Holiday in the Hebrides - II
A Christmas-themed Art Cavanagh Adventure Story
To cap off December’s short story (and 2024 as a whole), here is the second and final part of Art Cavanagh’s latest adventure, “Holiday in the Hebrides”! Having been given the name of a skipper who is willing to take them to the fabled island of Tethra’s Jaw, Art and Mòrag brave the tumultuous grey seas of the west by night to find it before Alexander Allard and his cronies reach the treasure. With any luck, they’ll be home in time for Christmas!
Holiday in the Hebrides - I
Hiring the bored sailor recommended by Raghnall took little effort, especially since Mòrag did most of the talking. They had been schoolmates growing up and Iain had taken a fancy to Mòrag he could not quite shake even into his young adulthood. The difficult work in the stormy seas surrounding Castlebay had aged the lad’s blue-stubbled face a few years more than he actually was, and the propensity to drink deeply with his cohorts during his rare bouts of leisure added a stubborn gut to his already stout frame.
“It’s always like seeing the lighthouse when you come ‘round, a Mhòrag,” he had said not a few exchanges into the conversation. Iain gave Art a suspicious look soon after, frowning enough to crease the thick neck of his woolen sweater. He sat upon a low post on the dock near his ship, a sturdy ferry that also served as a fishing boat when the season was right.
Mòrag laughed hollowly and sharply at the compliment, explaining her and Art’s reason for coming to him: “We’re looking for an island that hasn’t been peopled since the vikings found it. There may be treasure on it and the journey could be deadly.”
Iain rubbed his chin. “So close to Christmas as well? Why, I don’t think I could want for a better gift than such an adventure. The only thing I ask now is how am I supposed to find it?”
Art stepped forward. “How are you at navigating by the stars?”
Iain scowled, but answered him, “I once found my way to Lewis with only one glimpse at the North Star when the clouds broke only once during a hurricane. I’ve been on these waves so long I get dizzier on land!”
“Good,” Art nodded, “the only thing we have to guide us will be Orion’s Belt.”
“The old hunter,” mused Iain. “I know him well.” He looked up at the slate grey sky, barely any fold or seam showed within the monolithic cloud. “Although the snow hasn’t come today, winter’s still putting the gloom over us. I can’t say when the clouds might break.”
Art frowned. “Well, we’re in a bit of a hurry. If we don’t leave tonight someone else might steal that treasure before we’re even within spitting distance of the island.”
Iain huffed a sigh through his nostrils and scratched his chin.
“Iain,” Mòrag stepped forward, “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit with how well you know the stars. I remember you got top marks in school when we studied astronomy.”
Iain cracked a smile and chuckled, his eyes rolling about like a bashful schoolboy. “Ah, well I suppose you’re right, a Mhòrag. We set out tonight, then?”
“Tonight,” Art and Mòrag confirmed.
“Smashing,” Iain said, rising. “I’ll get the boat ready and think back on the star-lore I’ve got. Come back at sunset.”
Being the first of winter, sunset did not take long to lead Art and Mòrag back to the port where Iain waited by his vessel. The passengers had little in the way of supplies; Art carried a canvas knapsack while Mòrag wore her greatcoat to stave off the biting chill of the black night. The three then set out from Castlebay, sailing west and northward until the remaining lights of the town faded. The clouds had not broken by the time they took to the waves, but Iain swore on his mother’s soul that he knew where Orion’s Belt would rise that night. His course kept true on the north where the darkness grew as well as the cold. The black waves that occasionally sprayed over the rails might as well have been frozen; droplets stung like needles through clothes and the wind wrapped around flesh as though the passengers wore nothing.
“I can’t believe we’re still on Earth in all this pitch,” commented Mòrag as she strode across the deck to either side of the craft.
“It’s no wonder,” said Art, “that the stories of adventures to the otherworld take place, in many instances, on the sea.”
Mòrag sighed, her breath cutting coldly through the din of the waves and the boat’s engine. “I suppose it makes sense, but I’ve had my fill of those tales, I think.”
Art frowned. “Would you throw them so easily to the wind?”
“My grandfather knew all sorts of stories and believed in all sorts of stuff.” Mòrag leaned against the portside railing, eyes gazing into the stygian expanse. “Before he had to sell the pub he thought he could find some lost treasure in the sea. He found only a terrible sickness that forced him to give up his property from his deathbed.”
