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  Euna said, Damain, Muireall. I wish you had lived here all along.

  Good Muireall beamed at Euna. No, she said, you don’t. Then you wouldn’t be a fucking rock star.

  Euna made devil horns and deep-drank the wine, staining her gorgeous, carnivorous teeth a richer shade of red. Let’s do this, she said to Good Muireall.

  She offered the guitar pick to Euna. Why don’t you get us started? Good Muireall asked gently.

  Euna, who had fled Pullhair on foot to find Aram at the castle, Euna, who had seen rare niches of the world, of course dived in with complete abandon. The pick held naturally between her pointer finger and thumb, she laid out the crimes she believed she had been victim to, though she used the word ainneartachadh, more oppression than crime. She spoke of strops and horsewhips and hairbrushes and switches, then of the silent treatment, of emotional manipulation. Then, turning her attention to Aram, she accused him of pilfering her virtue; of humiliating her, leaving her young and forlorn on the moors; of tearing her pearrsag, causing it to burn through urination; of thoughtlessly, narcissistically, ruining Aileen’s life.

  As she waded through this tender, decades-long catalogue of wrongdoings, Aram knew he would not be able to sit there in silence, inwardly rolling his eyes. He either had to run, to avoid being dragged into the circle, or he had to commit himself to his family and homeland, despite the discomfort, to anchor himself in place as any good seasonal fisherman knew how to do.

  Grace spoke. Lili spoke. Grace’s list was short, and pivoted on the shame Bad Muireall had implanted in her about her attractiveness, especially her weight, culminating in Grace’s attempt to stop living. Lili’s list was long and rambling, but full of lighter items, like the sheep trampling a little patch of clover she kept in the garden, or Muireall never wanting to play with her, or Euna making her feel lonely by leaving. Aileen spoke. She, of anyone, was the most furious, though she had never lived a day at Gainntir.

  He tried to stay peaceful and focused while Aileen vented for half an hour. He had to admit, though, it was a struggle, and ultimately he had to separate from her unbridled anger and arrive in his own private landscape, where he was alone with Euna on a trawler, watching fireflies flicker in the sky.

  Thank you, he heard Good Muireall say. I believe we’ve started to do this already, but if anyone wants to add to the ways in which these crimes have impacted them, now is the time.

  After Aileen’s long diatribe, Aram’s knees, still straddling Bad Muireall, were beginning to get sore. He could feel the acid building up in his thighs. He raised his hand and waited for Good Muireall to pass him the guitar pick. I don’t want to seem impatient, he said, but my legs are starting to ache.

  All right, Good Muireall said. Maybe we have had enough for one day. She looked around the circle, and everyone who could nod, did. Lachlan Iain was asleep on the carpet, curled into a tight shape.

  I just want to say, he added, in case this helps anyone sleep tonight: I will answer to all my offences.

  Euna smiled at him, minimally, from across the circle. Good Muireall said a secular benediction to close the day’s events, and then she stood up. Lili turned Lachlan Iain awake with great care, as if flipping an over-easy egg. All quietly collected their belongings and prepared to leave the basement. Aram assured them he and Bad Muireall would catch up soon. They agreed, and once they were upstairs, even through the closed basement door, Aram could hear Mrs Macbay exclaiming how lovely it was to see them.

  Aram went to the buffet and retrieved two large urns. Even when he was no longer straddling Bad Muireall, she remained in her prone position. Though she made no noise, he could see when he faced her that she was crying. He placed both urns in the corner of the basement and said, These are for waste, number one and two, if you need them. There’s running water in the kitchenette, and plenty of tinned food in the cupboards. I will come to visit you tomorrow.

  She stared at Aram. He wondered if she were going to buck, to turn feral, but she stayed where she was, tamed, tearing up in silence. He waited for ten or twenty minutes like that, to make sure she had genuinely submitted. Then at last he walked backwards up the stairs, training his eyes on Bad Muireall the whole time, and stepped into the sanctuary. By then the sun had set, the others gone home. He locked the basement door behind him.

