CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The sun was out, dappling the nettles round the tree, though it was a green underwaterish kind of light which seemed rather curious.
‘BB’, The Little Grey Men
Sage and Hal were waiting for sunrise, his small hand brushing against her arm, their bodies tucked up close.
Hal was still in his pyjamas, having climbed laboriously up onto the high bed and crawled underneath the sheets with exaggerated carefulness. When Sage had mumbled, ‘It’s not quite morning yet, darling,’ he had put his finger to his lips.
‘Shhhh … Mumma sleeping.’ This had been followed by peals of laughter.
It seemed to Sage like she’d only just slipped into a deep sleep when Hal woke her, after hours of her mind endlessly turning over thoughts of her father, of Rafe, and of Santiago. She’d coerced Hal into lying quietly with her in the hope that he’d drop off again.
‘It must be morning time now, Mumma,’ he insisted.
Sage relented and sat up, blinking in the pink glow of the dawn light. Sloping shadows cast about the room by the rising sun danced softly upon the cream plaster of the ceiling.
‘Hmm, perhaps. I’ll check.’ She got out of bed, her bare feet cold on the thin carpet, and stepped over to the window.
She had forgotten to draw the curtains last night.
The loch lay only a few yards on from the garden wall and Sage caught her breath as she took in the calm, glassy water, which now reached almost all the way up to the house.
The dawn sky was reflected on its surface and illuminated the surrounding hills with the soft light of a new day; they were a rainbow of earthen browns, greens and purples, their peaks topped with caps of snow and patches of golden cloud.
The only signs of movement were the gentle ripples upon the flat loch and a few clouds that drifted across the fiery, rose-flushed sky.
‘Hal, come and look,’ Sage said in wonder. ‘It’s like a painting.’ Hal bounded over and his mother lifted him up so he could see out of the window.
‘Mumma, what’s that noise?’ he asked, his sharp ears already tuned into the sounds of wildlife outside. His chattering was punctuated by loud screeches in response to some unseen threat.
‘It’s a jay, darling. Can you see him hopping about on the wall? He’s pale pink and cream, with bright blue feathers on his wings. Look, he’s flying away. Keep your eyes open – there will be something out there that’s making him shout.’
‘M-Mumma, look!’ Hal pressed his nose up against the glass, pointing out to the loch. He could hardly get the words out in his excitement. ‘L-look!’
A sleek brown-and-buff dog otter was lounging, half in and half out of the water, beside a large protruding rock close to the water’s edge, a stone’s throw from the bottom of the garden.
The little creature held a spiny sea urchin between two proficient paws and was ripping into it with strong jaws.
‘Who is that? What’s he doing?’ Hal asked, completely transfixed.
‘That must be Tarka,’ Sage said in amazement. She leant around Hal and slowly, quietly, pushed the sash window up a few inches, letting in a rush of cold air along with the tangy, fresh smell of the sea.
The otter suddenly crawled completely out of the water, on slightly ungainly legs, with his long, strong tail trailing behind him, and onto a ledge in the rock.
His whiskers twitched as he smelt the air, checking for danger; seemingly satisfied, he settled down on his haunches like a meerkat, revealing a cream underbelly, and continued to munch on his prickly breakfast.
‘Otters are very shy, darling – the slightest noise, and he’ll scamper off.
You must be really quiet,’ Sage whispered to Hal, who nodded, looking up at her with serious eyes to show he understood.
She then let out a snort of laughter. Coming out of the wooden shed at the end of the garden was Kestrel, dressed in a rubber wetsuit with enormously long neon pink flippers on his feet and a matching mask and snorkel on his blonde head.
Surprisingly, Tarka did not view the extraordinary sight of the man dressed head to toe in neoprene as a threat and remained on his rock, quite unfazed.
‘However, Tarka does not seem to behave like your archetypal otter,’ Sage conceded, her voice full of amusement.
She softly tapped her finger against the glass to get Kestrel’s attention.
He looked up to the window and seeing their faces peering down at him, he stood to attention, ramrod straight, and aimed a salute towards them, his pink snorkel waggling comically atop his mussed hair.
He then turned on his heel and threw something round and white onto the ledge beside Tarka, who rushed to pick it up as Kestrel goose-stepped in his flippers to the end of the garden and dived off the glistening rocks into the deep grey waters of the loch. It made Sage shiver just to watch.
