William Monk 05 - The Sins of the Wolf

something else.
    But he could not find the memory. There was nothing more, just the cold, the violence of the water, and the terrible overwhelming sense of urgency.
    Suddenly the boat shot forward. They were in the lee of the Black Isle and the ferryman was smiling.
    “Ye’re a stubborn man,” he said as they slid into the shore. “Ye’ll no be doing this tomorrow, I’ll be thinking. Ye’ll be hurting sore.”
    “Possibly,” Monk conceded. “Maybe the tide’ll be on the turn, and the wind not so hard against us.”
    “Ye can always hope.” The ferryman held out his hand and Monk paid him his fare. “But the train to the south will no wait for ye.”
    Monk thanked him and went to hire a horse to take him the several miles up over the high hills of the Black Isle, almost due north towards the next ferry across the Cromarty Firth.
    He obtained the animal, and rode steadily. It was a comfortable feeling, familiar. He found he knew how to guide the animal with a minimum of effort. He was at home in the saddle, although he had no idea how long it was since he had last ridden.
    The land was beautiful, rolling away to the north in soft slopes, some heavily wooded in deciduous trees, some in pines, much of it in meadows dotted with sheep and occasional cattle. He could see at least fifteen or twenty miles, at a guess.
    What was the memory that had troubled him in the boat? Was it one he even wanted to find? There was something else at the back of the other matter, something uglier and more painful. Perhaps he would rather leave it lost. There could be mercy in forgetfulness.
    It was hard traveling up the rise of the hill. He had used his back to exhaustion rowing across the Firth, but walking would not be unpleasant. He dismounted and gave the horse a break in its labor. Side by side they reached the crest and saw the mass of Ben Wyvis ahead of them, the first snows of winter crowning its broad peak. With the sunlight on it it seemed to hang in the sky. He walked gently, still on foot, while the hill to the left fell away, and he could see mountains beyond mountains, almost to the heart of Scotland: blue, purple, shimmering white at the peaks against the cobalt sky. He stopped, breathless, not with exhaustion but with the sheer wonder of it. It was vast. He felt as if he could see almost limitlessly. Ahead of him and below wasthe Cromarty Firth, shining like polished steel; to the east it stretched out of sight towards the sea. To the west were range after range of mountains lost in the distance. The sun was strong on his face, and unconsciously he lifted it towards the wind and the silence.
    He was glad he was alone. Human companionship would have intruded. Words would have been a blasphemy in this place.
    Except he would have liked to share it, have someone else grasp this perfection and keep it in the soul, to bring back again and again in time of need. Hester would understand. She would know just to watch, and feel, and say nothing. It was not communicable, simply to be shared by a meeting of the eyes, a touch, and a knowledge of it.
    The horse snorted, and he was returned to the present and the passage of time. He had a long way to go yet. The beast was rested. He must proceed downwards to the shore and the Foulis Ferry.
    It took him all day, with many inquiries, to reach Portmahomack, as Saint Colmac was now called, and it was long after dusk had deepened into true night when he finally reached the blacksmith’s forge on Castle Street and inquired where he could stable his horse and find lodgings for the night. The smithy was happy to keep the animal, knowing the beast from previous travelers who had hired it at the same place, but he could only suggest Monk go to the nearest inn a few yards down the hill by the shore.
    In the morning Monk walked the mile or so along the pale beach and up the hill to find Mary Farraline’s croft, which was apparently rented by a man named Arkwright. He was well known in the village—but not, from the intonation of voice, with much love. That could be because, to judge from his name, he was not a Highlander, and probably not even a Scot—although Monk had personally metwith only the greatest courtesy, in spite of his very English voice.
    He had arrived in the dark, but the morning was brilliant again, as clear as the day before. It was not a long walk, barely a mile at the outside, and at the crown of the ridge was an avenue of sycamore and ash trees lining the road. To