Shiver (10 page)

A stiff breeze blew across the surface of the snow, whipping up powdery spirals that danced and zigzagged towards them. The two boys stared out at the frozen wastes, afraid to admit to each other that they were well and truly lost. The hills around them were eerily empty. The lowering cloud had removed all landmarks, and the blizzard had obliterated all trace of their own footsteps, so that they couldn’t even see where they had come. They had come too far and they knew it. They had disobeyed the sensible rules of conduct, which apply when it comes to walking in the Scottish hills. People died up here. Both boys knew this.

Samuel breathed on his gloved fingers to keep them warm, glancing across at Sebastian.

They wandered about helplessly for a bit, making sure not to lose sight or hold of each other, for that would have been fatal indeed. To be alone in this frozen waste did not bear thinking about. They had obviously wandered in the wrong direction when the blizzard came down, and had strayed further and further from Dunadd.

“I haven’t got a clue where we are,” Sebastian called.

“Me neither. Maybe when the blizzard clears …” Samuel suggested vaguely.

But the weather didn’t seem to want to oblige. It had no
intention of blowing itself out, but raged on and on, until a new threat lingered. It began to get dark. Night was fast approaching.

“We need to find somewhere to shelter,” Sebastian stated.

Samuel nodded, too weary and exhausted to do anything else.

They struggled on through the anonymous landscape, aware that they were much higher than they should be. Sebastian knew he had a box of matches in his pocket. He could feel it digging into his trouser leg. If they could just find somewhere to shelter. He regretted now leaving the graveyard behind and the little ruined chapel. They could have sought refuge inside its walls, broken as they were. It would at least have offered some respite, from the wind and the chill.

Suddenly he was aware that Samuel had stopped. For one awful moment, he panicked, thinking he’d lost him.

“What? What is it?”

“Look here,” Samuel called. He had almost missed it as they waded through the swirling eddying curtain of snow, but here, set in the hillside, was an overhang of rock, and beneath it was a cave.

They ventured inside and immediately found themselves somewhat protected from the biting wind. The snow was falling in such a way that it didn’t penetrate the opening. They struggled further in on their hands and knees. Neither spoke. This was survival at its worst. They knew their lives depended on their own skill, and both of them were concentrating on seeing out the night without perishing in the cold. Sebastian took out the box of matches with trembling fingers. Samuel
watched him in silence, then found some brushwood at the back of the cave … just enough to start a fire. Sebastian struggled to handle the spindly sticks, but finally the match took, and he held the tiny flame to the gathered scrub and rubbish in the corner, whatever they could salvage for a fire. It flared up for a few seconds, then crackled away merrily. The boys huddled close, the bright light playing over their faces in the gloom.

“It won’t last long,” Sebastian said.

In response, Samuel pulled another bundle of tinder from the back. At some point, someone had cleared the land nearby of bracken and fern, thorn and scrub, dumping it unceremoniously at the back of the cave. Either that, or it had been swept there over time, by wind and weather, after the local shepherd had left the stuff in a tidy pile. It’s what usually happened with anything left lying on the moor.

The boys were miserable and frightened.

“You know what it says in my survival handbook, don’t you?” Samuel said. “We need each other’s body warmth to stay alive.”

They wrapped their arms about each other, and tended the little fire as best they could.

“And we mustn’t fall asleep,” Sebastian warned. “Whatever you do, don’t close your eyes.”

But it was hard not to, with the fusty warmth beginning to fill the cave. The rocky overhang protected them from the worst of the bitter wind, but they were frozen. Their mutual body warmth was helping. They just had to survive the night.

“If we can make it till morning,” Sebastian said, “the
blizzard might have stopped, and we can find our way home.”

But the morning seemed a million miles away, and meanwhile they felt utterly desolate, wondering if they would ever see their homes again, or if they would die here, mummified in a frozen tomb until someone found them in the spring.

When dawn at last penetrated their temporary den, they couldn’t believe they had made it. They were still alive. Back at the house, they knew their families must be fearing the worst, for who could survive a night like that out in the open? It was still early. The sun rose above the edge of the moor, chasing the shadows away and sparkling on the blanket of snow, which rippled and undulated as far as the eye could see. The rising sun stained the far hills pink and blue, and even in their terrible state, they couldn’t help noticing its beauty. It was a miraculous dawn for the two boys.

Sebastian peered out from the mouth of the cave. “It’s stopped snowing,” he announced, unnecessarily. The blizzard had worn itself out or gone elsewhere, leaving behind a transformed landscape.

“What now?” Samuel asked.

Sebastian shrugged. “Start heading for home?”

They peered all around them: endless white in all directions, with no sign of Dunadd House.

“I suppose if we just keep heading downwards, we can’t go wrong,” Sebastian murmured. “What d’you think?”

