Midsummer Glen - the final chapter

Midsummer Glen

Chapter 3

by Pam Kelt

A supernatural adventure

Part three of a seasonal quartet

***

‘Watch out.’

Fiona’s voice sounded from the other side of the wall. He scrambled over and jumped to the ground. Something caught him in the back of the knee and he fell flat.

Fiona lay on her side in the centre of the stone circle, a few yards away, hog-tied and helpless. She sounded angry but tired. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t bother with him, Polly,’ she continued with some bravado. ‘If that is your real name. He’s just a hedge-cutter. Bit of tramp. Sleeping rough, for all I know. He’s nobody.’

‘Be quiet.’ In the glow of a torch, he saw Polly kick Fiona’s feet.

Alistair tried to push himself upwards but the sole of a boot ground into the middle of his back. He struggled, but Charles spoke. ‘We’ve had enough of you and your little friend.’ He removed his belt and secured Alistair’s wrists behind his back. ‘All we had to do was follow her and now here you are. Excellent. So easy. Just as it was easy to get rid of that nosy little father of hers.’

‘Father? My God, what did you do?’ Fiona whispered, suddenly sounded frightened.

‘Oh, do not worry. He is still alive. We are not monsters.’ He laughed. ‘Avebury is a long way from here. It will take him days to make his way back on your inefficient British trains. Now.’ He turned to Alistair. ‘We know you stole some things from us. Sister, will you oblige?’

Polly stepped over Fiona and approached him. ‘Most valuable things,’ she breathed in his ear. Her breath smelt of whisky. ‘Let us see what the naughty boy has in pockets.’ He squirmed, but it only took her a few seconds to locate the Gemini orb and the map. ‘Tut tut.’ She waggled a finger and handed them to her brother. ‘But there should be more papers.’

‘You find them, then.’

He felt the sting of Polly’s palm on his cheek.

‘Wait.’ Charles approached and seized the diagram of the stone circle that Alistair had amended. His eyes glittered and Alistair cursed his stupidity as brother and sister peered and nodded, devouring the information that he had unwittingly given them. ‘The pattern, sister. Ez fantasztikus. And so beautiful.’

‘But I do not understand.’ His sister tapped a thumbnail on the paper. ‘He has added something. What is that “x” symbol?’ They both turned to stare at him, expressions cold. ‘Tell us.’

He almost laughed. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ Let them work out that there was a thirteenth stone.

Charles let out a long sigh and pulled a gun out of his pocket. ‘Tell us, or we kill her.’ He pointed the barrel at Fiona.

Fiona struggled against the ropes. ‘Alistair, don’t!’ Tears welled in her eyes. ‘Don’t tell them anything. I-’ She stopped, for Alistair was struggling to his feet. He nodded almost imperceptibly, for he had come up with a desperate plan.

Clearing his throat, he asked: ‘If I do, how will I know you won’t kill her, or indeed both of us, anyway?’

‘You don’t.’ Charles sounded bored.

With difficulty, Alistair now stood. ‘Very well. It seems I have no choice.’ He tried to look as though he were struggling with a decision. ‘But, it is probably quicker to show you. It’s not far.’

Charles glanced at his sister and she nodded. Checking Fiona was still securely tied, Polly pushed Alistair forward. ‘Go.’ Charles moved to one side, his gun trained on Alistair. ‘Slowly.’

‘All right.’ Stumbling a little, Alistair headed towards the section of the boundary wall into which the mysterious marker stone had been built. He struggled over the broken down wall and jerked his head towards the recumbent piece of carved of rock on the other side.

Polly followed and dropped to her knees, fingering the carvings. ‘Yes. Look. It is wonderful, quite different from the others. But we’ll need to raise it.’

‘Do we have time?’

‘Yes, yes. Dawn is not for a few hours. It will be enough, brother.’

‘But wait.’ Charles swore. ‘There is a problem.’

Polly looked up, worried. ‘What?’

