Flower of Scotland (8 page)
Read Flower of Scotland Online
Authors: William Meikle
The hallway was in darkness as he came down the stairs and the only sound was the squeak of his shoes on the old wooden boards. It was as he reached the bottom step that the hallway seemed to explode in bright, almost blinding, light, and the accompanying singing echoed loudly in his ears, a steadily rising chorus that threatened to lift off the top of his head.
Can you hear them? his father's voice cackled in his ear.
Through the glass panes of the door Jim could see movement: thin, almost skeletal, long-limbed and big headed, they cavorted and danced just beyond the doorstep.
Their song was enticing, promising happy days in golden fields and dancing under the moon. Isobel would have understood - she would have gone with them. But not Jim. Jim had responsibilities .Jim was made of sterner stuff. He wouldn't run away on a whim.
He picked up the only weapon available to him as the door rattled on its hinges and the voice in his head echoed in a loop.
Can you hear them?
Can you hear them?
Can you hear them?
It was the village postman who found him two days later. He had trudged all the way up to the house, leaving huge gouges in the deep, unbroken snow. When Jim didn't answer his knock he lifted the letterbox and peered through.
The sight sent him running and it was big Sandy McPherson, the local bobby, who actually broke open the locked door.
At first they thought it was a heart attack that had got the big farmer, but when they turned him over they found the true reason.
The last inch of a pencil protruded from his left ear, almost imperceptible amid the pool of congealed blood. Crumpled up in his left hand they found a note, but they would never understand its meaning.
There was only one word.
No.
~-oO0Oo-~
@greatcthulhu Feeling sleepy LOL! #ryleh
Darren was amused to see the Dreaming God turn up in his Twitter feed that January morning, amused enough to follow whoever had set it up. Over the next few weeks he noticed the handle turning up with increasing regularity. Somebody was having fun.
@greatcthulhu Hey @yogsototh Whassup dude? Tekeli-Li! LOL!
All over the world people joined in with the @greatcthulhu in conversation. Darren recognised a lot of the users from Mythos-based games and knew many of the writers from Lovecraftian anthologies and magazines. They all kept the joke going, re-tweeting @greatcthulhu to an ever wider audience.
The bulk of the traffic came through one particular hash-tag, #starrywisdom, and seemed to be concentrating on collecting information from world-wide sources on dreams, and in particular, dreams about the end of the world. Darren decided to play along.
@dazza Last night it was ice-giants and Ragnarok LOL Anyone else gone #viking? #starrywisdom
His expectations of any comeback were low; he only had a couple of dozen followers and his tweets were infrequent and rarely commented on. So he was pleasantly surprised the next morning to see that his follower count had risen to number fifty-two, and that @greatcthulhu was responsible.
@greatcthulhu Hey dude THX for the new dreamers at #viking. Y’all should be following @dazza
By mid afternoon Darren’s follower count had risen to the low hundreds and he was hooked on the rush. He started posting using hash-tags that he knew had large numbers of followers.
@dazza Hey #kindle #ebooks Check out #starrywisdom for some cool reading material
He checked his follower count before going to bed. It was over a thousand and rising fast.
He thought he was too excited to sleep. He was wrong. He dreamed.
He is alone, in a vast cathedral of emptiness where nothing exists save the dark and the boom of a pounding beat from below. Shapes move in the dark, wispy shadows with no substance, shadows that caper and whirl as their dance grows ever more frenetic.
He tastes salt water in his mouth, and is buffeted, as if by a strong, surging tide, but as the beat grows ever stronger he cares little. He gives himself to it, lost in the dance, lost in the dark.
He wanders, there in the space between. He forgets himself, forgets everything in a blackness where only the dance matters.
He woke to a crumpled, sweat-stained bed, upset that he had been taken out of the dream. But a ping from his laptop got his attention and seconds later the dream was forgotten as he read his Twitter follower number.
Five thousand? How high can it go?
The #starrywisdom tag was now showing as a trending topic, in the top ten of all subjects being discussed on Twitter. The @greatcthulhu handle seemed to be enjoying all the attention.
@greatcthulhu Any more of this and I might have to wake up early LOL! #starrywisdom
Darren spent the day tweeting to a large number of hash-tag topics, funneling more and more people towards the #starrywisdom topic. By the time he went to bed he had ten thousand followers on his own account, and #starrywisdom was the hottest topic in the Twitterverse.
