“Is there another of that name? For the Calum MacInnes that I seek is a grown man.” The boy nodded, drew himself up to his full height, which was perhaps two fingers bigger than mine, and he said, “I am Calum MacInnes.” I had walked many a mile, and had many more miles to go. He looked shocked, as if I had appeared out of nowhere. My mother would wash it, then she would make me things with it. Gather the wool from the thorn-bushes and twigs. He did not see me approaching, and he did not look up until I said, “I used to do that. First, there was the valley on the mainland, the whitewashed house in the gentle meadow with the burn splashing through it, a house that sat like a square of white sky against the green of the grass and the heather just beginning to purple.Īnd there was a boy outside the house, picking wool from off a thornbush. If you walk the path, eventually you must arrive at the cave.īut that was later. I would say that I found him by accident, but I do not believe in accidents. I had searched for nearly ten years, although the trail was cold. I hate myself for that, and nothing will ease that, not even what happened that night, on the side of the mountain. During that year I forbade her name to be mentioned, and if her name entered my prayers when I prayed, it was to ask that she would one day learn the meaning of what she had done, of the dishonour that she had brought to my family, of the red that ringed her mother’s eyes. But I will not forgive myself for the year that I hated my daughter, when I believed her to have run away, perhaps to the city. You ask me if I can forgive myself? I can forgive myself for many things.
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