  *

  Walking back toward the house, ashamed by the others’ accusations, Aram accidentally stomped on a twinflower. He had not seen one in years, not since leaving Pullhair for the first time. The two tiny heads, bent by his boot toward the ground, saddened then stunned him. Their gradient. From such a deep pink at the sepal to pale, almost white, at the end of the bud. How had they survived the loss of land, the desiccation? Seeing this delicate, nostalgic show of beauty, he was nearly inspired to return to the basement and free Bad Muireall. He resisted the urge.

  A world of weather overcame him, panes of snow, a sub-arctic bite, winds so severe they could have blown him all the way to the salmon hut. He was not wearing a coat, and in the two minutes it took him to move from the church to the blackhouse, he picked up a pale burn on his wrists. He had not intended, of course, to be out so late, so he had not brought with him any extra layers.

  He could hardly digest everything that had been said in the circle. What stunned him was how persistently the Gainntir women, between full-frontal sweeps of anger and grief, had defended Bad Muireall. She’s been through a lot. Or, We were disobedient. She had no choice but to punish us. Or, If I’d stayed in the house I was born in, I might have been killed. She saved me and I should be grateful.

  Neither Euna nor Aileen had defended Aram, given similar opportunities to do so. They reprimanded him without the slightest trace of compassion. They both seemed to feel comfortable, completely guilt-free, chastising him. He was missing the manipulation skills Bad Muireall had so clearly mastered.

  Though his self-esteem had taken a hit, Aram was at least consoled to know his failings were now laid bare. No more secrets. No more sour feelings lurking beneath the surface, escalating into violent fictions, bitterness, estrangement. After rotting teeth were extracted, even sweet Lili knew, a person could expect to be in pain – but they could tolerate that pain, knowing they were heading down the line of healing, knowing the poisoned roots were gone.

  V

  The week after Christmas, a brutally cold chain of days, Lili and Grace stayed free of charge at the guest house, returning only intermittently to Gainntir to tend to its remaining livestock. Aram knew the proprietor from his time selling Scottish Salmon Company wares there, and once he explained their predicament to the freehanded elderly woman, she agreed without hesitation to shelter them. She had not had a paying guest in months anyway, she explained to Aram. Few ventured to the Outer Hebrides in the winter unless they had serious business there.

  Turns out, he said, there is lots of room at the inn.

  Like most folks in Pullhair, the proprietor had a sense of humour, and after she bonked Aram on the back for his cheekiness, she laughed at his joke.

  The Hammers were still living with Aileen, who had extra space in her chalet since Carson had driven to Glenrothes to visit his ailing parents, or so Aileen said. She assured everyone he would return in finer spirits than ever, a dyed-in-the-wool devotee of his wife, though no one but Minister Macbay had asked. On first meeting them, Aram had wondered if Aileen wanted her husband at all. Now, that distance between them, Aram felt the weight of her longing, what some – not he, but some – might name love. Aram visited the Hammers daily, and even when Aileen barred him from seeing the other women, she gave him unfettered access to Lachlan Iain. He taught the boy to ferret out peat, then set a house-heating fire with it; to tie a bowline; to identify toxic plants, like foxglove. He tried to impart as much practical knowledge on the child as he could, considering he did not know how long this living arrangement would last – considering, too, no figure had taught Aram any of these skills.

  Bad Muireall remained locked in the
church basement, which, Aram imagined, surely confirmed to her all she thought she knew about religion and tolerance. The Macbays protested against holding her there in confinement, and Aram engaged them in several multilayered debates on the matter. His whip hand: this was the only way to keep Pullhair safe, especially – he took a long look at Mrs Macbay – Lili, who was the most susceptible to Bad Muireall’s cruelty. This trick worked. Maybe he had learned a few techniques from Bad Muireall, after all. His desire to detain her was, truthfully, only partly related to the community’s safety. What he would not admit was, he revelled in the fact that he had another person in captivity, especially after being detained for so long himself. It was oddly gratifying to control her supply of food, monitor her visitors, limit, or curb entirely, her range of movement.