Charles ran his hand through his hair, now lank. ‘We only have twelve spheres. What if we need a thirteenth orb for this new stone to make our plan work?’

‘But there is no indentation, at least on this side.’

Charles joined her and they both peered at the carvings.

Alistair slid to a sitting position on the freshly cut grass.

‘What are you doing?’ snapped Charles, whipping round.

‘What does it look like?’ Alistair made his voice sound resigned.

‘Tchah.’ Charles’ expression was full of disdain. ‘Sister? Let us assume you are right. Go back to the circle and insert the twelve spheres. I shall deal with the thirteenth stone.’ He bent down and ran his dirt-engrained palm over the serpentine markings.

‘Good. Yes.’ She removed her rucksack and pulled out a small tub. ‘Hazel resin,’ she explained to Alistair and a smile crossed her lips. ‘Very adhesive. A traditional recipe we found in a Breton document last year. Oh, yes. We are well-informed.’ She strode back to the stone circle.

Alistair leaned back and strained his fingers to start probing in the grass behind him. The tip of the scythe had to be there somewhere.

While Charles began assembling his equipment, Alistair watched, all the while feeling for the scythe. Suddenly, he felt the edge of a blade. Although he thought he’d kept his expression impassive, Charles seemed to sense something and stared at him. ‘Tell me. If you are a mere hedge-cutter, how did you work out the pattern of light?’

Alistair shrugged. ‘I liked maths at school.’ Well, that was true enough.

‘Like many illiterates.’

So, Charles really was an intellectual snob, thought Alistair. He wondered how much more he could find out. ‘Just how long have you both been on the track of the mystic traveller?’

‘How do you know about that?’

Alistair wondered if he had revealed too much. ‘Oh,’ he bluffed. ‘Everyone knows the old stories. Some chap who had a way with giants and monsters. All a bit daft, if you ask me.’ As he talked, he slid the sharp tip of the scythe gently to and fro across the leather belt.

‘Ignorant fool,’ muttered Charles and looped a length of rope around the fallen stone. He paused. ‘Only a few people realise the full potential of the standing stones.’ He smirked and, as Alistair had hoped, failed to resist the urge to show off his knowledge. ‘Standing stones, even dull little ones like these, can produce a great power. But only at certain times, when the planets align.’

‘Right.’

His sceptical tone had the right effect. Charles sounded annoyed. ‘Even someone you like must have heard of the Summer Solstice?’

‘This is Midsummer Glen, I suppose.’ He needed to sound dull and uneducated.

‘Quite. When the sun rises, there will be quite a spectacle. We have witnessed something of the sort before, but the stones in Brittany were ancient, crumbling ... A disappointment. Now, enough of this. I need to concentrate.’

He moved towards Alistair and hit him on the back of the head with the butt of his gun.

Alistair felt his senses dull from the force of the blow and his chin sank to his chest. For a second, he was aware of a nervous wind whistling through the trees that rose to a roar. There was a familiar clanking of rope and scrape of a shovel, then he must have passed out.

***

A cry woke him.

It was Charles, his voice urgent. ‘Sister! I have found it.’

Alistair blinked in the eerie pre-dawn light, realising he was still half slumped on the ground, wrists still bound. A chill wind blew from the east. The first thing he saw was a familiar mass of ropes, chains, carabiners in a heap, with a shovel resting on the top. All had been deployed and now the stately marker stone was obscenely upright, soil clinging to the fourth side where it had lain for years. At its foot was a mound of debris. Next to it squatted Charles and Polly, caressing a flat object on the ground. They were both unkempt, clothes spattered with mud, hair wild, but their expressions were triumphant.

‘After all this time...’

‘Finally, to touch the shield of Asclepius...’

‘But it is damaged. See, it is bent.’

‘Never mind that. I can still sense its power.’

‘Look, there is the serpent in profile, with the stone representing the eye.’