He floats, mere shadow now, alongside tens of scores of others, in that cold silent sea. He has no thought for anything but the rhythm, the dance. Far below him, cyclopean ruins shine dimly in a luminescent haze. Columns and rock faces tumble in a non-Euclidean geometry that confuses the eye and brooks no close inspection. And something deep in those ruins knows he is there.
He dreams, of vast empty spaces, of giant clouds of gas that engulf the stars, of blackness where there is nothing but endless dark, endless quiet.
And while the slumbering god dreams, they dance for him, there in the twilight, dance to the rhythm.
He is
at peace.
Coming up out of the dream felt like surfacing through hundreds of feet of water. He woke, panting and exhausted, physically drained. But mentally his mind buzzed with new ideas for promoting #starrywisdom and he wasted no time in putting them into action. He didn’t even bother checking his own follower count. If he had, he’d have seen it was now over thirty thousand.
By late afternoon #starrywisdom was the hottest trending topic in Twitter history, with millions of people posting to the hash-tag, all of them including other tags in their posts, all of which further emboldened the @greatcthulhu poster.
@greatcthulhu 200K followers. Whoo-Hoo! #countdown brought forward. #starsareright
That next night Darren was at the keyboard for hours, posting a tweet every minute to as many new hash-tags as he could find. He also started to see new tags trending across the planet, all seemingly related to what he was doing. The #dance tag in particular got a lot of attention, with tens of thousands of people looking for information on a strange dream involving a great city deep under water and a dance in shadows.
At some level Darren knew he should be worried, and that something was spiraling out of control, something that had wormed its way into the Twitterverse and seemed intent on taking over. But as sleep took him he was thinking of yet more ways he could help #starrywisdom in the morning.
The dream is the same as before, but now there are many more shadows dancing with him, a host of shadows, numbering in the millions.
In the morning all the talk online was centered around #dance, and @greatcthulhu was being followed by over fifty per cent of all Twitter users. And that next night, in their dreams, they danced.
They float, mere shadow now, tens of millions of them in that cold silent sea.
And while the slumbering god dreams, they dance for him, there in the twilight, dance to the rhythm.
Everyone is
at peace.
Darren lay on his bed, fully clothed, eyes open but sound asleep. Fifty thousand people followed him on Twitter, but he would never know. He was lost, lost to the dance.
@greatcthulhu Wakey-wakey ROFLMAO #countdown=0. #dance #starsareright
~-oO0Oo-~
Julia really wanted to see a real Scotchman.
Edinburgh had been a big disappointment. Sir Walter Scott had led her to believe there would be cultured men in fine lace and kilts, young Lochinvars ready to sweep her off her feet and dance her away to a romantic retreat where she would be smothered in soft kisses. Instead all she got was grey streets, fog and the taste of stale beer on a drunkard’s lips.
Maybe Dundee will be better.
The signs were not proving good so far. The train clattered through a dark windy night that caused the carriages to sway alarmingly like a boat tossed by the waves. The sound assaulted her ears, and she yearned for the peace and quiet of their Chelsea drawing room. Pater only made things worse with his constant prattling about guns and shooting. When the other men in the carriage lit up their briar pipes in unison Julia excused herself and left for the relatively clearer air in the corridor.
She hoped for a view from a window, something to raise her spirits, a glimpse of some real Scotchmen, or even some of the scenery on the subject of which Scott had waxed so eloquently. But night had fallen since the train departed Edinburgh and any excitement Julia might have got at crossing the Forth was lost in the rain and dark. Nothing could be seen beyond the window but gray, interspersed with rivulets of water where rain splashed and was smeared by the wind.
Welcome to Scotland.
She had only thought it, but a dark figure standing where the carriages met turned towards her. He stood with a light behind him and his features lay in dark shadow. All she could tell was that he was tall, and dressed in what looked like an expensive woolen overcoat.
"Your first time here Miss?"
His voice was soft, almost timid, but Julia felt heat rising at her cheeks.
He’s a Scotchman.
Yet again, although she had not spoken, he seemed to guess her intent.
"That would be Scotsman," he said. "But no, I am only a visitor here."
"As am I," Julia replied, amazed at her own boldness. She looked back to the carriage. Pater was watching her closely, but he would not be able to see this stranger from where he sat.
