Eagle diving over a horned figure on ribs

The eagle came back to Scarra Rock on Tuesday, the first time since the storm took the boathouse roof. Father swears it is the same bird that took the Mackinnon baby's blanket off the line in March, though I think he only says it so he has something to be angry at. You will laugh, but I went up the cliff path alone with the bread knife in my apron, meaning to shout at it.

I did not get far. Halfway up I found the horned man lying in the bracken where the old stone sits. He is not a statue, whatever Mrs Gunn says. His skin is grey as wet slate and his horns are cracked, and he was looking out to sea with an expression I have only seen on Father when the boats are late. The eagle was above him, wings spread wide against the cloud, as if it had been waiting for the light to break through so it could come down.

I sat with him until the rain started. I told him about you, and about the school fees, and that the herring were thin again. He did not answer, but when the sun pushed through the cloud the bracken around him lit up gold, and the eagle folded its wings and dropped like a stone. I shut my eyes. When I opened them there was only a feather on the rock, and the horned man had turned to face the water.

Come home at midsummer. Bring the good shoes.

Morag