GUNNER: A Forsaken Riders MC Romance: Alpha Male Biker Club Bad Boy Romance (Motorcycle Club New Adult Contemporary Short Stories) (110 page)
Authors: Samantha Leal
The next day she was leaving Yorkshire, traveling by train up North to the Inner Hebrides of Scotland and would complete her journey by ferry to the tiny Island of Iona.
Although still cold outside, the sun was shining brightly in a vain attempt to warm the chill October air. Inside the carriage, Andrea was cozy, sipping a cup of coffee and watching the world race by. The scenery of the Northumberland coastline stretching its way up North was breathtaking, the sunlight dancing and glimmering on the waves as they brushed against the solitary, rocky bays.
She felt truly liberated.
It would take most of the day to reach Iona, so Andrea settled back in her seat. She had no book to read but then remembered the small pocket diary from 1956 in her bag and eagerly pulled it out.
The pages were yellowing and the diary entries didn't start until June that year. The writing was faint, but she could just about make it out.
June 13
th
, 1956
Arrived on Iona after a long journey. Fishing boat brought me over from the main Island of Mull. Mother still not pleased with my decision to take a few months away, but I need some time to paint and think. There is plenty of time to become a housewife.
Andrea smiled. She had married Grandpa Joe in 1958, so not too many years of being free and single.
Little pencil sketches filled the margins of the paper: a fishing boat (maybe the one she had traveled across the water in?) and a hut or shack standing alone. It looked bleak.
June 14
th
, 1956
Digs are basic and chilly. The walls are made of corrugated metal so very cold at night. Porridge and kippers for breakfast, which I have surprisingly enjoyed. It’s much warmer outside in the early summer air than in my poky little room. Glad to get out in fresh air and now am going to walk over to the Abbey.
19:15- Had a lovely day. The Island is truly breathtaking. The Abbey is a very special place and it felt strange yet welcoming, almost if I had come home. My great, great-grandfather’s family were Scottish—one of the Great McDonald Clan—maybe that is why? I must go back and do more sketches tomorrow in the early light. Have been told the sunrise here is spectacular.
June 15
th
, 1953
Up early. The sky is still dark, but I want to set up my easel in the little chapel grounds so I can start to capture the first rays of light against the Abbey, and get a feel for the colours and the peace at that time of day.
The rest of the diary entries ended there. But towards the back of the book the scribbling started once again, not in any particular date order, but just what seemed like a collection of thoughts.
I’m not sure what happened at the Chapel? I seemed to have passed out in the cemetery. I had found an ideal spot for my sketches amongst the ancient burial places, and the last thing I remember was finding a strange looking carved stone in the grass. After that, it all becomes a little bit dreamlike and it can’t have been too long after that I must have fainted or something. I can’t remember feeling ill. When I came to, which must have been only seconds later, I was seized with an awful pain within my stomach and had a bitter taste in my mouth. I was crying and wretched and was violently sick and that seemed to make things a little better, but I felt weak and tired. Maybe it was something I ate for breakfast? Perhaps the kippers don’t agree with me, after all? I have these strange images in my head—hallucinations or dreams—and the people I see are so vivid. I feel disoriented as if I have been snatched out of a deep sleep. I don't seem to have any physical injuries except a cut to my right ankle. The strange stone was still in my hand. I am very tired and feel a sense of deep loss.
My dreams are bright, and I can see HIM clearly, Alexhander McDonald, in my head. It is the same name carved into the headstone in front of me as I sat sketching, and although it is scarcely legible, it must be the same. The date reads 1644.
There was a sketch of a man’s head, a rugged and yet handsome face with long, flowing, wavy hair.
The following pages were free of writing, but there were countless doodles of swords and shields, women and men in medieval dress, some tartan clad. There was a sketch of the small stone and numerous other images that seemed from a time gone by. The words “My dreams?” were scrawled underneath.
The next entry was June 22
nd
, 1956.
I think I am losing my mind. Slowly parts of my dreams are returning and they feel so real. I constantly think about this man, Alexhander McDonald, and I feel almost bereft, as if I have lost somebody close to me. I don’t know what really happened to me that day at the chapel, but my emotions are really mixed up for some reason. Maybe I am ill?
On July 30th there was one last entry:
Continuing to paint but not feeling myself. Felt odd since that morning at the chapel and the dreams continue to disturb me. Perhaps I will see Doctor Smith when I return home. Just a few more weeks left on the Island.