Art approached Mòrag, setting his hands on the rail. “Yet you take a chance out here. Could it not be some of his spirit driving you?”
Mòrag shrugged. “Perhaps, but at least we have more of a clue than just some stories in our heads.”
“From what I’ve gathered going from seanchaí to seanchaí, there’s always a reason for people believing in the stories they tell themselves and others.”
Pushing away from the railing, Mòrag turned and looked up at Art, a half-smile on her lips. “Then let’s hope there’s a reason to believe in this island and gold.”
Iain’s course seldom veered from the north, but he turned westward on occasion, likely following the path of Orion’s Belt in his mind. The clouds still had not broken, even hours onto the sea; they domed over the vessel and met the waves as a great wall. Despite the uncertainty, Iain did not stray from the course or voice any fears he might have had. The voyage spanned from the early sundown to the wee hours of the morning, its members entirely at the mercy of the dim Atlantic. Iain would bid Art and Mòrag to light a lamp fixed to the bow at times in order to spot signs of land or any other obstacles in the distance. Most often, it illuminated nothing but the waves. After a span that lasted long enough for Iain’s eyes to accustom themselves to the dark, he spied some shapes spearing out of the waves ahead.
“The light!” he shouted.
Art scrambled up to the bow and ignited the lamp. Its beam cast over the waves and captured a pair of black skerries jutting at a 45-degree angle out of the water. They pointed southeastward, and behind them rose a rocky plateau; a beach of grey sand or pebbles nestled between the treacherous crags.
Mòrag rushed beside Art and gasped at the sight of the skerries. “Tethra’s Jaw!” she breathed. “Such a name is fitting for this place; it looks like the jaw of some leviathan.”
“I’ll bring us in slow,” declared Iain and maneuvered his craft carefully between the skerries.
Art swiveled the lamp to either side, furrowing his brow as the beam exposed strange shapes upon the slime-covered stones. He could not fully discern them from the ship, but some of them appeared to be carvings of fish-headed humanoids.
“What are you looking at the rocks for?” asked Mòrag.
“It looks like there might have been some people here before us,” answered Art. “Not so long ago either.”
Mòrag set her teeth. “How can you say for certain?”
“There are carvings in the rocks,” Art pointed out the nearest ones, “and water would have worn them away ages ago, but these seem far more recent.”
“What does that mean for the treasure?”
Art turned the lamp back towards the narrow shore. “I think whatever culture visited this island might not stray too far from it.”
Iain terminated the motor and moored the boat a few yards from shore. The tide was low enough for the front of the boat to nestle in the sand. Art, securing his satchel, leapt over the bow and landed on the shore. Mòrag followed, sailing over Art’s head as he crouched in the sand; she alighted deftly on the drier part of the strand.
“Take care, now, a Mhòrag!” Iain bade as he anchored the boat. “It seems the clouds are finally breaking, so the way home should be no trouble.” True to what he said, a few pinpoints of starlight glimmered through a decaying veil of clouds.
“We shouldn’t be long.” Mòrag waved as Art led her up a short crag preceding the plateau.
The island seemed to be an addition to the dark void the adventurers had been sailing through rather than an anomaly or haven. It was flat, barren, and dotted with slimy pools of seawater that eerily reflected the growing tapestry of stars overhead. Art shone an electric torch over the rocky group, unveiling more of the curious carvings depicting fish-headed men and reliefs of large cities composed of twisting spires.
“How could anyone live on here?” wondered Mòrag.
“I don’t think it’s necessarily a place for living,” Art said, he swept his torch beam upward as he and Mòrag neared some shapes looming out of the darkness. “More like an outpost for worship.”
The beam fell upon a ring of black standing stones on a sloped part of the plateau that led all the way into the sea. At the center of the circle rose a single monolith that bore signs of tool work and intelligent design. Mòrag approached it slowly, head tilted up in awe at the central edifice. The prime carving upon it depicted some creature with its limbs wrapped around it; a pair of bulging eyes peered down at the two interlopers.
“What devils were revered on this island?” Mòrag froze as she met the unseeing stare.