Samuel shrugged. They were reluctant to leave the relative warmth and shelter of their cave. It had been a long night, fearing the worst, facing whatever demons had confronted
them. They had needed all their strength and bravery to survive it. Emerging into the open, they began their walk as the light grew brighter in the sky.

It was hard-going. They weren’t really sure which direction they were heading in. They might have missed Dunadd altogether and be heading for a different part of Sheriffmuir entirely. They had no way of knowing. Nothing looked familiar. There was no sign of the little ruined chapel, nor its huddle of neglected graves. The hills were a confusing place, especially when covered in snow. You could end up going in circles for hours, never getting to where you needed to be.

But the boys kept going. The wind had whipped across the surface of the snow all night, drifting, so that their own footprints had disappeared, as well as any others that might have been of help. They struggled on in the direction they hoped Dunadd House lay, using the position of the sun as a vague guide.

Finally, halfway through the morning, after what seemed like an eternity of wading through endless white, Samuel stopped and pointed. He could see the rise of Dunadd Wood below them, and beyond that, a familiar tower peeping above the trees. Dunadd House sat like a ship on an ocean, indomitable … waiting for them.

They began to run in their relief, leaping over the drifts and dunes of snow. At the same moment they heard a helicopter circling in the sky above them. They stood still and waved their arms above their heads.

In the sky above, the helicopter banked and swung round, returning the way it had come. The pilot and one of his
companions pointed to where they could see two tiny dark figures stumbling through the snow, laughing and crying with relief. The boys had been spotted. The rescue was called off.

The whole family were at the breakfast table when they heard the commotion outside. No one had any appetite. Granny had insisted on putting down some toast and cereal, but the children toyed with it, and both Isabel and Chris had point-blank refused to eat. The helicopter was making a terrific din overhead, whipping up the snow into sparkling spirals on the ground outside. Then they heard other noises – shouts, laughter and whooping.

Fiona leapt up and ran to the window, where she saw her brother and her best friend, running and stumbling towards the house, almost falling over in their haste and exhaustion.

“They’re here,” she screamed, shouting over her shoulder to the rest of them. “It’s Samuel and Seb. They’ve come home.” She flung open the door and ran across the snow towards them, with the helicopter circling like an eagle above them.

The household erupted. Everyone was talking at once. Isabel almost fainted with relief, and Granny had to revive her with old-fashioned, but still effective, smelling salts. Isabel spluttered and coughed.

“Are you trying to kill me?”

Charles laughed, patting Granny on the shoulder.

The news was put out that the boys had turned up, safe and sound, and a wave of relief swept through the entire household, extending to the local community beyond. At the
inn they received the news with a cheer, for the worst had been feared and everyone had been dreading the morning and what they might find. The nightmare was over.

Almost …

“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you walking towards the house,” Fiona cried. “I wasn’t sure if it was really you.”

“How on earth did you manage?” Chris murmured, administering hot cups of tea and blankets. Samuel and Sebastian didn’t think they’d ever been more delighted to see a lit stove in their lives before. Granny threw the metal door open, and they sat before the Aga, pulling their chairs up close to benefit from the glowing heat within.

“We found a cave,” Samuel said. “We didn’t think we’d last the night.”

“We tried to build a small fire, but it didn’t last long, so we kept close for warmth.”

“And tried not to fall asleep.”

“And did you?” Fiona asked.

“I don’t remember.”

“Leave the boys alone, Fiona,” her mother urged. “They must be tired.”

Although explanations would be required later.

“Whatever possessed you Sebastian?” his mother demanded at last, her temper getting the better of her finally. “Wandering off like that in this weather?”

“We were looking for something.”

“So your brother said. Looking for a graveyard or some such nonsense …”

Isabel was gazing at Samuel as if she thought he might melt away before her very eyes. All those long hours spent in
her studio, partially neglecting him while she worked away at her art, and now she felt as if she never wanted to lose sight of him again.

“I’m such a bad parent,” she sobbed, in relief and gratitude.

“Don’t be silly, Isabel,” Chris scolded her gently. “You’re not a bad parent. We all do our best. It’s all we can do.”

“Tch!” Granny said. “Don’t take on so. The boys are safely home now and let’s be thankful for that. It could have all turned out very differently.”

“Yes, yes, Granny,” Chris Morton said, trying to change the subject.  “Well, I must say you were very sensible in taking shelter like that. You did the right thing in the circumstances.”

Questions would have to be asked … and answered, but one thing was certain … whatever else the children told their parents in explanation, there was one piece of information they still weren’t ready to impart … the appearance of Eliza Morton and her timid little brother. Despite everything, they didn’t want to give Mrs Morton any reason to leave Dunadd. The recent crisis itself was enough to be going on with.

Samuel was bundled up in blankets and Isabel was determined to sweep him off back to the cottage as soon as possible, but he refused.

“I want to stay here,” he said, “for now.”

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Chris suggested. “I’ll make up a bed for you in a spare room,” she told Isabel. “You can stay here too, obviously.” For it was clear that there was absolutely no way that Isabel was leaving the house without her son.