There were no more entries. If Andrea hadn't known any better, she would have thought the writer’s life had ended there. Yet she was living proof that it hadn't. As she flicked through the final pages, a small, square, black-and-white photograph fell from the diary and onto the plastic table of the train. It was a picture of Betty around her own age. She had forgotten how much she resembled her Gran. Apart from the clothing and the haircut, it could have been a photograph of her. Those magnificent eyes stared back into her own. If only she was still alive and had told her this story before. There were a million questions she wanted to ask, but now she would never know the answers.
Andrea closed her eyes and started to doze. She felt part of something, inexplicable though it might be. It almost seemed to be her destiny, riding on the train on this bright October day. She began to drift off into a light sleep, the rhythm of wheels on the track softly lulling her eyes closed. Grandma Betty appeared in her dreams and she was smiling and content. A small boy wearing a brown fur wrapping was in her arms. Her hands reached out, holding the child towards Andrea, but as she tried to take the boy, a mist gathered around her until the two figures were lost to her.
"Oban, Miss."
The gentle lilting accent permeated her dreaming, and she slowly opened one eye and then the other.
"We've reached the final destination, Miss. We're in Oban."
Mull was just an hour ferry ride over the Atlantic. Standing on the deck of the boat with the sea breeze in her hair, Andrea couldn't be further away from the girl in New York if she tried. Wearing little make-up and her old jeans and sweater, she felt relaxed. None of her chic friends would recognize her here, especially not as the partner of the up-and-coming artist Steve Dench. Here she was simply Andrea.
It was just a little after 6:00 pm as she stepped off the Caledonian MacBrayne ferry and onto the Island of Iona. A jeep from the Hotel Columba was waiting to collect her, but she preferred to walk and stretch her legs. Letting the hotel staff take her luggage, Andrea set off down the rugged road. It was only a five minute walk to the place, but the sun was starting to set and the sky was cast with ripples of purple and orange towards the west. Taking a shortcut through the nunnery ruins, peace and solitude hung on every stone, every ledge. Surely this was a glimpse of heaven? Andrea felt as if she were at the end of the world, a place where man lived in harmony with nature. It was so quiet and peaceful.
Even the hotel painted white and blue seemed part of the landscape. It was bigger than she expected and the aromas of the local menu hit her as she stepped into the small reception area. Her room was cozy, so different from the tin shack her Grandmother had described in the diary. From her window, she could just see a faint white glow from the walls of the Abbey. She would explore tomorrow, but right now she needed a bath and a change of clothes before a delicious dinner. As she unzipped her jeans, she felt the phone in her pocket. It had been switched off all day and when she switched it back on there were five missed calls from Steve.
She would meet that obstacle when she needed to, but right now there were more urgent callings.
Andrea slept remarkably well and was up just as the light started to creep through the dark material of the curtains. Her usual strict regime of a drink of warm water with a squeeze of lemon followed by a selection of fruit and soy yogurt was eagerly replaced by a good old British fry up of scrambled eggs, bacon, and home-grown tomatoes and a large coffee. Her size-zero friends would be positively sick at the thought of such a high-calorie start to the day and the thought made her laugh out loud. An old lady sitting at the table opposite glanced up from her morning newspaper. She had a kindly face and twinkling eyes, just like her grandmother. She smiled as Andrea tried to apologize, but there was no need.
Picking up a leaflet about the Abbey on the way out, she stepped into the chill morning air. The sun had risen in the east, casting a pale lemon glow across the land. Rounding the corner of the hotel, the Abbey came into full view, majestic and peaceful in the morning air. The weak sunlight lit up the stonework with a soft golden glow, making the whole thing ethereal, almost magical.
She could feel the significance of the place in the air, almost as if she were breathing in the history. From Saint Columba almost 1500 years ago to the Viking Raids, from the Reformation of the Churches to the warring of the great Scottish Clans, this place had seen it all.
It was a Sunday, so the visitor center was closed and the ticket office unmanned, but she would still be able to visit the little chapel mentioned in her grandmother’s letter.
She would see Reilig Odhráin, the little cemetery beside Sràid nam Marbh, “the street of the dead,” where legend has it many ancient Scottish kings were laid to rest.
It was a very special place indeed.
The little chapel stood apart from the main Abbey, a humble-looking, plain, stone building from the 12th century. Andrea could feel the hairs on her neck bristle against the collar of her fleece as she stepped through the entrance archway. The doorway was highly decorated with carvings in stark opposition to the rest of the building.