‘We have the shield! All our work has been vindicated,’ breathed Charles. ‘And thanks to Himmler, we shall soon be the darlings of the Reich.’

‘Well, until we complete the final stage of our plan.’

They laughed and embraced.

Alistair shivered, thinking it felt more like winter than summer. Confused, he looked about and saw the ground was littered with huge, jagged hailstones. Above, tattered navy blue clouds charged across the sky like wild horses, manes streaming, almost blotting out the translucent sliver of moon.

‘So.’ Polly glanced up at her sibling. ‘What do we do with it? I hope it will still work.’

Charles rose and began to inspect the thirteenth stone. ‘Perhaps the carvings will tell us.’

‘Of course!’ Polly began to brush off the soil from the fourth. ‘Look. There is a circular indentation in the centre.’

‘Show me.’

Seemingly immune to the cold, Polly shone a torch over the surface. ‘There!’

Together, they lifted the shield and secured it into position with a twisting movement.

Charles checked his wristwatch. ‘Sunrise is only a few minutes away. I shall set up the camera.’ He walked off. ‘And move the girl. The body will spoil the scene. Then meet me at the centre of the circle, just as we did in Brittany. We must be in position to absorb as much of the reflected light as possible.’

Left behind next to the boundary wall, Alistair tugged his wrists apart and felt the belt give a little. Where was the scythe tip? Fumbling in the grass, he retrieved the blade and hacked as fiercely as he dared, wincing as he nicked the skin on his wrists. He could hear Charles setting up the cine camera. Suddenly, the leather loosened and he was free.

Flexing his wrists, he scrambled to the wall and peered over, in time to see Polly dump Fiona’s limp body out of camera shot. A foot twitched. Thank God, he breathed. Fiona was still alive. He tightened his grip on the scythe tip and edged around the wall until he was close.

‘Psst,’ he whispered as loud as he dared. ‘Fiona.’ He peeped over the top, dropped the metal blade on her foot. She stirred.

At that second, the first pale golden ray of sun shone from the east and bathed the glen in an ethereal green light. Abruptly, the wind stopped and the clouds melted away. The twins stood in the dead centre of the circle and turned to face the thirteenth stone, rapt expressions on their faces. Their eyes glowed with expectation.

Suddenly, he recalled Kilmartin’s description of Asclepius as he imagined him, with “his eyes bright as if reflecting all the stars in the firmament”.

He recalled the passage about the carving at the monastery of a man in the dazzling sun, staring at the snake, and then he understood. The twins sought to gaze into the reflected rays of the solstice sun, in the belief it would they could absorb the powers of Asclepius himself. He was the son of Apollo, after all. The shield was not powerful in itself, but it would act to safeguard the eyes of whoever gazed at the light.

Of course, the shield was not the weapon they had promised the Fascists. It was a means to an end, enabling them to oust Hitler, Himmler and their Fascist cronies. The twins themselves planned to become super powerful—and then what? Rule the world?

Throwing caution to the wind, Alistair flung himself over the wall, his only idea being to stop them. The air seemed to throb as an intense beam of light from the east struck the first sphere.

‘Brother!’ cried Polly. ‘It is working.’

The first orb glowed pale blue, then purple, jettisoning an even more dazzling ray across to a second stone. A second later, the pattern repeated itself, as the ray became stronger and brighter as it passed from orb to orb, until Alistair’s vision was seared with blinding streaks. Crick, crack.

The final ray completed its crazy zigzagging manoeuvre and shot like a bullet towards the marker stone and made contact with the shield. ‘No!’ cried Alistair. Was he too late?

But something strange happened. The serpent’s eye turned scarlet and the ray of light ricocheted off at a seemingly random angle over the top of the stone circle.

Beyond, Cnoc Samhanach brooded, still oddly dark, like some beast in the depths of a forest, the shaggy head formed out of boulders and scree. The blood red beam struck out towards it, arcing downwards before piercing the lower slope, like an arrow hitting its prey. There was a distant rumble. Alistair froze. Was it his imagination, or was it stirring, as if shaking off loosened chains?