‘Mumma, can we go down? Can I swim too? Please? Please?’ Hal hopped about from one foot to the other in feverish agitation.
They ran down the curved staircase, Sage pulling on a sweater over her white cotton nightdress as she descended the steps with Hal right on her heels.
They dashed through the warm kitchen and opened the solid back door.
The stone steps were icy cold, the lawn was sodden with dew and a biting wind snapped at their legs.
Sage hastily clamped a hand around Hal’s arm and propelled him back into the house.
‘I keep forgetting how much colder it is up here! You need to get dressed first – sorry, my love, or you’ll catch your death.’
Hal looked at her in horror.
‘Mumma!’ he wailed, staring past her and out into the garden, his eyes full of longing. Sage took his hand gently.
‘Come on. Socks. Pants. Trousers. Shirt, jersey and coat.’ Hal reluctantly conceded defeat and was off, careering back up the steps as quickly as his little legs would carry him.
Five minutes later, they were back outside, this time better dressed for the Scottish weather.
Hal hurried over to where Kestrel had dived off the garden boundary wall and gazed forlornly at the empty ledge, for Tarka had retreated at the sight of strangers.
Sage crouched down beside him and put a steady, warm hand on his back.
‘He’s still out there,’ she said comfortingly. ‘You just have to look hard and be still. You’ll see him again.’
Mrs M came out of the house with a cup of tea in each hand. She was wearing a neat grey dress with a clean white apron over the top.
‘This is for you, Sage,’ she said, handing her tea over with a smile.
‘And this is for you, young man.’ She took something from her apron pocket.
Hal took the offering politely, and looked at Mrs M questioningly.
‘It’s for Tarka, child. He loves boiled eggs for breakfast,’ she said, laughing at his puzzled expression.
Hal’s furrowed brow cleared and he raced over to the wall opposite the ledge, the egg cradled carefully in his hands.
A mistle thrush sang sweetly from a low branch of a towering, leafless beech tree, her voice piping clearly through the morning mist that was sweeping across the garden.
Hal willingly bequeathed his offering, throwing it carefully across the small stretch of water and watching as it rolled into place, then sat on the wall and waited.
Sage and Mrs M, each holding a steaming cup of tea, sat on a wooden bench under a dormant apple tree and watched the patient child.
After a few minutes, Kestrel swam around the edge of the peninsula and into the protected cove in front of the house.
Hal wistfully watched the progress of the pink snorkel, then clapped his hands over his mouth to silence an unbridled squeal of joy that burst out of him as Tarka slid tentatively back onto his rock and sidled up to the enticing, oval-shaped gift.
Hal looked back at his mother to check that she was watching and, without a sound, beamed ecstatically as he vigorously pointed at the otter.
Sage laughed softly and Mrs M, sitting beside her, put a finger to her lips and shook her head in amusement.
Kestrel crawled out of the water and rolled onto his back. He pulled off his flippers and mask, then got up and slouched up the garden.
‘I went to try to find Finn for Hal, but he is nowhere to be found today.’ His deep voice was full of disappointment.
‘Oh, Kestrel. This place is heaven. Such a sanctuary. Thank you for having us.’ Sage laughed, adding, ‘It’s as though we’ve escaped through time – we’ve gone through the looking glass and no one can touch us.
Tarka has blown Hal’s brain – I’m not sure he could stand the excitement of a dolphin as well!
’ She stood up and touched Kestrel’s rubber-clad forearm in thanks.
He looked embarrassed but the shadow of gloom he had been wearing lifted, lightening his face.
‘Dippy eggs for breakfast?’ he called to Hal, who was lying flat on his stomach on top of the wall, his chin resting on his hands, his concentration focused solely on Tarka.
The otter was watching him warily, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on his little benefactor as he nibbled on the egg.
Hal shook his head distractedly, not wanting to leave his vantage point.
Kestrel went over to him and, conscious not to frighten Tarka, murmured under his breath, ‘How about dippy eggs out here on the wall?’
‘Really?’ Hal looked up, unable to believe his luck.
‘Really.’
The three adults ate in the kitchen and watched through the large window as a gleeful Hal, unmoving from his perch on the wall, dipped soldiers of toast into his egg.
‘I really need to check my phone messages this morning. How long will it take me to get to the top of the mountain and pick up a signal?’ Sage was mindful of transgressing the slow, natural ethos of Rasaay.