Flower of Scotland 2 Read online

  "Yay. I got a signal," Bobby shouted, happier than George had seen him all day.

  He was on the phone all the time while George got a fire going and cooked the trout. He only put it down to eat. George tried to interest him in the beauty of the sunset, but the boy sat there, head down, thumbs working frantically, lost in a world George would never understand.

  He did get the lad to switch it off as they got into their sleeping bags. Bobby wanted to stay in the tent. George preferred to lie out in the open, like he had in his youth. When he woke to take a leak around midnight he saw a tell-tale blue glow from the phone’s display just inside the tent. By then he was too dispirited to get into an argument about it.

  First thing in the morning, we’re outa here. It’ll be best for both of us.

  After that, sleep wouldn’t come. He lay on his back, staring up at the Milky Way and remembering nights such as this with his own father; the anticipation of the fishing to come the next day, the feeling of closeness with his old man he feared he’d never achieve with Bobby.

  It was nearly two o’clock when he rolled onto his side. There was still a faint glow from the tent where the boy lay.

  Enough is enough.

  He moved to climb out of his bag.

  And that’s when he heard it... a soft slump as something pulled itself out of the water, barely five yards from where he lay.

  Bobby!

  He rolled, still coccooned in the bag, ignoring the stones and twigs that poked and prodded even through the nylon, making for the boy’s tent.

  "Bobby!" he said in a whisper that wanted to be a shout. "Get out of there."

  Something big moved across the ground towards him, twigs snapping and pebbles tumbling with small splashes into the river. Above that there was breathing, a liquid gurgle.

  "Bobby!" he said, louder this time.

  He shucked off the sleeping bag. It was grabbed from his grasp and whisked away. He heard the sound, very close now, as whatever had come out of the water tore the nylon with loud rips.

  A bobbing blue light moved somewhere to his left, heading into the woods, but

  George had no time to think. He headed for the other tent and almost pulled it out of the pegs as he threw the flap open.

  "Bobby!"

  The tent was empty. The boy had indeed heard him and slipped away. George looked around, hoping to catch another glimpse of the bobbing blue light that would show him where to find the lad.

  "Over here," a small voice shouted from among the cabin ruins. George could indeed just make out the faint blue glow of the phone.

  He felt the air move over his head and something large and heavy swished, just missing him. He tried not to remember the stories, of how the Ogua could break a man’s back with its tail. He headed in a stumbling run for Bobby’s location.

  The Ogua followed him. It tore the tent to shreds, the ripping loud in the quiet night. The moist breathing got louder and there was a clicking noise that George realised could only be claws... claws scratching on stone. He made out a shape in the darkness. The thing that followed him across the campground was tall, almost as big as George himself and twice as broad. A long tail, eight feet of more, stretched out behind it, swishing from side to side, balancing the creature’s stumbling forward steps on its stubby rear legs. It closely resembled a dinosaur from the old movies, but its back was protected by a thick carapace, glimmering in the moonlight like oil on tortoiseshell. The eyes were the worst -- almost perfect circles, like small saucers, and milky white like fine porcelain. They tracked George’s every movement as the Ogua came forward, hands bearing long knife-like claws clenching and unclenching, anticipating the rending of flesh.

  George reached the cabin ruins just ahead of the Ogua. There was no sign of the boy as he skipped across fallen timbers and rocks.

  "Bobby!"

  "Over here," a voice called. The dim blue light showed at the edge of the forest.

  "Stay there, I’m coming," he called back and ran faster.

  The Ogua followed, tossing timber aside as if it were matchsticks. George fled into the woods. The boy had already moved on, the blue glow bobbing as it moved further into the trees.

  "This way," Bobby called.

  "Wait," George replied, but all too soon the blue glow was lost in the thickets. He had no choice but to follow. And as he went after Bobby, so the Ogua pursued him. He ran, almost blind in the dark, branches and thorns tugging and tearing at clothes and skin. The Ogua crashed through everything, breathing louder now, panting like a hot dog. Something pulled at George’s ankle and he let out a yelp, but it was just a twig, He tore away from it, leaving the lower half of a pant leg behind.

  "Over here," he heard Bobby shout above the noise of the Ogua. "Quick. This way."

  He ran, ignoring the hot blood flowing from numerous small scrapes and tears. Finally he saw the faint blue glow ahead of him. It was still, unmoving.

