Flower of Scotland Page 3

  I was reluctant to leave the warmth, but the mulled wine was serving its purpose, heating me from within, and Robert had a right to hear - he was the one who had sent me on my way all those years ago.

  I did not bore him with details of the journey itself. It had been slow, it was mainly dull, and that was not what he wanted to hear anyway.

  ‘It was where the Knights of Malta said it would be,’ I said, and the act of saying it sent my mind back, so that although I was talking to Robert, I was almost dreaming of the events in that distant land, in that dark and forbidding tomb.

  We had been at the site for nearly six months, with little company but the dirt and heat and the flies. The temple had long ago been covered by sand - buried by the wrath of Allah according to the locals I had employed to aid me. With diligence and much back-breaking work we had slowly uncovered its splendour: its massive columns and the fine mosaics of its floor, the dry, dead ruins of a glorious past.

  Finding the entrance to the catacomb had been more difficult, but I had the drawing which Robert had given me and, one evening, just as the stars were bursting into the sky, I found myself standing in front of a black hole leading down into the earth.

  I did not want to go in. I have never been one for scurrying around in holes - that was more for Robert - but if the promised treasure was within, I was going to have to go and get it. Too much depended on me for it to be thrown away on a sudden chill and a sense of foreboding.

  The natives refused to go with me. I was left alone with only a single, smoking oil lamp as I put my foot over the threshold.

  The flickering lamp sent shadows dancing over the walls like scampering, capering devils and my feet disturbed small clouds of dust to float, wraith-like, in the air before me. Rough-hewn steps led me down to where the darkness was thicker, and the silence fell over me like a shroud.

  Great stone coffins lined the walls, the stone figures sleeping above the mortal remains of the great knights, the lamplight flickering in grey-black eye sockets. I tried not to think of the years that had passed since anyone had walked among the dead.

  I struggled to peer through the gloom, the light from the lamp barely reaching the walls. Then I caught it - the barest gleam of red, as if answering my own faint light. As I got closer the glow intensified until its source was revealed, the great figure recumbent upon a coffin that I knew for certain was empty.

  It was just as the knight had said. The carving was so life-like that I had the feeling the great man could sit up and greet me, and there, in the gloom of that place, it did not seem too unlikely an occurrence.

  The red glow deepened around the carved chest as I approached, and I suddenly felt warm - hot and sticky with sweat.

  It was there, on top of the coffin, the small iron lattice enclosing the object of my quest, and the source of the red glow.

  I was finding it difficult to breathe, and my feet did not want to take me any closer, but I forced myself onwards.

  Suddenly there was a creak, a rasp of stone against stone, and I had a vision of the tombs behind me opening and their long-dead occupants pulling themselves out of their sleep, skeletal arms reaching for me.

  I took what I had come for and left hastily, grateful to get back out into the cool night.

  ‘So the temple was there.’ Robert said, talking to himself. ‘Just where they said it would be.’ He looked up at me, and there were tears in his eyes. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For myself, for my ancestor who you have vindicated, and for future generations of Scotsmen who will know you as a hero.’

  He looked like he wanted to say more, but he turned away from me, ashamed of his tears. I was about to reach out for him when a huge hand grasped me by the shoulder. I turned to see Jamie’s wide-eyed, slack-mouthed grin - he had drunk too much, but that was part of what him Jamie - I would have expected no less from him.

  ‘So laddie,’ he said to Robert, ‘Are you satisfied? Are you going to have your wee show?’

  Robert merely nodded. ‘Aye. It is time. Come with me.’

  I was confused. ‘What is this all about?’ I asked Jamie as we followed Robert’s bent figure. He wouldn’t answer at first and I had to ask him again before he deigned to reply.

  ‘Robert has found a use for yon trinket of yours,’ he said.

  ‘But I thought it was to be a symbol,’ I said. ‘A focus for the clans in the battles.’

