Legend of the Mist (27 page)

Twenty-Two

Dunnet Head, Scotland, 1978

The sky which hung low over mainland Scotland’s northern-most point was a canvas of vivid autumn colour ranging in shades from orange, to red, to purple. October was normally a uniformly grey month in the far reaches of the North Atlantic, and skies this magnificent were rare.

Dorothy
MacEachern, however, hardly noticed the stunning celestial vision as she exited the tourist centre, turned off the lights and locked the door behind her. She was later than usual—the centre closed promptly at five, but she’d had a personal call to make and ... well ... if past experience taught her anything it was that the Dunnet Head Historical Trust which operated the centre did not appear to scrutinize its telephone bills.

The
icy wind of the coming winter ruffled her short, auburn hair, sending a chill through to her core. She shivered, pulling her well-worn coat tighter around her plump belly.

Dorothy cursed herself for losing track of the time. It was a terrible habit of hers when she got talking to her sister-in-law, but she should have been paying closer attention this evening.
Michael had probably arrived by now; her eldest son was enrolled at the university in Edinburgh, but was home this weekend. To celebrate his return Dorothy had planned a large family supper complete with a homemade elderberry pie.

No matter how old and how worldly he became, her wee Michael still loved his mother’s elderberry pie.

Stuffing the keys for the tourist centre into her pocket and retrieving her car keys from her purse, she shuffled to the car park where her lone, eight-year-old Viva HC was parked, always the last car to leave.

As she rounded the corner of the white-washed building s
he stopped, surprised to see that in fact hers was not the only car parked in the lot tonight. A battered brown Leyland Rover—rented, judging by the decal on the rear bumper—was parked at the far end, its back window obscured by luggage and duffel bags piled to the roof.

Glancing around the car park she spotted the vehicle’s owner. A young woman stood at the northern end, leaning against the stone wall. From behind she made a lovely picture, silhouetted against the sky which, for the first time, Dorothy noticed was breathtaking. She was tall and slender, dressed in the same type of unremarkable clothing that all the young people were wearing nowadays.

Her hair, though, was definitely not unremarkable. It was long and red. No, not red,
blood
red. It probably wasn’t her natural colour, such a vivid red must be a bottle-brand, but it was beautiful nonetheless. The long, loose strands danced in the sea wind as if they had a life of their own.

“D’ye need help, luv?”
Dorothy asked, approaching her.

The
young woman started, and turned her head.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t hear you.”

For a moment Dorothy was rendered speechless. The girl was unearthly beautiful. Her clear, fresh skin was nearly luminous against the evening sky, and her lips were the colour of ripe strawberries. Not an ounce of makeup did she wear but she looked as if she’d just stepped off the front page of a magazine.

What really amazed
Dorothy, though, were the girl’s eyes. They were a deep shade of green, deeper even than the sea before a storm. And when she’d turned, it almost looked as if her irises had brightened in colour, and then darkened again. Changeful eyes.

Impossible!

“My fault entirely,” Dorothy apologized. “I should have realized ye’d no’ hear me wi’ the way those waves are pounding. I just wanted to make sure ye were alright. We’ve closed, ye see.”

“Do I have to leave now?”

“Well ... no, of course no’, if ye dinna want to.”

The girl’s eyes drifted back to the sea. “I’ll stay for a while, then.”

Dorothy observed the young woman for several long seconds. Her eyes were trained so intently on the island masses in the distance, barely visible against the horizon, that Dorothy wondered if she was waiting for something.

“The last ferry’s already come in, if ye’re
expecting someone.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Have ye been to the islands yerself?”

The girl hesitated before she answered. “I ... um, no. I don’t much like water.”

“Oh,” Dorothy said, perplexed by the young woman’s odd manner. It was almost as if she was under some kind of spell or trance, staring out at nothing the way she was. She obviously wasn’t much of a conversationalist, yet Dorothy was intrigued by her, curious about why she was there.

