short story – chimericalprism.com

Unghosted, The Highlands, a description

Hours of driving southwest from Inverness had afforded them unobstructed access to the natural splendor of the Scottish Highlands. Green and white appeared to be the colors of choice, with the occasional blue breaking through the clouds. Dramatic mountains embroidered with flowing white lines of waterfalls and modest little white-washed cottages induced quite the admiring squeaks.

The weather was holding up as they reached Urquhart Castle on Loch Ness, the site of many ferocious battles, including those with the infamous MacDonald clan. Now in ruins, the castle had been destroyed by the owners to prevent rivals from occupying it hundreds of years earlier, according to information at the visitor center. Paige and Wilder climbed the spiral stone staircase to enjoy the view of the loch, though faces grew long as neither captured a Nessie sighting. A great disappointment as they had talked about her for weeks.

Sonia and Murray loitered nearby on the grounds, trying not to worry about the children’s safety, they themselves stepping gingerly down the slippery stone steps to the loch, locking hands once again like the young lovers they had once been.

Before the first drops of rain, everyone had managed to meet back in front of the castle gates for a photo as black, foreboding clouds gathered behind them. Afterwards, they rushed back to the car for the couple hours of driving remaining to reach Isle of Skye. Although daylight abounded until past ten o’clock at night in the Highlands, and it was still only half past three, navigating the narrow, one-lane roads took a lifetime.

As planned, the family picked up groceries before crossing the bridge to the island. Isle of Skye lay before them like an unraveling mystery. At this last leg of their journey, the famous Skye fog began to roll in, eclipsing the splendid, ethereal countryside around them. When they finally checked into their cottage in the Sleat Peninsula, it was nearly eight-thirty, but still light, in spite of the mist.

With the sun going down, the temperature decreased rapidly. Sonia burrowed deeper into her fleece. She suddenly remembered a particularly gruesome story about the MacDonalds and their main rival clan, the MacLeods, from the guidebook. For centuries, the two clans had battled to control Skye. This particular incident involved a gouged eye and an arson attack on a church congregation attending mass. Sonia shuddered. It was as if during the day, the island lived another life: birds sang, the sun burst through the clouds and rainbows appeared. Then at night, the fog returned, bringing with it troubling memories of the past, like a shroud of unrelenting sadness covering the land with a temporary darkness.

***

For the next several days, the family toured the entire island. One especially fine day, they were able to drive almost completely around, visiting the most well-known sites. They enjoyed the picturesque little town of Portree, relishing the curried mussels they ordered at a restaurant near the pier. Paige enjoyed all the little shops in the town. Wilder’s favorite experience, of which he spoke for weeks afterward, was the trip to Dunvegan Castle, a fully functioning household for hundreds of years, in the heart of the MacLeod Clan country. The craggy landscape, towering mountains, and random red phone booths in the middle of nowhere fulfilled every expectation. Yet, the beauteous scenery remained wistful, haunting if you will, like a stained-glass window molded from the shards of a broken heart.

Unghosted, A Short Story, Part 2

As Sonia and Murray were sipping the last of their tea, the children, bored, now raced down the stairs. Murray helped Wilder, nearly five, tie his shoes. Paige, three years older and a shoe-tying expert, sat awaiting further instructions.

The walk was pleasant, with the children running up ahead on the path along the river, the parents following, both deep in thought. They passed a large war memorial, commemorating all the fallen in both World Wars, with Scottish soldiers disproportionately represented. Sonia noted the dead in World War I. Lines and lines of old Highland family names, some Murrays, and one especially well-known one taking up entire panels. Surprised, she also noticed a couple of MacLeays. Caleb’s last name.

The sight depressed her. She focused on the children scampering ahead to distract herself. What had her life been without them? Sure, free time and silence had been plentiful, but Murray still ensured she received healthy doses of both. He just knew her so well, missing a beat only one time early in their relationship. Murray had planned a surprise party to celebrate her acceptance into graduate school. Sonia had been so startled, disoriented, she had run straight back out the door. That day, Murray had learned she did not like surprises. Perhaps a remnant from having to adjust to a new life at such a young age? It had never happened again. That’s how they were. Never two to discuss matters at length, Murray and Sonia nurtured their relationship through unspoken words, applying what they had learned in past situations to the present.

For instance, the weekend before the trip, Murray had insisted she make time for a massage after she rushed through her errands for vacation. Planning and packing drove her anxiety through the roof. On her way to the car, she had glanced at a new storefront on Main Street. Palm reading. Must be a good one, she mused, prime location. Fortune telling and astrology, quirky aspects of her childhood, had never quite retreated from her life, despite a career in science. In Sri Lanka, even some of most skeptical cast a quick glance at their astrological predictions for the day, just to cover all bases. She supposed it had stuck. And here was an opportunity, right before a long trip. Might be good to check the future before we go, Sonia had chuckled to herself.

“Just a minute, sweetie,” a voice had called when she walked in the door. The woman inside had been eating her lunch, peering out the side window. She had stuffed the last fry into her mouth and ran in the back to wash her hands.

“Now, what can I do for you, dearie?” the woman had asked coming back, glancing at Sonia’s face.

Sonia had laughed. “Deliver good news, I hope.”