  "Jump," Bobby shouted. "Jump now!"

  He didn’t think. He leapt, aware of crossing a dark void, landing hard and toppling sideward. A small hand steadied him.

  "Run," George shouted, making a grab for the boy. "It’s nearly here."

  The Ogua crashed through the trees, white eyes shining almost silver in a thin wash of moonlight. George turned to run again, but Bobby put a hand on his shoulder.

  "It’s okay."

  The Ogua came on hard... then lost its footing and fell away, the liquid breathing turning to a screech as it tumbled into a dark hole, scrambling frantically. It kept trying to reach George, tail thrashing wildly, but all it managed to do was send timber and debris falling, hastening its descent.

  It dropped away into darkness, the screech fading.

  Silence fell.

  George leaned over slowly and looked down into an old mineshaft, the walls now only partially shored. Below there was only deep quiet blackness.

  Bobby came and stood beside him, a big grin on his face.

  "How did you do that?" George asked.

  Bobby held up the phone.

  "Research and GPS," he said, smiling.

  George looked at the phone, seeing it through the boy’s eyes for the first time.

  "It looks like I need someone to bring me up to date with all this new-fangled stuff. Want a job?"

  Bobby smiled.

  "Okay, Dad."

  Hand in hand, father and son headed back to what was left of their camp.

  George realised something else.

  "You used me as bait didn’t you?"

  Bobby looked sheepish.

  "I saw it in a game once. It worked that time as well."

  George ruffled the boy’s hair.

  "Maybe fishing is your thing after all."

  ~-oO0Oo-~

  Jack and the Cat's Paw

  One day in May Jack took to walking the hill roads, asking at each town after work. In the of the second day he walked into a small town that he did not know, and was told that they were looking for a man to run the new mill.

  The owner lived in a smart house at the edge of town where the main road butted hard against the forest. A river ran along the town boundary and the mill could be seen further down the valley, slightly away from the rest of the buildings. Even from this distance Jack could see that the wooden structure of the mill itself was new and unweathered.

  The mill owner was friendly enough, but was quick to explain the perils of the offered job.

  "I won’t lie to you lad," the man said. "There’ve been three men afore you just this past week, but none lasted more than one night. Two of them are as dead as dead can be, and the third is lost to the world -- some kind of poison the doctor says... some kind of haunt I say. I’ve bin over the whole place each time, but found nothing."

  "Well," said Jack. "I ain't afeared of no haunt. And I does need the work, so lets take a walk down there and see what’s what."

  Jack was pleased with what he saw of the mill. The top floor above the actual workings was walled with
thick logs and featured a large stone fireplace, a pot on a swivel attached to the wall, and a bed -- everything he ‘d need to cook and sleep on the premises. Thin sunlight came through from twelve small windows high above, but Jack reckoned on being too busy downstairs in the daylight hours to worry about the lack of light.

  He turned to the man with him. "I’d be right pleased to take the job, if you’ll have me?"

  They shook on the deal, and within half an hour the townsfolk started turning up with grinding to be done. Jack was kept busy all the way through a long afternoon and ground meal until it was near dark. He wiped the sweat from his brow, got the water turned out of the mill race, and was getting ready to close the mill for the night when an old man came through the entrance with a small poke of corn on his shoulder. His beard fell all the way across his chest and his one good eye almost seemed to sparkle as he smiled at Jack.

  "I've come a long way today, the old man said. I wonder could you grind my corn for me? I couldn't get here no sooner."

  Now another man might have turned the work away, for it was a chore to get the water race filled again, and the mill ready for grinding. But that wasn't in Jack’s nature. He got the water running and the grindstone working and he ground the stranger's corn for him.

  When he shut the mill down the old man smiled.

  "Jack, I've been here three times before, but you're the first one ever to start up the mill for me. I'm goin' to give you a present."

  He reached into his leather jerkin and brought out a knife.

  "It's silver," the old man said. "And it has served me well on many a cold night. I hope it will likewise serve you."

  The old man left, carrying his newly ground meal on his shoulder, a slight limp noticeable as he went down the valley, away from the town. Jack watched his until he was lost under the dark shadows at the edge of the forest. By then it was almost dark, so Jack took himself upstairs and lit a fire in the grate and started making a stew in the pot. He had no lamp, but the fire gave out enough light to see by and as it got darker thin moonlight washed into the room from the twelve windows above, lending more than enough light to see by.

