Chapter 4
Rowan
A surprisingly short time later, I found myself wandering along the waterfront in the main street of the village.
I was in no hurry, happy to just meander along, taking in the sights and smells of the town, my destination a little coffee shop I’d noticed on my unsuccessful trip to the station the night before.
Men in hi-vis shirts moved up and down the street, stringing lanterns to poles, while others unloaded a truck, stacking cut branches beside a shed.
I eyed them curiously as I walked, wondering what they were doing.
The Brewed Awakening Café was bustling when I arrived.
The warm weather seemed to bring out the townsfolk, as a lot more people filled the establishment than had been in the hotel bar the night before.
Not just the locals, I surmised, but tourists as well; a large bus was parked in the carpark opposite.
Luckily, an older couple were leaving just as I arrived, so I was able to get a table near the front window.
It had an unobstructed view of the main street and the glistening loch that lay beyond.
A harried server made their way to me, weaving through the crowded room. They placed a menu down on the table. “Hiya.”
The coffee machine was roaring behind the counter, so I didn’t need to look at the menu to know what I wanted. “Hi. Can I start with a drink? A caramel latte?”
“Aye. A’ll hae it tae ye shortly.” They hurried off before I could ask them for anything else.
I perused the menu while I waited, my thoughts drifting back to the letter I had found the night before, reminding me I still needed to speak with Sarah.
Pulling out my phone, I sent her a quick text, noticing that the earlier message was showing as unread.
Strange. Thinking to call her instead, I looked up, noticing a different server on her way to my table, my coffee in hand, so set that task aside for when I was done.
Once I’d given her my breakfast choice, I indicated the men across the road with the lanterns. “What are they doing out there?”
She cocked her hip, settling in for a chat. “They’re preparing for the festival tomorrow,” she said, her accent less pronounced.
“Festival?”
“Yes, it’s the Fire Festival. For Samhain.
The whole village comes out to celebrate.
The children all dress up in their Halloween costumes, and just before dusk, there’s a ceremony when they light the pyre.
Then the townsfolk will walk through the village, lighting the lanterns with flames from the fire.
There’ll be food and drink, and the lights” – she waved at the workers – “will be strung all the way into the Culag Woods. That’s so the wee folk can see their way home.
” She sent me a wink before pointing down the street, past the hotel, where I could see the edge of the trees.
“Oh, is there a path into the woods down there?”
“Aye. You go through the gate from the road at the top and it comes out at the bottom there.”
A voice from the back of the café shouted out, and with an apologetic “Excuse me,” she rushed off with my order in hand.
Sipping my coffee, I eyed the woods at the end of the road and decided I would wander that way when I was finished for the day. The festival sounded like a fun idea as well, and I changed my plans for the next day so I could go along.
The rest of the morning passed in a lazy fashion.
After finishing my breakfast, I found myself strolling along the street, casually perusing the shops along the waterfront.
My footsteps slowly guided me towards the end of town, and it wasn’t until I reached the pier near the harbour that I remembered to call Sarah.
“Hello,” she croaked.
“Sarah? Are you okay?” She sounded awful.
“Rowan?” she rasped. “I’m sorry I haven’t returned your call. I’ve been—” A cough rattled down the line. “Sorry. I’m not very well.”
“I can hear that. You sound awful. Have you seen a doctor?” I could almost picture her lying in bed, surrounded by tissues and cold medicine. Sarah had always been prone to getting viruses, especially during the colder months, while I had never even caught a sniffle.
“No. No, I’ll be fine. It’s only a cold. I just need to rest until it passes.” She coughed again, a great hacking noise, before wheezing down the line.
“Do I need to come home? It doesn’t sound good.” I mentally rearranged things in my head so I could catch a flight home, or a train. But she was quick to assure me it wasn’t necessary.
“I’m sure it will pass soon,” she said. “Anyway, how are you? How is Edinburgh? Is it cold?”
The bitter taste of guilt soured the back of my throat at the lie I had told her. A lie I wasn’t about to repeat, so I selected my words carefully.