Two narrow windows lit the rectangular interior. Hesitating slightly before entering, she peered inside. Even in this early hour, candles had been lit on a small altar in front of what looked like an old marble stone. The stone-flagged floor contained medieval gravestones laid horizontally, so she tiptoed quietly across the floor, careful not to waken the dead.
On a small table there stood a box of yellow wax candles with a sign that read, “Light a candle for a loved one. Donations welcome.” Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a pound coin and 50 cents and put them both into the wooden offering box. Striking a match, she held it against one of the small wicks and soon it was flickering with a golden flame.
For Grandma Betty
, she thought as she hung her head in silence to pray. Andrea wasn't religious, and she didn’t believe in any God, but there was something spiritual about the place that she could not deny.
A draft blew at the back of her neck, so she looked around to see who had entered the chapel, but apart from her it was empty. Only the candle flame flickered as if disturbed by a phantom breeze.
The darkness and the solitude were affecting her senses. Andrea quickly ran back outside into the sunlight and breathed deeply. The cemetery was adjacent to the chapel and must be the one from the letter. The third grave on left-hand side... Was that from the front of the chapel or the back? Not really sure what she was looking for, Andrea decided to take a good look at all the gravestones to see if anything of significance struck her. It would only take her half an hour to walk the entirety.
The graveyard was bordered by a low stone wall, over which she had a perfect view of the Sound of Iona, the white waves rippling against the rocks of Mull.
Towards the back of the cemetery were new graves. The Islanders were still buried here among the Scottish Kings and noblemen. Pausing by each plot, she read through the inscriptions. Most of the folk here had been “well loved” or “beloved” and seemed to have enjoyed a long life. No wonder, on this sanctuary isle. Others had been born here but had left to see the world, only returning to be buried here—the closest place they had found to heaven on earth, despite their travels.
“Home to rest after a long and weary journey,” one read. Her Grandmother had been cremated and Andrea wondered if it had been the right thing to do. It had all been arranged in such a hurry without her, yet she could hardly cause ructions at such a time. Perhaps it didn't matter in the end; she could still feel her presence.
She finally reached a line of gravestones dated much earlier. The third grave from the end was set with a simple stone with the date 1644 and the name Alexhander McDonald carved into it with the inscription “Born out of time.” There were fresh flowers laid at the foot of the headstone, peculiar for someone dead for nearly 400 years. Maybe it was a local historian or a far-removed descendent wanting to leave their mark in this special place?
The inscription was unusual to say the least, and she read it several times over in her head. This must be the place her Grandmother had wanted her to come; the name was the same as the entry in the diary. There was only one date—a date of death, she supposed, but it could also be the date of birth. Or perhaps both? The word “born” hinted at something much more tragic, and Andrea could feel a sense of sadness.
Suddenly she felt lost and alone. Up to now, she had been on a mission, following Betty's final wishes, but now she was here she felt helpless and didn't know what else to do. Perhaps she had been foolish following out such a crazy request after all, and Steve was right all along. Her heart suddenly ached at the thought of him. She needed someone to reach out and hold her. Or at least to hear his voice. She had left her phone back in her room, and hurrying down the path, she ran all the way back to the hotel, her eyes streaming with tears. Maybe it was delayed grief for her beloved Gran?
Back in the hotel room, Andrea picked up her phone. There were no missed calls. Steve must be really pissed off with her. Pressing in his number she waited impatiently for the call to connect. It went straight to voicemail, typical. Still it was the middle of the night back home and he probably wouldn't have thanked her for waking him, especially as he would be stressed out by the pending exhibition.
If she booked a flight home tomorrow, she would be back in time for the opening night. Maybe she should surprise him. Yes, that was it; she could just imagine his face as she walked through the door of the apartment they shared together. He would grab hold of her and they would have urgent sex on the leather couch, and everything would be OK.
She glanced at her watch. It was 10:30 and she needed to sort out her flights. Her Grandmas letter lay on the bed, and she quickly scanned it. She had forgotten about the stone that Betty had asked her to take back to the grave. She would do that after the flights had been confirmed. Then she could pack up and head for Glasgow airport, ready for the long journey home.
Luckily there were a few seats available on the morning flight, and she felt some relief. It took her little time to pack and she would have time for a quick coffee before returning to the chapel to carry out Grandma Betty's last wish. Slipping the stone into her jeans pocket, she picked up her fleece and headed down the stairs.