  On New Year’s Eve, Aram went to the chalet to collect the Hammers for a date at the guest house. Good Muireall greeted him at the door, where she was helping Lachlan Iain to slip into layers of fleece and sheepskin, to double-tie his little boots. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and Lachlan Iain a kiss on the tam, then joined Euna in Aileen’s bedroom. Euna was pulling the quilts as high as Aileen’s cheekbones, stroking the sweat-dappled part of her brow. Sleep well, she was saying. Aram felt he had stumbled upon a private vignette of the women’s past in Glasgow.

  Stay, Aileen said. Please. She clung to the hem of Euna’s velvet coat, where a fine thread curled like liquorice smoke. She was a child afraid of being abandoned. Her desperation about Carson had reached a fevered high, and Aram, several feet away, could see its effects in her reddened cheeks, her tight grip.

  He said, Aileen, pet, what’s wrong?

  You wouldn’t understand the pain, she said. It’s fuil mhìosail.

  I once got my foot caught in an aerator at the farm, he said. Does that compare?

  Hardly, she said. She looked at him with anger, not resentment, as she had before their circle in the church basement. The distinction was marked.

  He gently separated her fingers from Euna’s hem, then kissed her knuckles one at a time, with what he hoped was not seduction but slow kindness. Aileen tucked her whole body back beneath the quilt. She clutched the fabric from below, fluting its pattern of pink sea rockets. We have to go now, Aram said. Lili and Grace are expecting us.

  So you’re going to leave me alone in agony? she asked him.

  Your parents will come check on you in a few hours, he said. You’ll live.

  Awright, Aileen said. You stupid prick.

  He grinned. Her dirty mouth made him feel strangely loved, comfortable. Stroking Aileen’s forehead one last time, Euna said, We’ll miss you, m’ usgair. Happy New Year.

  Happy New Year, she said, soft as baby’s breath, to Euna. To Aram she said, Go eat a juicy bag of baws.

  He blew Aileen a kiss, to which she rolled her eyes. He led Euna by the hand to the front door, where Lachlan Iain was clearly boiling through his winter getup. Good Muireall asked them, Everything good?

  You know Aileen, was all Euna said.

  Good Muireall beamed. Oh, you two, she said. Ever the odd couple. I remember in the camper van…

  Aram prickled at this talk. He hurried the others out of the chalet before Good Muireall could share any more of her recollection. He led them past the town common, which had, before he left Pullhair, been a handsome place for townsfolk to gather. Picnic benches once rimmed the green, pits for charcoal fires, baths for migrant birds. These trappings were now gone, and even if the season had been more hospitable, Aram doubted anyone would be there sitting, reading verse, drinking tea, as they had even five years prior.

  A kilometre farther, they came to the guest house. From the outside it looked deserted, its eaves come loose, leaves iced and piled high on the threshold, though on the inside it was much more hospitable. Aram knocked brightly on the front door, knowing warmth waited for them on the other side. Feasgar math! the proprietor said, swinging the door wide open. She was a doughty, eighty-something woman with horn-rimmed glasses and a blue rinse over her lovely white hair. Come, come, she said, brushing flakes of snow from Aram’s fisherman’s sweater, Euna’s velvet coat.

  They gratefully hurried inside. Good afternoon, Aram said to the owner. Thank you for having us.

  Lili came scrambling to the doorway. She switched places with the owner, who tidied Lili’s hair before shuffling off into the kitchen, promising gingerbread. Lili dragged him and Lachlan Iain by the hand into the drawing room. They sprawled on the floor, softened as it was by a monumental, hand-loomed rug. Though he had not thought about it for years, he remembered now that his mam had a matching one in their boat hold – it was the only thing, she said, she had managed to import from Sketimini. The drawing room was so crammed with kitschy figurines, antique chairs, curios that made the place homey and Albannach, he might not have noticed the rug were it not for its deep-rooted familiarity.

  Grace joined them in the drawing room then, wearing a plain tan sweater and tweed pants, her face bare and a bit pallid, but at least exposed to the air. Euna and Good Muireall lay intertwined on the sofa, an old country plaid number in which holes revealed tufts of stuffing.

