Midsummer Glen is a supernatural tale to mark the Summer Solstice. This year it falls on June 21 at 10.13 precisely. Step back in time to the summer of 1939, when a young man uncovers dark secrets on a summer night.
The first few days were hellish. His hands blistered and his back ached as if a lorry had ridden over him.
But he persevered. It was in his nature. ‘Alistair McCompton,’ his mother would say when he practised kicking a ball against the garage door or rearranged his rock collection. ‘Don’t you ever give up?’
He rarely did. Tenacity was simply his nature.
It was the same now. Every evening, after nearly twelve hours of cutting the hedgerows, he’d take a modest supper at the local pub, then crawl into his tent, wrap the scythe in an oil cloth and sleep like the dead.
It was honest work and the pay was fair. The laird wanted the estate verges tidied, without the expense of extra men and machinery, and Alistair knew the place well. He and his family were originally from the area, and even though they’d left to find work in the city, they still spent holidays in Midsummer Glen. Until the accident.
That day, the sun was even warmer, for it was nearing the end of June. No-one was around, so he slipped off his shirt and determined to reach the bend in the road before stopping for lunch. The scythe was comfortable in his hand now, and the blade swept rhythmically through the long stems of grass, interspersed with angelica, harebells and pink campion. Not the work his tutors at the university would have thought suitable for the brightest geology graduate that year, but it suited his mood.
His ears picked up on the unmistakeable sound of a throbbing Merlin engine. Looking up, he saw a small fighter plane above him, banking over the ocean. Shielding his eyes, he watched it head inland.
Silence returned and the air stilled. Indeed the whole world seemed to be holding its breath. June 1939. Everyone said war was inevitable. He would fight for his country, but he hadn’t decided how. A few weeks of manual labour would help him decide what to do with his life—however long it lasted.
‘What would you do, Petie?’ He wasn’t really talking to himself. It was just a quirky habit. Once you had a twin, even if they died, they were always there in your head.
‘Och, I’d never have studied geology, that’s for sure. Rocks and stones. Rubble and dust.’
‘What, then?’
He could picture his brother, aged ten, scratching his head, scrutinising him with his matching pair of hazel eyes. ‘Astronomy. Definitely.’
‘But that’s just rubble and dust, except further away.’
The echo of Petie’s laugh made him smile. ‘True enough. Perhaps we’re both a bit daft.’
After his brother’s accident, well, that’s what they always called it, Alistair shrank into himself and became serious. His parents never returned to the glen. He couldn’t rightly say why he was drawn there this summer, but maybe it was time to say goodbye.
He moved along the verge to a kink in the road that led to the laird’s estate and set about cutting back a shoulder-high patch of nettles. Behind was a tumbledown stone wall, part of a circular boundary built by some eccentric Victorian around the nearby set of standing stones. As he hacked, a gleam caught his eye and he started as a basking black and white adder uncoiled itself and slithered into the long grass. Smiling, he gave it time to escape and carried on.
Without warning, his blade clanged against something hidden in the prickly stems, jarring his wrist. He cursed, seeing the sharp tip had broken off and was now lost in the grass. He used the blunted end to claw away the foliage and found himself staring at a large, grey pockmarked stone encrusted with coloured lichens.
It was a slab of around six feet long and a foot wide, lying on its side like a coffin, half-submerged in the crumbling wall behind.
Odd, though. It had a bluish hue, unlike the grey local igneous rock. This rock, he knew, formed in layers, which meant it was easy to split and carve—the favoured material for all the grave slabs and standing stones that littered the glen. He glanced at grey stones on the other side. Yes, this was different and he didn’t know it all. Bending down, he peered at the surface which was incised with a convoluted series of swirling lines and spheres that reminded him of the churning patterns of van Gogh’s star-filled night skies.
As boys, Petie and he had been fascinated by the many carved stones in the glen, tracing their grubby fingers around the Pictish symbols, making up stories about giants and monsters that used to roam the ancient land... But these markings were unfamiliar and remarkably fresh, unlike the eroded symbols on other stone slabs and crosses in the area.
They weren’t runes, either. Not that he was an expert, but the serpentine patterns were quite unlike those stick-like letters.
Curious to see what was on the fourth side, he found a rusted bar from an old gate and tried to lever up the boulder.
Abruptly, a chill wind blew and his bare skin rose in goose bumps. The trees stirred, their leaves rustling. Alistair glanced up and saw a billowing line of clouds looming behind Cnoc Samhanach, the craggy hill covered in bullet-grey slate that dominated the valley. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, then ducked as a pheasant shot out of nowhere and skimmed over his head, shrieking.
He released the metal bar and stepped back, taking a long breath. The clouds thinned as if being absorbed by the skyline and the branches quietened.
Alistair reached for a pencil and a sheet of paper.
***
‘Of course I remember you.’ Alistair risked a smile at the young dark-haired librarian in the nearby village of Muircraig. ‘Wee Fiona.’
‘Less of that,’ she said, but the stern look softened. ‘I wish Father were here to see these.’ She squinted at the pencil rubbings and sketches he’d handed her. ‘But he’s away in Avebury to give a talk on the summer solstice. Where did you say you found it?’
‘Only about twenty-five yards or so to the east of the Ivy Cross stone circle, in the boundary wall.’ He glanced at the neatly labelled shelves. ‘What about your reference section?’
‘Well I-. Hold on. If you’ll just excuse me for a moment.’ She turned as an elderly woman in a buttoned cardigan approached them, tapping her walking stick on the varnished parquet. Fiona smiled. ‘Hello, Mrs Robertson. The paper’s ready for you. Your horoscope this week is most favourable.’
‘Thank you, dear.’ Mrs Robertson settled at the long bench table, eagerly flicking over the pages.
Fiona turned back and whispered to Alistair. ‘Load of old tosh, if you ask me, but it keeps her happy. It’s quite a walk to the library from her house, so it’s good for her to make the effort.’ She grinned, reviving in him long-forgotten memories of those long summers, marauding the woods and burns with the village kids, Fiona among them. His mother had always fretted, fearing the worst but his father had always maintained that they ‘had to learn’. He sighed. His mother had been right—in Petie’s case.
Fiona made for the shelves marked ‘local history’. A tall dark-haired couple in smart tweeds were there, each scanning a shelf. ‘Now, let’s see... May I?’
‘Of course.’ The man’s voice was deep and well-modulated. He smiled, touched the woman’s shoulder and they moved off, glancing briefly at Alistair, before making for the exit.
Alistair eyed them curiously. ‘Not from around here?’
‘Up from England. Academics, I think. Very pish-posh... and keen on their prehistory.’
