Portent (31 page)

    A creeping pink flush was beginning to colour the darkness behind the faraway hills and a breeze snagged at his thin jacket. He waited a moment, his own sound logic questioning his motives; such reasoning soon passed, however, and he moved on, walking through the hotel's car park around to the front of the building where he and Diane had left the hire car the evening before. He climbed in, switched on, and reversed out into the main road. He headed north-west.

    The Great Glen was formed some 350 million years ago when the land convulsed and split from coast to coast, the upper mass slipping more than sixty miles to the south-west. The long valley that was created was filled by the waters of Ness, Oich, Lochy and Linnhe, these lochs later linked from sea to sea by the Caledonian Canal. There are smaller though no less impressive lochs among the mountains and glens that govern the great divide, these mainly along the north-west edge, and it was into this beautifully wild hinterland that Rivers drove. Ironically, the particular loch he headed for was close to the areas he, Diane and Josh, had already searched, although it was even more off the beaten track. The road he travelled was rough and stone-patched, its course through forest of pine and birch crooked and dipped.

    The sun had not yet crested the ragged horizon and in the grey darkness Rivers needed all his attention to negotiate some of the sharper turns along the route. He was forced to brake sharply on rounding one of the more acute turns when he came upon a red stag blocking the narrow roadway. Proud head, with its fine spread of antlers, cocked, it regarded the bright lights of the car without alarm but with some curiosity. Rivers waited patiently, for he considered the deer had more right to this path than he, and when the animal's interest was satisfied and its authority asserted, it wandered off to mount the slope with short, twisting leaps. Soon it had disappeared from view, only the sharp thrash of leaves indicating its progress. Within a minute, even the sounds were gone.

    The moment had given Rivers another chance for reflection. But he ignored it. He transferred his foot from brake to accelerator and the vehicle trundled forward again, its progress slow as it bumped over ridges and tilted into dips. He realized he did not want to analyse the situation, that he did not want to ponder the rationality of this journey for fear that the certitude of his instinct might be disturbed by considered thought.

    He came upon the loch he was searching for almost by surprise. One moment he was driving alongside a small, swift-flowing river, the next, the sky having lightened, he saw that the landscape had opened up to reveal a long loch stretching into the distance, contained by steep hills on one side and a mixture of hills and slopes on the other. Both boundaries were filled with mixed woodlands or dark shades of heather and bracken. An old bridge on his left crossed the river, but there was no allure for him in that' direction, no compulsion to cross; he kept to the road he was on, passing the bridge without a second glance.

    The wooded area on his right quickly gave way to inclines of moorland and as the sky began to lighten he caught glimpses of small dark shapes, rabbits these, hopping from grass tussock to tussock. Occasionally he heard the bleating of sheep, or passed a lonely whitewashed house set back off the road, lights on in only one to suggest someone other than himself was about at that unholy hour.

    The loch seemed endless as he drove doggedly onwards, his speed slow not because of the unevenness of what by now was no more than a rough track, but because he was looking for some sign that would tell him he'd reached his destination, whether it be a suggestion in his mind or a biding figure by the roadside. But no such intimation or sign came to him and doubts allied with reason began to declare themselves. His confidence faltered and he started to wonder if he might be undergoing some peculiarly lucid form of 'sleep-walking', a semiconscious continuance of his dream. Once more he brought the car to a halt, this time leaving it to stand on the grass verge.

    The breeze that had begun to unfurl the mists over the loch stirred the reeds, their rustlings coming to Rivers like cautionary whispers. The heads of white cotton-grass leading down to the water's edge bobbed and swayed as the light wind passed through them, and Rivers felt its sharpness as it ruffled his hair, its keen aroma carried inland from the northern seas. He shivered as he looked about him, searching the lake, the hills, the moorland for he knew not what. The bleak call of the curlew reached him, but he failed to see the bird itself.

