Page 46 of A Scottish Island Summer

The bearded gent spoke again. ‘Light cream to black erionite there too, if you look hard enough.’

My attention followed Logan to the man and back again. This was bewildering. What in the name of God were they talking about?!

The man shifted in front of a bemused looking Logan. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve tried to find the Skye Lovers’ Cross at all?’

Logan pulled a disbelieving expression. ‘I’m a geologist, not Indiana Jones. And anyway, it doesn’t exist.’ He continued to appraise the man. ‘Are you local? You seem to know an awful lot about round here.’

There was no reply.

Logan continued to study him. ‘You seem familiar, somehow.’

The man dropped his head.

I started to ask what this Skye Lovers’ Cross was, but was stopped in my tracks by the sight of the man breaking away from us and taking himself off down the street at a run. Logan didn’t seem to register what was happening for a moment. ‘Hey!’

‘He’s gone. Just leave it,’ I suggested. ‘He didn’t break in or steal anything.’

Logan, frustrated, sighed and rubbed at his stubble. ‘Aye. You’re right. It’s not worth reporting it to the police.’ Logan looked thoughtful. ‘I’d still like to know what the hell he was doing though, lurking around the shop.’

Logan gave the empty street and the direction in which the man had fled a narrowed gaze before we stepped back through the old gate, and he clicked it shut behind us.

‘What’s the Skye Lovers’ Cross he was talking about?’ I asked.

Logan strode on ahead, back down the side of the shop, with me behind him. ‘It’s an old fable around these parts.’

‘Go on. You can’t just leave it at that. Tell me.’

He pulled a dismissive face over his shoulder. ‘It’s only really locals on Skye that know about it. That’s why I’m wondering if he comes from the island.’ He frowned. ‘You know, I’ve got a feeling I know him from somewhere.’

We returned to the front of Rock God. The sky looked even prettier now, like a bowl of whipped cream, trailing across the harbour.

‘The story about the Skye Lovers’ Cross is said to be connected to the Vikings,’ explained Logan, as we reached his truck. ‘The Vikings are thought to have invaded Skye as early as 794. Norse living is very evident here.’

Even though my eyes felt like two poached eggs, I wanted to hear Logan talk and focused hard. The lilt of his deep, Scottish accent was warming. ‘Go on,’ I pressed. ‘Please.’

‘I didn’t think someone like you would be interested in fairy tales.’

‘Because I’m such a hard-nosed cynic?’

Logan’s lips trembled, but he didn’t say anything. He unlocked the truck doors and we got in. ‘OK. So, the story goes that it all started at a battle between two clans, the MacAskill’s and the MacLeod’s, in the twelfth century.’

Logan looked over at me again, out of those dazzling pale eyes of his. ‘At the same time as these clan battles, there was an impressive Viking warrior around, called Garth. He’d heard about Skye and came looking to see what all the fuss was about. He rocked up at dawn one misty morning with his fellow warriors in his ship, Ulfr.’

‘Ulfr?’

‘It’s the Scandinavian word for wolf.’

‘Ah.’

‘As you might imagine, Garth and his men marauded all over the place, and during their pillaging, they stumbled over an old cottage up by the Cuillins. Garth and his crew were about to break into the cottage and take what they could, when Garth heard noises coming from inside.’

Logan paused for dramatic effect.

My bleary eyes popped, as I stared across at him. ‘Come on, Burns. Out with it. What was the noise?’

Logan’s expression was cynical. ‘I honestly thought this tale might not be your cup of tea.’

‘Why?’