‘Hmm.’ For some reason, the couple’s presence unsettled him, probably because they looked so sophisticated and smart. Suddenly self-conscious in his worn corduroys, frayed shirt and patched jacket, he shoved his calloused hands into his pockets.
Fortunately, Fiona didn’t seem to notice as she ran a manicured nail along the reference numbers, frowning. ‘Oh.’
‘What is it?’
She shook her head. ‘The library copy of Kilmartin’s book on the all the local stones is gone. It should be here, but it simply isn’t. Drat. Others titles are missing, too.’
‘Would your father have taken them with him, perhaps?’
‘Hardly. He has most of them himself. It’s very odd. They’ve been more than usually popular these past months. Since the earth tremor.’
‘The one in March?’ He recalled reading about it in the newspaper. ‘Well, the Minor Glen Fault runs right across the valley.’
‘True enough. There are certainly new cracks in the rocks and a chimney pot only just missed the reverend. Quite a few walls fell down round and about.’
‘Of course.’ He nodded, thinking of the strange stone that had been recently exposed.
‘Father was most taken with our little tremor.’ She smiled. ‘He thinks there’s a connection between such fault lines and ley lines. He says the ancient inhabitants were much smarter than we thought.’
He shrugged, unconvinced, and watched as she scribbled a note in a diary on the desk before engaging his gaze, her grey eyes alight. ‘Whatever you believe, I have an alternative source. If you’re interested, that is.’
***
The cottage wasn’t quite as he’d remembered. It was much smaller, for one thing, and rather run-down and faded. A curl of smoke coiled out of the chimney. Even though the June evening was warm, the stove had to be lit to boil the water. Out to the west hunched the crags of Cnoc Samhanach, turning dark grey as the sun dipped low in the sky.
Alistair had to stoop to prevent hitting his forehead on the low doorway.
‘Tea, Fiona?’
‘Thank you, Gran.’
The elderly lady filled the kettle and turned to him. ‘You look well, Alistair. Even taller than your father.’ She scrutinised him in the soft evening light. ‘Finished university already? What are you thinking of doing with yourself now?’
‘Gran...’ Fiona protested.
‘Och, don’t mind me, young man.’ There was the familiar tinkling as she set out the teapot and cups on an old tray. She picked up a dark canister and spooned out a small sheaf of dark, green fronds into the pot. ‘The world will decide what it wants of you, in due course. I can’t see you joining the RAF, though.’ The kettle whistled and she doused the leaves in boiling water. A musty smell of ancient forest drifted across the room.
Alistair shifted on the fireside stool. ‘Army, probably, Mrs Largie. Prefer to keep my feet on terra firma.’
She nodded and handed him a cup of pale green liquid. ‘That makes sense.’ He thought of Petie, lying on his back on the flat rock, a black pool forming around his head and blinked away the image. ‘Drink up—just one of my herbal recipes. Nice for a summer’s evening.’
‘Gran, do these markings mean anything to you?’ Fiona handed over the pencil drawings. ‘Alistair found them on a rock at the edge of the laird’s estate. Near the Ivy Cross stones.’
‘Ah, yes. Ibhig Chruaidh.’ She adjusted her half-moon spectacles and planted herself on her favourite chair.
‘Gaelic?’
She nodded. ‘For the hardy fern that grows there. Polystichum aculeatum, to be precise. Before my time, some dour churchman must have been a’feared of Druidism and changed it to make it sound more respectable.’ She laughed. ‘They make a lovely tea. Well, I think so.’
Alistair managed not to pull a face.
‘Those old stones,’ murmured the woman, settling back into her wicker chair. ‘Some say they marked the place where Druids used to sacrifice the innocent. The cup marks in the stones were said to be filled with blood, but that’s just ghoulish nonsense. Your father, Fiona, prefers the theory that it was to honour the old gods, whilst measuring time and seasons... Maybe they were also a landmark, or even a sign of how powerful the old warriors here used to be.’
‘Or a burial place?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘They’re carved out of the local stone, aren’t they? But the one I found was an erratic of Nepheline syenite, typical of the Loch Borralan area, which is two hundred miles away.’ Alistair stopped himself. ‘I suppose they could have hauled it here on wooden wheels, I suppose... but-’
‘That could well be so, young man.’ She smiled. ‘But my knowledge of the stones is less scientific. Did you know that if a gate is built on the way to the stones it will never stay shut? It just keeps on opening, and as for what young girls used to believe would happen by the light of the midsummer moon, well.’
‘Oh, Gran!’
‘Sorry, Fiona, but fertility legends are part of history, whether you approve or not. Now.’ The old lady peered at the sheet of paper. ‘Those patterns... they’re familiar somehow.’ She cocked her head.
‘I didn’t manage to sketch them all. I’m assuming there are more on the underside, too.’
‘You didn’t try to move the rock, did you?’ Mrs Largie shot him a look of alarm.
‘As if,’ he said vaguely, seeing the roiling clouds in his mind’s eye.
She subsided in some relief. ‘Good. You must never move them, you see.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘You can laugh, but doom and destruction will follow, as surely as night follows day. And we can’t risk further doom. Not with Mr Hitler on the march.’ She turned the slip of paper by ninety degrees and squinted at the rough pencil rubbings and sketches. ‘It brings to mind a strange verse my great-granny used to recite. Something to do with the sun, moon and the stars.’
‘Oh?’ Alistair’s interest quickened. ‘Those circles with the radiating lines could be stars, couldn’t they?’
‘Glittering like precious gems?’ Fiona sat up.
‘Why yes, dear. That rings a bell. There’s the sun and moon, see? And then those marks could be tall figures—and isn’t that some sort of beast rearing up on its haunches? Dearie me. How did it go? Something about the dark night sky... ’
Fiona cleared her throat. ‘You told me, Gran, remember? It’s not a poem, as such, but there are four distinct lines.’ With a glance at Alistair, she reached for a sheet of paper and scribbled furiously, crossing out a word and replacing it with another, before handing it to her grandmother. ‘I think that’s right.’
The old lady’s watery gaze focused on it for a moment and her eyes widened in recognition. ‘That’s it. Read it out, dear.’
Fiona gave Alistair an odd look and cleared her throat:
‘ “The stars glitter above us, precious gems set in the black shield of the night sky.
They stir in the shifting rays of the Sun and the Moon and light our way in the dark.
Giants, monsters, masters and slaves all walk across the land, but they soon fade like shadows.
Earth is a speck of dust that will vanish when Eternity blinks it away at the end of days.”’
‘Aye, that’s it,’ said Mrs Largie with a soft sigh. ‘Strange, though. I don’t know why I find it soothing, for it has a hint of relentless destiny about it.’
‘How old is it?’
