A missing piece

　

1.

PART ONE

　

Lorna McFadden sat on the shore, feeling the dull ache of loneliness crushing the life out of her emaciated body. The sky above her a was a monotonous shade of grey, limitless and empty but for a solitary seagull hovering in the distance. One or two salty tears streaked down her face releasing a fraction of the pent up frustrations she felt inside, ashamedly she wiped them away and thought of her grandfather who lived in his tiny cottage on the mainland. He could always lift her spirits, but his next visit was more than three months away. Scooping up a handful of sand she watched it trickle between her splayed out fingers and as the wind caught the grains it blew them away and up the beach.

When she was a lot younger she had spent hour after hour everyday alone and it had never occurred to her that she might need the company of a playmate or sibling. But as she got older she knew there was some aspect missing from her life, a vital piece. Mostly in those early years she ran wild over the moors, as much at home as the stags and feral goats that inhabit them. When mountains beckoned, she had raced along the well worn paths her hair blazing like a billowing flame in the breeze. Stifling her hunger with handfuls of berries or more mundane fare that she had snatched on her way through the kitchen. A crust of bread or a boiled egg quickly disappeared into her hungry mouth as she fled the coldness of home.

Each act of nature, change of season or weather altered the island daily. The sea often changed the appearance of the black sandy beach. At times it spewed heaps of seaweed onto the shore or it hurled piles of empty shells, their mollusc graveyard a testament to the sea’s brutal temperament. Driftwood over time and distance became it’s own eerie sculptures, smoothed and worn by the waves until they came to rest on the blackened sand. Occasionally the body of a seal or porpoise would be washed ashore and Lorna would sit and watch scavengers of all kinds strip the carcass clean. Whatever the tide brought it eventually reclaimed whatever remained.

The mountains and moors changed in an altogether different way.

There were mornings when everything was touched by sunlight, each leaf and blade of grass sparkling as if dipped in liquid crystal, each colour on the mountain as if fresh from an artist brush. At times the clouds cast great shadows over the land as a solitary curlew would wheel above the thickly carpeted slopes of heather, its lonely trill carrying on the breeze. Storms came all year round and ravaged the moors, tearing up leaves and soaking the ground till it could hold no more and water ran in gushing torrents down the mountains. The wind would scour the mountain loosening scree near the summit, causing landslips and sending boulders careening down the rocky face. In the autumn, mornings were often misty and so Lorna never ventured far till it lifted, afraid of losing her way in the fog. Instead she would stand by the

2.

pasture observing each spider web as it was revealed by the morning dew glistening upon each gossamer strand. Stags called from somewhere high above standing amongst the autumnal bracken patches, everything damp and partially cloaked in the mist that ebbed and flowed like elements from some half remembered dream. Yet Lorna was ever the observer, a spectator over it all, viewing from the outside the mercurial beauty that the island possessed.

Life at home was a grim reflection of her life outdoors, her parents had kept her at arms length never offering affection or bestowing it. Hardened by their similar up bringing and aloofness borne of hardship they allowed her to just float on the periphery of their notice. Malcolm McFadden, Lorna’s’ father fished the seas off the coast to support the family, battling the elements in an attempt to keep them fed. This together with money from the cheese and rustic woollen garments that her mother, Marion sold barely kept them going. Behind the croft, a rough pasture of tussocks and grass dotted with reeds, in the spring and autumn it became flooded in the middle but it just about sustained their livestock. A straggly mixture of sheep, goats and four cows. At the front of the croft hens pecked about in the dirt and scratched for worms in the muck. Most of the crofts on Mull were loosely grouped together in small communities or Hamlets. Pennyghael was one such Hamlet and the McFadden’s lived on the outside at a distance of four miles from their nearest neighbour. They felt little need for interaction with neighbours or kin and so social calls were a rarity and were unwelcome intrusions. A life of struggle and depravation either drew a person to find comfort in the camaraderie of friends and family or it caused one to become closed and bitter. Lorna’s parent’s were of the latter category and although Lorna was not of the same mould everyone on the island assumed her to be so due to her quiet and reserved nature. On the rare occasions that Lorna saw other children they would sing mean spirited songs about her that they had made up on the spot or they would poke their tongues out and howl with laughter Lorna did not attend school but she had taught herself to read at the age of ten. This opened up a whole new world to her, a world where she could immerse herself in an adventure or romance. But Lorna still longed for the normal social interaction portrayed in the stories she read and so when visitors did brave the icy hospitality of the McFadden’s, Lorna prayed that they would stay just that bit longer. One of the few regular visitors was Marion’s Father who came every six months or so to stay with them on the island.

Reviews

[Eoin Lemon]

Atmospheric and very well written. The landscape is similar here in County Clare, would like to read more with dialogue included, a very confident piece.
Makes my writing seem very lightweight but still we are all here to learn!
Good luck!

[SoLongAndThanksForAllTh..]

This is a cracking start to a book and despite it not being my normal fare I'd certainly want to read more.

What really grabbed me about your writing style. You write with the maturity of someone who is confident with their use of language and this is evident in your use of imagery and character development. Even from this short piece we get a real feel for the rugged environment and Lorna's life so far. This is particularly impressive as this is your first piece published here on Writers Cafe (although I'm sure it's far from your first venture into creative writing).

The way in which the weather and settings seem to reflect the life of the main protagonist is a particularly strong feature of this story. Giving the reader the additional push to make this link though is perhaps a little too much, "life at home was a grim reflection of her life outdoors". The technique has been used in some of the best writing and the rugged nature of your story reminds me a little of Wuthering Heights.

In conclusion this is writing of a very high standard and if this is representative of what you're capable of I'm sure you'll soon become one of the favoured writers here.