The Lighthouse Witches(64)

After driving up and down the road that runs along Lòn Haven’s coast, she stops at the old signpost for Strallaig and looks out at the tide washing up against the cliffs. There’s a dirt track that looks familiar, and a flat bank of rock. There should be a lighthouse here, she thinks, and a bothy with a garden at the front.

She parks up and tells Clover to stay in the car. She gets out and walks gingerly along the track toward the cliff edge. Below, there’s an odd shape in the gray water, a rock that juts up out of the waves. But as a cloud passes from the sun, she sees it’s not a rock. It’s a jagged hollow.

The remains of the Longing.

She has to look three times before she’ll believe it. There are scattered remnants of the Longing’s lantern room at the bottom of the cliffs that confirms it has fallen. The staircase gone, her mother’s mural obliterated. Only the base of it left. No sign of the bothy.

The destruction of the Longing disorients her so much that she drives through the village twice, looping around the east side and coming to a stop at the Neolithic site. There are new roads, new signs, a few expensive glass-fronted houses dotting the hillside. The Neolithic museum is still there, though much bigger than last time. Historic Scotland have evidently built a shiny new visitors’ center, with a driftwood sculpture of a deer at the front of the complex, a tarmacked car park with a play area for children, and a sandwich board announcing a new Italian restaurant. A long banner promises an exhibition of traditional island tapestries.

She parks. A bright PVC board by the deer sculpture offers a map of the island and information.

    In 2018, Lòn Haven began experiencing extreme flooding and coastal erosion. Historic Scotland and CCF are working hard to delay and prevent further damage to the island’s historic artifacts, therefore some of the sites may be under construction and/or temporarily closed. Scan the QR code here for updates!



She feels woozy. Everything is staggeringly, painfully different.

They return to the site with the dirt track and the rocky bank. She pulls over to the bank and looks out at the remains.

“I think we’re on the wrong island,” Clover observes, squinting out to sea.

“We’re definitely on Lòn Haven,” Luna says.

“No, we’re not. The Longing and the bothy should be there. And you see that hill?”

She points to the right at the bell-shaped rise that Luna remembers sledding down on a tea tray.

“There should be a cairn on the top,” Clover says. “Do you know what a cairn is?”

“It’s a pile of stones.”

“Exactly. And that one was called Camhanaich. Or it would be, if we were on Lòn Haven.”

“It’s there,” Luna says. “Look. It’s Camhanaich.”

She points to where the light reveals the outline of the cairn. Luna hears the confidence slide out of Clover’s voice, feels the shock slide into her as she realizes that yes, this is Lòn Haven.

“But where’s Mummy?” Clover says, her voice breaking. “Where’s the Longing, and the bothy?”

“Let’s go and find out.”


III

They drive around the island for hours, searching out places that they both might remember. Clover brightens when they reach Strallaig, recognizing a shop front that she expects to be an ice-cream shop and growing upset when it turns out to be a nail bar. They get out of the car and walk up and down the high street. There’s a small Boots store, a “Starbox”—someone’s attempt to pastiche Starbucks, including the green signage—a deli, and an art gallery. A group of blue-and pink-haired teenagers walk along the street, chatting and laughing.

The back of Luna’s neck prickles. She turns, and a woman is there. She’s an older woman, Chinese, a heavy black raincoat and a pair of wellies. A blunt fringe hangs low over her eyes, and she frowns at Clover before lifting her gaze to Luna. It’s only a half-second glance and yet it seems to pose a question.

Ling. One of Isla’s friends.

But before Luna can approach her, she’s gone.

Lòn Haven is at once familiar and foreign. Luna has moments of recognition, but they are so fleeting that she suspects she’s inventing them. Clover’s mention of their mother, Liv, residing on Lòn Haven has awakened the old hope that somehow her mother is alive. That somewhere, she’s searching for Luna. Waiting for her.

She goes to the police station and asks about the Longing.

“Burned down,” the officer at the desk tells her. “Years ago. The sea claimed what was left.”

Luna’s eyebrows knit together. “Who burned it?”

The officer leans across the desk, clasps her hands. “The owner, I believe.”

“Patrick Roberts,” Luna says, and the officer’s silence confirms it. The man her mother was working for. The mural.

“Do you happen to know why?”

The police officer shrugs. “I was only little at the time. Probably an insurance claim, that’s what folk said.” She catches herself and clears her throat. “Anyway. He died inside it.”

So he’s dead, she thinks. The sense of relief that comes with this knowledge is short-lived. Patrick might have had answers.

She pulls out the photograph of Liv that her uncle gave her, then the Polaroid of Saffy, and asks the police officer if she’s seen either of them.