‘I’ve always assumed it was a translation from an old Gaelic saying. So, generations. Centuries. Who knows?’
‘It’s just that...’ Alistair hesitated. Religious history was not his forte. ‘Ancient man thought the earth was still and the sun moved around us. Yet this suggests the rays of the sun and moon are moving, “shifting,” in fact.’
Fiona nodded. ‘You’re saying whoever wrote this understood the universe and the how planets the moved around the sun?’
‘I think so, yes. But as for the rest... masters and slaves I can understand, and I agree, there’s an apocalyptic feel but what does the bit about giants and monsters mean? That’s just fantasy, surely? Like Finn MacCool and the Giant’s Causeway?’
‘Ah.’ Mrs Largie smiled. ‘Irish giants were one thing, but Scottish giants were considered a bad lot. Boastful, greedy and with a taste for human flesh.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘Some say there were turned to stone by the saints because they rejected Christian ways. But there is a tale of a traveller from a much earlier time. You recall the story, Fiona?’
‘Oh, yes. The mysterious wanderer from afar.’ Fiona turned to Alistair. ‘He came here from the east before the world we know. Is that right, Gran?’
The old lady nodded. ‘Long ago, the people lived peacefully until the giants invaded. According to legend, they were cruel and harsh, so the local people hid in caves in fear, but after a while, they started to rebel. The giants were angry and conjured up huge beasts from the belly of the earth to keep the people enslaved.’
‘But-’
‘Wait. That was when the traveller came. The story goes that he was a sad and solitary soul, deeply troubled and filled a strange yearning. It was said he arrived with nothing but the clothes on his back and a magic shield. He had mystic powers and soon vanquished the fierce giants and their ravening monsters, turning them to dust. The people wanted him to stay and be their leader, but although he lived among them for a while, he always refused. More tea?’
Alistair stirred, feeling dizzy in the suffocating heat. ‘No, thank you.’ He set down his cup and saucer but missed the table, nearly falling off his stool. ‘Sorry. A bit tired.’ He bent down to retrieve the crockery, which had fallen unharmed onto an old rag rug, leaving a dark stain. ‘Oh, dear.’ He glanced up, apologetically, and saw Fiona watching him in concern.
The old lady creaked hurriedly out of her chair and took the cup and saucer, set it down and patted his arm. ‘Och, not to worry, young man. We elderly ladies should know better than to serve tea in such precarious receptacles. No harm done.’
Alistair felt himself flush with embarrassment over his oafishness as Fiona hurried to the kitchen for a cloth to mop up the spill. The old lady sat down again and gave him a penetrating look. ‘What subject did you read at university, son?’
‘Geology, Mrs Largie.’
‘Aye, that makes sense. Rocks and stones. Rocks and stones. Through every generation of your family, if I recall. A gift of a few, of course.’ Her voice faded. ‘A gift of a few...’
‘Pardon me? A few who?’
Fiona returned and Mrs Largie began fussing with the crockery as if she hadn’t heard his question.
Feeling the need for fresh air, he rose abruptly. ‘Sorry for the mess, but I’d best be off. Back to work tomorrow. Good evening, ladies. Um. Thanks for the tea.’
He stumbled off into the early evening, feeling idiotic.
***
What on earth did Mrs Largie mean by a ‘gift of a few’? It sounded a bit mystic for his taste. Perhaps he’d just misheard.
‘Rocks and stones,’ he muttered, striding south, past the village and back to his tent. ‘Rocks and stones.’ Well, his father had been a surveyor, he supposed. Before that, his grandfather was a labourer. Come to think of it, his great-grandfather was a stonemason. Interesting that they all had a connection with rocks, but that was it. Many sons followed in their fathers’ footsteps. Maybe that’s all she meant.
His head pounded. What on earth had she used to make that tea—some weird ferns? He decided to enjoy the soft light of the gloaming and walk off his headache.
At first, he didn’t really know where he was going. But he was drawn magnetically to the old fort, despite his dark memories.
It had been a warm day in late July a decade ago when he and his brother had decided to climb to the top. Petie had charged up ahead, stirring up clouds of daddy-long-legs in the grass. He’d hurried afterwards, feeling hot and sticky, irritated by the pinpricks of midges on his skin. He’d clambered up a narrow gap between the rocks after his brother and stopped. Above, he spotted Petie on a high ledge, his back to him, but standing quite still, as if his body had frozen.
What happened next still made no sense. Petie had backed to the edge as if sleepwalking. Two, three steps, then he fell. A lifetime later, Alistair heard him land with a ghastly thump at the base.
Hardly breathing, Alistair tore back down the hill, stopping in his tracks at the sight of his brother’s small, lifeless body lying on a dusty, flat rock. He’d cried out, then sobbing, he’d run all the way home. He couldn’t remember much of what happened after that, but he was forever haunted by the memory of how his brother’s face looked so twisted and strange, the familiar hazel eyes still open and unblinking in the hot sun.
He’d never told anyone that he’d witnessed Petie simply stepping backwards off the ledge into the abyss. He had no idea why he had done it. It was if he’d seen some sort of ghost, but it made no sense even now.
So, heart full of conflicting emotions, he made the pilgrimage back to the same spot and found himself standing on the fatal rock, looking up at Dunadd Fort.
It was the stone citadel of the ancient kings of Scotland, set atop a hill with views that stretched for miles, across the Dunadd Marsh in one direction, and beyond to the coast in the other. The perfect defence.
To the north-east, the mountain was slate black against a turquoise sky. ‘Sorry, Petie,’ he said in a gruff voice. ‘You ran so fast, I couldn’t catch up.’
For a second, he thought he heard a rumble, but it was a clear evening. Not thunder, then, but what? He half-stumbled, feeling dizzy as the ground seemed to vibrate under his feet. He righted himself, then froze, realising he was right at the edge of a deep crack that had opened in the large, flat slabs that lay at the foot of the fort. Carefully, he took a step back, then another, until he was on firm ground.
Just another tremor, he told himself, uneasily. Time to head back. It was getting late, after all.
For some reason, Mrs Largie’s words popped back into his head. ‘The gift of a few...’ Perhaps he had a sixth sense about something, such as earth tremors. He’d read somewhere that animals were supposed to sense earthquakes. Shaking his head in consternation, he made for the path.
The evening was cooler now and the midges had dispersed, so it was a pleasant enough walk past the marsh, the ghostly white bog cotton flowers glowing in the twilight. A breeze wafted inland, bringing with it the saltiness of the ocean. He veered east, looking forward to his bed, however humble, but a distant clang made him slow.
Ahead, in the lengthening shadows, he could make out an old iron gate in the stone wall, swinging open as if an invisible person was passing through. Despite the warm night, he shivered and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Fanciful nonsense. He approached the gate and went through, closing it after him. Refusing to look back, he continued past the wood that encircled the old stones of Ivy Cross.