“Who can say?” Art shrugged, turning the beam groundward. “But if I were to hide treasure anywhere on this rock, it’d most certainly be here.” He swept the torch over the bases of each stone before coming at last to the center one where some uneven stone slabs lay. He knelt, handing the torch to Mòrag and taking hold of one slab. With great effort, he pushed the slick stone away. Peering down where it sat before, he let out a hearty laugh, then looked over his shoulder at Mòrag with a grin.
“Bring the light here,” he bade.
Mòrag approached and shone the torch at the spot in front of him. The slab had covered a shallow pit where, amidst a rotting chest and moldering cloth, sat a pile of gold and silver. The precious metals were shaped into jewelry, idols, and inlaid in weapons. Most of it was tarnished, yet still glittered in the torchlight.
Covering her mouth with one hand, Mòrag could scarce find words at sight of such wealth.
“We’ll need to take another trip,” Art said, opening his satchel and placing handfuls of the spoils in it. Once he packed as much as it would fit, he rose and looked back towards where they had landed. “Now, we’ll come back for—”
Scraping on stone and voices muffled by distance interrupted Art. He spun towards the source—the north of the island. Beams of electric torchlight flashed in the distance, carried by a line of silhouettes.
Art swore and took the torch from Mòrag, turning it off. He grabbed her by the arm and brought her behind one of the stones. They pressed themselves tight against the cold, slick surface as the other visitors to the island approached, their voices becoming clearer.
“I saw another light!” declared one in a nasally voice with a slight lisp. “It could be that blasted colonial Cavanagh.”
“How could he find this place without the stone?” asked a man with a gruff voice.
“He’s crafty,” said the nasal voice, “I’ll submit that much.”
Art ground his teeth at the speaker and growled under his breath: “Aly.”
“How did he get here?” whispered Mòrag.
Art pressed a finger against his lips; he tilted his head enough to glimpse past the stone. Lord Alexander Allard, leaning on his cane, headed a group of thugs alongside another man in gentlemanly clothes. This one was somewhat portly and daubed his reddened brow with a handkerchief.
“I say!” he exclaimed as he entered the ring of standing stones. “It does seem someone has already been here.” He pointed his torch at the hole before the central monolith.
Several of the lackies cackled. “All the hard work done for us!” one of them shouted.
Allard stopped and sneered as he gazed around the area. “We’ll have the lion’s share, but I don’t want an ounce of that loot in Cavanagh’s hands.”
Art looked down at Mòrag and moved his satchel towards her. She took it, hesitating a moment before wrapping her fingers around the strap.
“Take it back to the boat,” he said in a low voice. “Go when they’ve all got their eyes on me.”
“What are you doing?” Mòrag whispered. “What about you?”
Art shrugged and grinned. “I’ll get away somehow. Now, stick to the shadows ‘til they’re all distracted.” Before Mòrag could say anything more, Art stepped around the standing stone and spread his arms. “It hasn’t been long enough, Aly!” he said, feigning joy.
Mòrag grit her teeth, hugging the satchel close to her chest. She peered around the stone as Allard’s goons surrounded him. Several brandished black pistols, their barrels glinting in the torchlight. Two of them seized Art’s arms, allowing their leader to approach without fear of being struck.
“Cavanagh,” Allard said, intoning each syllable with venom. “Where’s the rest of the treasure?”
Art nodded towards the hole. “It’s all there. You showed up just as I cracked it open.” Even in the face of death, he seemed to maintain a mirthful demeanor.
“Nonsense!” Allard waved a hand. “Search his pockets; I won’t let a penny’s worth out of my hands. This will be the plunder of the century.”
Art huffed a sigh as his captors patted him down. “How many times are we going to have to go over this, Aly? It’s not yours to take.”
“Oh-ho, but it’s permissible when you take it?”
“I don’t intend to keep it out of the hands of the people it belonged to,” Art retorted, rage slipping into his voice.
One of the goons at his side tore out his journal and handed it to Allard. The nobleman thumbed through the pages, pausing on one a examining it with a smirk. “You are a resourceful one, Cavanagh,” he commended. “No doubt this rubbing is how you found the way here. Though how you translated it so well is anyone’s guess.”
“I listen to tradition-bearers, Aly. I bet the book-boy you hired out didn’t bother to include mention of the old denizens of this island.”
Allard laughed. “The giants? Please, though I should have expected you to fall for that poppycock.”
