Narrator: Euan M. | Scottish Highlands
My brother and I were repairing a fence above a loch when we heard a boat approaching. Wooden oars in rowlocks, then water dripping from the blades. We looked down. The surface was empty.
The sound stopped below us. Someone knocked an oar against wood twice.
My brother called out. A voice said, “A bit lower.”
He stepped towards the slope. I caught his jacket. I don’t know why I did that before I knew anything was wrong. He shrugged me off, annoyed, and the voice said it again. Lower now, almost at our feet.
The grass between us flattened. Two long, thin tracks pressed into it, sliding from the water towards the fence. We could hear the wooden boat creaking as clearly as if we were sitting inside it.
We went uphill. Left the tools. From behind us came a splash far louder than a little rowing boat should have made.
My brother accuses me of giving him a fright by grabbing him. I accuse him of being willing to climb down a steep bank because an invisible stranger asked nicely. We argue about it whenever we’ve had a drink. Neither of us goes back there.