If I keep my back to the carriage, Pater will never even know I am speaking.
"And how do you like this country?" the tall man said. His voice sounded somewhat muffled, as if coming from a much further distance.
"I like what I have seen of it just fine," she replied. "But I wish this dashed rain would ease."
"I like the rain," the man said. "And the wind. It reminds me that I am but a servant of the elemental, not a master."
What he said next was obscured as the train blasted through a short tunnel, but it had sounded like a series of numbers, ending in five and seventy.
"I’m sorry," she said. "I did not catch that."
He didn’t reply, merely stood stock still. Although she could not see his eyes she felt his gaze on her like a physical force, and once again she blushed.
Her embarrassment quickly turned to confusion as the man spoke again.
"Five and seventy, three score and fifteen, a long span come to a sudden end, as they all do, in darkness and turmoil. It’s coming yet, for a’ that."
She might have been so bold as to question the man about his meaning, but at that moment a conductor arrived in the corridor to check tickets, and when she turned back there was no sign of the tall stranger. She considered walking through to the next carriage to see where he had gone, but she knew that if she left Pater’s line of sight, for even a second, it would be noted and a reprimand would not be long behind.
She went reluctantly back in to join her Pater’s party. For almost an hour she kept a close eye on the corridor, but the tall man did not reappear. By the time the train stopped at Kirkcaldy she had almost given up hope.
Her dismay was doubled when three young men in tweeds and plus fours boarded and Pater invited them in to the carriage.
"Julia," he said as a youth with an overbite and a terrible case of acne sat opposite her. "I would like you to meet George Kerr. His father works with me in the City. He is to be your husband."
At first she thought she had misheard, but the look in Pater’s eye told her he was deadly serious. She knew better than to make a scene in company, and forced herself to sit through George’s, frankly embarrassing, attempts to prove his worth.
"I am so glad to finally meet you," the youth said. His voice, when compared to the gentle softness of the man in the corridor, felt like razors in her ears. "Your father has told me all about you."
Oh, I do hope not.
"Have you been on this line before?" he asked, and continued without waiting for a reply. "It’s a marvel of modern engineering. Our fathers helped build it you know?"
And without waiting again, he kept on flapping his lips. Julia tuned him out as he spent ten minutes telling her how much iron, stone and manpower went into the building of the new bridge at Dundee, the biggest, longest and most expensive ever built, and how an American President no less had called it ‘a big bridge for a small city’. That remark caused much hilarity among George and his companions, leading them to bray like excited horses.
I cannot marry such as this. But what am I to do? I must follow my Pater’s guide in these matters.
"We shall be at the bridge in thirty minutes or so," George said. "Isn’t it exciting?"
Julie couldn’t think of a suitable reply that would not seem disinterested, so she kept quiet. But she could not sit there any longer. When the train pulled in to Cupar station she excused herself, citing the need for air, and went to stand out in the corridor. A blast of cold wind came from an open exterior door, bringing with it the smell of rain. Now that the train was standing still at the platform the full force of the gale outside could be both heard and felt. The whole carriage rocked and reeled.
"Welcome to Scotland Miss," the soft voice said from her left. Once again he stood with the light at his back such that his face was hidden in shadow. "How are you enjoying it so far?"
She felt like running to him... throwing herself into his arms and be damned with the consequences. But she could almost feel Pater’s gaze at her back, holding her rigid in her place, defining the flow of her life for the long stretch of future to come.
"It is not what I imagined," she said softly.
"Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide," the tall man whispered in return.
"Do not tease me with Scott," she said, suddenly angry. "Not when Pater has betrothed me to... to..."
"I come in peace to dance at your bridal," he said, his voice like soft silk.
Julia was in no mood for games.
"What is it that you want of me sir?" she said, raising her voice to be heard above the wind that suddenly raised up a notch.
"What is it that you want of me?" the soft voice replied.
Her heart knew the answer, and beat ever faster. But Pater was still watching, and she could not bring herself to disobey him quite so openly.
Not yet.
A small voice had said that in her mind, but it seemed her tall companion had once more guessed her intentions.
"I will be here," he said. "I will always be here. Five and seventy, three score and fifteen, a long span come to a sudden end, as they all do, in darkness and turmoil. It’s coming yet, for a’ that."
She wanted to go to him, but Pater’s gaze continued to hold her.
