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Excerpt from Chapter 1:

Maddie Og's Journal

So often, when I think of Arnasay, my heart is filled with a sorrow I cannot calm. I am unable to put to rest, once and for all, these old ghosts who it seems, daily, come to haunt me. These whisky-breathed, tobacco-clothed characters - with brine in their veins instead of blood - are still so real to me although it is over fifteen years since I left the island. The beautiful, horrible island. A place of peace and tranquillity with no equal, yet also a hell of anguish and grief without parallel. I love Arnasay. I hate Arnasay. There was I brought to life and there I first came to know death.
      I was so happy to leave, yet as soon as the island was out of sight, as we sailed to the mainland, my heart became heavy with loss and the island called me back with a banshee wail that, for a week, lay clawing at the core of my being.
      I have pictures, photographs mostly, of Arnasay and when I look at them, as often I do, I am enraptured to see her beauty, while deep in the pit of my stomach I feel an ill-defined desire to vomit. The bounteous wonder of her wild scrub, her machair and mountain, whilst wearing her flowery summer cloak of abundance, bring tears to my eyes in one minute yet in the very next leave me breathless and scared half to death.
      Arnasay. A precious pearl of outstanding beauty placed in an ocean of azure gentleness; a dirty grey-green purgatory carelessly tossed into an oily black sea to rot for eternity, her warring natives living at once in apparent harmony atop a barely suppressed boiling froth of jealousy and greed that threatens to overflow like an outpouring, earth-searing, bubbling magma, at any given second, allowing stark insanity to break free and reign until time ends. Fear, I think, may be their historian yet I cannot help but love them with all my heart. The island, the ocean, her people will live in me forever and there is nothing I can do to make it otherwise. Often I wish that I could. Just as often I rest content in the knowledge that I am a true Hebridean.

Excerpt from Chapter 3:

"That'll be all for today," said MacAuley.
      "Aye, and just in time. Look at the sky. Weather's going to break soon."
      He pointed skywards with his nose. John MacAuley gazed out to the horizon in the northwest with the long, slow gaze of experience and grunted. The rough, plough-line wrinkles on his face twisted into an enigmatic expression and then broke into a wide grin, the long, deep humour-line furrows emphasizing where he had laughed for a million years.
      "Well, with any luck we should be back in the harbour at Arndaig before it gets any worse," answered MacAuley, his base voice grinding out the words.
      "Aye, Skipper, and in time for a well-earned pint," said Erik half joking then, moving his lean form over to the boat's tiny wheelhouse, he turned and checked the sea once more. Under the heavy brows, his piercing eyes took in all the warning signs offered by the sea - the blues, greens, blacks, greys and whites of the unwelcoming breakers that were now tumbling over each other as if racing to be the first to crash into the side of the boat as she lay broadside to the swell. Spray, blowing from the wave-tops, was instantly whisked away by the strong wind, which seemed to have doubled its strength within a characteristically short period of time.
      "At least the tide will be with us on the way home." He raised his voice to be heard above the whistling near-gale.
      "And that will be a relief." The skipper's brows barely hid his deep frown.
      Erik, entering the wheelhouse, grabbed the wheel and brought the boat round to southeast heading, the course for Arndaig harbour.
      "This shallow water will be hell in half an hour," shouted MacAuley, as white flecks of snow began to lash across his weather-browned face.
      "Aye, that's a fact," replied Erik. "If the tide was flooding we'd be in for a rough ride home."
      The craft seemed to diminish in size as the swells grew and the wind increased. The sea, the wind and the tide made the small boat forge ahead on her course. Stern lifting to the sea, the boat lurched forward like a surfboard chased by frothy white-capped waves.
      "By God, Waikiki's got nothing on the Sound when the surf's up," yelled Erik, turning his face to look back at the following seas. The boat lurched and pitched in the worsening gale. Large pyramid shaped waves appeared alongside the boat and, travelling with her, remained there for a few seconds, as if keeping watch on behalf of Poseidon, then collapsed back into the sea. Every few minutes the Soirbheas fell into one of these dreaded 'holes in the sea' - gaps between the wave peaks - from which a sailor is always glad to emerge, green water dripping from the bow, like an old man blowing his nose on to the pavement.
      "I don't think she can take much more pitch-poling," said the skipper joining his mate in the relative shelter of the boat's wheelhouse. "She'll be taking us home by way of the low road if we're not careful."
      The snow joined forces with the wind, as if in a hellish conspiracy to confuse the men of the sea, sending white drifts and blue-green spray raking across the boat obliterating all sight of the Isle of Arnasay ahead. Navigating by compass heading alone, very unpopular with inshore fishermen who liked to check their heading with known landmarks, the two men conned the vessel towards safety with an agonising slowness in spite of her relatively rapid speed 'over the ground'.
      As if reluctant to let go this potential victim, and with only a mile to go to Arndaig harbour, the following gale suddenly increased its ferocity to severe gale force nine - almost fifty knots of wind. Not only did the waves become significantly larger and steeper-sided, and the holes between them ever deeper, but now seas charged at them from two directions. The northerly swell was joined by a westerly.
      "Ah, that's the Overfalls of Sgeir Dhu on a bad day, Erik, look at the confusion in the water now, boy."

