Avalon (3 page)

Quickly bored with the unenlightening coverage of what was already being termed the National Tragedy and since football was not going to return, Gordon, the landlord, switched off the TV, and James braved the crush at the bar to fetch the table another round. “Good day on the moors?” Douglas was asking Cal when he returned with the drinks.

“Oh, aye, good enough. We let one real trophy get away, and two others bolted before we could get close. But the punters seemed happy enough. They each got a kill — that’s what matters.”

“Who’ve you got this week?” James asked, handing the drinks around.

“A couple of flash solicitors all the way up from London-town.” Calum accepted his pint. “Ta, Jimmy.”

“Don’t talk to me about solicitors,” James grumbled. “I’ve spent most of the day with them, and I’ve got a mountain of stuff to plow through tonight.”

“These are a right pair, I’ll tell you,” Cal continued blithely. “Think they’re on safari. Matching macs and field glasses, designer sunglasses on little strings around their necks, and silver whisky flasks in their plus fours. They’re driving a purple Range Rover, for cryin’ out loud, with tinted windows, bull bars, and state-of-the-art audio.”

“It’s parked outside,” Douglas informed him, taking a sip from the foaming pint. “I saw it when I came in.”

Cal glanced guiltily around the room. “I don’t see ’em — must be in the dining room,” he concluded. “You should ha’ seen the two of them when the first stag came charging over the hill this morning — almost wet themselves trying to get a shot off.” He chuckled. “Oh, they’re all right, I suppose. A bit toff, but good tippers. They’ve been up before.” He took a long pull on his pint, and then shook his head. “Man, how about that King, eh? What a sorry end to the whole rotten business.”

They drank in silent agreement, each deep in his own thoughts. Then Douglas suggested, “We should go out some weekend. Just the three of us. It would be like old times.”

“Sure,” allowed Cal diffidently. “Maybe after Christmas.”

“After Christmas maybe,” James agreed.

Cal and James both knew, if Dougie didn’t, that it was far too likely that there would be no more hunting on the estate; by Christmas the Duke’s will would be probated, Cal would be out of a job, and James’ erstwhile inheritance would be swallowed by an Australian development consortium — the very reason James had spent yet another day in Braemar with the solicitors, trying to hold on to the little piece of the estate his parents thought they had left him.

The pub’s atmosphere had become truly grim, and then somebody called for some music, so Gordon fired up his overtaxed stereo with his favorite old Gerry Rafferty tune, loud and thrumming. James put his glass down and stood. “Well, that’s me gone. See you, Cal. See you, Dougie.”

“Hey, don’t go,” said Douglas. “It’s my turn next.”

“Late night tonight and early day tomorrow.” He stepped away from the table, said cheerio to Gordon, and started for the door.

“See you, James,” called Dougie.

“Give Jenny my love,” added Cal; he pursed his lips in a pantomime kiss.

“Try not to let the lawyers shoot you,” James answered over the guitars and drums.

Outside, he took a deep breath, tasting the peaty smoke from the hearth fire as it curled on the breeze. The lights from inside gleamed pale and yellow like warm butter, pooling in the puddles on the rain-soaked pavement in front of the pub. The music was almost as loud outside as in, and he walked across the parking lot singing to himself, “‘That’s the way it always starts…’”

He climbed into his dad’s battered old blue Land Rover, frowning at the box of files and documents on the passenger seat, switched on the ignition, and drove from the parking lot. He passed quickly through Braemar — it was quiet, deserted: the townfolk glued to their TV sets — and turned east onto the old military road.

The drizzle had lifted and the rain clouds were dispersing on a quickening west wind. A few stars were shining through the gaps in the clouds, and a bright slice of moon was rising in the east. It would be a fine crisp night, he thought, and his mind drifted naturally to Jenny. Cal’s gentle needling put him in the mood, and he suddenly wished she were there beside him. In the same instant, a pang of guilt shot through him as he remembered he had not called her for a week or more. Now that he had the whole of the Blair Morven estate to look after, he could not see her as often as he would have liked. He resolved to call her as soon as he got home.

