Chapter 14 Tierney
Afew weeks ago, Cammie told me about the Isle of Kiln off the west coast of Glenvulin.
It wasn’t quite as small as Stòr and had a tiny population of only six families.
It was twelve miles long and four miles wide, and the community of the island ran a privately operated ferry to and from Glenvulin.
I’d been intrigued and wanted to visit, but that urge almost turned into desperation over the subsequent few days.
Word about “the incidents” had made its way around the island, and I’d been treated to concern, accusation, and lectures from the community.
I’d even been interviewed by the island police, but I refused to report it as a crime so there wasn’t much they could do.
Quinn was as good as his word and Forde had taken care of my SUV and checked every inch of it over.
I could deal more with people’s wary glances and passive-aggressive comments than the McQuarries’ genuine concern.
Cammie was like a dog with a bone and was determined to find out what was going on with me.
As for Ramsay, I was avoiding him like the plague.
He was much too perceptive, and I was pissed that he only seemed to care whether my troubles had the potential to hurt Leth Sholas. He didn’t seem at all concerned that I was the actual target! I avoided him when I could, but I couldn’t avoid everyone.
And I couldn’t take much more of the constant attention on top of everything else.
London had been texting me regularly to check in.
Hugh used a new number to start blowing up my phone with “We need to talk, baby” texts and multiple calls. I was now starting to freak out about his persistence, but I didn’t know how to handle it with all this other carnage going on, so once again, I blocked him.
And realized, as selfish as it might be, I wanted to block everyone.
So the Isle of Kiln called to me.
Instead of heading to the B and B that morning, I told Cammie I was catching the ferry to Kiln to hike around the island all day.
I packed supplies and carefully checked the ferry timetable.
Because the ferry to Kiln was privately owned, it didn’t run as regularly as those to the mainland.
There was one in the morning and one in the late afternoon, and that was it.
“I don’t think this is a good idea.” Cammie glowered, taking a sip of her coffee.
We’d grabbed to-go cups at Macbeth’s Pages & Perks after I’d bought my lunch at the bakery to take with me on my island adventure.
“It’s a splendid idea,” I disagreed.
“Let me switch out my hair appointment today so I can come with you.”
“Nope. I don’t need an escort.”
Cammie huffed. “Someone has threatened you three times, so I vehemently disagree.”
“I am the only one waiting for the ferry,” I reminded her. “I’m pretty sure I’ll be okay on Kiln with its population of twenty people.”
“Fine.” Cammie threw back the rest of her coffee. “But I’ll be here on the Leth Sholas dock waiting for you at five o’clock.”
“I’ll be here,” I promised as I reached out to squeeze my friend’s hand.
We’d only known each other a few short months, but it felt like we had a bond that transcended time.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you with the truth.
I’m … bound by circumstances right now. As soon as I’m not, you are the first person I will explain everything to. All right?”
Her expression softened. “Okay. I’m just worried about you.”
Emotion brightened my eyes. “You have no idea how nice it is to have people in my life again who worry about me. I don’t take it for granted. I … I hate having to keep this stuff to myself and I just need a day of not thinking about it.”
“Aye, I understand.” Cammie sighed and nodded beyond me. “Here’s the boat.”
The small boat, as it turned out, was operated by Donal Macintosh, a gruff man in his fifties. A few people disembarked before I boarded, and I was his lone passenger. We waited for ten minutes until Donal announced, “Just one today.”
He pulled away from the harbor and I waved goodbye to Cammie who stood watching until we cruised out of sight.
“I’ve not seen you around. Tourist?” Donal asked loudly over the engine.
“No, I moved to Leth Sholas a few months ago.”
“Oh, are you the lass who bought the B and B?”
It would seem the occupants of the smaller islands around Glenvulin knew of my arrival too. Talk about a close-knit community. “That’s me.”
“What brings you to Kiln?”
“I wanted to hike and explore.”
“Not much to see.”
“Merely natural beauty,” I replied with a smile.
Donal liked that and nodded. “Aye, we have that in abundance. It’s moorland, woodland, and grassland on Kiln. There’s some boggy ground, so be careful where you put your feet.”
“Is the main town close to the ferry dock?”
“There’s not really a main town. Just homes dotted around the island. There’s a restaurant and pub up from the ferry dock, though. It’s mine. I close at four today, though, to run the ferry, so there’s no point coming knocking anytime after that because nobody will be there.”
“Good to know. Thanks.”
Donal was quiet after that. As we approached Kiln, I could see a home with a thatched roof not far from where we’d dock.
“The museum.” He pointed to it. “The bothy—do you know what a bothy is?”
“A small house, right?”
“Aye. Well, shelter, really. It’s not what we’d consider a house nowadays. That one there is hundreds of years old. The museum welcomes donations.”
I grinned. “I’ll pay a visit and donate.”
The dock on Kiln was literally a small wooden strip that would only accept a small boat in its waters.
“I head back to Glenvulin at precisely four thirty to pick up islanders who work there. I’ll leave without you if you’re not here because there’s a storm coming in this evening, and we need to get back before it’s unsafe to cross.”
“I’ll be here.”
Donal helped me off his boat once he’d tied it to the dock.
I headed to the museum first to donate and look around.
There was no one there to attend to it, so I guessed it was an honor system.
I stuck twenty pounds into the donation cup and crouched in through the small door. Goodness, people used to be so short.
Inside was dark and musty and I shivered as I felt its history wrap around me. I imagined the people who lived here hundreds of years ago, how hard their lives were in comparison to ours today. And yet I wondered if the simplicity of their existence made for happier human beings.
One end of the room was roped off, the floor there packed dirt.