His genteel companion glanced nervously up at the central plinth. “B-But,” he stammered, “who raised these stones?”
“Savages,” Allard waved a hand, “forgotten savages, Kingsley. The sort of folk this man endears himself to.” He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a derringer. “Now, I know there’s more treasure, Cavanagh. I’ll give you to the count of three to tell me where you’ve stashed it and I’ll just let you limp back to whatever you rowed yourself here on. One…”
“Drop dead,” Art spat.
Allard leveled the gun at his brow. “Two…”
“You’ll have an easier time getting blood out of these stones.”
Allard cocked back the hammer. “Thr—”
“Wait!” Mòrag leapt out from behind the standing stone.
Art exhaled through clenched teeth. The lackies’ laughter like sandpaper on his ears.
Allard lowered the gun and peered around Art. “What-ho! I knew there was a trick up your sleeve. Who might this be?”
“You want your bleeding gold so bad?” Mòrag asked, setting the satchel on the ground. “Take it. No one needs to die over it.”
Allard curled his mouth into a tight-lipped smile. “See how simple that was? You just needed a woman’s intuition, Cavanagh.” He stepped around Art and his cronies, then up to Mòrag. Before he reached for the loot, she stepped in front of him.
“You’ll let him go for the treasure,” she said, locking eyes with him.
Allard frowned. “Don’t get in my way again and I’ll certainly consider mercy.”
“Mòrag!” Art cried. “I told you to—”
One of his captors slugged him in the gut, forcing him to double over. He looked back at her with grit teeth.
Mòrag relented and sidestepped. Allard crouched and sifted through the satchel, oohing and awing at the booty.
His companion—Kingsley—suddenly stepped beside the central monolith, peering out towards the slope. “Al-Alexander?” he said, voice wavering.
“What is it now?” inquired Allard, not taking his eyes off the treasure.
“There’s something approaching,” Kingsley observed, “shapes rising out of the water.”
“What?” Allard seized the satchel and came beside his companion. Art, Mòrag, and the henchmen all looked towards where the island descended into the waves. A line of silhouettes shambled, hopped, and lopped out of the water. Low croaking and belches sounded in the air as they approached.
“You there!” Allard pointed his gun towards the newcomers. “Stay back! This is none of your business.”
Art laughed. “What did that book-boy tell you about the ‘giants,’ Aly?”
“Quiet!” Allard retorted.
“They’re the ones who own this island,” said Art. “None of us should be here.”
“Shut up!” Allard fired at the shadowy things. Neither the report, nor their bullet as it sailed unseen into the dark seemed to deter their advance.
Right after the shot went off, Art slammed his foot against the knee of the captor on his right. The man screamed and toppled over. Before the man on his left could react, Art threw his full weight behind a fist straight into his nose. The toady flew off his feet and crashed onto the ground. Allard, Kingsley, and their henchmen turned towards the commotion.
“Stop him!” ordered Allard.
A distant scream split through the air, drawing attention away from Art for a moment. It originated from around where Allard and his party had approached.
“Eckhart?” one of the goons said. “Something’s wrong at the ship!”
“Blast the ship!” Allard yelled, red rising in his pale face. “Somebody kill this bloody colonial and his strum—”
“They’re coming!” cried Kingsley, pointing to the darkness. Indeed, the things from the waves lurched between the standing stones. All eyes went to them; fingers trembled over triggers as the flabby, squamous forms neared.
One of the henchmen shrieked and fired his gun into the croaking crowd of things. His allies followed suit, shooting with wild abandon. Allard and Kingsley staggered behind the firing line of lackies, throwing their hands against their ears.
Mòrag reached for the treasure-laden satchel. Allard pulled away as she seized the strap, baring his crooked teeth. She shuffled backwards and kicked her leg up at Allard’s elbow. He wailed as her shoe cracked against bone, his grip faltering on the satchel. Mòrag tore it out of his fingers. Kingsley stared, bewildered and frozen in place. Mòrag glowered at him and he stumbled backwards.
“Come on!” Art grabbed Mòrag's arm and led her out of the circle. They departed from the stones, letting the shouts and gunshots fade with distance.
Art and Mòrag reached the shore between the skerries. Thankfully, the boat and Iain remained there, unmolested from the look of it.