  ‘Aye,’ Jamie said. ‘It’ll be a focus all right - but if what wee Robert has in mind comes to pass, it will be more than that - much more.’

  He would not say any more as led me further from the fire, towards the door. I had one last look backwards as we left the room, but the rest of the occupants seemed to be pointedly ignoring us, trying too hard not to note our passing.

  The snow hit me full in the face as the door closed behind me, and the wind howled its rage in my ears. Far below the waves beat hungrily at the cliffs, flecks of white spume being flung high to mingle with the white, dancing flakes of the storm.

  ‘A fine night for it.’ Jamie bellowed in my ear. Even his great voice was torn away by the wind. I was unable to reply - I was having too much trouble fighting the wind to bother with speech. We followed Robert through the grounds of the castle to the chapel at the east-end, high above the sucking sea below.

  A great oak door, some four inches thick, swung shut behind us as we entered, shutting out all sounds of the storm and leaving us alone in thick, quiet darkness. Robert struck a light and at first all I could see was his face, lit from underneath by the candle, its light throwing the upper half of his face into deep, black shadow.

  It was only when my eyes became accustomed to the darkness that I realised what was about to occur.

  The windows of the chapel had been covered in thick, green velvet drapes, and all the wooden seats had been removed from the room, leaving only empty boards on the floor before the altar. On the floor, a circle within a circle had been drawn, circles surrounded by dense Hebrew script. A five-pointed star was inscribed inside the inner circle, and a candle was placed at each point of the star.

  I felt a chill settle in my bones, but it was answered by a sudden burst of heat from the thing around my neck.

  ‘It it time,’ Robert said. ‘Fetch it out, Donald.’

  The red light blazed between my fingers as I opened my vest and took the chain from around my neck. I handed it to Robert, who took it gingerly between his thumb and forefinger as if it might burn him.

  ‘Remember,’ he said to both of us, ‘you must not enter the circle until the conjuration is complete.’

  Jamie and I nodded in unison. It was not the first summoning we had attended - but I had the feeling it was going to be the most memorable.

  It grew perceptibly colder as Robert steeped into the circle, and I realised that I missed the comfort of the ancient chain around my neck. It had been with me for a long time. As if in answer to my thoughts the red glow blazed up one final time before fading. Robert raised his hands towards the roof and began to chant.

  Elohim do battle for me in the name of Tetragrammaton.

  Malachim protect me in the name of Jod He Vau He.

  Seraphim cleanse me in the name of Elvoih.

  Hajoth a Kadosh, cry, speak, roar, bellow.

  Lion of the North, be with me.’

  Robert was enveloped in a red glow, a glow that grew and spread from the object on the chain, a glow that moulded itself into a form around a body, obscuring his features as it deepened and took on shape.

  Robert seemed to expand; his back straightening and his chest filling out, his face melting and running like wax from a candle.

  He groaned, a loud moan of pain, and Jamie moved to step forward. I only just stopped him in time - it would have been death for us all had he crossed the circle then.

  Both Robert and the source of the glow had disappeared inside the growing shape in front of us, and as the shape coalesced it formed the figure of a man - gigantic of stature and imperious in
his stance. His blue eyes stared unblinkingly at us, and we stared back, struck dumb by the vision.

  ‘Well?’ he finally said. His accent was strong, but the meaning of his words came through. ‘Why have you called me here?’

  He had the bearing of a soldier, and his voice held a tone of command, so much so that my legs were trembling and my tongue felt as if it was struck in my palate. Jamie had no such trouble.

  ‘We need you, Sir - your country needs you - these are perilous times in your homeland.’

  The figure threw back his head and laughed - a great bellowing sound that shook the whole room.

  ‘Hs it come to this? Have you become so weak?

  He laughed again, and I felt like cowering before him. Jamie was becoming angry.

  ‘You cannot deny us. We need the old strength.’