A large cabinet stood against the wall, and a closer inspection revealed it wasn’t a cabinet but a bed.
Crossing to read the sign next to it, I marveled at the ingenuity.
It was so cold at night here in Kiln that back in the day, the residents slept inside the large cabinet and closed the doors to shield them from the chill.
I read all the information signs about life on Kiln centuries ago.
Apparently, Kiln was a victim of the Highland Clearances (evictions of a significant number of tenants from the Scottish Highlands and Islands from 1750 to1860) and potato famine.
There had once been over six hundred residents on this island, but the latter had led to a massive population reduction.
Snapping a few pics for my Instagram, I stepped outside to take photos of the exterior of the bothy with its thatched roof. Turning around, staring out at the water and views back to Glenvulin, I took a few more photos, including a selfie.
Donal had warned of a coming storm, but it had to be far off because all was calm and sunny.
I closed my eyes, drinking in the sound of the gulls overhead and the water crashing gently at the rocky coastline of this tranquil island.
Peace. Finally, a little drop of peace.
It took me three hours to walk from one end of the island to the other.
Donal had been right about boggy ground, and I’d had to watch where I walked.
I’d tried to stick to the single rough track that wove around the coastline, but I’d seen a sign for standing stones and had ventured off the path and into woodlands to find them.
I did find them, but I also found mud and marshy ground.
Disappointed that placing my hands on the standing stone didn’t send me careening back in time to find a handsome Highlander, I decided to find my way back to the main path.
I’d seen signs for a “free bothy,” a house hikers could make use of if needed, a church, and two houses in the distance, but other than that, there was no one and nothing.
The island was connected to a tiny piece of land by an old bridge and I’d stopped to take photographs of the turquoise water beneath it.
Off the bridge was an even narrower, rougher track suitable for foot traffic and no more.
It wound around the coastline of the tiny portion of land and I passed a cemetery.
It was small as expected with stones congregated together and then spread out farther apart.
Many of the names had been worn away by the coastal weather, but it was peaceful.
There was a house nearby, but no one appeared to be home, so I carried on a little farther until I came almost to the end of Kiln.
It had a rocky beach where water the color of jade lapped at its shore.
Climbing down onto it, I pulled off the blanket I’d rolled and attached to my backpack and laid it over the grass before it met the rocks.
Breathing in the crisp, sea air, I let the tranquility that clung to every inch of this place wrap around me.
In the distance I saw the shoreline of a small island and one to my left.
There was a dot of land farther out and to my right a cluster of islands.
I’d stared at the map of the Inner Hebrides so many times, I was pretty sure that cluster was the Treshnish Isles, but I’d have to double-check when I got back to Leth Sholas.
There was no signal on my new phone.
Utter bliss.
Perhaps an hour or so passed as I ate the gourmet sandwich from Leth Sholas Bakery.
With the last bite, I was hit with a wave of exhaustion.
I knew it was mental more than physical.
Emotional more than mental. And with no one around but me and nature, I decided to take a nap before heading along the coastline on the other side of Kiln.
Splashes of cold hit my skin, pulling me back to consciousness. I blinked blearily, my vision clearing until all I saw was water. Confused, I sat up rapidly, a little dizzy from the abrupt transition.
The picnic blanket was scratchy beneath my palms, and I remembered where I was.
I’d fallen asleep by the water. Water that was now farther up the rocky beach and a moody blue beneath a darkening sky.
Shit.
I scrambled for my phone and gasped at the time.
It was four o’clock. I’d fallen asleep for three hours!
There was no way I’d make it back to the ferry in thirty minutes.
Shit, shit, shit.
Feeling my panic rise, I shook my head.
No.
There was no point in panicking.
With no phone signal, I was stuck on Kiln.
I sighed heavily at the thought of knocking on the door of one of the very few homes on the island and asking for shelter for the night. It freaked me out too. I mean, I was pretty sure they were all very nice, but this felt like the beginning of a bad horror movie.
The bothy.
I suddenly remembered.
There was the free bothy for hikers.
Hearing the water hit the rocks harder than before, I glanced up at the sky. It was growing broodier by the second. I needed to get to that building before those heavy purple clouds poured down.
I stuffed everything into my backpack, rolled and reattached my blanket, and hurried away from my picnic spot and onto the track that would lead me over the bridge to the main road on Kiln.
By the time I found the sign for the bothy, it was ninety minutes later and the rain that had hit my skin in spits of water was a sheet on the sea in the distance, headed straight for shore. I needed to reach the bothy before the downpour landed and I had to spend the night in wet clothes.
The sign for the free bothy explained the building had only cold water and no electricity, but I didn’t care.
I needed shelter. And I at once realized the people who lived here hundreds of years ago must have felt the same.
I followed the directions down toward the water, winding around a narrow footpath carved into the grass until I saw the white building looking out toward Glenvulin.
Just as I reached the door, the rain started hammering down. There were two solar lamps sitting outside, and I had the presence of mind to grab them before I darted into the building and slammed the door behind me. I took a deep breath of relief as the solar lights flared to life.
Then I wrinkled my nose.
The bothy smelled musty and damp. There was a two-seater couch facing a disused fireplace and two armchairs on either side of that. Along the back wall was a sink and some counter space.
A look through the door on my left revealed a bedroom with bunk beds against one wall and a double bed in the center of the room. The blankets and pillows appeared clean and fresh, so someone was obviously looking after the place.
A spider scurried across my foot and I hurried further into the room. I shuddered as the lamps barely lit my way, but I caught the trickle of water flowing down the brick wall opposite the sofa.
The roof was leaking.
Chilled air blew over my skin and I shivered.
I was in for a freezing, miserable night.