Free The Visitors by Simon Sylvester

themselves.’
    ‘Anders is back, is he?’
    ‘Aye. Something to do with a football match. It all seemed very important.’
    ‘Well, good for them.’
    Izzy stood up tall and leaned backwards, stretching his arms out and upwards. It was like the timber had squashed him flat, and now he unfolded to full size. He was built like a bear, tall and thickset. He must have been in his fifties, or older, but he worked hard and kept in good health. Framed by a thick straggle of grey hair, his face was angular but friendly.
    ‘This might be a stupid question,’ I said, ‘but were you carrying a telegraph pole?’
    He grinned at me.
    ‘You’re right. That is a stupid question. It’s only half a telegraph pole.’
    ‘Where’s the other half?’
    ‘I’ll be back for that tomorrow,’ he said, wincing and putting a hand to the small of his back, ‘if the body lets me.’
    ‘Where have you come from?’
    ‘MacKendrick’s farm. He wanted shot of it.’
    I did a quick calculation.
    ‘That’s three miles away. You’ve come all that way?’
    ‘Aye, well. I might have stopped for a wee pint in the Bull.’
    ‘It is important to stay hydrated during exercise,’ I said sarcastically, sounding like my mother. I walked along the pole in careful steps, one foot before the other, feeling the warmth of the wood in my bare feet.
    ‘And obviously that was my thinking, doctor. My thanks for your concern.’
    ‘Where’s it going?’ I asked.
    ‘I thought I’d expand a little. A wee extension. You know me. I’m all about the accumulation of material wealth.’
    ‘I know you need a bath.’
    ‘And I shall have one, in the sea, when you’ve gone,’ he replied with dignity. ‘You whippersnapper. When are you going again? In fact, why are you here?’
    ‘I’ve come to ask you about stories.’
    ‘Stories, is it? Well, I know a few of them.’
    ‘Do you know any about selkies?’
    Izzy closed his eyes, thinking, and chewed his lip.
    ‘Selkies? Aye, I’ve a few of them and all. Every shennachie worth his salt knows a selkie story.’
    ‘What’s a shennachie?’
    ‘A storyteller of the oldest sort. He collects stories as he wanders, and tells them from memory. He keeps them stored nice and safe up here,’ said Izzy, tapping his temple.
    ‘Well, there you go. And I thought you were a beachcomber.’
    ‘Oh, I’m a lot of things. Take a pew, lass.’
    I went back to my upturned crate. Izzy had built himself a chair from driftwood, long ago, and padded it with old cushions taken from the tip in Tanno. He settled himself back into his seat and poked at the fire.
    ‘All right. What do you want to know?’ he said, looking up at me. ‘What’s this all about?’
    ‘It’s homework. We’re doing a report on Scottish folklore,and I picked selkies. I’ve got a book already, but I thought I’d see if you knew anything.’
    ‘Books are a waste of time,’ he grunted. ‘No one remembers what they read in a book. People need to hear it, they need to be involved. That’s why we have campfire stories,’ he said, nudging the charred logs in their makeshift grate. As he rolled them over, they loosed a new burst of heat.
    ‘Selkies, selkies. All right. Are you ready?’
    I drew my feet up onto the crate, hugging my knees.
    Izzy started to tell a story.

11
    Once upon a time, there was a poor crofter. He lived alone in his wee cottage on the shores of a windswept island. He kept chickens, and had a pig or two in the byre out back. He grew tatties and turnips. He fished in the river, and set nets in a tidal pool. He kept crab pots by the shore, and collected firewood from the beach. Every few weeks, he’d gather his surplus and take it to sell at market, returning with flour, cloth, salt and whatever else he needed to get by. By night he darned his socks or fixed his nets. The crofter survived, day to day, but his was a lonely, cheerless existence, and there was a sadness inside him that wouldn’t leave him be. It nagged at him