A faint creaking sound reached his ears and despite himself, he turned back. The gate had swung open again.
There were no sheep or cattle in the fields nearby, so, no need to keep the gate shut. It was just set crookedly on it hinge, that was all. Perfectly logical.
He continued on to the stone circle, remembering how he and Petie along with the other village children had played hide and seek one summer’s evening a lifetime ago. Of course, they’d been forbidden to go there, but they’d dared each other to run across the rickety bridge over the river to play there. One wee lad had crawled in the tiny stone chamber under a slab of rock and fallen asleep. When they couldn’t find him, there’d been hell to pay, although Fiona’s dad had finally found the boy, none the worse for his adventure. Kids.
A scraping noise sounded from ahead. It sounded like someone sawing, but that seemed unlikely at this time of night. Besides, there was no house or farm anywhere nearby. Locals kept their homes well away from the stones. He frowned, tilting his head as low voices murmured.
A warning seemed to go off in his brain so he stepped off the path, threading his way through the cool woods that lay all around the site and approached the stones from the west, out of sight.
By now, the sun was low in the sky, but being so close to midsummer, there was still enough light enough to see. It wouldn’t set until after eleven.
Ahead was the low wall that bordered the stone circle, so he bent down and walked stealthily towards it. With caution, he knelt down and peered over the top, breathing quietly.
Just a few yards away were two lithe figures, wearing casual but expensive-looking clothes, one male and one female, both dark-haired. He recognised them at once, with their fine silk shirts, good leather boots, well-cut trousers for the man and riding breeches for his female companion. The couple from the library.
The twelve stones seemed to be observing them silently, like a dozen disapproving apostles in grey robes.
The woman was standing, legs slightly apart, scrutinising a book. The man was sawing at a bough that was propped up unceremoniously against one of the stones until it fell away into two sections. He wiped his brow and dropped the saw into the grass. ‘Good. We can now tighten the rope.’
‘At last.’ The woman crunched across the pebbles and boulders that lay between the standing stones. ‘It is a noisy job.’ She came to a brown, canvas rucksack. ‘Thirty-metre lengths?’
‘Yes.’ He brushed sawdust off his clothes. ‘Do not worry about the noise, for our little sign will keep people away.’
‘I hope so, brother.’
Alistair frowned. What sign? And why did they need to keep people away?
The sister sounded anxious. ‘But what if people come from the opposite direction?’
‘Surely not. That path crosses the marsh and there are too many midges during the day.’ He laughed. ‘And at night, all the good people are tucked up in their little houses. Do not worry.’
Alistair’s knees were aching but he dared not move and forced himself to keep still, listening to the mysterious pair of siblings. He could not make out where were they from. The English was accurate enough, as if drilled into them at a fancy school, but the use of metric measures suggested they were not from the British Isles.
‘But what about the day of solstice?’ The woman glanced up at the sky, now darkening as the sun headed below the horizon. ‘Will they come then?’
‘Ignorant peasants. They are not interested.’
The woman scowled and then her face brightened. ‘I have a better idea, Károly.’
‘Call me Charles,’ he snapped. ‘And you are Polly. Not Piroska.’
‘Yes, yes.’ She batted his criticisms away.
So, thought Alistair. Not German, but perhaps Russian or Eastern European.
‘Polly’ was speaking again. ‘Our clever little sign says the bridge is unsafe, yes? It would be a simple thing to make it fall down in reality. By the time anyone saw it and tried to use the other path, we will be done. We do not want to upset our sponsors.’
The ruse began to make sense now. Alistair saw the man put his arm around the woman’s waist and she turned her face to his. ‘Clever Polly,’ he whispered and kissed her on the lips.
Alistair shifted, feeling uncomfortable. Brother and sister. Really?
‘Back to work.’ Charles released the woman. ‘I need the karabiners.’ He moved towards another rucksack and took out a set square and compass, a plumb line and a brass sextant. ‘You are ready, yes?’
The ‘sister’ pulled on a leather jacket, although the night was still and warm. She nodded and bound a silk scarf around her shoulder-length hair. ‘Yes.’
They knotted the lengths of rope together, then tied one around an oak tree close to the wall. The other end they looped around one of the stones, a rugged, pockmarked man-sized cusp of rock that projected out of the ground at a rakish angle. Charles brought the ropes together halfway between the rock and tree and tied them to the bough.
‘I get the shovel.’ Polly stalked off and returned with the tool, and began to dig around the base of the rock.
‘And?’
‘Just pebbles and stones, but they are loose enough to dig easily.’
Charles grunted, then with a glance at the sky, he began to tighten the rope, shoulders straining with effort as he turned the length of bough round and round. At one point, he let go and it span loose. He cursed in a language Alistair did not recognise, but bent back to his task.
The sun vanished behind Cnoc Samhanach and a cold waft of air blew across the site. It darkened quickly, as though someone had blown out a celestial candle, and black clouds swarmed up from behind the hill and across the sky like flocks of jet-black birds. The stone lurched with a hideous rasping sound. ‘Yes, yes! More! Do not stop.’ Polly began to dig, ramming pebbles and rocks at the base. Out of nowhere, a deep roll of thunder boomed across the glen. A crack of lightning lit the scene, horrific and menacing.
Alistair suppressed a gasp. The two figures seemed menacingly tall, seemingly growing in stature as they laboured in their profane mischief. Yet, they were still no higher than the stones, so it must be some trick of the light. Perhaps it was simply their strength that was growing. The brother’s muscles bulged in his neck and forearms as he twisted the bough faster and faster, tightening the ropes that writhed like brown snakes, as he hauled single-handedly at the massive standing stone. It must have weighed more than a couple of tons, but he was straightening it on his own, despite the gusting wind that whipped at his clothes.
His sister seemed equally powerful, shovelling rocks and pebbles around the base, securing the stone’s position. Then the heavens opened and a biblical deluge poured down. ‘Measure it!’ yelled Charles.
She flung away the shovel and reached for the sextant. ‘I cannot see the stars.’ She fought with the plumb line. ‘But it is nearly upright. One more twist, brother.’
The wind roared through the woods and it seemed to Alistair as if the very ground shook. Yet another earth tremor? He twisted round and felt as if he were about to fall. The dark outline of Cnoc Samhanach seemed to rear in front of him, a solid tsunami of solid rock...
Before he could move, a tree nearby shuddered as a huge branch began to wrench itself free, bark splitting with a ghastly tearing sound. He glanced up at the same second it broke loose and plummeted towards him.
He flung an arm over his head as a deep, silent blackness overwhelmed him.
