My father is the Naomhfhuil – the caretaker of the loch. A Douglas has been the Naomhfhuil of Ormscaula since the village was just four wattle-and-daub huts with delusions of grandeur, centuries before the earthquake and the merging of the lochs. It’s more than a job, it’s his calling – his sacred duty – to care for the loch: to read it, and tend it, and guard it. To let the villagers know when it’s in trouble. Except right now it is, and he hasn’t. And from what I can tell, he doesn’t plan to.
Which is a big problem, because these days Ormscaula revolves around one thing – Stewart’s Paper Mill. And Stewart’s Paper Mill is powered by the river that comes from our loch.
“Is your father not worried?” Ren asks, as if reading my thoughts. “Surely this doesn’t bode well for the mill? You know what Giles is like.”
I scowl, because I know exactly what he’s like. Cross Giles Stewart and you might suddenly find your or your family’s hours are cut at the mill, or that folk won’t buy milk or eggs from your farm, or drink in your tavern. Where he goes, others follow, if only to keep him onside. It’s cold in Ormscaula if Giles Stewart isn’t your pal; I speak from experience. But there’s nothing I, nor anyone else, can do about it.
Ormscaula is too small to need a mayor – we only see the mailman and the priest once or twice a year – but that hasn’t stopped Giles styling himself lord and master of the place. And who’s going to challenge him when it’s his mill and his money that pays everyone?
Except me and my da. And there’s no love lost between Da and Giles as it is; they’re old enemies. So if Giles finds out my father has been keeping something this big from him, he’ll come for us. Heavens know he’s been waiting long enough for a chance.
“He’s planning to expand, once summer comes. If the loch gets any lower…” Ren looks at me with questioning eyes.
“Since when do you care about Giles Stewart?” I say lightly. Ren is no gossip. But if he mentions the loch level to someone, even in passing, and it gets back to Giles, he’ll be straight up here to see for himself. And I can’t have that. Not now. “I didn’t think you liked working there anyway. Surely you’d be happy if it had to close for a bit?”
Ren’s expression darkens.
“Aye. You know me,” he says, a sharp note in his voice. “Any excuse not to put in a good day’s grind. Work-shy and feckless, like all my kind.”
“What? I didn’t mean… Ren…”
He walks back to the tree, lowering himself carefully down beside his satchel and opening it, his mouth pinched tight, and I stare after him, confused.
The thing is, I do know him. And I know what it’s like when everyone has an opinion about you. I’m the daughter of Lachlan Douglas, a man everyone despises because Giles Stewart told them they ought to. So I’m disliked and distrusted by association. And Ren is Murren Ross, a slatternly Sassenach for a dam, and no idea who his sire is.
We’re bad apples, he and I. Fallen clean at the roots of the trees that grew us.
I hadn’t thought that bothered him, before now.
“I was joking,” I say softly. “I know you’re not… I know you.”
He pulls out a canteen of water and takes a long swig, then holds it out to me without meeting my eye.
Recognizing it as a gesture of forgiveness, I flop down beside him and take it, grateful for the cool, clear water. When he pulls out a packet of sandwiches and hands one to me wordlessly, I almost hug him.
Even in my ravenous state I take the time to taste them properly. Thin slices of marsh lamb and redcurrant jelly, stuffed into doorstep-thick slices of crusty bread that are slathered with so much salted butter I can see my teeth marks in it. I chew happily and the pair of us pass his canteen back and forth between mouthfuls, until it’s empty and the sandwiches are just crumbs.
“That was great,” I say, after we’re finished. “Thanks, for sharing.”
Ren smiles. “No bother. I made them especially.”
Sure he did. More like he swiped them from someone not paying enough attention.
I glance at the satchel as he reaches back into it and pulls out a wedge of fruit cake, breaking it in two and offering me the larger chunk. “Did you bring my things?” I ask as I take it.
He looks out over the loch, chewing his own cake thoughtfully. “I couldn’t,” he says after he’s swallowed, giving me a sideways look. “Guess that means you’ll have to come to the village tomorrow.”
For a moment I think he’s joking again, because why else would he have walked up the mountain, with his leg, if not to bring me what I’d asked for? But when he doesn’t smirk, or wink, when he just keeps staring out over the calm surface of the water, I realize he’s serious.
“Right.” I try to hide my confusion and disappointment. I think rapidly about what I need to do in the next few days before the mail cart comes. “That’s fine. Maybe not tomorrow, though. It depends.” On my father and his mood. “Can you keep them until I come and find you?”
He smiles. “So long as no one else wants them. I’m joking!” he adds when he sees the look on my face. “They’re yours. I got them for you. So I suppose you should tell me what they’re for.”
I shrug. “I would have thought that was obvious.”
“Of course. But what are they for?”
I’m tired of this conversation. It’s far from the first time we’ve had it. “Ren, I’m not going to tell you. Not today, not tomorrow. Not ever. So stop asking.”
The look he gives me is fierce, but I don’t back down. I’m very good at keeping secrets. Ren blinks first and turns towards the loch.
“Mist’s coming in,” he says, and when I follow his gaze I see he’s right.
Eddies of mist are gathering in the rushes at the edge, lending them a blurry quality. A fish surfaces, sending ripples out. The temperature seems to drop at the same time, and I rub my arms, suddenly chilled.
“You could tell me, you know.” Ren keeps his eyes on the water, his tone careless. I’m not fooled by it, especially when he continues. “You can trust me.”
“It’s not about trust. It’s just none of your business,” I say gently, pushing myself to my feet. “Come on, you’ve work to get to, and we don’t want to be on the mountain after dark. We think a rabid lugh destroyed the net. We shouldn’t hang around.” I offer him a hand but he ignores it, rising awkwardly, all his weight on his left leg.
Before we go, I check the water level one more time. I’m stunned when I realize it has dropped again, a full inch, in the hours since we’ve been there. Though I can’t see it from here, I turn east in the direction of the village, where I can picture the mill down by the river, the waterwheel turning relentlessly, sucking the loch water up, the vats steaming away as logs are pulped, turning the loch to cloud.
I’ll talk to my father again, I decide. Something has to be done.
“Look.” Ren points through the mist to a part of the loch we can’t normally reach, bordered by the mountain. “See that hole? I bet it leads to the otters’ dens.”
“Holts,” I murmur, correcting him. “Otter dens are called holts.”