    'What am I doing here?' he murmured aloud as if full consciousness had only just arrived to catch him unawares. But he knew this to be self-deception, for his actions thus far had been acceptable to him if not understood, and guidance had come from an intangible yet insistent source that drew him to it like some transcendent beacon. The assertion returned, too stealthy for conviction, yet persuasive enough to cast aside his doubts.

    Woodland once more closed down the panorama on this side of the lake, and Rivers peered into the shadows under the trees as he drove on, nervous of his own impulse and perhaps even afraid of what he might find. In a perverse way, he was glad of the pain in his leg, for it offered a reality to what otherwise might be mistaken for a dream.

    Open land again, and black-faced ewes watched his progress from the slopes. Through the car's open windows came the scent of bog-myrtle and heath flowers, and peewits dived suicidally across his path in their morning search for sustenance.

    He stopped by a small fank-a sheepfold-at the side of the track, for beyond it stood the shell of an old building. No doubt at one time it had been a crofter's cottage, solidly built with ancient stone and firm against the elements, but now dilapidated with half its corrugated-iron roof blown away and its windows glassless voids. He left the car and limped towards the ruin, not because he thought this place might be his destination, but because his bladder was full and this humble abode would provide privacy. He scolded himself for such an unwarranted concern in an area so deserted, but nevertheless, his modesty prevailed. The interior was dank and unpleasant, the floor littered with wood and rubble, so he made his way round to the rear of the building, stumbling awkwardly over debris and twice straining his knee slipping off damp stones. The wind hurled itself at him with some gusto as he turned a comer and he touched the rough wall for balance. Satisfied he was well out of sight from the track, he unzipped and began to urinate, the breeze untangling the flow and spreading it so that it spattered the wall and ground. He angled his body to avoid being splashed himself and as he did so, something in the distance caught his eye.

    The mists had all but gone from the loch and lower slopes of the hills by now, and just beyond the far end of the great stretch of water a tiny pinpoint of light glowed.

    At that distance he could not judge its size or shape, but it seemed to have some strength, for its brightness was clear and unwavering. A lamp, a lighted window? Rivers doubted it, for the distance between did not seem to weaken it-at all. A small mirror reflecting the sun's rays might have been the answer, except that the sun was still dawn-pink and this light was almost white. Rivets became afraid: such light had terrible connotations to him. Could it be the same, a harbinger of disaster, a portent of something cataclysmic? No, no, that was absurd. The thing was too far away to tell, and besides, it was perfectly still, unlike the mysterious ball of light he'd observed from the research aircraft just before the crash. It could be anything-a powerful torch, a single headlight. He told himself this, but somehow was not convinced.

    He straightened and wiped his hands on his jeans. What the hell, there was no going back now. Besides, the light might be a beacon of some kind, a guide for him. Rivers returned to the car and looked back along the loch to find the light had disappeared. Maybe the angle of vision had changed, he told himself, and the light was hidden behind trees or hills. He drove off, keeping the rough locale of where the light had been clear in his own mind.

    The sun held more sway over the sea-blown breeze by the time Rivers reached the end of the track; it warmed the air currents and brightened the underbellies of the clouds that swept high over the landscape. He found a flat area, probably a vehicle turning point, and swung the car into it, switching off the engine but remaining in his seat for a few moments to take note of his surroundings. Something small dashed through the long couch grass and heather nearby, startling him with its thrashing. He settled back and reached into his jacket, taking out the pill bottle and unscrewing the lid as he looked around. He swallowed two tablets, then lit a cigarette. What now? he asked himself silently.

    'What the fuck now?' he said aloud.

    The loch became a narrow stream at this point, hills of mixed woodland rising up from its banks to define its route. There were moorlands to his right, these soon became steeper heather-clad slopes and hills. There were no buildings, nor any light, in sight.

    He finished the cigarette outside the car, the smoke whipped away instantly by the strong breeze funnelling through the river valley. He turned a complete circle, searching back down the loch, over to the other shore, following the course of the river, and then back to the open moorland where he stood, all the while studying each piece of territory intently, looking for a sign, anything at all that would give a hint of which direction to take. Exasperated, he dropped the remains of the cigarette and ground it into the dirt with his foot.

