hit, Hew heard the boatman curse, before his own breath gasping drowned all other sound.
The stuffing in his trunk hose brought a certain buoyancy, and as Hew floated with the tide he had time to catch his breath and consider his predicament. He did not see the boat, or the horse, or the boatman, and no answer came to his cries. At first he kept his head, and reasonably afloat. But as his clothes became sodden the padding grew swollen and heavy, in danger of dragging him down. In panic, he struck out. Floundering beneath the surface of the waves, he found himself caught in the path of a fierce and churning engine, coursing through the water like a mill. And there, gripped in a relentless chug and grinding, his eyes and lungs began to bulge and stream. When he could fight no more, the force of a great blow dislodged him from the depths and sent him spinning back against the upper flank of the machine. Grasping wildly, his fingers found their purchase, and entwined him clear of the strange winding gear that churned the estuary below. And gradually, as he regained his breath and made sense of his surroundings, his sobbing gasps kept pace with a strange pneumatic snorting, and he understood at last that he was clinging to the damp mane of the horse. Dun Scottis rolled forward through the great expanse of tide, steadfast and relentless as a man of war. Hew tightened his grip on the mane, twisting his wrists as well as he could into the rope of the halter, and allowed himself to trail, floating alongside the horse, out of the treacherous churn of its hooves. Beyond his own hands tangled in the rope, and the dark forbidding outline of the water, he saw nothing. He heard nothing but the slow mechanic rasping of the horse. And gradually he found he lost all feeling in his hands, and the hot seat of pain in his thigh, where Dun Scottis had kicked him, dulled to an ominous thud. The rush of water in his ears drowned out the steady wheezing of the horse, he felt his fingers lose their grip and the lapping waters slacken, slipping into blackness as his eyes began to close.
The Kindness of Strangers
Hew dreamt that he had come to rest upon a drying green. Waking, he saw lines of washing hanging slack and swollen in the breathless air. The place where he had landed was sooty and enclosed, heavy with the scent of ash and fire. He lay close to the hearth on blankets and straw. He was dressed in a plain woollen shirt, in place of his fine suit of clothes, and his wrists were bound in cloth, through which a little blood began to seep. Though he felt stiff and raw, he found no broken bones. His limbs were scratched and ribboned with a score of tiny cuts, and a dull throb in his thigh disclosed a mass of livid bruising, searing to the touch. The hoofmark of Dun Scottis, clean as though the hot iron of the blacksmith had impressed it there, explained the pain.
As he struggled to stand up, he heard a faint scuffle and squeal, and found himself watched by a clutch of small girls wearing ribands of plum-coloured silk. Before he could speak, they had scattered and fled. Hew was left alone in the strangest house that he had ever seen. Cups and bowls and spoons were roughly carved from driftwood, and an ancient, splintered sea chest opened like a flower, or like the sun-bleached skeleton of some enormous fish, stripped of all its flesh. Fragments of bone were scattered on shelves, with bright polished pebbles and pieces of pot. The rafters were strung with old rope, tackle and gear swung rusting on hooks, and propped above the chimney grate, Hew could see a masthead, holding up the washing lines recovered from his dreams. Like a ship-wrecked sailor fallen into faerie land, he felt part of the seawrack that made up this little house.
‘The bairns cried ye were waking. Mind, you’re unco shakit on your feet.’
He jumped at the sound of the voice. An old woman stood in the doorway, gazing at him curiously. ‘I brought you bread,’ she
The stuffing in his trunk hose brought a certain buoyancy, and as Hew floated with the tide he had time to catch his breath and consider his predicament. He did not see the boat, or the horse, or the boatman, and no answer came to his cries. At first he kept his head, and reasonably afloat. But as his clothes became sodden the padding grew swollen and heavy, in danger of dragging him down. In panic, he struck out. Floundering beneath the surface of the waves, he found himself caught in the path of a fierce and churning engine, coursing through the water like a mill. And there, gripped in a relentless chug and grinding, his eyes and lungs began to bulge and stream. When he could fight no more, the force of a great blow dislodged him from the depths and sent him spinning back against the upper flank of the machine. Grasping wildly, his fingers found their purchase, and entwined him clear of the strange winding gear that churned the estuary below. And gradually, as he regained his breath and made sense of his surroundings, his sobbing gasps kept pace with a strange pneumatic snorting, and he understood at last that he was clinging to the damp mane of the horse. Dun Scottis rolled forward through the great expanse of tide, steadfast and relentless as a man of war. Hew tightened his grip on the mane, twisting his wrists as well as he could into the rope of the halter, and allowed himself to trail, floating alongside the horse, out of the treacherous churn of its hooves. Beyond his own hands tangled in the rope, and the dark forbidding outline of the water, he saw nothing. He heard nothing but the slow mechanic rasping of the horse. And gradually he found he lost all feeling in his hands, and the hot seat of pain in his thigh, where Dun Scottis had kicked him, dulled to an ominous thud. The rush of water in his ears drowned out the steady wheezing of the horse, he felt his fingers lose their grip and the lapping waters slacken, slipping into blackness as his eyes began to close.
The Kindness of Strangers
Hew dreamt that he had come to rest upon a drying green. Waking, he saw lines of washing hanging slack and swollen in the breathless air. The place where he had landed was sooty and enclosed, heavy with the scent of ash and fire. He lay close to the hearth on blankets and straw. He was dressed in a plain woollen shirt, in place of his fine suit of clothes, and his wrists were bound in cloth, through which a little blood began to seep. Though he felt stiff and raw, he found no broken bones. His limbs were scratched and ribboned with a score of tiny cuts, and a dull throb in his thigh disclosed a mass of livid bruising, searing to the touch. The hoofmark of Dun Scottis, clean as though the hot iron of the blacksmith had impressed it there, explained the pain.
As he struggled to stand up, he heard a faint scuffle and squeal, and found himself watched by a clutch of small girls wearing ribands of plum-coloured silk. Before he could speak, they had scattered and fled. Hew was left alone in the strangest house that he had ever seen. Cups and bowls and spoons were roughly carved from driftwood, and an ancient, splintered sea chest opened like a flower, or like the sun-bleached skeleton of some enormous fish, stripped of all its flesh. Fragments of bone were scattered on shelves, with bright polished pebbles and pieces of pot. The rafters were strung with old rope, tackle and gear swung rusting on hooks, and propped above the chimney grate, Hew could see a masthead, holding up the washing lines recovered from his dreams. Like a ship-wrecked sailor fallen into faerie land, he felt part of the seawrack that made up this little house.
‘The bairns cried ye were waking. Mind, you’re unco shakit on your feet.’
He jumped at the sound of the voice. An old woman stood in the doorway, gazing at him curiously. ‘I brought you bread,’ she
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