The twins screamed in frustration and anger. Sobbing, Polly dropped to her knees and Charles tried to pull her up, but she beat at his hands, screaming. ‘Idiot,’ she shrieked. ‘It’s not working. We have failed.’

‘No. You have failed.’ He raised his arm and delivered a vicious blow to her cheek.

It was getting lighter by the second as the sun rose above the horizon. Alistair turned, his gaze drawn to the thirteenth stone and the ancient shield, the stone of the serpent’s eye now fading to grey. But there was something ‘off’. He started. The shield was decorated with elaborate serpentine patterns, and he looked, he could see a similar swirling pattern carved into the stone. They did not align. He knew that they should.

A primitive drive arose in him and he found himself running full tilt towards the marker stone. The twins stopped fighting and screamed at him, but he ignored them. He knew what he had to do. It might kill him, but it would stop their obscene ritual.

In one movement, he wound the shield to the left, matching up the pattern. In a flash, the snake’s eye brightened and shimmered anew. The iridescent ray crackled once more, surged brightly and struck Alistair full on.

He felt its fiery intensity as it blasted him in the face, bathing his eyes in a burst of light. Energy surged through him and he seemed to grow in stature, soaring over the scene below.

Amazingly, he was not blinded: in fact, his vision was enhanced. Looking down, he could see the now tiny ring of twelve tiny stones arranged on the ground below, with the marker stone nearby.

Cnoc Samhanach loomed in the distance, but the mountain was no longer a solid mass of rock. It was now a real beast, a gigantic boar, with a spiny back, tusks, long snout, gaping mouth. A dark patch of boulders on the upper slopes became a cavernous black maw, bristling with tusks. It roared and the air throbbed. The trailing edge of the eastern slope was a wiry tail, whipping left and right, smashing the trees in the valley to firewood.

Alistair became aware of a limpid black eye staring at him, almost through him. At first, he thought the expression was rage, but as he stared back, he realised it was surprise, which rapidly changed to something else. Pleading, perhaps? It was willing him to understand.

His mind opened, as if someone had drawn back shutters, and he could suddenly picture the ancient scene in his mind’s eye, as if he were now the creature itself, reaching back into its memory...

It is a flat, quiet land, dotted with blue deltas, green meadows and brown marshes. Above us, small groups of people, tiny as ants, fish and hunt in the silvery streams and pluck a meagre living from the soil. But the ground starts to shudder and we quake in fear, for we can sense an army of giants pouring in from the north. The people flee to hide in caves, but it is no use. The giants capture them, chain them, force them to work as slaves. Some fight back but the rebellion is over almost before it begins. Enraged, the giants draw strength from the sun and split open the ground, stirring up volcanoes, landslides and earthquakes. We are ripped out, thrown upwards into the light and find we have become vast beasts, driven half-mad with ravening appetites. The giants laugh and use us to terrify the people and keep them enslaved... But then a single man appears from the east. He talks to the people and helps them to fight back. They create a strange circle of stones, pulling them from afar in the summer heat. Then, one day, in a flash of blue light from his shield, the ground opens up and the giants fall. But one has a last act of revenge, and as he plummets into the chasm, lashes out at the stones. They tilt and topple. One falls, injuring the man, his shield broken beneath the rock. He staggers up and the earth closes at his feet. His work done, he gazes upon us and turns back into peaceful mountains. Finally, we can rest...

Alistair blinked, now understanding the ancient conflict.

‘“Giants, monsters, masters and slaves all walk across the land, but in the end of days, they all fade as shadows,”’ he said to himself. ‘“Earth itself is a mere speck of dust that will vanish when eternity turns and blinks it away at the close of time.”’ The sound of human voices dragged his gaze back to the stone circle.

The twins were fighting.