“My trip has been great. The weather is spectacular, not much different from what we have at home. But I was calling to ask you about a letter I found in Dad’s papers.”
“Oh, what did it say?” Clearly, she hadn’t listened to my voicemail.
“It was a letter from a police constable in Lochinver from when you visited all those years ago. It said I went missing.”
There was a sharp inhale, followed by a barking cough that made my eyes water.
“Sarah, are you there? Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Rowan, I have to go,” she said, her voice sounding even weaker than before. I could barely hear her. “I will call you tomorrow. Just know you were never missing. The letter is not about you. I will explain more when we speak tomorrow.”
“But—”
She hung up before I could finish my sentence.
Concern for her health overrode my feelings of frustration, but I had not realised how anxious I was to find out what that letter meant, and her parting words did little to alleviate the worry.
I was reluctant to phone her back, though, considering how sick she sounded.
Be patient. I would call her again in the morning, just to check in.
It was only as I tucked my phone away that I noticed my surroundings.
I must have automatically followed the dirt path from the harbour entrance, as I was in the woods.
The air was decidedly cooler away from the midday sun, and the world around me had transformed into a verdant landscape abundant with reds and golds and greens.
The autumnal colours were vibrant in the slivers of light that filtered through the canopy.
The path was well maintained and quite easy to walk, with signposts strategically placed every hundred feet or so.
Paths entwined in and around, some taking me to dead ends, while others led to a beach with a rocky shore.
I finally managed to find my way and was pleasantly surprised when I emerged from the trees to discover my little house not too far up the road.
From my exit point, I had a wonderful view of the cottage and its backdrop.
The warm hues of bronze and gold from the surrounding bracken were mirrored in the calm waters of the loch.
And beyond that, the craggy hills rose tall and imposing, casting a dark and watchful presence over the home below.
It was so beautiful that I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture, a small keepsake for later.
Later that evening I was sitting at the dining table, my determination brewing.
A little pot of Earl Grey cooled beside me, steam rising from its spout, and a pile of papers lay before me, waiting to be sorted.
I flicked my gaze at the small fire I had lit, the flames happily licking the inside of the burner, before looking down and starting.
First up was the contract of sale for the house in Surrey. The more recent transaction had yielded a considerable profit compared to its original price. I placed it in the “to be disposed of” pile, as it was no longer relevant.
My father’s tax returns, spanning the last five years, held little interest. Yet I hesitated, placing them in the “to be decided” pile. I would check with the family solicitor before disposing of them.
Perusing my parents’ bank statements piqued my curiosity momentarily. However, it soon became clear that there was nothing of significance there and I moved them to the first pile. Similarly, the medical records revealed nothing out of the ordinary, prompting me to move on.
Bills came next. I shuffled through them quickly before placing them on the first pile.
But then I found my parents’ marriage certificate, and a wave of emotion settled hot and heavy within my chest. They would never see me marry.
Or have children. Or anything anymore. Blinking, I stared at the fire, struggling not to cry.
A weary exhale fell from my lips, and I took a sip of my tea before moving the certificate to the “keep” pile.
I was not ready to part with it. Not yet.
A collection of personal letters, none of which seemed to warrant further inspection, went to the “dispose of” pile, but the trio of birth certificates held my attention. I was studying the differences between them when one glaringly obvious mistake stood out: an abnormality on my own.
Under the section declaring my sex, it stated Male. I ran my fingers across the page, double-checking the other details. My name – Rowan Lesley Anderson – correct. My birthdate – April 30th – also correct.
Frowning, I placed it to the side, intending to ask Sarah if she knew anything about it. I was certain I had a copy amongst my things stored at her house, so would ask her if she could retrieve it once she was feeling better, to see if the inaccuracy was there as well.
With my aunt in mind, I picked up my phone and sent her a quick text to see how she was.
This time, a response came swiftly, along with a promise to call me the next day.
Satisfied I would have answers soon, I gathered the “dispose of” pile and fed the papers into the fire, watching as they caught flame and burned away to ash.
The rest I carefully placed back in my tote for safekeeping.
All that remained were the disconcerting letter and my birth certificate, taunting me with their unanswered questions.