Dashed against Stone

By William Plante

A steel whale gobbled up every auto in a parking lot and an entire line of people. It burped, clamped a hydraulic jaw shut and set sail. On shore a horn blared. The ferry shrieked, snubbing the plea. The monster left a stranger on the island of Skye, surrounded by sheep and eagles, along with souls speaking snatches of Gaelic.
The stranger could not be aware, a decree delivered that day to a young lady in a tavern. Unbelievable, in this day and age, an old scrubby Hebrides Islands tribe leader decreed twin sisters to be dashed against stone. One sister taught children Gaelic and wrote sheep thrillers, knew everything about the little dears.
I will tell you one thing about this sister, for an authority on sheep, she certainly had an impressive collection of lingerie from violet to pink.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Plante
• Release date: Nov 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005776169

William Plante

I write to entertain, laugh at, intrigue and gasp. No shortage of subjects. I lugged my cameras and tripod over oceans through countries; photographed hippos and hips.Bunked down in the ‘talked’ about hotels, drank in 'the water holes'. Met a spectrum of characters; sat in Hemingway’s Ritz chair, drink scotch now.I'm writing days and nights now; tales of suspense and spice. Voila.Read less

Book preview

DASHED AGAINST STONE

INTRIGUE

WD PLANTE

Copyright © 2020, WD PLANTE

all rights reserved.

DASHED AGAINST STONE

A steel whale gobbled up every auto in a parking lot and an entire line of people. It burped, clamped a hydraulic jaw shut and set sail. On shore a horn blared. The ferry shrieked, snubbing the plea. The monster left a stranger on the island of Skye, surrounded by sheep and eagles, along with souls speaking snatches of Gaelic.

The man could not be aware, a decree delivered that day to a young lady in a tavern, ordering, she, and her twin sister were to be Dashed Against Stone.

The stranded American was able to clearly see across the narrow strait. His black and white timbered hotel reflected its gables and chimneys on water. So close, cattle, escorted to market, could swim the channel in small groups tied nose to tail; otters tagging along.

His gear and clothes were in a room with a comfortable feather bed. A bottle of Scotch on a table, begged one to belt down a shot before a shower and shave, complementing the smart dining room. In the kitchen a creative chef would season a rack of spring lamb. The photographer should not have lingered to click those low purple clouds tumbling over green hills. Yet, he knew the scene to be a standout, a one-time only portrait of the wild Inner Hebrides, ruled by iron blades not long ago.

Arriving early that morning at Gatwick Airport, aluminum camera case slung over his shoulder, he now may have to spend his first night sleeping in the rented Chevy. He drove into the village of Creagh, one block long. A sign hung by chains on a century old building, read, 'Tavern', under it ‘Missed the Ferry’, nothing more.

The rambling structure, two stories and an attic, showed frequent additions over time. A slate roof held it all together. The photographer walked into an empty pub. Rows of liquor bottles lined up on shelves behind a bar. Not a patron perched on a stool, only a young woman sitting behind a long slab of polished oak. Head bent over a notepad. She wrote furtively, back, and forth bobbed a yellow pencil, its orange eraser trying to keep up.

Unaware of a man standing near, she heard an authoritative voice, Are you the angel who will save me?

She twirled, Where did you come from?

Siberia.

She smiled, No you didn’t. You missed the ferry.

The photographer now knew where the sun set in the Highlands.

Standing up, she cocked her head, yellow pencil poised, asked, What was that you said?

About saving me?

Yes, I could use that in my novel, something you Americans would say. She appeared to record it, straightened up, What am I going to do with you?

He said, For a start, how about pouring a scotch on the rocks.

She gave him a sly look, You are in Scotland and oddly enough, it is not scotch over here. We call it whiskey. Why anyone would dilute it with ice is beyond me. Then you insult its integrity, by drinking it. You are supposed to savor every sip, show some respect, don’t gulp it, taste it. During the girl’s dissertation her sun continued to shine.

She asked, Can you follow instructions?

I'll try.