Crossing the Invercauld Bridge, James headed for Glen Morven and his cottage above Old Blair. He drove on, eventually coming to the scattering of farmhouses known as Alltdourie; it was just after passing the last house before entering the estate that he saw the spark of light flare from the top of a hill through the trees.

His first thought was that it was just the moonlight hitting something — the windscreen of a car maybe. On second thought, he considered that highly unlikely, and so slowed down for a better look. By the time he came in sight of the hill again, the glinting spark had become the glimmering glow of a fire.

James slowed and cranked down the window. The fire surmounted the top of broad, bald-topped Weem Hill. He knew the countryside well; the estate was seamed through with nature trails — and Weem Hill, a mile more or less from the road, was one hikers particularly enjoyed. He continued on slowly until he came upon a plum-colored Range Rover parked on the mossy shoulder of the road.

“I better go see what the city boys are up to,” he muttered, rolling to a stop behind the expensive vehicle.

Pulling his jacket from the backseat, he shrugged into it, then reached into the glove box for a flashlight, which he tapped against his palm a few times before switching it on. He walked to the other vehicle and shined a beam in the driver’s window. The interior was spotless; the doors were locked.

He turned towards the fire. Two lower hills stood between him and the blaze; it would mean a slog over rough wet ground in the dark. James sighed, zipped up his coat, and leaped the ditch. On the other side, he put his hand to the fence post atop the bank, vaulted over the top wire of the fence, and struck off along the rising slope towards the shimmering light on the far hilltop.

Reaching the crest of the first hill, he stopped to survey the situation. The fire still burned as brightly as before, but, try as he might, he could not make out any movement around the perimeter of the blaze. He moved on, descending quickly to the valley floor, jumping the stream at the bottom, and starting up the long slope of the next hill.

It was a good steady climb, and he soon warmed to the exercise; his breath came in gasps that sent puffs of steam rolling on the cold air, and sweat beaded on his forehead to drip down the side of his face. After a day spent in a lengthy, largely pointless meeting with his solicitor in town, it felt good to exert himself a little.

James slowed his pace as he neared the crest of the next hill, and dropped down low. The fire burned hot and bright — a proper Bonfire Night conflagration of heaped scrap wood and shipping pallets — but there seemed to be no one around. He saw no sign of the London lawyers whose car was parked on the road, and wondered where they could have gotten to.

He changed course, moving across the face of the slope so that he would come upon the fire from the side. Just before reaching the crest of the hill, he stopped and crouched down. He listened. The rippling flutter of the bonfire flames, fanned by the gusting wind and punctuated by the gunfire-sharp crack of wet wood, were the only sounds to be heard.

Rising up slowly, he peered over the top of the hill towards the fire. There was no one around. He moved closer — and had taken no more than half a dozen steps when the hair on the back of his neck prickled.

James halted in midstep, the
fiosachd
jangling; the skin between his shoulder blades quivered. Someone was there, after all.

James moved closer, feeling the heat blast of flames on his face and hands as he mounted the hilltop. He stood for a moment, and then walked slowly around the perimeter of the fire, the flesh between his shoulder blades squirming with the certainty that he was being watched.

“You might as well show yourself,” he called loudly to the night. “I know you’re hiding here somewhere. Come out.”

He waited. The wind rippled the flames ominously, but that was all.

“I’m not leaving until you come out,” he said, his voice loud over the sound of the fire. “So you might as well save us both some time and —”

“I am here. No need to shout.”

The voice startled him. It came so clear and close, he whirled around — half expecting to see a thug with a high-powered rifle trained on him.

Instead, James saw a white-haired man dressed all in black feathers. He clutched an old-fashioned horn-tipped shepherd’s crook of the kind sold in tourist shops north of the border. He stood not a dozen paces away, stock-still, as if he had materialized out of thin air or the hill itself had opened and disgorged him whole.

The stranger made no move, but watched James with an intense and penetrating gaze, keen eyes glinting strangely in the shimmering light of the blaze, looking for all the world like a great bird of prey — a hawk about to take to the skies.

