy. And there were those bushy eyebrows, drawing me into those unforgettable eyes. He was the same Calum I remembered, the same face frozen in my mind, disappearing into the fog. When I noticed his clothes, a lump formed in my throat. He was still wearing that jumper, all these years later. It bore the marks of innumerable mendings, but the colors and pattern were unmistakable.
Angus stared at us both, not knowing what to make of it all. He turned toward me with a surprised and suspicious look, and I could see the questions forming in his head. But he clearly sensed the gravity of the moment, and didn’t utter a word. He then mumbled about supplies, and went back toward the boat.
“Cat,” Calum repeated my name, this time seeming more trusting of his own words.
“Calum.” I didn’t know where to start, so I chose what was right in front of me. “I made you a new jumper, and I brought you this.”
I held out the new jumper I had made for him, wrapped around the precious little ginger kitten. Those kind eyes I remember so well creased in the corners, a smile forming on his lips, and then fading away as disbelief once more seemed to set in. Then he caught sight of his whalebone carving around my neck. I held it between my fingers, tears in my eyes.
“It was only the ocean between us,” I whispered, “I’m sorry it took me so long to find you.”
Lilly MacKenzie Hurd is an American writer who is passionate about Scotland, her ancestral home. While working in corporate Boston in 2016, she decided to trade her high heels for hiking boots. She now spends her time exploring off the beaten path and writing about Scottish heritage. She is currently working on a historical novel set in 7th Century Scotland.
Find out more at facebook.com/findherinthehighlands.
66
No More Mr. Nice Pussy
by Andrew Mackay
Landing yourself on the wrong side of Stanley the Bengal doesn't suck.
It blows.
“Shut up.”
“I swear, I haven’t—”
The terrified female voice stopped talking when the violent slap thundered out from the kitchen.
“I said shut the hell up,” came the terse and wild response from the gruff male voice. “Say another damn word, and I’ll smash this bottle in your goddamn face.”
A pair of fluffy, orange ears pricked up from the front room. They belonged to a gorgeous face, and an almost impossibly perfect body of a three-year-old Bengal cat.
His two front paws dug into the carpet on either side of the bowl, which contained the name of its owner: Stanley.
His fine, white whiskers bounced up and down as he dived back into his bowl of premium chicken.
Nom-nom-nom.
His tongue lapped over the fine, white breast fillet, satisfied that the argument from the kitchen had subsided.
Then came the hurried footsteps from the linoleum kitchen floor. It seemed as if one of Stanley’s two owners was pacing around with despair.
The woman’s hurried wails of terror crept through her tears. “Get out of this damn house.”
“It’s my goddamn house, bitch.”
Just then, the heart-stabbing sound of glass smashing made Stanley jump.
He lifted his head away from the bowl and trundled forward with the intention of peeking around the corner. Fragments of glass had evidently hit the floor from the impact, and were being trodden on.
The woman’s intense howls of turmoil blasted into the corridor as Stanley dared to nose forward.
Tail bushy.
Ears and face on high alert, which made him look all the cuter.
Though Stanley couldn’t see the event, even the dumbest furball knew that things were not good in the kitchen.
“Ah, for Christ’s sake,” the man fumed. “Stay there, I’ll get a bandage. You’re bleeding all over the damn kitchen.”
Stanley wiggled his nose, trying to catch a sense of what had gone down, when suddenly—
Spriiiish.
He jumped back at the sound of the kitchen sink springing to life.
“Sit down and keep your head titled. Damn it, there’s always something.”
Stanley looked back to see his half-eaten dinner resting by the foot of the staircase. He turned back and snaked forward as carefully as he could.
“Meow.”
A pair of woman’s legs at the table was the first thing the pair of blue feline eyes saw.
A smattering of blood struck down her leggings, and her shoe was surrounded by tiny shards of glass.
Stanley called out with a fey, innocent look on his cuddly face. “Miew.”
He looked up the length of the woman’s body to see a middle-aged face. She hadn’t noticed Stanley looking at her due to keeping her head up at the ceiling.