    Although his visual search had provided no answer, he decided to make for higher ground in the hope he would be able to see further. He began climbing the gentle rise of the moorland.

    It was rough going and he regretted having left his walking-cane back at the hotel. The ground was firm one moment, pitted the next, and his progress was both painful and laborious. More than once one of his feet became immersed in water and he soon learned to move from tussock to tussock as the rabbits he'd observed earlier had.

    His advance was erratic because of it, but with every few steps he paused to scan the hillsides, often turning round to look back down towards the loch itself. He leapt across a fast-flowing hill bum, its water almost clear amber from the peat it had filtered through, and when he landed on the other side he gasped at the pain that shot through his weakened knee. He bent over it, clasping the joint with both hands, his eyes shut tight.

    He stayed that way until the pain eased, then fumbled for more painkillers, even though it was too soon to take them. Kneeling, he scooped up water from the burn to wash down the pills, then rubbed the dampness over his face as he stood upright once more.

    Other than this beautifully wild terrain, there was nothing to see-no house, no people, not even an animal in sight. Nothing but a dark speck wheeling in the cloudy sky.

    The bird swooped, its broad wings flattening to ride the air-streams.

    It was hopeless, Rivers decided. He'd been drawn to this impressive yet empty place by the vagaries of his own mind, his dream, and his subsequent response to it, no doubt encouraged-or induced-by the events and the discussions of the past week. He'd been a bloody fool to follow such a nonsensical impulse.

    The bird was headed in his direction. Its wings, caught by the sun, were golden brown.

    Rivers was undecided. Return to the hotel, where perhaps by now Diane would be waiting anxiously, or look further? But look for what? There was nothing here, for God's sake. Just hills, and mountains in the distance, a great loch meandering away from him, its far end out of sight. He shook his head in despair. His journey had been so definite, so…

    The flapping of the bird's great wings overhead caused him to wheel about and look towards it. The golden eagle flew past him with an easy grace that belied its speed. It dropped low and disappeared behind a ridge just twenty or thirty yards ahead of him.

    Rivers remembered the eagle of his dream and it was this thought that drove him to scramble up the steeper incline, grabbing tufts of grass to pull himself forward. The ridge was not particularly high, but it was deceptive when viewed from the track below, for although the rise was gentle at first, it suddenly veered upwards at an angle, screening what lay beyond it.

    He was on his knees when he reached the crest, panting hard with the effort and the pain it caused; such discomfort was soon forgotten when he discovered what nestled in the shallow dip of land beyond.

    The walls of the crofter's cottage were of rough granite and whinstone, its roof of weathered blue slate. It was a solid, single storey structure with a line of rowan trees protecting its western flank, and a metal water-butt standing at one comer. A single blackened window faced him and a door, open and just as black, was next to it. There was no light, and no sign of occupancy.

    Rivers felt his body go cold, and it had nothing to do with the stiffer breeze on the exposed ridge; this was a coldness from within, a chill that prickled at the inside of his flesh. This was the place, he was certain. This was where he would be given answers to the mysteries that had plagued him not just over the past few days, but since the crash of the research aircraft. He did not understand why he was certain, but then he did not even understand what had drawn him here. Perhaps that, too, would be answered inside. He hoisted himself over the ridge and limped towards the old dwelling, his eyes focused on the dark, open doorway.

    He called as he approached, not wishing to startle anyone who might be in there-and perhaps wanting to be confronted while he was still a distance away. No one came to the door, nor answered his call.

    He noticed the eagle again, beyond the rooftop of the house, a fly-speck once more, disappearing towards the far horizon of hills. He briefly wondered if the sighting of the great bird was no more than a coincidence, or if this too was part of the mystery, a dream vision materialized to lead him here. A little while ago he would have laughed at the idea.