***
[End of Chapter 1]
Chapter 1
by Pam Kelt
A supernatural adventure
Part three of a seasonal quartet
by Pam Kelt
A supernatural adventure
Part three of a seasonal quartet
But he persevered. It was in his nature. ‘Alistair McCompton,’ his mother would say when he practised kicking a ball against the garage door or rearranged his rock collection. ‘Don’t you ever give up?’
He rarely did. Tenacity was simply his nature.
It was the same now. Every evening, after nearly twelve hours of cutting the hedgerows, he’d take a modest supper at the local pub, then crawl into his tent, wrap the scythe in an oil cloth and sleep like the dead.
It was honest work and the pay was fair. The laird wanted the estate verges tidied, without the expense of extra men and machinery, and Alistair knew the place well. He and his family were originally from the area, and even though they’d left to find work in the city, they still spent holidays in Midsummer Glen. Until the accident.
That day, the sun was even warmer, for it was nearing the end of June. No-one was around, so he slipped off his shirt and determined to reach the bend in the road before stopping for lunch. The scythe was comfortable in his hand now, and the blade swept rhythmically through the long stems of grass, interspersed with angelica, harebells and pink campion. Not the work his tutors at the university would have thought suitable for the brightest geology graduate that year, but it suited his mood.
His ears picked up on the unmistakeable sound of a throbbing Merlin engine. Looking up, he saw a small fighter plane above him, banking over the ocean. Shielding his eyes, he watched it head inland.
Silence returned and the air stilled. Indeed the whole world seemed to be holding its breath. June 1939. Everyone said war was inevitable. He would fight for his country, but he hadn’t decided how. A few weeks of manual labour would help him decide what to do with his life—however long it lasted.
‘What would you do, Petie?’ He wasn’t really talking to himself. It was just a quirky habit. Once you had a twin, even if they died, they were always there in your head.
‘Och, I’d never have studied geology, that’s for sure. Rocks and stones. Rubble and dust.’
‘What, then?’
He could picture his brother, aged ten, scratching his head, scrutinising him with his matching pair of hazel eyes. ‘Astronomy. Definitely.’
‘But that’s just rubble and dust, except further away.’
The echo of Petie’s laugh made him smile. ‘True enough. Perhaps we’re both a bit daft.’
After his brother’s accident, well, that’s what they always called it, Alistair shrank into himself and became serious. His parents never returned to the glen. He couldn’t rightly say why he was drawn there this summer, but maybe it was time to say goodbye.
He moved along the verge to a kink in the road that led to the laird’s estate and set about cutting back a shoulder-high patch of nettles. Behind was a tumbledown stone wall, part of a circular boundary built by some eccentric Victorian around the nearby set of standing stones. As he hacked, a gleam caught his eye and he started as a basking black and white adder uncoiled itself and slithered into the long grass. Smiling, he gave it time to escape and carried on.
Without warning, his blade clanged against something hidden in the prickly stems, jarring his wrist. He cursed, seeing the sharp tip had broken off and was now lost in the grass. He used the blunted end to claw away the foliage and found himself staring at a large, grey pockmarked stone encrusted with coloured lichens.
It was a slab of around six feet long and a foot wide, lying on its side like a coffin, half-submerged in the crumbling wall behind.
Odd, though. It had a bluish hue, unlike the grey local igneous rock. This rock, he knew, formed in layers, which meant it was easy to split and carve—the favoured material for all the grave slabs and standing stones that littered the glen. He glanced at grey stones on the other side. Yes, this was different and he didn’t know it all. Bending down, he peered at the surface which was incised with a convoluted series of swirling lines and spheres that reminded him of the churning patterns of van Gogh’s star-filled night skies.
As boys, Petie and he had been fascinated by the many carved stones in the glen, tracing their grubby fingers around the Pictish symbols, making up stories about giants and monsters that used to roam the ancient land... But these markings were unfamiliar and remarkably fresh, unlike the eroded symbols on other stone slabs and crosses in the area.
They weren’t runes, either. Not that he was an expert, but the serpentine patterns were quite unlike those stick-like letters.
Curious to see what was on the fourth side, he found a rusted bar from an old gate and tried to lever up the boulder.
Abruptly, a chill wind blew and his bare skin rose in goose bumps. The trees stirred, their leaves rustling. Alistair glanced up and saw a billowing line of clouds looming behind Cnoc Samhanach, the craggy hill covered in bullet-grey slate that dominated the valley. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion, then ducked as a pheasant shot out of nowhere and skimmed over his head, shrieking.
He released the metal bar and stepped back, taking a long breath. The clouds thinned as if being absorbed by the skyline and the branches quietened.
Alistair reached for a pencil and a sheet of paper.
***
‘Of course I remember you.’ Alistair risked a smile at the young dark-haired librarian in the nearby village of Muircraig. ‘Wee Fiona.’
‘Less of that,’ she said, but the stern look softened. ‘I wish Father were here to see these.’ She squinted at the pencil rubbings and sketches he’d handed her. ‘But he’s away in Avebury to give a talk on the summer solstice. Where did you say you found it?’
‘Only about twenty-five yards or so to the east of the Ivy Cross stone circle, in the boundary wall.’ He glanced at the neatly labelled shelves. ‘What about your reference section?’
‘Well I-. Hold on. If you’ll just excuse me for a moment.’ She turned as an elderly woman in a buttoned cardigan approached them, tapping her walking stick on the varnished parquet. Fiona smiled. ‘Hello, Mrs Robertson. The paper’s ready for you. Your horoscope this week is most favourable.’
‘Thank you, dear.’ Mrs Robertson settled at the long bench table, eagerly flicking over the pages.
Fiona turned back and whispered to Alistair. ‘Load of old tosh, if you ask me, but it keeps her happy. It’s quite a walk to the library from her house, so it’s good for her to make the effort.’ She grinned, reviving in him long-forgotten memories of those long summers, marauding the woods and burns with the village kids, Fiona among them. His mother had always fretted, fearing the worst but his father had always maintained that they ‘had to learn’. He sighed. His mother had been right—in Petie’s case.
Fiona made for the shelves marked ‘local history’. A tall dark-haired couple in smart tweeds were there, each scanning a shelf. ‘Now, let’s see... May I?’
‘Of course.’ The man’s voice was deep and well-modulated. He smiled, touched the woman’s shoulder and they moved off, glancing briefly at Alistair, before making for the exit.
Alistair eyed them curiously. ‘Not from around here?’
‘Up from England. Academics, I think. Very pish-posh... and keen on their prehistory.’
‘Hmm.’ For some reason, the couple’s presence unsettled him, probably because they looked so sophisticated and smart. Suddenly self-conscious in his worn corduroys, frayed shirt and patched jacket, he shoved his calloused hands into his pockets.