“Ugh,” she whimpered, having been struck by the broken bottle of Rollneck Kojak that lay on its side on the tabletop, just next to her left hand.
Stanley’s chest rumbled with a purr as he saw a pair of jeans by the kitchen counter, doing something with the sink.
“Okay, hold on,” the male voice said. “Stay there. Let me get this damp rag on your head.”
Once the man had spoken, Stanley recognized the voice immediately; it belonged to the large, adult human he knew as Dad.
The quiet bawls, therefore, must be coming from Mom.
Dad’s sneakers were pointing at the kitchen counter and the sink, which meant he was facing away.
Stanley saw his opportunity.
He bolted past the empty garbage bag and sneaked under the table, just as the two sneakers turned around and approached the seated woman from behind.
“Right, move your hand, woman,” Dad said. “Keep your head right up, that’ll staunch it.”
Driiiip-drip-drip.
Stanley eyed the ropes of fresh water dripped along the floor from the counter to the table, indicating the path taken by the man.
A quick look at the fridge, and the contents of the garbage can was in full view.
Dozens of empty beer bottles that weren’t there before when Stanley last went to the toilet in the tray next to it.
And that was only two hours ago.
The woman’s feet shuffled due to the pain she experienced. “Oww.”
“Shut up. Hold it steady against your face. That should stop the bleeding.”
Dad’s sneakers seem to lose their balance as they stepped away from the table.
Poor Mom, Stanley thought. She’d suffered enough, and could use some cheering up from her pet.
“Miew.”
Stanley sidled up to her left leg, rammed the side of his head against her ankle, and flossed her shin with the side of his beautifully kept coat.
Then, the man left the kitchen, leaving the woman to look down at what had caused the unannounced, yet familiar and soothing feeling.
A pair of eyes blinked down at Stanley as he looked up.
It was Mom, her face ruined by the bloodied, damp gauze she held over her right eye. “Hey, Stanley.”
“Meow.”
Stanley trained his eyes on the woman. He vaguely understood the second word she’d said, because he heard it a lot.
“Stanley.”
“Meow.”
“Good boy,” she whimpered, before breaking into a sob. “Mommy’s a bit clumsy. She’s hurt herself.”
Stanley ducked away from her, and rubbed his side against the woman’s shin once again. He couldn’t look her in the face when she was telling an untruth, and right now was one such time.
He knew it by the tone of her delivery.
Something was up, and this middle-aged human woman needed comforting.
And she needed to do some explaining.
Stanley extended his claws and jumped up the length of her right leg, and right onto her lap.
It all happened so fast, and quite without her permission.
“Oh, m
y.”
“Miew.”
Stanley licked around his mouth and stood on his two front legs, looking straight into her eyes.
The woman wiped a tear from her free eye and quivered. It was the first time her own pet had come to her defense.
Was it all in her mind, though? After all, Stanley had just been given his favorite food, and seemed sated enough.
Then, it dawned on her.
Stanley wanted her to speak.
“Ohh, Stanley. Mommy’s okay. It’s just that, uh—” she said, before lowering her voice into a whisper. “—Daddy’s had a bit too much to drink, you know? He can be really bad sometimes, but he doesn’t mean it.”
Stanley didn’t even offer so much as a meow.
Instead, he tilted his head to the side, which Mom read as a sarcastic “You. Don’t. Say.”
Such was the desire for humans to fill in the gaps, Stanley wasn’t an idiot. Most nights played out this way, but with less violence. The tone of the arguments, and the dominance of the male human, suggested a keen and inappropriate imbalance.
Particularly when the place stank of booze, as it did now.
It was enough to turn any pussy off its milk, if nothing else.
Mom tried for a smile at the feline. “It’ll be okay once Daddy calms down, Stanley.”
“Meow.”
Mom clutched her chest in shock when she saw Stanley’s eyes had averted to her bloodied bandage.
“It was my fault.”
Just then, a thunderous eruption of footsteps from the staircase made both Stanley and his mom jump in terror.
“Go,” she said. “Hide, Stanley. Daddy isn’t in a good mood.”
Stanley perched at the edge of the kitchen table, ready to launch himself into obscurity, but then decided against it.
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