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forts,the duns, the standing stones—the island boasted a strongarchaeological record.
    â€œAre you looking for sea trout?”
    Piat turned from the book rack and saw a tall man, gaunt,with a huge smile and a shock of black hair. He did not havethe expected accent.
    â€œYes. Sea trout,” said Piat.
    â€œNot what they used to be, I’m afraid. Had some Americanscatching them in the Aros last year—they come every year.Aros estuary. I can give you that for this evening, but there’sno point in going there now. The tide’s down.”
    Piat nodded. “How much?”
    â€œFive pounds for the estuary. It’s best fished two hourseither side of high tide. I wouldn’t even start on it until six.I’m Donald, by the way.”
    â€œJack,” said Piat, shaking hands. He’d been Jack for twodays. The lie came automatically, and Piat thought Why’d I do that? “I’d like to fish this afternoon, too.”
    â€œYou have a car?” Donald asked. Donald spoke the wayClyde Partlow wanted to speak, with no trace of an islandaccent—like someone who had gone to all the best schools.Eton. Oxford. Maybe Cambridge. “I don’t guarantee you’llget any fish, but Loch Làidir is available.” He seemed wistful.“It’s quite a climb from the road.”
    The man was already filling out a bright orange card. “Leavethis on the dashboard of your car.”
    Piat watched him for a few seconds. “Where am I going?”he asked.
    â€œOh, yes. Right.” Donald flashed his gigantic smile again.“Do you know the island at all?”
    â€œI can get from here to Salen,” Piat replied with a shrug.“I’ve driven over near Dervaig.”
    â€œRight. You’ll want a map.” He pointed to the rack ofOrdnance Surveys. He rattled off driving directions. “It shouldtake you less than half an hour to get there. Then the climb—you see this stream?—strenuous but worth it.” His forefingercovered the mark on the map. “Just follow it up to the loch.Nothing in it but wee trout. The sea trout come up the otherside, from the sea, of course. Once you reach the loch, it’sstill difficult going—rock all the way round. But there’s agravel beach on this shore. I’d fish there, by the crannog.”
    Piat saw a tiny island on the Ordnance map, with the word“crannog” in minute italics. “What’s a crannog?” he asked.
    Donald laughed. “A local oddity. An artificial island. Builtlong ago. You have waders?”
    Piat shook his head.
    Donald considered him. Piat knew that Donald had justwritten him off as a novice.
    â€œI forgot them,” he muttered.
    â€œYou really will need them.” Then, cheerfully, “I supposethat you could just skip about on the shore. The loch is verydeep in places.”
    With a sigh for the money, Piat chose a pair of heavyrubber thigh waders from the fishing equipment. Hewondered if the bulky things would go in his pack. He notedthat the shop had light waders—very pricey. But they’d fitin his pack, and in effect, Partlow was paying. What the hell .
    Piat paid.
    The climb to the loch was spectacular. The terrain was verylike Iceland, with shocks of coarse grass over gravel andvolcanic rock. There was a path at first, but it soon dividedinto hundreds of sheep tracks, all going in the same generaldirection up the stream. It took him almost an hour to climbover the last crest and look down into what had to be thecaldera of an extinct volcano. The shingle of gravel was clearlyvisible across the loch, and so was the crannog, seen at thisdistance as a humped island with a single tree growing fromit, the tree visible for a mile in any direction because it wasthe only one. Again, Piat was reminded of the immense vistasof Africa.
    Beyond the far lip of the caldera was only sky. High above,an eagle circled. Piat drank a cup of tea from his