“Iain!” Mòrag cried as she descended. “Let’s get out of here!”
“Aye!” Iain rushed to the bow, helping Mòrag and Art aboard. “Someone hoist the anchor!” He went to the motor and primed it.
Art and Mòrag went to the anchor and pulled up the rough rope. A curious resistance slowed their retrieval; it seemed as if something pulled back on the line. Planting his feet hard into the deck, Art heaved sharply. The rope and anchor burst from the water, and behind it, a webbed, squamous hand slunk back into the depths. Devourers from the deep, thought Art and he shuddered.
The motor roared to life and Iain rushed to the helm. He pulled the boat out of the skerries and onto the water. Out on the waves, the island seemed to return to its natural, dark, silent state.
Art and Mòrag collapsed on the deck, both heaving long sighs as the rush of the chase faded. Slowly, they looked through the bag of treasure.
“Now,” Mòrag started, “how shall we divide this?”
Art shrugged as he removed a gilt-handled knife with a tarnished blade, which he examined closely. “I suppose by weight. You did rescue it from the clutches of that peacock.”
Mòrag chuckled. “I almost lost it.”
“You got it back,” Art rubbed away some of the grit on the knife, “I'll bet he…” His voice trailed off as he sidled next to Mòrag. He handed her the knife, saying, “Look at this.”
Mòrag took it and ran her fingers over the flat of the blade. Latin letters were engraved into the metal, reading U-Í N-É-I-L-L. “What's this?” she asked.
“It’s the name of the sea-king the vikings took the gold from,” answered Art. “Uí Néill, the dynasty that gave us the O’Neils, and the—”
“McNeils,” Mòrag finished.
Art nodded. “This haul yours.” He pushed the satchel towards her.
Mòrag shook her head. “I couldn't, you were the one who set out looking for it.”
Art pushed it closer to her. “It’s out of Aly's hands and I got a good story from it. I'd sleep easier if it went back to the sea-princess of the Uí Néills.”
Mòrag laughed. “Ah! ‘Sea-princess!’ You're a bad flirt, Art Cavanagh.” She looked down at the gold and sighed. “But what would the old man think if I refused?”
***
On Christmas Eve, Art entered McNeil's to be met with a mass of patrons enjoying the spirit of the season. Smoke and the smell of liquor permeated the air along with songs, jokes, and gossip. He spied Mòrag at the bar, serving drinks and chatting with the crowd there. Art made his way over and grabbed the nearest open space.
Mòrag beamed as she saw him and came over with two glasses of whiskey in hand. “Nollaig Chridheil!” she exclaimed, firmly placing one of the glasses in front of Art. “You're not the first visitor but you're certainly the most welcome.”
Art raised his glass and clinked it against Mòrag's. “Sláinte. Unfortunately, I didn't bring you a gift.”
Mòrag laughed and gestured to the pub. “Nonsense, this is the greatest gift I could have! There's still some paperwork, but the deal is done!”
“Right,” Art grinned, “the real bean an taighe.”
“Finally.” Mòrag drank her whiskey. “I suppose you're soon off to another adventure.”
“I'll take my time,” Art said. “I'm never one to slip away from some good Christmas céilidhs.”
Mòrag nodded. “You're always welcome in my house.” She reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a tarnished gold bracelet. “However, you're not leaving here tonight without your gift.”
Art held out a hand, smiling. “I couldn't.”
Mòrag pressed the bracelet into his palm. “It's my wealth to give, so I say take it.”
“All right,” Art said. “Your word is law now.”
The droning of fiddle strings and thump of a drum sounded from the other side of the pub. Calls for partners went up loudly as the mass of patrons shifted to get the space ready for a dance.
Art and Mòrag exchanged a glance. “Care for one?” he asked.
Mòrag smiled, undid her apron and came around the bar. She took Art’s hand and they joined the lines of revelers. They all danced well into the wee hours of Christmas morning, as snow drifted down on McNeil's roof.
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“Holiday in the Hebrides” © Ethan Sabatella 2024 – Current Year, All Rights Reserved. Reprinting or replication of this work in its entirety in any form (written, audiovisual, etc.) without express permission of the author is prohibited. Excerpts may be used for review or promotional purposes with credit and acknowledgement of the author. This piece cannot be used for training of Artificial Intelligence programs.