Excerpt from Chapter 12:

"Oh, I suppose it'll be OK, Madeline," said Uncle Jim, sighing heavily. "As long as I deliver you to one or other of your relatives." He glanced sideways at the young girl. "After all, I know how close all you families are out here." His face twisted into an evil-looking grin. "All that close in-breeding I suppose."
      Madeline was so desperate to avoid a premature return home she let Uncle Jim's blatant crudity go, but made a mental note to bring it up at a later date and to make sure and tackle him about his obvious rudeness.
      The vehicle bounced along the track for another mile before swinging right, back on the main single-track road, heading for Sheldag. When they reached the crossroads, Uncle Jim slowed the vehicle to a crawl and looked inquisitively at the unusual sight of an American mailbox.
      "What on earth is that?"
      "Oh, that's my grandmother's mail box." She smiled at his curiosity. Over the years, the mail box had become something of a tourist attraction. "You turn left here, Mr MacKenzie."
      The RangeRover lurched up the incline to Sheldag Cottage and came to a halt at the front door. Maddie's Defender was standing parked in a snowdrift at the side of the building. Uncle Jim noticed this.
      "How quaint," he muttered.
      Maddie had heard the vehicle approaching and had come to the door to greet her visitors, Fruach bounding suddenly out of nowhere when he saw Madeline. The young dog jumped up at her as she and Uncle Jim walked up to the cottage.
      "Madeline! Good to see you." Maddie looked at Uncle Jim. "And who's this who has brought my favourite granddaughter to see me? Won't you come in for a cup of tea?"
      Madeline introduced Uncle Jim.
      Maddie reiterated her offer of hospitality. "Won't you come in for a cup of tea, Mr MacKenzie?"
      Uncle Jim looked nervously around him. "Oh. OK then. Just a quick cup." Maddie was aware of her granddaughter, standing behind Uncle Jim, shaking her head furiously from side to side and signalling her not to invite the man to stay. Maddie's eyes narrowed, imperceptibly, and she raised her head slightly in acknowledgement.
      As she handed the lukewarm tea to Uncle Jim she said: "MacKenzie, is it? That was my maiden name, you know. Before I married Jon Erik." She smiled at the thought of her ever having had a different name. "And where are you from, Mr MacKenzie?" Of course Maddie, like all the other residents, had already heard about the island's most recent visitors so immediately she carried on without waiting for an answer. "Oh, Edinburgh. Really? And do you like living in that big, dirty, overcrowded city, Mr MacKenzie? Of course, that must be why you came out to our beautiful island, I suppose. To get away from the rat race." She looked at Madeline, standing behind MacKenzie, and smiled and winked at her when she knew Uncle Jim wouldn't notice. "More tea, Mr MacKenzie? Tea's a good drink. Very good for the heart."
      Uncle Jim had been trying to answer Maddie's rapid fire questions at the same time as consuming the insipid drink offered him, in his mind cursing island hospitality, and he wondered how this feisty old woman could talk with so much power and authority as to apparently have the effect of disempowering him and rendering him unable to answer. He concluded that it must be the tea, which he couldn't finish, putting the half-empty cup on the table.
      "Well, I expect you'll be in a hurry to get back to Hascosay for your dinner, Mr MacKenzie, so I'll not keep you."
      Madeline was smiling sweetly at Uncle Jim. "Thanks very much for the lift, Mr MacKenzie," she said. "I hope that I didn't keep you late."
      "No, that's …" began Uncle Jim.
      "Well then, perhaps we'll see you again some time," said Maddie, opening the cottage door for the man. She placed her hand on his shoulder and patted it gently. She applied a slight pressure on his back. Enough to direct him through the door. "Give my regards to Hughie MacPhail when you see him, won't you. Nice to meet you. Goodbye."
      Uncle Jim found himself back in his RangeRover, reversing away from the cottage and turning back towards the crossroads, having spoken not a single sentence during his brief visit. "So that's the one they call the Cailleach," he said as he drove past the American style mailbox. "God, she makes lousy tea!"…

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