That night, Charlie Fleming’s light went out. I used to watch the single bright speck halfway up the hillside like a beacon of hope, a shred of sanity in an insane world. I often wondered at Charlie’s lonely existence, up there with the wind and only the bleating of the sheep to keep him company. Naturally, the bothy-boys made obscene jokes about his habits, but their coarse humour concealed a genuine liking for the man and respect for anybody who tried to farm on such unfavourable ground.
Charlie never extinguished his light. Even on the darkest nights when the wind screamed across the slopes, Charlie’s lantern hung outside his house, dancing to the whim of the blast. That night, as I peered out through the window, the light vanished.
I knew without thought that something was wrong. I d
