Free The Falconer's Tale by Gordon Kent

The wind on his head was like a new shock of ice.He’d lost his hat, which was scudding across the loch on thesurface of the water. Mud and ooze billowed around histhrashing feet. He pulled himself up by the strength of hisarms, heaving the weight of his full waders to the rock.
    He fell again, just one stone out from the shore, but hewas prepared this time, and his fall merely caused him to sitdown hard on the stone and take a new batch of cold waterover his waders.
    Close up, the crannog was composed of small, round rocksthe size of his fist, raised in a low mound. Underneath thewater, the mound of rubble continued, although he couldclearly see a beam or heavy rafter of wood deep in the clearwater of the leeward side.
    He stripped. He wrung out each sodden garment and putthe wool socks and the jeans and sweater back on under thenow empty waders, made a bundle of the rest of the clothesand tied it around his waist. He was warmer already—hisjacket and the waders were windproof, and the wool waswarm even when wet. Just to make a point to himself, hemade some desultory casts into the deep water beyond thecrannog. Something made a sizeable silver flash on his fourthcast—
    Gone. A sea trout, without question. A good fish. He castagain, and again, trying to relive the moment of the earliercast and remember just what he had done, eventuallywondering if he had imagined the whole thing. His head wascold, and that wasn’t good.
    Time to go.
    The crannog interested him, even while he stood shiveringon it. Between casts and retrieves, he tried to imagine howit had come here, how much effort it would have takenpeople (how many people—a family? Two families?) tobuild—and why. For the fishing? And when?
    He left his boots off for the return trip. With his socksworn over the waders, he had reasonably sure footing andmade his way without incident. He was losing too much heatfrom his head. He drank the rest of his thermos of tea andate a sandwich made of the leftovers from his attempt tofind presents for Hackbutt and pulled the plastic bags overhis head, and then his cotton shirt, now wrung out, and thenanother bag. Better than nothing.
    The walk back out was easier than he had expected.Perhaps because it was downhill, or the psychological effectof having his car in sight from the moment he climbed outof the caldera, but the climb down served only to keep theworst of the chill away. The Land Rover’s heater was amagnificent, efficient machine and he was warm before henegotiated the mountain pass on the road back to Salen.The heater almost made up for the width of the monster,but as he negotiated lay-bys and oncoming headlights, hecursed the car again. Darkness was falling. He drove carefully,passed the Aros estuary with regret, and went straightto the hotel.
    In the morning, he stopped at the bookstore on his way tohis car. Donald was already at work and greeted him enthusiastically.“Did you get anything?” he called, as soon as Piatwas through the door.
    Piat recounted his adventures. He had recorded his catchon the tickets and produced them.
    Donald laughed. “You climbed on the crannog, then?”
    â€œWho built it?” asked Piat.
    Donald shrugged. “We have some books—people alwayswant to know. There are four of them on the island, moreon the mainland of course.” He pulled out a batteredOrdnance Survey map and flipped it fully open. “One here,on the Glen Lochs—that’s quite a walk. Some fishing ifyou like wee browns. One here, on Loch Frisa. The oneyou climbed, of course, down south. And one just abovethe town, here. Quite a story to go with the local one.”
    Piat had watched Donald’s thick fingers moving over themap, thinking automatically no cover, no cover, visible from the road . “Hmmm?” he said. “A story?” Piat was a good listener.
    â€œA local man, a farmer, had the notion that he could builda dam on the loch above the town