“I can only tell you what I see. Let me look at your hand.” The woman had rubbed her hands together and held Sonia’s in her calloused grasp. She had then proceeded to tell Sonia how fulfilling her life would be, how far she would travel and how much her husband loved her.

“Two or three children? I can’t tell…” She peered at Sonia. “You planning for another or did you have a miscarriage?”

The question’s bluntness surprised Sonia, and she must have stammered something. The woman, a worthy mind-reader if nothing else, had steered the conversation away, truth or not.

“Who is the bearded man?”

Sonia had shrugged.

“Well, whoever he is, he’s definitely interested.” She had chattered away, giving light pieces of advice and warnings, fulfilling her duty for the remainder of her twenty-dollar fee. Sonia had declined the spiritual cleansing for twenty dollars more and had hurried away.

Murray’s voice telling the children to slow down brought her back to the present. Only a quarter mile down the path, near a secluded and shady tree, they found the small plaque Caleb’s family and the city had placed. In Loving Memory of Caleb Shane MacLeay, it read. Though tasteful and discrete, it did little to alleviate the heaviness in the air. Sonia felt suffocated, sad, and a little defeated. She didn’t know if Caleb was at peace but knowing that he likely had a familial kinship to this place, that in death, he had not been alone, brought some relief. They all reflected, even Wilder understood. After a few moments, having paid their respects, the family moved away from the shadows and back to the path of the living.

Unghosted, A Short Story, Part I

Sonia pushed her way through the interior door to the house, determined to escape the incessant rain, and encountered a dark corridor. She had sat in the car for three hours on the way to Inverness from Edinburgh and now craved a cup of tea, strong and hearty. After a week of touring the chilly country, she had become addicted to this potent version, served everywhere in Scotland, which calmed both her hypothermic body and her hyperthermic sixth sense.

Ignoring the uninviting staircase greeting her, Sonia, the hair rising at the back of her neck, chose one of the doors to her right instead, scurrying through the dark dining room to the kitchen while Murray and the children brought in the rest of the luggage and provisions. Unlike the other rooms and hall, the kitchen seemed airy, modern and full of light. She put on the kettle, eyeing a box of Yorkshire tea in the corner.

The children were already charging up the stairs, fighting over their hypothetical bedrooms. Murray followed, entreating peace and wielding mild threats, none of which ever came to fruition. It wouldn’t matter much anyway. They always ended up in the same room at some point. In the kitchen, the kettle whistled, and Sonia filled two cups with tea bags and boiling water. She enjoyed being in a country that took time out for tea, where adults and children alike took a break in the midafternoon for a good “cuppa”. With the tea brewed, milk and sugar added, Sonia closed her eyes and took a sip, a habit that never wore out its welcome, and reminisced thirty years back to afternoon tea in Sri Lanka. Same tradition, opposite climates.

“I thought you might enjoy this,” Murray said, poking his head in the doorway. “Nothing like a fresh-baked sweet bun to go with your tea.” She had now recruited Murray to her daily ritual. He must have grabbed the treats at the quaint bakery in town, which they had been exploring prior to the downpour. Murray delighted in the small shops and stores in Europe, each with its specific purpose, so rare now back home.

Sonia turned and smiled, enjoying his pleasant, masculine face. She’d always had a weakness for strong jaw lines, a superficial indulgence she had never regretted. A few greys had snuck into his thick, dark waves, but the whole picture still quickened her heartbeat. Upstairs seemed peaceful. She pulled out a couple of mouthwatering sweet buns from the bag, eager to confirm their appearance with a taste. She had spent many afternoons like this with her mother, savoring the flavors, only they would buy their baked goods from the baker’s van, which traveled door to door in their district of Colombo. Sonia had only told Murray this memory once but was always touched when he remembered. She knew how he loved to think of her life as a little girl in Sri Lanka, how it had molded the woman she had become after her family had emigrated when she was seven.

“It’s not too far from here, the spot they found him,” Murray said, without looking up from his cup.

“We should stop by and pay our respects,” Sonia offered. “The rain’s stopped, and we have plenty of daylight.”

Thirteen years ago, before Sonia and Murray had become engaged, she had met his friend Caleb. Smart, witty but initially superficial, Caleb embodied the type of person from whom Sonia shied away. If not superficial, then distant. People like him were hard to gauge, often difficult to trust, not because they were devious, but because they gave their loyalty to a special few. He was an old friend, really a family friend, but not a close one, not one with whom Murray kept regular contact.

One day last year, Caleb’s sister, Sara, had emailed Murray, revealing the authorities had uncovered Caleb’s body in the Scottish Highlands. Relatively wealthy at the time of his death, Caleb had enjoyed numerous golf excursions to Scotland, traveling from New York to Edinburgh several times a year. Evidently, he also enjoyed the whisky tasting, famous in the Highlands and the latest trend among the city’s who’s who. One wet, especially dreary evening, Caleb had been walking back to his hotel from a pub in Inverness along the banks of the River Ness, which runs through the entire town. He appeared to have slipped, rolling down the embankment towards the river. Yet, the final cause of death stemmed not from a fall or alcohol, but from myocarditis, a heart condition likely triggered from a viral infection contracted long ago. His heart had ceased to beat the moment before he had fallen.