The tall man acted for her. He moved forward, so close that she might touch him if she chose. She still could not see his face, but she felt his soft breath at her cheek as he leaned towards her and planted a kiss there, cold and dusty, but a kiss none the less.
She heard movement behind her and turned. Pater was already out of his seat and coming towards her. He pulled the carriage door open with such force that it slammed hard against the wall, the noise echoing in the corridor even above the wind.
"You must go," she said, then realized that her companion had already left. She looked up and down the corridor but there was no sign of him.
"Was that a man?" Pater hissed at her, the anger red in his face. "Was it?"
Pater dragged her back inside the carriage. As he pulled the door closed behind him the train pulled out of Cupar Station.
Over the next ten minutes Julia tried very hard to keep her attention on George but the youth just could not stop talking about himself; about his prowess at shooting, his ability to make money, his horses, his dogs, even his taste in leather footwear. She was already weary of him.
And Pater wants me to spend years like this?
George finally realized that he did not have Julia’s full attention, and the look of anger that crossed his face told her more than she needed to know about him. She resolved that she would have it out with Pater as soon as they were alone. She could never marry this boy.
Not when there is a man in the corridor waiting for me.
The thought came unbidden, but she found it to be most agreeable, and lost herself in a reverie of thoughts of soft voices and even softer kisses. She was brought back to harsh reality when Pater poked her in the ribs.
"What is the matter with you tonight girl? Young George here has asked you a question. Please at least have the good manners to answer him."
She blushed.
"I am sorry Pater," she said, the lie coming easily to her lips. "I was just excited at the thought of the bridge."
Across the carriage from her, George’s scowl turned quickly to a broad smile. He stood and reached for her hand.
"Then come. We are almost there. We shall watch from the window."
His hand felt like a cold sausage as he took her by the wrist and led her out to the corridor. Her tall companion was nowhere to be seen and she felt her heart sink.
George in the meantime had become as excited as a puppy at walk-time.
But far less endearing.
"It is a great wonder. The cylindrical cast iron columns supporting the long span of the bridge are each seventy five yards long, and Thomas Bouch received a knighthood for the design," he said. "Imagine. A knighthood."
She could indeed imagine. She was thinking of her tall stranger again.
There never was a knight like the young Lochinvar.
George failed to notice her lack of interest and led her to a window on the far side away from the wind and rain. Here the sound of the wheels on the rails was more audible, even above the storm.
George was still lost in his own monologue.
"We should see the lights of the city across the river from here. ‘Tis a pity it is so inclement. It is a fine view by moonlight."
There was a movement in the corridor behind them, little more than a slight dimming of the light, but Julia turned eagerly, anticipating her Lochinvar.
George tugged at her wrist, dragging her closer towards the window.
"What is the matter with you girl?"
The tone, the assumption of ownership so exactly mirrored that of her Pater that Julia pulled herself away, almost dragging them both off balance as the train lurched.
The wheels screeched on the rails and metal squealed.
The tall stranger was suddenly by her side, as if from nowhere. And now she could see his eyes, pale blue and infinitely sad in a dark skinned face that spoke of long days under the sun.
"Will you come lass? It is time. Five and seventy, three score and fifteen, a long span come to a sudden end, as they all do, in darkness and turmoil. It’s coming yet, for a’ that."
The carriage suddenly fell sidewards, throwing George and Julia off balance. She found herself in the arms of the stranger, suddenly warm and cosy.
"What is it that you want of me?" he whispered.
She looked at George, who was too busy clinging desperately to a wildly swaying door to pay her any attention.
"The poor craven bridegroom said never a word," the tall stranger intoned, and laughed, a sound so sweet that Julia could not help but laugh along with him.
"Yes, I will come," she said, just as the window behind them fell in with a crash of glass. She blinked, just once, then seemed to be looking down from a great height. The train was halfway across a long bridge, and already falling from the rails. Tall towers of iron buckled and bent in the wind, throwing metal and stone down to the foaming waters far below.
She remembered George’s words.
The cylindrical cast iron columns supporting the long span of the bridge are each seventy five yards long.
"Five and seventy, three score and fifteen, a long span come to a sudden end, as they all do, in darkness and turmoil," her companion whispered.
She lay her head against his chest, listening to the thrum of his wings against the wind.
"Now tread we a measure," she said softly, as the Tay Bridge fell into the river far below.