Fortunately, Fiona didn’t seem to notice as she ran a manicured nail along the reference numbers, frowning. ‘Oh.’
‘What is it?’
She shook her head. ‘The library copy of Kilmartin’s book on the all the local stones is gone. It should be here, but it simply isn’t. Drat. Others titles are missing, too.’
‘Would your father have taken them with him, perhaps?’
‘Hardly. He has most of them himself. It’s very odd. They’ve been more than usually popular these past months. Since the earth tremor.’
‘The one in March?’ He recalled reading about it in the newspaper. ‘Well, the Minor Glen Fault runs right across the valley.’
‘True enough. There are certainly new cracks in the rocks and a chimney pot only just missed the reverend. Quite a few walls fell down round and about.’
‘Of course.’ He nodded, thinking of the strange stone that had been recently exposed.
‘Father was most taken with our little tremor.’ She smiled. ‘He thinks there’s a connection between such fault lines and ley lines. He says the ancient inhabitants were much smarter than we thought.’
He shrugged, unconvinced, and watched as she scribbled a note in a diary on the desk before engaging his gaze, her grey eyes alight. ‘Whatever you believe, I have an alternative source. If you’re interested, that is.’
***
The cottage wasn’t quite as he’d remembered. It was much smaller, for one thing, and rather run-down and faded. A curl of smoke coiled out of the chimney. Even though the June evening was warm, the stove had to be lit to boil the water. Out to the west hunched the crags of Cnoc Samhanach, turning dark grey as the sun dipped low in the sky.
Alistair had to stoop to prevent hitting his forehead on the low doorway.
‘Tea, Fiona?’
‘Thank you, Gran.’
The elderly lady filled the kettle and turned to him. ‘You look well, Alistair. Even taller than your father.’ She scrutinised him in the soft evening light. ‘Finished university already? What are you thinking of doing with yourself now?’
‘Gran...’ Fiona protested.
‘Och, don’t mind me, young man.’ There was the familiar tinkling as she set out the teapot and cups on an old tray. She picked up a dark canister and spooned out a small sheaf of dark, green fronds into the pot. ‘The world will decide what it wants of you, in due course. I can’t see you joining the RAF, though.’ The kettle whistled and she doused the leaves in boiling water. A musty smell of ancient forest drifted across the room.
Alistair shifted on the fireside stool. ‘Army, probably, Mrs Largie. Prefer to keep my feet on terra firma.’
She nodded and handed him a cup of pale green liquid. ‘That makes sense.’ He thought of Petie, lying on his back on the flat rock, a black pool forming around his head and blinked away the image. ‘Drink up—just one of my herbal recipes. Nice for a summer’s evening.’
‘Gran, do these markings mean anything to you?’ Fiona handed over the pencil drawings. ‘Alistair found them on a rock at the edge of the laird’s estate. Near the Ivy Cross stones.’
‘Ah, yes. Ibhig Chruaidh.’ She adjusted her half-moon spectacles and planted herself on her favourite chair.
‘Gaelic?’
She nodded. ‘For the hardy fern that grows there. Polystichum aculeatum, to be precise. Before my time, some dour churchman must have been a’feared of Druidism and changed it to make it sound more respectable.’ She laughed. ‘They make a lovely tea. Well, I think so.’
Alistair managed not to pull a face.
‘Those old stones,’ murmured the woman, settling back into her wicker chair. ‘Some say they marked the place where Druids used to sacrifice the innocent. The cup marks in the stones were said to be filled with blood, but that’s just ghoulish nonsense. Your father, Fiona, prefers the theory that it was to honour the old gods, whilst measuring time and seasons... Maybe they were also a landmark, or even a sign of how powerful the old warriors here used to be.’
‘Or a burial place?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘They’re carved out of the local stone, aren’t they? But the one I found was an erratic of Nepheline syenite, typical of the Loch Borralan area, which is two hundred miles away.’ Alistair stopped himself. ‘I suppose they could have hauled it here on wooden wheels, I suppose... but-’
‘That could well be so, young man.’ She smiled. ‘But my knowledge of the stones is less scientific. Did you know that if a gate is built on the way to the stones it will never stay shut? It just keeps on opening, and as for what young girls used to believe would happen by the light of the midsummer moon, well.’
‘Oh, Gran!’
‘Sorry, Fiona, but fertility legends are part of history, whether you approve or not. Now.’ The old lady peered at the sheet of paper. ‘Those patterns... they’re familiar somehow.’ She cocked her head.
‘I didn’t manage to sketch them all. I’m assuming there are more on the underside, too.’
‘You didn’t try to move the rock, did you?’ Mrs Largie shot him a look of alarm.
‘As if,’ he said vaguely, seeing the roiling clouds in his mind’s eye.
She subsided in some relief. ‘Good. You must never move them, you see.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘You can laugh, but doom and destruction will follow, as surely as night follows day. And we can’t risk further doom. Not with Mr Hitler on the march.’ She turned the slip of paper by ninety degrees and squinted at the rough pencil rubbings and sketches. ‘It brings to mind a strange verse my great-granny used to recite. Something to do with the sun, moon and the stars.’
‘Oh?’ Alistair’s interest quickened. ‘Those circles with the radiating lines could be stars, couldn’t they?’
‘Glittering like precious gems?’ Fiona sat up.
‘Why yes, dear. That rings a bell. There’s the sun and moon, see? And then those marks could be tall figures—and isn’t that some sort of beast rearing up on its haunches? Dearie me. How did it go? Something about the dark night sky... ’
Fiona cleared her throat. ‘You told me, Gran, remember? It’s not a poem, as such, but there are four distinct lines.’ With a glance at Alistair, she reached for a sheet of paper and scribbled furiously, crossing out a word and replacing it with another, before handing it to her grandmother. ‘I think that’s right.’
The old lady’s watery gaze focused on it for a moment and her eyes widened in recognition. ‘That’s it. Read it out, dear.’
Fiona gave Alistair an odd look and cleared her throat:
‘ “The stars glitter above us, precious gems set in the black shield of the night sky.
They stir in the shifting rays of the Sun and the Moon and light our way in the dark.
Giants, monsters, masters and slaves all walk across the land, but they soon fade like shadows.
Earth is a speck of dust that will vanish when Eternity blinks it away at the end of days.”’
‘Aye, that’s it,’ said Mrs Largie with a soft sigh. ‘Strange, though. I don’t know why I find it soothing, for it has a hint of relentless destiny about it.’
‘How old is it?’
‘I’ve always assumed it was a translation from an old Gaelic saying. So, generations. Centuries. Who knows?’