  ‘You would command me?’ the figure said, his voice low, his eyes flashing angrily. ‘You cannot live in the past. Each generation must fight their battles alone. Live for now, not for a time that will never return. Leave me in peace - I have long ago played my part in this mummery.’

  The red glow began to fade - imperceptibly at first, but soon we could see Robert’s tortured frame writhing in its midst.

  ‘No!’ Jamie shouted.

  Before I could stop him, he stepped forward into the circle. And Hell came to Dunnotar.

  The red cloud writhed and flowed, enveloping Jamie in its folds like a huge velvet cloak. The great door blew open, metal screaming as the massive hinges were torn from their places, the wind howling as the door fell to the floor with a thunderclap crash. Within the circle the cloud was shrinking, smaller, then smaller still, the figures within shrinking along with it. The last thing I heard before silence fell was Jamie’s voice falling away into the distance, pleading over and over for mercy.

  I was left alone in a suddenly silent room. All that was left in the circle was the ancient chain, still carrying its contents, which were gleaming like a fiery ember.

  I stepped into the circle, muscles tensed in expectation of attack. But none came, and there was only the sound of the wind as I lifted the chain and walked into the night.

  I thought of the past, of the great victory over Edward’s army, of the Earl of Douglas taking this same chain to the Crusades, of the centuries it had lain in its tomb. In the distance I imagined I heard the marching drums of the English Army as I raised my arm and sent the heart of the Bruce to its final resting place.

  ~-oO0Oo-~

  Habit

  Coma.

  That was the only word I heard while doctors and nurses tried to stem the life bleeding from my wife. I couldn’t stay there, not then, not while they attached the tubes and machines. I left in search of a place where I could have a cigarette.

  An orderly pointed me along past the waiting areas.

  "Down there and through the fire escape."

  I went down the corridor, eventually coming to a set of fire doors. I pushed through into a small interior courtyard.

  At one time someone had tried to make a garden area for patients, but now it looked to be turned over totally to the pursuit of the nicotine hit. Four benches sat around a small pond. There might be fish in there, but if there were, they were living on the cigarette ends that were getting pushed around the surface by a sluggish fountain that burped and belched like an asthmatic cow. Butts, spent matches and empty cartons lay strewn in random patterns on the ground.

  On the far side of the pond sat just about the sickest man I’ve ever seen. He was in his pyjamas and dressing gown, his stick thin body swamped by the clothing, his ribs standing proud from his chest in the two inches of flesh showing at his neck. His cheeks and eyes sunk far back into his skull, and his hair hung lankly over a liver-spotted scalp. In his right hand he held a lit cigarette, and in his left he clung tightly to a pole and the attached intravenous drip. He waved at me feebly, then went back to trying to work up enough energy to suck on the cigarette.

  I kept a close eye on him… he looked like he might keel over into the pond at any moment.

  I got my cigarettes out of my pocket, but my hands shook, so much so that when I took out my lighter it jiggled free and fell with a plop into the pond.

  The old man waved me over.

  "I’ve got a light if you need one."

  I went and sat beside him.

  Sick as he was, his hands were steadier than mine. He lit my cigarette for me and handed it over.

  "Let me guess," he said, wheezing. "Accident?"

  "How did you know?"

  "I’ve been in this place long enough," he said. He tried to laugh, but got a coughing fit instead. "Besides, you’ve got a cut on your forehead, your clothes are dishevelled, and you walk like you’ve got minor whiplash injuries."

  I sucked at the cigarette, filling up, trying not to think about the crash of metal on metal, the sparkle of windshield glass in headlights or the blood on the road.

  "What are you… a doctor?"

  This time he did manage a laugh.

  "No. But I know hospitals. Have you got time for a story?"

  I nodded. I had more time than I knew how to deal with.

  We blew smoke at each other as the old man started to talk.

  The night my life changed… the 30th of January all those years ago… started like many others. I left another dull chemistry lecture and had a few pints of beer. I　was several sheets into the wind and that was always a recipe for disaster, especially when I hadn’t told my girlfriend Liz that I was going to be late.

