Member-only story
The Collector of the Western Isles
The tale of a place where all the stories are kept safe for the future, and of who keeps them.
Once upon a time, on a tiny Island called Easdale, a boy was born. He was loved. He grew up in the salty air of the Atlantic, swimming in the old quarries and wading in tide pools. The boy loved his home and often sat on a hidden tuft on a hillside, contemplating the vast ocean beyond him and how happy his view of the world was from his perch.
He would roam around the coast of the tiny island in just an hour or so, and criss cross the middle parts too, to pass the days. One day, he found a small cave mouth he could not recall having seen before. In he went, quick as a ferret. With eyes open as wide as possible and his knees bent and ready, he went into the cave and found it was deeper than he had first imagined.
To his surprise, a faint light flickered in the depths of the cave. He walked slowly towards it and heard a little tune being hummed, off key and irregular, as if the person humming was busy with another task. As he came to the back of the cave, he realised the wall curved in on itself and hid a further room beyond. He peered around the corner, careful as Kilroy, and saw an old man in fisherman’s clothing polishing a teapot by a small potbellied stove.