The Water

“Kelpies could be near the water’s edge, Macie,” my stepfather, Ciaran, says with a laugh. “Careful now, lass. The last thing I need is to fish you out and get a lashing from your mum.” He pinches my cheek playfully.

“What’s a Kelpie?” I ask, peering at the jagged rocks and the dark, murky water lapping against the shore.

Mom and I moved to Scotland when her company offered her a marketing director position. She was ecstatic, and though I missed my friends in South Carolina, I’ve grown to like it here. In our second year, she met Ciaran. After asking my permission, he married her.

Ciaran’s a good man. He doesn’t have children of his own and never treats me like I’m anything less than his daughter. He always introduces me as his smart lassie, Macie. He’s calm, steady, and kind—and braver than anyone I know.

“A Kelpie,” he begins, rubbing a stone between his fingers, “is a water horse. A shape-shifting spirit that lives in lochs.” He nods toward the rippling surface. “They appear as horses near the water’s edge.”

“I like horses,” I say, smiling.

“Aye, I know. That’s why I’m warning you.”

“What do they do?” The wind pushes across the loch, sending little waves rolling to shore. I’ve heard of selkies, mermaids, even the Loch Ness Monster—but this is new. Another creature hiding under all that black water.

“They trick people to come close,” Ciaran says, his bright red hair whipping in the breeze. “Then they drag them under until they drown.” He straightens. “Enough of that. Let’s head home.”

We’ve been taking pictures of wildlife near the lochs for my school project. My little purse is full of Polaroids, and later Ciaran will help me lay them out for my report.

In the car, I stare out the window, thinking about those water horses. What do they look like? Do they smell like the loch—wind and salt? I can’t swim, so I’d rather not meet one. Still, I wonder why they do it. Who made them so angry that they’d snatch people? I’ll have to look it up later.

Mom comes home that evening, smiling as she greets us. She usually doesn’t work weekends, but today must’ve been special.

“What did you two get into?” she asks, sitting down at the table. “More exploring?”

“No,” Ciaran says, tying his hair up. “Macie had a project on loch wildlife.”

“We took pictures,” I add, sipping my soup. “Ciaran told me how the lochs keep everything alive.”

“Oh?” Mom smiles. “That sounds lovely.”

“And,” I grin at Ciaran, “I learned about Kelpies! Water horses!”

Mom rolls her eyes, biting into her bread. “More folklore, Ciaran?”

“We’ve covered selkies, fae, Nessie…” He shrugs. “Best to know the local flora and fauna.”

“If you insist,” she says with a smirk. “So, Macie, tell me about this project.”

The three of us talk as we eat. When I’m done, I push my chair back, ready to leave the table, but the phone rings. I dash to answer it. “Hello, MacTavish residence.”

“Aye, Macie,” comes Great-Grandpa Rory’s voice. “Where’s your father?”

“He’s here.” I turn and hold out the phone. “Great-Grandpa wants to talk to you.”

Ciaran raises an eyebrow. “Macie, the pie’s on the stove. Mind being a big girl and putting it on the table?”

I sigh, annoyed. I am a big girl. I stomp off to the kitchen, not noticing how Ciaran’s expression tightens as he listens on the line.

The apple pie smells heavenly. Ciaran loves baking—he says it clears his head. Mom doesn’t mind letting him take over the kitchen.

“It’s such short notice,” I hear him say. “Are you sure?” He pauses. “Yes. We’ll be there.”

Mom looks up, frowning at the heaviness in his voice. “What is it?”

“My uncle, Callum,” Ciaran says quietly. “He’s died.”

Mom rises, touching his arm. She looks so small beside him. “I’m sorry, love.”

Ciaran clears his throat. “He’s named me heir to the MacTavish house. We need to be there by tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow?” Mom repeats. “We’d have to leave tonight.”

He nods. “It’s tradition. The family must be present when I assume the house.”

“But your grandfather’s still alive,” she says. “Isn’t he the head?”

“No,” Ciaran replies. “He passed the title to my father when I was a boy. When my father died three years later, I wasn’t ready, so it went to my uncle. Callum had no children. Now it returns to me.”

He rubs a hand over his face, then looks up at us with a weary smile. “I have to go home—and I’m bringing you both with me.”