“That’s an
interesting accent ye’ve got there,” she noted, trying again to engage the girl. “Ye’re no’ from America, are ye?”

The young woman glanced sideways, and smiled. Such a fascinating smile, full of secrets.
It was mesmerizing.

“Canada.”

“Really? Where exactly?”

“Nova Scotia.”

“Ah,
New Scotland
,” Dorothy acknowledge, nodding her head importantly. “I’ve heard of it. D’ye have Scots blood in ye, then?”

“I’m told I do, but I don’t know much about it.”

“Is that what brings ye here? To learn about yer Scottish heritage?”

“I ...” again the girl paused, searching the sea for
words. “I’m not really sure why I’ve come, exactly. I was supposed to start college this fall but ... I don’t know, I’ve just been feeling restless for a long time.”

“Ye couldna have chosen a better place to travel
to, even if I am biased. These islands are certainly something to see. If ye can manage the ferry, ye might want to consider taking a trip out there.”

“What are they called?”

“The islands? Well, there are two groups directly in front of us here. The closest one is Orkney, which ye can just see in the distance, and the one ye canna see behind that is Shetland. And then there are several islands wi’in those groups.”

“
What are those islands called?”

“
Och, there are so many ... let’s see,” Dorothy mused, pleased by the girl’s interest. “There’s mainland Orkney, of course. Then there’s Hoy, Eday, Gairsay, Fara—”

“Fara?” the girl interrupted,
wrenching her head to search Dorothy’s face, her impossibly green eyes wide. “What is Fara?”

The young lady’s intensity startled Dorothy. “Fara? Why, nothing much, I’m afraid. ‘T
is abandoned now. Been so for the past ten years, I’d reckon.”

“Why?”

“Why is everyone leaving the North of Scotland?” she answered with a shrug. “Economy. The young people are leaving for opportunity in the cities. The old folk are dying off. ‘Tis sad, but ‘tis the way of the world these days.”

“Oh,” the girl said,
resuming her scrutiny of the horizon. “I thought maybe something had happened there ... like a tragedy.”

“Er ... no, n
o’ that I’m aware,” Dorothy admitted, wondering what in the world would make her think that. But eager to retain the girl’s curiosity she added, “Then again, these islands have seen much in their time. Clan wars, wars for an independent Scotland. Even the Viking era left its mark on these waters wi’ their raiding and colonisation.”

“Viking
...” the young lady echoed, her brow furrowing.

Dorothy sighed, disappoin
ted with her lack of progress. As intrigued as she was, she could not stay any longer; she wouldn’t have supper ready on time if she did. “Well, I’d best be going,” she sighed. “Ye sure ye’ll be alright here on yer own?”

“Yes, t
hank you,” the girl breathed, not taking her eyes off the distant islands.

Shrugging, she
patted the girl’s shoulder. “Take care, lass.”

Then Dorothy left the young woman where she was,
standing in the car park gazing wistfully out to sea.

Strange, she thought as she climbed into her car and turned on the engine. That was the second time someone had asked about Fara inside of a week. Why
, just the other day that young man had been here, staring out over the ocean with the same, strange look in his eyes.

Yes, she r
emembered
that
young man well. Handsome as the devil he was, with eyes a gorgeous cerulean blue and sun-kissed hair that fell as far as his shapely jaw. Where had he said he was from again? Sweden? Norway?

Oh, if only she were twenty years younger ...

Chuckling to herself, Dorothy MacEachern put the thought out of her mind and pulled onto the deserted highway. The reflection of the beautiful, mysterious girl staring out to sea grew smaller and smaller in her rear-view mirror.

About the Author

Veronica Bale has written several novellas, short stories, and news articles as a freelance writer.
With her Highland Loyalties trilogy she made her debut into the world of historical romance novels. Veronica lives in Ontario, Canada with her husband, young son and three spoiled cats. When she's not writing she's running, reading, spending time with her family, or hopelessly lost in the cobbles of Coronation Street.

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