The Rings
Morag knew she’d meet him again somehow when she re-found the ring buried in her sock drawer. There it is, the silver and glass gleaming in her palm reminding her of the love declared and lost long ago on mid summer’s night within the Lochbuie Stone Circle. Her souvenir and gift shop Cornucopia along Tobermory harbour front seems more blessed this frosty February morning thanks to this unexpected discovery. Hamish’s family thought her a weird woman twenty years ago and encouraged him to move to Oban on the mainland to marry a sensible lass. Separation was agony and Morag thought that his relatives must have hearts of granite, as tough as the stone ring itself perhaps. People could be so fearful of the unknown. But the Islanders said the Stones have power and that true words uttered within that sacred circle would stand tests of time.
Whether this was true Morag didn’t know. Sales are slow this time of year, not many tourists on Mull and her eyes wander and wonder back to the ring whose metal soon warms in her hand. She cannot slide it on a finger; it is difficult enough revisiting buried memory. Then in the afternoon it happened, right on cue. The hair grown silver-grey and waistline expanded but he stands inside her wee shop with teary twinkles in his eye saying he’d come. She locks up shop and they drive silently towards the south of the Island to the place, their place. Is it still there Hamish thinks, as they wade through boggy grass beneath Ben Buie’s shadow. When he’d secretly buried the other ring by the tallest stone, the air was full of pollen. The ring within the eternal ring. My soul’s a long lost Island their eyes say as he begins to dig.
