Bruar's Rest

onwards. Reaching the top her heart stopped as she saw him teetering precariously on the edge.
    ‘Oh no, get back from there,’ she gently whispered, edging nearer. ‘Bruar, look at Megan, turn and see me. Come to me.’ His dead, blank stare gave her the answer she least wanted to get. ‘I have no choice but to inch my way over and drag him back,’ she thought nervously.
    Then, at the moment her hand touched his jersey, a voice shouted out, ‘What the hell are you doing up there with him in that condition?’ It was Father Flynn, but it would have been better if he’d stayed away, because his sudden appearance startled Bruar so much he jumped backward, knocking her over.
    She tried to leap forward, but the crumbling rocks beneath her feet gave way, and over the edge she went. ‘I’m finished,’ she thought, as her fingers clung desperately to a cluster of ancient water-battered tree roots. Above her, Father Flynn lay flat on his stomach and called down to her. ‘I haven’t got the reach, can you hang on until I fetch help?’
    ‘No time! I’m gone—just take care of my man,’ she called, as her fingers began to slip. She thought of thudding onto the rocks below and tightened her eyelids shut.
    Then, as the last finger lost its hold, she relaxed her body and gave in to gravity. Instantly two strong arms grabbed hers and pulled her up like a rag doll. Her eyes opened to find her husband; no one else. He had saved her from certain death. The blank eyes still staring from their sockets showed no emotion, and those lifesaving arms once again hung limp and dead.
    She knew what had happened, she was breathing and living proof of it. The old priest had also witnessed the miracle. Yet how could it be explained, what would their words be? That a young man without a thought in his empty mind had reached down and pulled his wife to safety?
    ‘It’s a blessing from God above,’ came the explanation from the man of the cloth. ‘There are those that swear angels are sent with each priest. Oh, and for sure I felt so privileged to have taken in this sight. I tell you, Megan, an angel entered into Bruar and saved the very life of ye!’
    ‘Yes, Father, you could well be right.’
    Her arm hugged Bruar tighter as the threesome took the road home.
    ‘That was a frightening experience hanging from that tree root, Father, I really thought my end had come. Tell me, why were you there?’
    ‘To say I received a letter addressed to you. I have it in the presbytery. Come with me and I’ll read it for you.’
    ‘For me, Father? But who would know where I am?’
    Passing the church and heading toward the presbytery, another wonderful happening blessed her day. Bruar, to her astonishment, pointed to her head and said with a slow mumble, ‘One grey.’
    ‘One grey what, my love? What is it you’re trying to say?’
    ‘Tell us, son,’ asked the priest jerking him round to face him. But there was no explanation, nothing, just the same limp arms and glassy eyes.
    ‘He’s trying, though, Father. I tell you it’s a good sign. Somewhere under that mop of blond hair are threads of memories, all searching for each other.’
    Soon with warm tea in hands they were sitting within the sparsely furnished interior of the Durness presbytery as Father Flynn proceeded to read. Megan could not help but feel excited, and yet with all the roads, places and people she’d encountered, it also entered her head that the contents of the letter the old man was about to read might not be pleasing. There were in fact two letters inside a large envelope. The first letter, larger than the other, was buff-coloured and had a look of officialdom about it. It was from a firm of Perth solicitors.
    Father Flynn began: ‘Being solicitors in charge of the affairs of Doctor Roger Mackenzie, we have been instructed to inform you, Mrs Megan Stewart, that our client, being of sound mind, has bequeathed his entire estate to you. Following his recent death, it our duty to hand over keys of said property to yourself.’ The priest went on, but not one word made sense, apart from those that said Doctor Mackenzie, a dear friend of her family, had died.
    ‘You seem to own a bit of property, lass. What are you going to do?’
    Her eyes welled up, at the memory of that sweet old man with the crabbit mare. His usual call, intended to be for a few minutes, would undoubtedly last all morning or afternoon; it would depend on his mood or just the flow of