Alistair turned to the beast and felt its force. An old anger, but a desire for peace ... The beast roared again, stamped its front feet and a crack opened in the ground, snaking across the valley towards the stone circle. An avalanche of slate stirred and began to slide in a thin, deadly torrent inexorably down towards the two figures in the centre.

The twins watched in horror, mouths open, as the stream of slate gathered speed. The crack became a shadowy gulf, brown dust rising from the edges as the surface of the earth tore itself apart.

Now, they were on the edge, clinging to one another, then a second later, the river of stone overwhelmed them and swept them into the abyss. Brother and sister flung up their arms and were gone.

The opening juddered and closed, like an animal clamping its jaws around its prey, leaving a purple smear across the glen. A mauve haze rose in silence above the debris, dancing particles of dust glittering in the sunlight.

‘Alistair?’ It was Fiona’s voice.

He stirred and the scene shifted its perspective once again and he had returned to his normal size, standing beside the marker stone that stood, peacefully, glowing an unearthly blue in the early morning rays, tilted to one side.

A small, dusty figure clambered over the boundary wall and stumbled forwards.

‘Fiona.’

She approached him, coughing and blinking, an ugly gash on her forehead. ‘What happened? I managed to free myself, then all hell broke loose and I fell.’

He ran towards her and swept her up in a tight embrace. ‘I think we won.’

***

‘So. A geologist.’ A middle-aged man in a pinstriped suit fixed his steel-grey eyes upon Alistair and drew on a cigarette. ‘How apt. Now, you can call me Mr Hague. It isn’t my real name, of course. You shall be Mr Guest.’

‘Yes, sir, I mean, Mr Hague.’ Alistair scanned his surroundings. The interview was taking place in a long, quiet room which had the feel of a library, with dozens of shelves, stuffed with dusty books. ‘Wait,’ he said, recalling something he’d read. ‘Isn’t Ras Alhague the brightest star in the constellation of Ophiuchus?’

‘Well, yes it is. I see you’ve been busy.’

Alistair just nodded and waited. Through grimy windows, he could make out the long neck of a crane and a Clydeside tugboat hooted in the distance. Inside, the furniture was distinctly utilitarian. Veneered desk with a wobbly leg, ripped canvas chair, bare light bulbs. A squadron of Spitfires flew low overhead, making the glass rattle in the panes.

‘Ah, yes. Still a few issues with the budget,’ said the man, a faint smile on his lips. A smoke ring hovered and curled like a cobra. ‘They’re still a bit uncomfortable with the “paranormal” label, those Whitehall pen-pushers. Of course, on the record, we’re just chartered surveyors on minor government contract work. Quite innocuous. Nothing cloak and dagger at all. No, no, no.’ The eyes gleamed.

‘Sorry, I-’ Alistair cleared his throat and tried again. ‘What exactly am I doing here?’

‘Your evidence, including the cine film, was passed on to us. Himmler, eh? Dangerous little bugger. But at least that’s one device he and his nasty little private army of police can’t get their hands on. We’ve had our eye on the Hungarian pair for some time, but we didn’t realise how ambitious they were. Fancy concocting a plan to outwit the Fascists at their own occult schemes! Yes, you did a good job, my boy. Especially for a novice. Locals barely noticed a thing, although I suspect the local historian smelt a rat when he got back. Good man, though. Discreet. Understands the family dynamic. Ah. Behold the fragrant Miss Barnard, another nom de plume.’

Alistair whipped round and stared in surprise as Fiona entered the room, bearing a large manila folder. ‘The latest incident reports, sir.’

‘Good.’ Mr Hague nodded and flipped through the sheets. ‘Keep on it.’

‘Sir.’ Fiona left the folder, smiled at Alistair and was gone.

Alistair was dumbstruck. ‘I, we...’ Strewth. He sounded like an imbecile.