‘It’s just that...’ Alistair hesitated. Religious history was not his forte. ‘Ancient man thought the earth was still and the sun moved around us. Yet this suggests the rays of the sun and moon are moving, “shifting,” in fact.’
Fiona nodded. ‘You’re saying whoever wrote this understood the universe and the how planets the moved around the sun?’
‘I think so, yes. But as for the rest... masters and slaves I can understand, and I agree, there’s an apocalyptic feel but what does the bit about giants and monsters mean? That’s just fantasy, surely? Like Finn MacCool and the Giant’s Causeway?’
‘Ah.’ Mrs Largie smiled. ‘Irish giants were one thing, but Scottish giants were considered a bad lot. Boastful, greedy and with a taste for human flesh.’
‘Good Lord.’
‘Some say there were turned to stone by the saints because they rejected Christian ways. But there is a tale of a traveller from a much earlier time. You recall the story, Fiona?’
‘Oh, yes. The mysterious wanderer from afar.’ Fiona turned to Alistair. ‘He came here from the east before the world we know. Is that right, Gran?’
The old lady nodded. ‘Long ago, the people lived peacefully until the giants invaded. According to legend, they were cruel and harsh, so the local people hid in caves in fear, but after a while, they started to rebel. The giants were angry and conjured up huge beasts from the belly of the earth to keep the people enslaved.’
‘But-’
‘Wait. That was when the traveller came. The story goes that he was a sad and solitary soul, deeply troubled and filled a strange yearning. It was said he arrived with nothing but the clothes on his back and a magic shield. He had mystic powers and soon vanquished the fierce giants and their ravening monsters, turning them to dust. The people wanted him to stay and be their leader, but although he lived among them for a while, he always refused. More tea?’
Alistair stirred, feeling dizzy in the suffocating heat. ‘No, thank you.’ He set down his cup and saucer but missed the table, nearly falling off his stool. ‘Sorry. A bit tired.’ He bent down to retrieve the crockery, which had fallen unharmed onto an old rag rug, leaving a dark stain. ‘Oh, dear.’ He glanced up, apologetically, and saw Fiona watching him in concern.
The old lady creaked hurriedly out of her chair and took the cup and saucer, set it down and patted his arm. ‘Och, not to worry, young man. We elderly ladies should know better than to serve tea in such precarious receptacles. No harm done.’
Alistair felt himself flush with embarrassment over his oafishness as Fiona hurried to the kitchen for a cloth to mop up the spill. The old lady sat down again and gave him a penetrating look. ‘What subject did you read at university, son?’
‘Geology, Mrs Largie.’
‘Aye, that makes sense. Rocks and stones. Rocks and stones. Through every generation of your family, if I recall. A gift of a few, of course.’ Her voice faded. ‘A gift of a few...’
‘Pardon me? A few who?’
Fiona returned and Mrs Largie began fussing with the crockery as if she hadn’t heard his question.
Feeling the need for fresh air, he rose abruptly. ‘Sorry for the mess, but I’d best be off. Back to work tomorrow. Good evening, ladies. Um. Thanks for the tea.’
He stumbled off into the early evening, feeling idiotic.
***
What on earth did Mrs Largie mean by a ‘gift of a few’? It sounded a bit mystic for his taste. Perhaps he’d just misheard.
‘Rocks and stones,’ he muttered, striding south, past the village and back to his tent. ‘Rocks and stones.’ Well, his father had been a surveyor, he supposed. Before that, his grandfather was a labourer. Come to think of it, his great-grandfather was a stonemason. Interesting that they all had a connection with rocks, but that was it. Many sons followed in their fathers’ footsteps. Maybe that’s all she meant.
His head pounded. What on earth had she used to make that tea—some weird ferns? He decided to enjoy the soft light of the gloaming and walk off his headache.
At first, he didn’t really know where he was going. But he was drawn magnetically to the old fort, despite his dark memories.
It had been a warm day in late July a decade ago when he and his brother had decided to climb to the top. Petie had charged up ahead, stirring up clouds of daddy-long-legs in the grass. He’d hurried afterwards, feeling hot and sticky, irritated by the pinpricks of midges on his skin. He’d clambered up a narrow gap between the rocks after his brother and stopped. Above, he spotted Petie on a high ledge, his back to him, but standing quite still, as if his body had frozen.
What happened next still made no sense. Petie had backed to the edge as if sleepwalking. Two, three steps, then he fell. A lifetime later, Alistair heard him land with a ghastly thump at the base.
Hardly breathing, Alistair tore back down the hill, stopping in his tracks at the sight of his brother’s small, lifeless body lying on a dusty, flat rock. He’d cried out, then sobbing, he’d run all the way home. He couldn’t remember much of what happened after that, but he was forever haunted by the memory of how his brother’s face looked so twisted and strange, the familiar hazel eyes still open and unblinking in the hot sun.
He’d never told anyone that he’d witnessed Petie simply stepping backwards off the ledge into the abyss. He had no idea why he had done it. It was if he’d seen some sort of ghost, but it made no sense even now.
So, heart full of conflicting emotions, he made the pilgrimage back to the same spot and found himself standing on the fatal rock, looking up at Dunadd Fort.
It was the stone citadel of the ancient kings of Scotland, set atop a hill with views that stretched for miles, across the Dunadd Marsh in one direction, and beyond to the coast in the other. The perfect defence.
To the north-east, the mountain was slate black against a turquoise sky. ‘Sorry, Petie,’ he said in a gruff voice. ‘You ran so fast, I couldn’t catch up.’
For a second, he thought he heard a rumble, but it was a clear evening. Not thunder, then, but what? He half-stumbled, feeling dizzy as the ground seemed to vibrate under his feet. He righted himself, then froze, realising he was right at the edge of a deep crack that had opened in the large, flat slabs that lay at the foot of the fort. Carefully, he took a step back, then another, until he was on firm ground.
Just another tremor, he told himself, uneasily. Time to head back. It was getting late, after all.
For some reason, Mrs Largie’s words popped back into his head. ‘The gift of a few...’ Perhaps he had a sixth sense about something, such as earth tremors. He’d read somewhere that animals were supposed to sense earthquakes. Shaking his head in consternation, he made for the path.
The evening was cooler now and the midges had dispersed, so it was a pleasant enough walk past the marsh, the ghostly white bog cotton flowers glowing in the twilight. A breeze wafted inland, bringing with it the saltiness of the ocean. He veered east, looking forward to his bed, however humble, but a distant clang made him slow.
Ahead, in the lengthening shadows, he could make out an old iron gate in the stone wall, swinging open as if an invisible person was passing through. Despite the warm night, he shivered and the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Fanciful nonsense. He approached the gate and went through, closing it after him. Refusing to look back, he continued past the wood that encircled the old stones of Ivy Cross.