She placed an oversized shot glass of pungent malt liquor on the bar, along with it a small tumbler of water. Any half wit can slosh the whiskey down. Following it with water is an art. The amount you sip is critical, not too much, or too little. Wash your palate with water. Let it flow down over your taste buds, a pleasurable experience. Try it.

Trained to obey orders, he followed her instructions. Eyes opened wide. One more of these, you won’t need to decide what to do with me.

Sunshine again, Maybe I better know your name for a marker in our cemetery.

Gavin Quinn, inscribing ‘GQ’ will suffice.

Sounds impressive, mine is Skye, named after the island, surname is MacKinnon.

A natural girl, tweezers never plucked a brow, a liner never painted a lid or a lash, nor did a stick stroke her lips. He took another sip of barbwire, slid down this time without slicing his tonsils, asked Where is everyone?

You just missed them. Tourists caught the last ferry or drove north to the bridge; locals have gone home for supper. We will close before long. Where are you staying on the mainland?

He gestured towards a window, the three-story building across the channel, its white stucco now blasted by the last rays of light.

She said, Well, you are in luck, and won’t have to spend the night here. I’ll row you back in my boat. Something she never did before

That would be an inconvenience.

Not at all, have you over in a few strokes. You can catch the ferry back here in the morning, pick up your car. We’ll have to wait until dark though before I close up.

Closing had nothing to do with it, darkness did. She couldn’t be seen leaving the island and needed time to pack some things, retrieve a letter she received that morning with a warning, had to hide on the mainland overnight, perhaps longer, to ponder her plight.

There was more to her plan than rowing him over. She said, they say the hotel’s refurbished dining room is lovely, a pianist plays during the evening. Do you suppose, before I return, you could escort me in for a peek?

Skye, I can do better than that, please join me for dinner. I hesitate to dine alone in an exquisite establishment where a man should be accompanied by a charming woman.

She asked if he had been to New York City, he nodded. A sunburst, Well then, yes, I would love to have dinner with you. I will bring a small notebook and yellow pencils with me, jot down a few words on my observations. I'll keep it on my lap.

You can bring a pad and won’t have to hide it, place it on the table and write to your heart's content. May I ask, why all this interest in words?

I’m a writer. Guess you could say an author. Sold short stories to magazines, newspapers in the area and mainland, never been out of Scotland.

He, What do you write about?

Sheep.

Sheep you say?

Yes, I know a lot about the little dears, as well as people who raise and herd them. You would be amazed at the conflicts and plots that arise over wool and mutton. My stories, so far, are mostly sheep thrillers.

He said, I know absolutely nothing about sheep.

Well, you should. There are more sheep in Scotland than people. Do you play tennis?

A little, mostly enjoy watching the players whack the ball over the net in championship matches.

There wouldn't be any whacking if not for sheep. Their catgut is used for stringing tennis and badminton rackets.

Really, now that is important to know.

Something else you should know. Lanolin is natural oil, found in the sheep's fleece which is used to make cosmetics and candle wax. What else are sheep for?

I don't know, I think you will tell me.

I certainly will. Wool is a natural fiber grown from sheep. Clothes made from wool will not burn, they are fire-resistant. Woolen clothes also stay cool in summer and warm in winter. Different breeds of sheep will produce different quality of wool. The coarse wool sheep, including the Scottish Blackface produce wool for tweeds, carpets, and mattresses. Sheep are hardy animals, can survive in tough climates, like in cold or dry weather and feed on distinct types of grass. They move around in large groups called flocks. The female sheep is called an ewe. The young are called lambs and the male is called the ram.

One more thing, a lamb identifies its mother by her bleat.

Gavin said, Well, you certainly are able to write about sheep.

Yes, though I intend to write about romance and passion instead of the white woolies. I’ll dine with you this evening. Need to learn words spoken in love stories.

Love stories? Don't worry, you'll learn how to write about romance quickly, nothing technical, only a couple of moves, but there are a variety of moans to perfect.

You know what I mean; a man and a woman holding hands, whispering to each other over candlelight. In the dining room, do they have candles on tables?

"Yes, they do. We’ll even have a bottle of fine French wine, toast