‘Yes, we know. Miss Barnard is our most recent admin recruit—and quite extraordinarily competent and intuitive. As you have already discovered. It was she who made the botanical connection between the ferns and the artefact. Shield ferns, of course. Sometimes the old stories are truer than we imagine. And before you ask, the shield itself is in a safe place. It’ll come in handy to, shall we say, confirm candidates’ credentials.’

Silence fell for a moment and Alistair became aware of Mr Hague scrutinising his face. Then, Mr Hague glanced at the lengthening ash on his cigarette and seemed to make a decision. With a raised eyebrow, he turned to gaze at a chipped marble ashtray that stood at the far end of the table. Alistair’s pulse fluttered as he saw the man’s eyes glitter in a familiar pattern—distant stars in a far-off constellation... The ashtray stirred and scraped along the table, coming to rest by the man’s elbow. ‘Asclepius was a busy fellow,’ he said with an amused smile and tapped the cigarette. ‘You’ll find quite a few kindred spirits amongst us. Being a surviving twin, like myself, you’ll find your, ah, skills are even more sought-after, although you might have to practise a bit. We offer gruelling training, lousy pay, extraordinary risks and a chance to do something for your country that you’ll never be able to brag about to anyone outside the unit. Understand?’

Alistair swallowed and nodded.

Mr Hague beamed and shook his hand. ‘Good man. We’re going to need all the help we can get. Now.’ He tossed a sheet of paper across the table. ‘Time to grab your kit and head out, for I’ve a wee job to start you off. There was a recent landslip in the Dollar Valley that is highly suggestive. The locals think it was a natural phenomenon, but we believe otherwise. You’ll be our “surveyor”. Spout all the official mumbo jumbo and what not, but keep your wits about you and your eyes open.’ He stubbed out the cigarette. ‘Mr Hitler is amassing his armies. By the time the autumnal equinox comes around, he’ll be on the march and I, for one, intend to be ready.’

THE END

***

Author’s note

Summer Solstice is a well-honoured tradition in many cultures and the quintessential image for most is Stonehenge.

Many summers ago, I had the good fortune to take a trip to see the ancient stones and monuments of Argyll with my daughter, Lauren, a History of Art graduate, who has developed an interest in all things medieval. Our favourite site was Temple Wood, an intriguing stone circle in a magical place even if your name doesn’t have Celtic origins. It simply begged to be written about, and I hope I’m forgiven for changing the name to Ivy Cross.

The stones and setting are similar to the ones in the story, but I have tweaked a few details. There is no real Midsummer Glen, but it is based on Kilmartin Glen, an area simply littered with prehistoric monuments. I retained the name in the form of the pedagogic prehistory expert, James Kilmartin Esquire, whose style is reminiscent of many nineteenth-century scholars.

Asclepius, his medical skills and his fate as Ophiuchus amongst the stars is the stuff of legends familiar to many, but as far as I know, he never had a twin. As for Scottish giants, there is many a tale, often associated with standing stones the length and breadth of the country. Of course, the orbs, shield and ‘Gift of Ophiuchus’ are pure fantasy. Sadly.

Heinrich Himmler, we are told, was a follower of the occult, and there are extraordinary accounts on shady websites of exhibitions all over the globe in search of powerful weapons, although I’m not sure how many I believe. Our Hungarian twins, and their delusions of grandeur, are pure fiction, and I like to think they got what they deserved.

Finally, the hero, Alistair McCompton, is a tribute to my late father, Peter A. W. Kelt, who really did work as a hedge-cutter one vacation as a student in Dumfriesshire in the early 1950s. He, too, lost a brother when he was very young, and no-one in our family ever talked about the incident. He studied geography and psychology at the University of Edinburgh (rather than geology as in the story) and was a keen student. After graduating, he ended up doing National Service, which he loathed, but I always suspected he would not have been averse to being recruited for intelligence work. Or perhaps he was!

In his later years, he began to write. I inherited his manuscripts and I’m proud to say that his first book, Not With A Whimper, a Cold War thriller (written during the Cold War, just so you know), was finally published in 2014. A book ahead of its time.