From here he could see the whole of Imrie land, imagine the clan going forth on raids or to war, coming home in wagons, or buried in far-off places, only their shields returned to represent a life lost. From here, he could see the forest around Gairloch spread out like a flattened hand over the glen, fingers of green stretching toward Loch Mor. The trees were already hinting at winter, turning gold and rust. Here and there, clumps of gorse sheltered quail, offered flowers for the deer to nibble on during their scamper up the hills. From the other side of Gairloch, the view was of the rugged yellowish gray and black base of Ben Lymond. Nature had blessed the day with color. The sky was a blistering blue, with not a cloud to mar the perfection of it. The loch glinted silver in the afternoon sun. There, on the horizon, the sky darkened. Not an approaching storm but night come to soothe this part of the world. In both Russia and India, this view had been a lodestone for him. After he’d been wounded, it had been a place to imagine when pain stripped every other thought from his mind.
