It started as another way for me to make myself indispensable to my father, to bring in some money. Being the Naomhfhuil only pays a nominal amount. And that was fine way back when the Naomhfhuil also earned a tithe in meat, cows’ milk, and grain, but those days are long gone, along with my mother’s dowry and my family’s reputation.
I, on the other hand, earn a decent wage – I’m a lot cheaper than the town scribes, thanks to Ren’s willingness to get paper for me, and my penmanship is exceptional, even if I do say so myself. I’m in demand.
So much so that I’ve got a job waiting for me, in Thurso.
See, I’ve been clever – most runaways would head south, to Inverness. But if anyone’s going to look for me, they’ll go there. So I’m heading east. I’ll be working for the clerk at St Peter’s, as an under clerk. He doesn’t even mind that I’m a girl. It’s been four years in the making, four years of planning and squirrelling money away and making enquiries, but now I’m just days from telling Ormscaula to kiss my arse as I ride away from it for good.
Farewell, judgemental villagers. Goodbye, bad reputation. So long, risk of murder.
I can’t wait.
The taste of freedom is enough to wake my appetite, and I dig into my dinner with relish, swallowing memories down with crispy bacon and fluffy potato.
“So, will he be back?”
I pause mid-chew and look at my father as understanding dawns. This is why he cooked. That’s why he made enough for three. It wasn’t out of habit. It was in case Ren came home with me. This is a performance, not a supper. Everything’s fine up here, laddie. Just a normal da, caring for his daughter. Won’t you have a potato?
He thinks that if Ren is someone who is interested in me, then he’s also someone to notice if I’m all right, someone keeping an eye out for me. Someone to tell the village if I pull a vanishing act. After all, losing one family member might be excused as careless; losing two is undeniably suspicious.
“He’s Liz Ross’s son, isn’t he?” my father continues when I don’t answer. “And he works at the mill, you say?”
“Of course. Who doesn’t?”
“Even with his leg?”
“He doesn’t need his leg for cutting paper.”
He grunts again.
We finish the meal in silence, splitting the last potato, as though the reason he cooked so much was so we could have more, and not that he planned for company.
I’m relieved when we return to the old routine afterwards; I clear the table as my father melts the base of a candle before sticking it to a saucer. He does this every night, even though we have candlesticks, a fine pair of silver ones that came with my mam when he married her.
As he passes me, making for his study, I’m rocked by a vision of my mother. For a moment she’s there beside me, telling him in a stern voice that doesn’t match the curve of her lips or her sparkling eyes, that we’re not saving the candlesticks for best, that he doesn’t have to worry about using them up.
Too many memories fighting their way to the surface lately. If I were the superstitious kind, I’d worry.
I shrug the past off and put the kettle on the stove for tea, listening to the sound of his chair creaking as he settles into it, the thud of the logbook when he opens it, the heavy wooden cover knocking against the desk.
My father writes in the Naomhfhuil log every night without fail. Even two winters ago, when a fever rendered both of us bedridden and delirious, he still got up and made his checks, meticulously recording what he’d seen before passing out at his desk. He could no more take a day off than he could grow wings and fly over the mountain. That’s what it is to be the Naomhfhuil.
Naomhfhuil roughly means “holy saint” in the old tongue, a throwback to a few centuries ago when everyone believed a whole bunch of gods lived in the loch, demanding sacrifice and worship, and the Naomhfhuil was the person chosen to act as the liaison between them and us. It was the most important role in the village, once upon a time.
Until the one true god did his earthquake trick, splitting the mountain and killing the old pagan loch gods, rendering the Naomhfhuil mostly pointless and the loch big enough to drive me around the bend when I have to walk it.
I light more candles and dot them about the kitchen, lending it a false sense of cheer. By candlelight it looks inviting: the red-and-white-checked cloth on the table, the dresser with its fine china that I dust every week, even though we haven’t used it in for ever. The rack of copper pans, bushels of herbs drying in between them. Nothing has changed in years.
I catch my reflection in the window as I wash our dishes, blurred by the condensation beading there and distorted by the thick bullseye glass. It rounds out my cheeks, and for a moment my mother looks back at me.
Spooked, I swipe at the pane, sending rivulets of water trickling down, erasing the image. I pull the scarf from my head and pocket it, running my fingers through my hair to return it to its natural volume. When I check my reflection again, I only see myself.
Resting my hips on the edge of the sink, I lean forward, pushing the window open to allow the steam out. As I do, the mist creeps in, bringing a chill with it. I still for a while, listening to the faint sound of the loch lapping the shore, and the larger, denser silence around it. I wonder what it will be like to live in a big town, surrounded by the roar of coaches, and people, and whatever else towns sound like.
Leaning forward once more, I pull the window shut and drop the latch, then close the shutters. I make the tea, holding two mugs in one hand and taking a candle with me, blowing out the others.
“You replaced the net, you said?” my father asks when I go through. He murmurs thanks as I set down his tea.
“I did. Oh, and the water level has dropped again. Another five inches since yesterday. It’s so low in the marshes that the bed’s starting to dry.” I pause. “I think it fell even while we were there. An inch, I’m sure of it; I could see by the measuring stakes.”
He half-turns, stern profile caught by the lamp on his desk. “Did you mention it to the Ross boy?”
“I didn’t have to. He noticed it himself.”
My father turns fully to face me. “And is he likely to say anything about it to Giles Stewart?” He sneers as he says the mill owner’s name, spitting it out like poison.
“No, of course not. But Giles will know anyway, once you write and tell him,” I say. When he stays silent, I ask outright. “Da, you have written a report, haven’t you? Because Giles is planning to expand the mill. He needs to know that he can’t; the loch can’t handle what he’s taking from it now.”
His mouth is set as he replies, “I’ve not written. Not yet.”
“But—”
“I said not yet,” he thunders. “Do you think I don’t know my job? I don’t want them all traipsing up here unless it’s absolutely necessary. More fool Giles if he doesn’t realize that mill can’t run day and night like it does without it meaning trouble.”
He dismisses me by turning back to his desk, and I beat a hasty retreat to my room, berating myself as I go. That was all five rules broken in one go. I’m an idiot. I’m so close to getting out of here; how could I be so stupid as to risk myself now?