Uncertain what to do, James simply stood and let him get a good look. After a moment, the old man’s lips formed a thin, ghostly smile, and he stepped nearer. James saw then that what he had taken for feathers was, in fact, a long, dark capelike cloak, worn to rags so that it fluttered in the wind. The man’s staff, though, was no tourist tat; it was the real thing: a stout length of shaped and polished oak topped with a ram’s horn which had been carved with an intricate Celtic knotwork pattern and inlaid with silver. It looked old as Moses to James, who thought that it, like its owner, probably belonged in a museum.

“Welcome,” said the stranger, coming to stand before him. “I have been waiting for you, Mr. Stuart.”

Until the man spoke, James felt as if he were gazing at an apparition — and must have appeared mildly alarmed by the outlandish encounter, for reassurance quickly followed. “Relax,” the man said, his voice almost fatherly. “No harm will come to you. I only want to talk.”

“Did you start this fire?” James asked.

“I did. To summon you.”

“Summon me,” James repeated flatly. “Why would you want to do that?”

The man stepped closer, his eyes shining in the light of the fire. “As I have already said: I wanted to talk to you.”

“I have a phone.”

“Shall we sit?” He put out his hand, indicating two lumps of rock a few steps away.

The stranger brushed past, and James caught the scent of damp moss and peat smoke — an ancient scent, as old as the hill themselves.

The stranger settled himself onto one of the stones, resting the elaborate crook across his lap. James made no move to join him.

“Do I know you?” he asked, unable to keep the edgy suspicion out of his voice. For, in spite of the unassailable certainty that he had never laid eyes on the old gent before, a distinct aura of familiarity clung to him — he seemed to exude it, like heat from a hearth fire.

“Let us say that
I
know
you
.”

“Have we ever met?”

The old gentleman hesitated — not as one contemplating a lie but as if he were gauging how much to reveal. “Strictly speaking, no.”

“Then who the hell are you?” James demanded, more strongly than he felt. The stranger’s manner, though intriguing, was beginning to irritate him. James wanted straight answers. “And why are you skulking around these hills at night?”

“I thought our first meeting should be” — the old gent paused, searching for the right words — “dramatic, let us say. Unforgettable.”

“Are you crazy?” James asked.

“Come and sit.” The old man again indicated the stone beside him, and James relented.

“Look,” he said, moving nearer, “I don’t know who you think you are, but —”

“Shh!” The man raised a long finger to his lips and cut him off. “We have much to discuss but little time. It would be best if you would just listen and try very hard not to interrupt. Agreed?” He turned his strange hooded eyes towards James, who dutifully sat down beside him. “That’s better.”

The old man cocked his head to one side, as if listening to something or someone James could not hear. After a moment, he said, “Uaimh Hill — the Hollow Hill, entrance to the Otherworld. Aptly named, don’t you think?”

“Who are you?” James asked again.

“Names can be confusing,” the old fellow replied, “and I have so many.”

“Pick one.”

He gave out a dry chuckle. “You are not afraid of me. Good.” He turned his face to the leaping flames and said, “Call me Embries. That will do until we get to know each other better.”

“All right, Mr. Embries. Suppose you tell me what you’re doing out here setting fire to the hills.”

“This is not the first beacon fire this hill has seen — far from it. The estate down there” — he gestured towards the castle grounds lost in the dark distance — “have you ever wondered why they call it
Blair
Morven?”

“Is that important?”

“It is the site of an ancient battlefield,” the old man replied. “Many good men hallowed that ground with their blood.” The way he said it made James think he was actually remembering the battle as he spoke — all the more since Embries seemed to lose touch with his surroundings for a moment. His eyes lost focus as he gazed into the fire, and his lips moved slightly. The moment passed, and he came to himself again.

“That was a long time ago,” Embries said somewhat wistfully, then added, “but the land remembers.”

Turning once more to the young man beside him, he said, “I know something that will be of use to you in your fight to save the estate, Captain Stuart.”

His use of the old rank sent a quiver of recognition through James, who dismissed it saying, “I’m not in the army anymore.”

“No, not anymore. But once a soldier… eh?” He smiled his ghostly smile.

“How do you know about my legal problems?” James asked, and then considered that almost everyone hereabouts knew about the trouble he was having holding on to the estate — at least, that part of the estate which had been given to his parents by the late Duke of Morven.