And I can’t help thinking of the night when our mother and father left on the boat. There was a storm brewing but Mammy was in pain again – her stomach had swollen so much over the past months, as her arms and legs had grown thin, her face gaunt. Daddy had been planning to take her across to the mainland to ask about stronger medicine than we could get in Kirkwall, but Mammy wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye to Con, who was out walking.
Con didn’t want them to leave at all, so stayed out as long as she could. By the time she got home, darkness was dropping, the wind was howling and the waves were wild. Mammy was doubled up with pain and groaning, but Daddy wouldn’t take out the boat in such bad conditions.
‘Take her, please,’ Con had begged, her voice tight with fear and guilt.
At first, Daddy had refused and I’d argued against it too. But Con had begged and pleaded, while Mammy had writhed in pain. Eventually, Daddy relented and set off in the smaller of our two boats. Con and I watched them row away.
They didn’t come back.
He’d been out fishing in worse, I consoled Con. Perhaps they had sheltered on one of the other islands. Perhaps they would return one day, I said desperately, knowing they wouldn’t, finding it hard to keep the anger from my voice.
I never blamed her out loud.
Con wouldn’t talk about it, barely spoke to me at all, barely left the house. And then one night, with no explanation, she had gone walking with Angus MacLeod.
Now, with one hand on a sunken ship, the other held out to me, Cesare says, ‘You look sad.’
I force myself to smile. ‘No, not sad at all.’ Maybe I will be able to tell him one day, but not yet. Not until I’m certain I can trust him not to judge Con, not to criticize her.
We gather scraps of wood, bits of metal and old tiles in silence. Whenever I catch Cesare’s eye, he smiles and, gradually, the feeling of darkness recedes.
‘Your family,’ I say. ‘Are they like you?’
He pauses, his head on one side, and puts a piece of wood into his bag. ‘They are different but the same also.’
I wait.
He bends to pick up more wood. ‘They believe sometimes things that are different, I think. They talk about Il Duce – I think they believe this, in here.’ He points to his head.
‘And you?’ I don’t dare look at him.
‘I do not believe this. And this makes me angry, what they are believing. But now, I think . . .’ He wipes the salt water from his hands and takes my arm. ‘I think there is a belief in here,’ he touches two fingers to my temple, ‘and a belief here.’ He touches the fingers to the centre of my ribcage and leaves them there. ‘And this is the belief that matters.’ He taps his fingers against my chest, like a heartbeat.
I nod, thinking of Con, who believes that the men are terrifying, but cares for them anyway.
‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘It’s easy to get swept up in imagining all sorts of things. But it’s the heart that matters. That’s who you are. That doesn’t change.’
When both our bags are full, he takes my hand and kisses me, very gently.
‘We can go back to the chapel. If you are not wanting to go to the cave.’
I shake my head. ‘I want to.’ I kiss him back. He smells of leather, of wood, of the sea.
We have been to the cave twice before but, as we walk back along the cliff path, it still sets a deep pulse in my stomach. I’m intensely aware of Cesare alongside me: the sound of his breath, the sweat on his skin. We have to skirt around the camp to avoid being seen. I keep my eyes focused on the boggy ground, the tussocks of grass, the rocks and gorse, but still, from the corner of my eye, I can see him looking at me, can feel his eyes on my face. Twice, he trips and nearly falls, pulling laughter from both of us.
Once we are on the north side of the island, there is no need to stay out of sight: no one comes to this treacherous land, with its hidden sinkholes and marshy ground. In Kirkwall, they tell of how the Nuckelavee roams the seas around this part of the island, of how this is the ground where cursed women – too many of them to count – have buried their dead lovers. With each telling, the tales get taller. Con and I had chosen to believe none of them, although Con is reluctant to come out this way when the mists roll in from the sea.
Now the day is bright and clear, and I know exactly where the track is. My feet find the solid path and, behind me, Cesare places his own feet in the exact spots where I’ve trodden.
‘One day,’ he says, ‘I will show you the hills around Moena. There, I can lead you. It is beautiful.’
‘I’d like that,’ I say, but the words are painful because how can that be? How could he ever show me his land? It feels like the myths of the dead lovers, like the stories of the Nuckelavee, like a made-up tale. It feels like something you might believe, for a short time, in the sleepless dark, knowing that daylight will make it dissolve. I worry, for a moment, that he will have heard the hesitation in my voice, and that he may think I don’t care for him.
He says nothing.
The land drops away before us. To someone who has never been here, it would look like the edge of the cliff. Far below, the sea shifts against the sharp rocks. But I’ve been this way enough times to know where I must place my hands and feet, lowering myself into