A faint creaking sound reached his ears and despite himself, he turned back. The gate had swung open again.
There were no sheep or cattle in the fields nearby, so, no need to keep the gate shut. It was just set crookedly on it hinge, that was all. Perfectly logical.
He continued on to the stone circle, remembering how he and Petie along with the other village children had played hide and seek one summer’s evening a lifetime ago. Of course, they’d been forbidden to go there, but they’d dared each other to run across the rickety bridge over the river to play there. One wee lad had crawled in the tiny stone chamber under a slab of rock and fallen asleep. When they couldn’t find him, there’d been hell to pay, although Fiona’s dad had finally found the boy, none the worse for his adventure. Kids.
A scraping noise sounded from ahead. It sounded like someone sawing, but that seemed unlikely at this time of night. Besides, there was no house or farm anywhere nearby. Locals kept their homes well away from the stones. He frowned, tilting his head as low voices murmured.
A warning seemed to go off in his brain so he stepped off the path, threading his way through the cool woods that lay all around the site and approached the stones from the west, out of sight.
By now, the sun was low in the sky, but being so close to midsummer, there was still enough light enough to see. It wouldn’t set until after eleven.
Ahead was the low wall that bordered the stone circle, so he bent down and walked stealthily towards it. With caution, he knelt down and peered over the top, breathing quietly.
Just a few yards away were two lithe figures, wearing casual but expensive-looking clothes, one male and one female, both dark-haired. He recognised them at once, with their fine silk shirts, good leather boots, well-cut trousers for the man and riding breeches for his female companion. The couple from the library.
The twelve stones seemed to be observing them silently, like a dozen disapproving apostles in grey robes.
The woman was standing, legs slightly apart, scrutinising a book. The man was sawing at a bough that was propped up unceremoniously against one of the stones until it fell away into two sections. He wiped his brow and dropped the saw into the grass. ‘Good. We can now tighten the rope.’
‘At last.’ The woman crunched across the pebbles and boulders that lay between the standing stones. ‘It is a noisy job.’ She came to a brown, canvas rucksack. ‘Thirty-metre lengths?’
‘Yes.’ He brushed sawdust off his clothes. ‘Do not worry about the noise, for our little sign will keep people away.’
‘I hope so, brother.’
Alistair frowned. What sign? And why did they need to keep people away?
The sister sounded anxious. ‘But what if people come from the opposite direction?’
‘Surely not. That path crosses the marsh and there are too many midges during the day.’ He laughed. ‘And at night, all the good people are tucked up in their little houses. Do not worry.’
Alistair’s knees were aching but he dared not move and forced himself to keep still, listening to the mysterious pair of siblings. He could not make out where were they from. The English was accurate enough, as if drilled into them at a fancy school, but the use of metric measures suggested they were not from the British Isles.
‘But what about the day of solstice?’ The woman glanced up at the sky, now darkening as the sun headed below the horizon. ‘Will they come then?’
‘Ignorant peasants. They are not interested.’
The woman scowled and then her face brightened. ‘I have a better idea, Károly.’
‘Call me Charles,’ he snapped. ‘And you are Polly. Not Piroska.’
‘Yes, yes.’ She batted his criticisms away.
So, thought Alistair. Not German, but perhaps Russian or Eastern European.
‘Polly’ was speaking again. ‘Our clever little sign says the bridge is unsafe, yes? It would be a simple thing to make it fall down in reality. By the time anyone saw it and tried to use the other path, we will be done. We do not want to upset our sponsors.’
The ruse began to make sense now. Alistair saw the man put his arm around the woman’s waist and she turned her face to his. ‘Clever Polly,’ he whispered and kissed her on the lips.
Alistair shifted, feeling uncomfortable. Brother and sister. Really?
‘Back to work.’ Charles released the woman. ‘I need the karabiners.’ He moved towards another rucksack and took out a set square and compass, a plumb line and a brass sextant. ‘You are ready, yes?’
The ‘sister’ pulled on a leather jacket, although the night was still and warm. She nodded and bound a silk scarf around her shoulder-length hair. ‘Yes.’
They knotted the lengths of rope together, then tied one around an oak tree close to the wall. The other end they looped around one of the stones, a rugged, pockmarked man-sized cusp of rock that projected out of the ground at a rakish angle. Charles brought the ropes together halfway between the rock and tree and tied them to the bough.
‘I get the shovel.’ Polly stalked off and returned with the tool, and began to dig around the base of the rock.
‘And?’
‘Just pebbles and stones, but they are loose enough to dig easily.’
Charles grunted, then with a glance at the sky, he began to tighten the rope, shoulders straining with effort as he turned the length of bough round and round. At one point, he let go and it span loose. He cursed in a language Alistair did not recognise, but bent back to his task.
The sun vanished behind Cnoc Samhanach and a cold waft of air blew across the site. It darkened quickly, as though someone had blown out a celestial candle, and black clouds swarmed up from behind the hill and across the sky like flocks of jet-black birds. The stone lurched with a hideous rasping sound. ‘Yes, yes! More! Do not stop.’ Polly began to dig, ramming pebbles and rocks at the base. Out of nowhere, a deep roll of thunder boomed across the glen. A crack of lightning lit the scene, horrific and menacing.
Alistair suppressed a gasp. The two figures seemed menacingly tall, seemingly growing in stature as they laboured in their profane mischief. Yet, they were still no higher than the stones, so it must be some trick of the light. Perhaps it was simply their strength that was growing. The brother’s muscles bulged in his neck and forearms as he twisted the bough faster and faster, tightening the ropes that writhed like brown snakes, as he hauled single-handedly at the massive standing stone. It must have weighed more than a couple of tons, but he was straightening it on his own, despite the gusting wind that whipped at his clothes.
His sister seemed equally powerful, shovelling rocks and pebbles around the base, securing the stone’s position. Then the heavens opened and a biblical deluge poured down. ‘Measure it!’ yelled Charles.
She flung away the shovel and reached for the sextant. ‘I cannot see the stars.’ She fought with the plumb line. ‘But it is nearly upright. One more twist, brother.’
The wind roared through the woods and it seemed to Alistair as if the very ground shook. Yet another earth tremor? He twisted round and felt as if he were about to fall. The dark outline of Cnoc Samhanach seemed to rear in front of him, a solid tsunami of solid rock...
Before he could move, a tree nearby shuddered as a huge branch began to wrench itself free, bark splitting with a ghastly tearing sound. He glanced up at the same second it broke loose and plummeted towards him.
He flung an arm over his head as a deep, silent blackness overwhelmed him.
***
[End of Chapter 1]
Comments
Post a Comment