“Questions can wait until the morning,” Chris Morton said.

Fiona and Charles were not prepared to wait that long before finding out what had happened to the boys.

“Where were you?” Fiona asked him, once they were alone.

Samuel shook his head. “I haven’t a clue. We were so lost. At first it was fine … we found the ruined chapel.”

“And their graves too,” Sebastian cut in.

“You did?” Fiona and Charles listened in amazement, as the boys described scraping the snow off the sandstone to reveal the names of John and Eliza Morton.

“It gave the dates of their births and deaths,” Samuel said. “But nothing else.”

“Nothing?” Fiona repeated, in disappointment. “There was nothing about how they might have died … no affectionate message from their loving relatives …?”

Samuel shook his head. “No. Just the bare brutal facts. But it’s a plague graveyard, alright. There are skull and crossbones on most stones.”

“How do we explain any of this to our mothers?” Fiona sighed.

“We don’t,” Charles said. “Not yet.”

The others silently agreed.

All was quiet in the house. After the excitement of the past few hours, everyone was at last sleeping. Eliza paused at the head of the staircase and surveyed the gloom beneath her. She loved the chaos she created, the fear she inspired.

The blizzard had left a completely white moor behind. Eliza could see it all shining beyond the window, where the house cast its great black shadow against the snow. The boys had settled down to their cosy comfortable lives again, after their adventure. Eliza envied them. Their life was so simple compared with her lonely fate. She had only her brother for company and he cried most of the time. He still missed their mother, although their mother was long since dead. Nothing could bring her back. Not the way
they
had come back … she and John.

If they opened those graves where our names are carved
, Eliza thought – and had said as much to Fiona –
they would find no bodies. Just empty graves. Our bodies were flung into a plague pit, a communal grave where no one knew our identities. Rich and poor alike were flung there; tossed without care or ceremony
. These were her terrible thoughts, her terrible memories, as she drifted from floor to floor, claiming the house as her own.

The little girl was learning to entertain herself. She was
playing tricks, having some fun.

When she heard someone approach on the staircase beneath, she melted back into the shadows, ethereal and weightless. She managed to blend softly with the air around her. It was quite a skill and she was getting rather good at it.

Chris Morton was climbing the stairs back to her room, her tread heavy with fatigue. She had been downstairs to fetch a glass of milk, after being woken by a nightmare of some kind. The little girl watched in silence.

She was fascinated by mothers and the idea of mothers, especially since she and her brother had been without one for so long. She had had occasion to observe that the children who lived in this house seemed to be well cared for. They didn’t have to cry themselves to sleep at night, nor comfort a little brother who wouldn’t stop wailing.

Making herself invisible, Eliza drifted as close as she dared to Chris Morton and stared right through her. For a moment Mrs Morton felt a cold chill pass through her body. She dropped her cup by mistake and it smashed against the floor.

“Oh,” she cried, and began to dab at her dressing-gown with a tissue. “How clumsy.”

She cleared up the mess as best she could and retreated to her room, but as she closed the door behind her, she was almost sure she saw a child’s shadow slip sideways across the hall. Pausing for a moment, she shook her head. She must be imagining things, she decided, and went wearily towards her bed.

However, she spent a restless night, her thoughts returning
to the past. How strange that they should have found a secret staircase in that very room: the library which she had always feared. Since her husband’s untimely death, she had brought up her three children all alone in this great house, determined to stay put for posterity’s sake, despite the loneliness and isolation. She loved it, in a way … she did … but it had its drawbacks.

One of those drawbacks was hovering outside the door right now, although Chris Morton did not know it. Eliza floated, bodiless almost, across the hall to Fiona’s room. She would not wake them this time. No, the house was all hers. This family might think they owned it: they slept in its beds, occupied its rooms, ate from its tables, warmed themselves before its fires … but it really belonged to her and her little brother, John. They possessed the house in a way that no living being could ever understand. They knew the way that every stair creaked, the worn tread on a polished board, the touch and feel of a solid doorknob beneath the hand. They had memorized it all, feeling it now through their papery bodies, as if they were books full of information, containing every nuance and domestic detail of Dunadd House. Her brother John was reluctant to join her on these jaunts of hers, but he would … in time. She would encourage him slowly.

She looked up to see a familiar figure standing at the end of the corridor, staring at her.

John.

She floated towards him, lightly taking his hand. “We are here to stay,” she whispered to her brother. “This is our house, John. No one else’s. It belongs to thee and me.”

John gazed at her. He relied on Eliza. She was his mentor, his only friend. The only person he could turn to when he
was sad. And he was sad … all the time.

“What will we do now?” he asked, his voice so small and fragile in the silence.

Eliza looked at him and laughed. “That which we have always done. We wait. We watch and we wait …”

Below them, the grandfather clock marked the passage of time, its notes filling the void.