The core of this short story came to me in a dream. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed waking that morning!
Comments welcomed.
*****
The old fishing boat chugged across the mirrorcalm water. Sitting on a small bench just in front of the wheelhouse, you were entranced by the space and the calm, and you let your mind flood with sensations. The bright red paintwork of the guardrails, the deep blue sky, the green and yellow of the lobster pots in the bow, the rainbow colours of the passengers' bags piled on deck. The fresh sea air, tinted with the clean smell of fish. The powerful rhythmic throb of the diesel engine. The warmth of the northern sun on your face.
You'd seen startlingly white gannets and the distant black wheels of porpoises, rolling through the water, but now your eyes were focused on the small island looming larger ahead of you, your home for the next ten days.
This was the first time you'd been to the Western Isles, but here you were, a volunteer visiting a remote island in the Hebrides to help uncover and explore the archaeological relics left behind by Iron Age farmers and fisherfolk over two thousand years before. A storm in the winter had exposed the remains of two roundhouses close to a beach on the far side of the island, and you'd be helping to stabilise access paths and build drains and banks to protect the remains from the ravages of the coming winter. There was an active dig going on, and you hoped to be able to join in with that too, sifting the sandy soil for ancient artefacts and generally helping the professional archaeologists and helpers who were here for the whole summer.
You'd signed up on a whim, searching for some escape from day to day life, and, you admitted to yourself in quiet moments, from an unrewarding relationship that seemed to have run its course. There were seven of you on the trip, five men and two women, including you. You'd got to know each other in the last 24 hours since you'd met up in Fort William. Overnight in a small hotel, out for supper together, and then a long minibus trip and two island ferries before you boarded this last boat, hired for the afternoon to get you all and essential supplies out to the island.
The island was beautiful, a jewel set in the deep blue of the Atlantic. The late summer sun glistened on the water and picked out the browns, greens, yellows and greys of the sloping hills as you rounded a headland, bringing the harbour into view. Away to the left you could now see the big old house, still home to the family that had owned the island for three centuries, and which they has generously put at the disposal of the historians and archaeologists for the summer. You felt a pang of envy for those that had spent their whole season here, rather than the scant days you could afford to take off from work.
The boat nosed its way into the entrance of the small harbour, slipping between the rugged stone walls, battered and weathered by hundreds of years of Scottish storms. You watched the crew, unerringly throwing ropes and effortlessly looping them round bollards and cleats to secure the boat alongside. Straining your eyes against the low sun, you looked up at the welcoming party that had gathered on the quayside to meet you and your fellow passengers.
As you sat and watched, bags were heaved up onto the quayside by the crew of the makeshift ferry, and the seven waiting volunteers climbed ashore. You climbed up last, a strong reassuring hand of one of the fishermen holding your arm to steady you as you stepped from the moving boat onto the ancient rusty iron rungs set into a recess in the harbour wall. The tide was high, and you only had a couple of steps before you were on terra firma, and being drawn into the hubbub of handshakes and name swapping and welcome by the local helpers, the laird and a couple of the archaeologists.
That was when you first saw her. Just as she lifted a bag - yours - and turned to carry it over to an old green landrover, already piled with rucksacks, bags and yaksacks.
You were mesmerised. There was something about her. Bronzed from working in the sun and the wind. Lean and toned from the physical activity. Small breasts under a dark cotton shirt. Long dark hair pulled into an untidy knot. But there was more than the physical. Confidence. An air of satisfaction with the world, of being happy with life, comfortable in her skin.
You realised you were staring, brought back to your senses by an eager smiling elderly man (who you later learned was Tony, the head of the dig) taking your hand and shaking it firmly, welcoming you and thanking you for giving up your time. By the time you looked back she had closed the rear gate of the landrover and was heading to the driver's door. She climbed in, revved the engine, engaged the gears with a crunch and slowly drove the old warhorse across the bumpy quayside and out onto the empty road to the big house.
Shaking your head and wondering what had come over you, you refocused on the huddle of people about you, and were soon immersed in the excitement of the evening and anticipation of the coming days.
By the time you had all been herded into a battered minibus and driven slowly up to the house, there was no sign of the mystery woman. The landrover was parked in the courtyard and the bags neatly stacked behind it, but the driver had disappeared somewhere into the depths of the house or the surrounding buildings. Collecting your bags, you were ushered into the grand entrance hall where the lady of the house took great pleasure in welcoming you each by name and allocating bedrooms. Some people had to share, as had been expected, but you were delighted to find that you'd been given a room to yourself, at the top of the old house.
You climbed the grand staircase, and then a steeper one which led to a long landing. Opening the door to your room you couldn't help but smile. A big bed and a wide window which flooded the room with light and let in the sound of the sea on the rocks of the shore below.
You quickly unpacked and took off your travelgrimed clothes, enjoying the illicit thrill of nakedness in front of the wide open views. Wrapping a towel round you, you walked down the corridor to find the bathroom. You seemed to have the whole floor to yourself, and luxuriated in the hot water of the shower as you washed off the sweat of a long hot day's travelling.
Clean now and just standing naked with the water running down your body, your thoughts returned to the woman. You'd only seen her for a moment, but something had struck you, captivated you. A fundamental feeling of attraction. Of rightness. Desire even. You found your hands stroking your skin as you thought of her, fingers gentle on the inside of your thigh.
Your reverie was interrupted by a knocking sound in the plumbing, and a sudden gush of cold water from the shower. You stepped out of the water and turned off the taps. As you dried yourself off you again wondered what had got into you. What was it about the woman that fascinated you, that drew you to her?
Back in your room you threw on jeans and a clean t-shirt, and headed down for a briefing and supper.
Downstairs, surrounded by the comfortable trappings of a family rooted in history, all the volunteers were gathering, along with some of the organisers and archaeologists. There was tea and coffee, and some maps and diagrams on flipcharts. All fascinating, but you found yourself distracted, looking for her.
