Page 25 of The Last Kelpie

The full Scottish was similar to a full English breakfast, with sausage, baked beans, grilled tomato, mushrooms, toast, a fried egg, and blood pudding (yuck, I pushed that aside), but it also came with a potato scone. I'd never had one of those, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Áedán had hashbrowns, an extra scone, and an extra egg instead of the sausage and pudding. He dug into it like a starving man.

We were finishing up when Moira walked up to us. She'd been at a table behind a screen and was on her way out when she noticed us.

“Och, now, it's my laddies.” She patted Áedán's shoulder. “Comin' out in public, are ye? Good for you.”

“Hello, Moira.” He patted her hand. “I've had a big breakfast.”

She chuckled. “Any room left for some shortbread?”

Áedán blinked. “Shortbread?”

“Sure, now. If you're done, come along with ol' Moira.” She tottered to the door.

I looked at Áedán. He shrugged and got up. Then he hurried to the door to open it for Moira. The lady at the counter smiled and nodded to me when she saw us leaving with Moira. I smiled back.

Moira led us up the road and then down another. We turned onto a narrow lane and up to a cottage behind a low stone wall. The garden was vibrant in the morning light—roses, lavender, and wildflowers. The air smelled of herbs and damp earth.

She opened the door and went inside. “Dinnae just stand there like lost sheep. Come in, come in.” She stepped aside, ushering us into the cottage's warm interior. The smell of fresh baking hit me immediately—butter and sugar and something with cinnamon. “I left the shortbread to cool while I had my breakfast.”

She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving us to find our way through the little living room with its floral sofa and doily-covered tables. We went into the kitchen—a cozy room with wooden beams across the ceiling and wooden counters. Moira cut the shortbread into pieces, piled them on a plate, and thrust it into Áedán's hands.

“Sit down. Both of you.” She motioned to the dining table.

We sat down as Moira bustled around the kitchen, making tea, talking the entire time about her neighbor's new dog, the tourists who'd blocked her driveway the previous week, and the weather forecast that promised rain. She moved with the efficiency of someone who'd performed these exact motions thousands of times, filling a kettle, setting out cups, arranging the sugar bowl and a pitcher of cream on the table.

When she finally sat down across from us, she looked at Áedán with open affection. “All this time, I've seen you around Luss and never got close enough to realize who you were.”

Áedán shifted in his seat. “I dinnae come into the village much.”

“Well, dinnae worry none.” She poured tea into delicate cups painted with tiny flowers. “I'll keep your secret.”

“Thank you.”

“This modern time isnae welcoming to your kind. The young ones dinnae understand.” Moira added milk to her tea and stirred it slowly. “My mother used to tell me aboot the festivals they held by the loch. Before the roads came. And the tourists. That was back when people kent what lived in the water and treated it with respect.”

“What kind of festivals?” I pulled out my notebook, then hesitated. “May I?”

“Of course, dear.” Moira smiled at me, then turned back to Áedán. “They held them at midsummer and midwinter. The entire village would come down to the shore with offerings—flowers, bread, honey. They'd sing the old songs and dance until dawn.”

“I remember those days,” Áedán said quietly. He wasn't looking at either of us, but instead kept his gaze fixed on his teacup. “We used to watch from the water. My mother loved to listen to the singing. The honey was good too.”

“There was one song in particular.” Moira's gaze went distant. “My grandmother taught it to me when I was small. It went: The water keeps, the water gives, the water knows the way we live—”

“The water sees, the water holds, the water keeps the stories told.” Áedán finished the verse without seeming to realize he was doing it. His voice was soft and melodious.

Moira beamed. “That's it exactly. I'd forgotten the second half.”

“There's a third verse.” Áedán was still staring at his tea, but something in his expression had softened. “My mother used to sing it. The water mourns, the water weeps, the water guards the ones who sleep.”

The cottage grew quiet except for the ticking of a clock somewhere in another room. I wrote the verses down carefully, my handwriting slightly unsteady.

“They dinnae sing those songs anymore,” Moira said gently. “The tourists wouldnae understand them.”

“Nae.” Áedán picked up a piece of shortbread and broke off a small piece. “They wouldnae.”

We drank tea and ate shortbread while Moira told stories her grandmother had passed down. There was a severe winter when the loch froze over, and a kelpie saved a child who'd fallen through the ice. Then there was the year when fish were scarce, and the kelpies led the fishermen to another part of the loch where the fish were plentiful, even though the kelpies needed the fish too.

Áedán listened without interrupting. Occasionally he'd nod, or his mouth would quirk.