Bruar's Rest

would listen to Viking tales) made its way to meet the northern ocean.
    Serenely, holding a cotton hankie to her eyes, Helen held back her tears. She’d shed plenty over the years for her wayward brother. Father Flynn intoned in Latin the fitting words, as the men stood respectfully in silence, waiting with spades to cover up Rory, the wild drinking man whose love of the water of life and lack of respect for himself had proved a terrible downfall.
    Looking across the land as if for a fleeting moment she saw Rory, Megan repeated to herself the words she’d heard all those years ago: ‘You can book into Hell Hotel, but you can never leave.’
    Megan couldn’t watch as the men struggled with the coffin. It proved too heavy and after seeing them drop one end and have to jump in to straighten the thing, she decided to get away. Pulling a black cardigan that Helen had loaned her across stiff shoulders, she ran off without a word. Avoiding the path that went past the far end of the graveyard, she set off across the sand dunes which seemed endless. She didn’t want to be there, all that holy stuff about repenting and forgiveness stuck in her throat; she felt stifled. But noone thought her actions disrespectful; the past war was still raw in many hearts.
    On she ran until she came to a spectacular view of cliff tops, above which black and white birds hovered and dived. The sight made the hair rise on her neck. Their freedom and power over the wind made her wish she were a sea bird like a puffin, diving with folded wings among rugged rocks with such agility; then to rise with wings outstretched, hovering on air thermals.
    Funeral garment now wrapped about her waist, she set off to explore that wild and wonderful place that her man had spoken of with such vivid words. In the past she had longed to see this place, hoping they could come one day. And now here she was, seeing it in all its splendour, thanks to the dead body of his father. Each step drew her eyes upward, as yet more birds held themselves steady in a powerful wind. It whipped up her hair and the frayed hem of her skirt slapped her legs. Every so often, without warning, the ground fell away, displaying a gorge of such mammoth depth it left her breathless. She walked, skipped and ran, climbing higher before falling back into long, coarse grass and staring upward until the sky’s brightness brought tears. Far below, on her left, a swathe of countryside lay between one village and the other, and from her high vantage-point they appeared like tiny dots on the edge of the world. To her right, almost as far away as any eye could see, stood a high lighthouse, and she wondered if perhaps that was the ‘Parbh’. She could just make out how near the cliff edge it was. Exhausted with the responsibility of recent days, she found a secluded spot to rest.
    ‘If you stand upon that rock over there you will see the Hvarf. I mean Cape Wrath. The Vikings called it Hvarf, meaning “the turning point”.’
    Megan, startled by the man who’d appeared, it seemed, out of nowhere, rose to her feet.
    She rubbed her eyes. ‘What did you say?’
    ‘The Cape of Wrath. The invaders, those men of Norway, had their own name.’
    ‘My Bruar told me all about the Vikings,’ she said.
    ‘Oh, that he would, and seeing as he was from these parts, I’m sure he did a good job!’
    Her strange companion faced her, and all she could focus on was a space in his head! Not the long reddish beard or the sharp jawline, but that empty hole that once housed a sea-green eye. The Seer of Balnakiel, who had flitted in and through her nightmares, stood with her on a cliff top. Who else could it be?
    He sat down on grassy rocks, motioned her to do the same. As if in a trance she obeyed, clasping hands over shaking knees.
    A strange silence fell across the sky; it grew dark and cloudy, and the birds flew in to rest on cliff ledges.
    ‘Do you believe in the stones?’ he asked.
    ‘I have no time for that stuff; I am a Glen Coe tinker. And I have no time to be in the company of a pig-evil man who told big Rory his wife was dying. You could have helped him. Even if it was known to you she would die, you still should have shown compassion.’ She made to stand, run away, but his bony fingers clawed her back down to the grass.
    ‘You look to the creatures of the sky for prophecy.’ His voice was slow and thoughtful.
    ‘Why do you know this?’ she asked sharply.
    ‘I know many things, child. Now calm