Ghost

Roslyn-St. Vincent, Bon Iver

The frigid spray stung her cheeks as the ice-cold wind bit through her thick baggy sweater and tugged at her brown hair with all the force of a desperate shout. She had been on this wretched boat a good four hours now and the nausea was only just beginning to dampen. The sea churned a sickly grey-blue beneath the cut of the metal of The Minnow's barnacled bow, and the sun struggled through the thick cloud cover to provide a meager light.  

A well-established voice rumbled above the boat's motor.

 "Ye best be gett'n yer things noo lass. Wer dock'n soone." 

The Minnows "captain" Angus's hulking mass appeared above-no, beside her, emerging from the bridge like a bear from hibernation. Taking in a breath deep enough to fill a hot air balloon he clapped a hand the size of a trashcan lid on her tentative shoulder and gave it a gentle shake. He had known her since she'd been a baby, and had kept her out of trouble a number of times by catching her in the planning phases of her pranks. She had thought that he wouldn't be as big to her now that she had grown a little. How badly she had been wrong. He looked even more massive than ever. 

She'd arranged her transportation over the wire with Granda beforehand and then worn a sign across her torso to the Mainland docks. It read "001 Moores Way, Murdina" in subdued graphite. Angus had recognized her immediately, no matter how different she seemed. It was something about the grey-green of her eyes and clenched expression on her freckled frozen face. 

When she had returned to the deck, she reassumed her position, this time with a bag of crisps. Angus was in the bridge at the wheel, humming a tune. They were now close enough that the houses were specks of dust on a windshield. Like the nosy person she was, she occupied herself by wondering what went on in this little speck of dust and if that little speck of dust had Sunday luncheon with this little speck of dust. She heard a tremor in the waves unlike the boats facilitated churn and, brow knit, turned to find it. He had come to meet her, even after all this time.

Bobbing with the waves like a fishing cork, Ghost stared up at her. She stared down, wondering if he was just as angry as the rest of the island at her leaving. His black eyes floated with the water like berries in snow. She pressed her mouth into a line and flattened her eyebrows. The seal barked and she laughed at the unexpected noise and made another face at him, relieved. He greeted this expression with a roll in the waves and another bark. She threw a crisp into the waves and Ghost snapped it up. They alternated like this till the houses became peanut sized and then the thundering footsteps of Angus gave the seal a fright and he disappeared from the boat's side. Sad to see him go, she watched him flit and flurry beneath the waves like a snowflake, pale as a ghost under the green ocean. 

As they neared the docks, Roslyn squinted through the fog, suitcase, guitar case, and bookbag all slung over her capable back. Murdina was nestled deep in the rocky hills along the coast of the Scottish island Blackpool Innis. The town consisted of a handful of neighborhoods and local government buildings, a couple of schools ranging from nursery- to secondary school, and a smattering of local fishing shops. There were two taverns, an antique shop-cafe, (which Roslyn worked at) and a convenience store. As The Minnow chugged closer, the fog relinquished more and more of the little town, till they were at the docks and she could make out the mold and moss making its way up the wooden buildings and cracked streets. 

"Need any 'elp lass?" Angus proffered his arm after stepping from the boat to the deck. He'd been tall before but now he was practically a whole other person out of reach. She pursed her lips in thought and held out the bookbag and guitar case. 

"This should be it." She responded. He took their handles in one hand and she scrambled up beside him like a colt learning to stand. 

With a breathless thanks, she accepted them back. Her Granda Clyde stood on the street connecting the dock to the rocky land. He was just how she remembered, aside from a few new wrinkles and creases on his face here and there. With his red-tipped ears and sparse gray hair poking out from under a wool cap, and his big nose ceremoniously stacked on top of a great big white mustache and beard, he looked like a gnome, or a Santa Clause retiring as a sheep farmer. Beside him stood McCawley, Granda's favorite shepherd, clad in canvas coveralls and a cigarette, puffing smoke into the hazy mist.