  Lachlan Iain called out, Boban, watch this! He nudged Lili until she flicked on a nearby torch. It was still daytime, so the beam was only faintly visible against the wall. But Aram would not miss an opportunity to see his child perform. For years, he had caught larger and more impressive fish, becoming the most efficient farmer on the coast, with no father to witness his prowess. Aram squinted now as he tried to see the slippery, one-eyed shadow his son was making. It was unrecognizable as a fish, but that did not matter.

  Aram cried, Would you look at that salmon!

  No, dummy, Lachlan Iain said. It’s a sardine. Only he did not yet know the proper pronunciation, so he said saw-been.

  Aram would have to stay in his child’s life, he decided then, if mainly to discipline him. The boy was already becoming a brat, and no seed of Aram’s would be so disrespectful. Aram moved his son’s hands to form a perfect salmon, and together they held the shape in front of Lili’s pale beam. Aram noticed that his hands complicated the outline, so he dropped them, leaving the boy to compose the image on his own. The shape he came up with was remarkably precise. A shaoghail, Lili said. Now that’s a great salmon.

  Lachlan Iain grinned magnificently. He took full credit for the fish, instantly forgetting the help his father had given him.

  Euna must have seen Aram’s reaction to this slight, as she laughed, open-mouthed, at him. He’s just a boy, she said.

  Aram shrugged as if to say, Of course, but the truth was he could not slough off the feeling. He did not see himself reflected in the child. He supposed this was what happened when a person was raised by womenfolk. Wolves might have been preferable. At least then he would have sharp teeth.

  This time of year, evening fell firmly and fast. The sky shifted from pale grey to gun-smoke to pitch black in the matter of minutes. The proprietor of the guest house bustled into the drawing room and brightened all of the standing lamps, lit a candelabra and then a fire in the woodstove. Gingerbread is in the oven, she said. And I have good news.

  Lili clapped her hands loudly together. I love good news, she said. What is it?

  I’ve invited everyone in town for a cèilidh. She turned to Euna, Would you play for us, love?

  Euna leaned back, her ear poking, elven, through her hair. Aram saw the pearl earring, a small chip in it from when the drop had fallen on the ice, on the upland. He loved the smallest parts of her. I didn’t bring my guitar, she said.

  I’ll phone the minister, the owner said. He can bring it for you when he comes.

  Euna seemed surprised, pleasantly, at the mention of the telephone. Of course, she said. I would be glad to play.

  Wonderful, the owner said. It’s been so long since we had one. The last one would have been at Carson and Aileen’s wedding.

  Beautiful, Aram said. It would be an honour.

  The owner
clapped her hands together, clearly exhilarated. She had the comportment of a much younger woman. I’ll bring the cookies when they’re done, she said.

  Thank you, Lachlan Iain said, and Aram felt momentarily reassured.

  Grace sat cross-legged behind Lili and began to braid her hair. At the sight of this, Euna bounded toward the women and joined their line, combing Grace’s hair with rigid fingers. Good Muireall took the rear of the train, working Dutch milkmaid braids into Euna’s hair. Aram did not know how to integrate himself – watching felt perverse, participating impossible. So he invited his son to sit on his lap, which the boy did gladly. Aram was seeing, in small glimpses, the appeal of children. How could you feel isolated with a child around, how could you question your worth with a little self trawling your lonely feelings for a smile?

  With Lachlan Iain perched there, Aram felt grounded. Not weighed down. The distinction was subtle – like that between Aileen’s anger and her resentment – but Aram grasped it deeply. He had, after all, searched low and high for the feeling that had just now landed, squarely, in his lap.

  *

  When the townsfolk arrived for the cèilidh several hours later, they really and truly arrived. Their energy was markedly different than it had been at the Christmas feast just one week before, though that occasion had been similarly light and festive. But tonight, the guests were glimmering, moonbright, as if brought into the world by incantation. Aram had never witnessed anything so enchanting, maybe in his life, and certainly not in his life in Pullhair. But he was not going to let habit blot out the present. He was going to meet this delight, both divine and entirely ordinary, with his own. Fuck it, he was going to have fun.