The Walrus Mutterer

Welcome to our regular feature showcasing the talents of the nation’s best writers.

Rian emerged from the broch, blinking. The light was almost too bright but she found it impossible not to stretch into the morning sunshine. It was cold, but beautiful. Hardly a breath of wind. Snow had fallen four days before and still hadn’t thawed much. For a couple of hours in the middle of the day it had softened, then re-crystallised. Moisture had oozed out among rocks and frozen into icicles and sheets of sun-glint.

She crossed the frozen yard to the midden and emptied out the contents of the pail: a slop of rinds and discards, soil washed off vegetables, scrapings and bones boiled white, the detritus of a winter night. A stink of rotting splashed up from the pile. A drake plumped down off the roof of the byre onto the heap, eyed Rian with its jet bead of suspicion, then guddled in her offering. She envied its bright colours, its effortless splendour.

Back to the broch. Back to the sweat stench of people, bleary-eyed hangovers and the mental stains of yesterday evening’s arguments.

Before she went in, she paused to savour the morning. At sea, a ship, sails limp, oars out, was creeping in from the south and making for their harbour.

She pulled back the door, pinning it to let some light and air in, and shouted. ‘A boat! A boat coming into the loch. Red sail.’

Drost snapped out of his hangover into life and strode out. Danuta, his mother, followed, leaning on a stick. Other people started appearing from nearby huts, streaming out to get a vantage over the loch. All of Seonaig’s children tumbled out, shouting and excited, and even their elderly neighbour, Eilidh, made her stately way out towards the headland to get a view.

It was a sizeable vessel, under oars, the red sail being furled. Drost raised his arm and a figure on the boat raised a staff in response, its tip catching the sun.