  I got involved in a darts match, and I was having fun, even although I　was so bad at the game that I　was the one who ended up buying most of the drinks. At some point in the evening the barman called me over and offered me the phone handset.

  "It’s your girlfriend," he said. "She says she needs you right now."

  The drink spoke for me.

  "Tell her she needs her head examined. I’ll be back when I’m good and ready."

  And so help me, I enjoyed myself. While she sat in an empty flat and decided on the future course of our lives, I　enjoyed myself. I　drank a lot of beer, I　sang bawdy songs about the Mayor of Bayswater’s daughter, and the hairs on her dickie-die-doh, and only have a vague memory of getting back to the flat.

  I’ll never forget the next hour, though.

  I　wandered into the kitchen, bumping into tables and knocking over chairs. That took a minute.

  I　put on the kettle, and stood beside it while it boiled. That took three minutes.

  I took the coffee into the front room and watched the end of the late night news while smoking a cigarette. Ten minutes.

  The beer told my bladder it needed to get out. I　put down my coffee and got out of the chair… slowly. I　wasn’t very steady. One minute.

  She lay in the bath, and she had used my razor on her wrists her ankles and her throat. She hadn’t wanted to make any mistakes. This wasn’t a cry for help… she’d tried that earlier, and I　hadn’t answered. For the past fifteen minutes she’d been dying.

  The old man started to wheeze, and when I looked over, I saw tears glisten in his eyes. He wiped them away, and lit a new cigarette from the butt of the old.

  They took her to a hospital. Not this one, but not too far different. She was so close to death I could smell it on her, and I ran… ran out of that antiseptic hell and out into the night where I too could seek some strength in a cigarette.

  He stopped again and looked at me.

  "Is it bad?" he asked.

  I knew immediately what he asked. I nodded.

  "Coma. She might never wake up."

  Once more there were tears in his eyes.

  I felt lost, alone. I lit up and stared at the stars, cursing a God who would let an innocent suffer while a worm like me could live.

  And that’s when I saw him. An old man, so ill as to be nearly dead. He sat on a bench wrapped in a robe, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

  "Do you want her to live
?" he said.

  "You can help?"

  He smiled.

  "Yes… but only if you promise never to stop smoking."

  "How will that help?"

  Again he smiled, thin whisps of smoke rising from his nostrils.

  "It might tip the balance of suffering… in the long run. Besides… what have you got to lose?"

  I was desperate enough to do anything.

  "Shake on it?" the old man said.

  I put out a hand… and he stubbed his cigarette out on it.

  He wheezed again, before putting out his hand, palm up. A small circular scar sat proud on the skin.

  "What kind of story is that?" I asked. "There’s no point to it."

  "Oh, there is," he said, coughing. "Believe me, there is. My beautiful girl lived… still does in fact."

  "How was that possible?"

  He coughed up a lump of brown phlegm and hawked it into the pool where it sank.

  "The balance of suffering… forty years of smoking."

  "That’s all it took?"

  "All?" he said, and laughed bitterly. "Oh yes, that’s all."

  "I’ll take it," I said.

  "Take what?"

  "The deal. I’ll take it."

  He showed me his thin bony chest, and coughed loudly for effect.

  "Sure?"

  I nodded.

  "Shake on it?" the old man said.

  I put out a hand… and he stubbed his cigarette out on it.

  ~-oO0Oo-~

  Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral

  The cracked black leather of the bible felt rough and cold in his hands as he took it from his satchel and placed it on the stone floor in front of them.

  He looked around at the three pale faces, the wide dark eyes staring blankly back at him. The silence lay heavy around them and he toyed with the idea of letting out a scream - at least one of them was to sure to faint in fright. But that would spoil his big scene, and he couldn’t have that. He’d promised them a ghost and a ghost was what they were going to get.