The Pure Heart

It was early evening, mid-September when the boat came to the bay.
The craft cut effortlessly through the storm-crested waves, their tips crowned orange by the evening sun.
Down below on the shore the men gathered like swarming ants, whilst we girls watched from outside our stone cottages, readily distracted from plucking the last rabble of summer puffins. Artair was down there too, part of the huddle of island men who had mustered in the shallows ready to take the measure of the sailor.
But although they all wore the same black shirts and tam-o’-shanters, Artair stood out like a beacon to me, for not only would he one day be chief of these islands, but