  With the stew starting to bubble, Jack took out the silver knife and studied it. It seemed to glow in the moonlight. He turned it this way and that in his hand, studying the play of light. All at once it got darker, and he caught something moving in reflection in the knife.

  Jack looked up. Twenty four yellow eyes, two in each window, looked down at him. Behind each window sat a big black cat, all of them staring straight at Jack, their eyes shining

  Now our Jack didn't scare too easily. He bent to stir the stew with his knife, paying no attention to the watching cats.

  A creak and a sudden cold breeze alerted him to the fact that one of the windows above had been opened. There was a muffled thud as one of the cat s leapt down on the floor.

  Jack went on cooking

  The next thing he knew there was a black cat sitting at his knee beside him. Jack bent to stir the stew. The cat stuck out its paw toward the pot, and in a soft, almost womanly, voice said, "Sop doll."

  Jack showed the cat the knife and said. "You had better not sop your doll in my supper or I'll cut it off."

  The cat jerked its paw away. It sat there beside him awhile. The other cats stirred around a little but stayed on up in the windows.

  After a time the cat reached for the stew again, and once more it spoke.

  "Sop, doll!"

  Jack showed it the knife.

  "I done told you not to sop your doll in there. You try it one more time and I’ll take that paw off."

  The cat sat back on its haunches and twitched its tail. High above the other cats stirred, the sound of their soft purrs coming clearly even through the glass of the windows. Jack tried to ignore them and leaned forward to stir the stew. The cat tried to dipped its paw again and called out loudly.

  "Sop! Doll!"

  Jack had seen enough. He brought that silver knife down hard and sliced straight through the leg. The paw fell on the grate and started to smoke. The cat leapt away with a screech of pain and scooted straight up the wall and out the window. By the time Jack looked up the cats were all gone, only the twinkle of stars showing at the windows.

  He turned back to where the paw lay... but it was no longer a paw. A delicate woman’s hand lay on the hearth, smoking slightly where it had already started to smolder. Jack flicked it away from the fire with his knife and studied it more closely. Besides a new burn down the outside edge, the only thing of note was on the wedding finger -- a silver ring with a large emerald stone.

  Jack wrapped the hand up in his handkerchief and put it aside while he ate his stew. The rigours of the day’s work caught up with him and, despite his experience, he was soon sound asleep.

  He did not dream, and the cats did not return. In the morning he was somewhat surprised to find that the hand was still there. He decided to take it to his employer to show him what was what. After breaking his fast he headed up through a thin morning mist to the owners house.

  He found the man in the scullery making a pot of coffee.

  "Come in, Jack," the man said. "I can’t offer you any bread, for the missus is sick in her bed... but I can offer you some Joe."

  Jack sat himself down at the table. He took out his handkerchief but did not unwrap it.

  "I did not expect to see you alive, Jack," the man said. "I thought I’d be burying you along with the others this morning."

  Jack smiled, and started to tell his story. All the while the wrapped handkerchief sat there on the table between the men, but neither remarked on it until Jack got to the part about cutting off the cat's paw with the silver knife.

  "Witchcraft!" the mill owner said. "That's all it can be, what with there being twelve of them and all. Tis right lucky you had the silver knife, for that is the only thing they’re afeared of. But a woman’s hand you say? I can scarcely credit it."

  Jack unravelled the handkerchief.

  The mill owner bent for a close look... and went so white that Jack thought he might keel over on the spot.

  "Stay and finished your coffee Jack," he said, making for the door. "I need to call on some friend's of the missus. They need to be here. I’ll be back anon."

  Jack sat with his coffee, but he wrapped the hand up in the handkerchief first. Somehow it looked worse, more real, in the cold light of day.

  The house was quiet around him. At one point he heard a moan from upstairs. He put a hand on the silver knife, but the sound wasn’t repeated. He had just finished his drink when the mill owner returned. The man looked grim and gaunt, but there was a determined glint in his eye that would brook no argument. He brought a large barrel of pitch in with him that he stood on the kitchen table.

  "You've proved already that you have a stout heart Jack," he said. "Can I ask you to bring your knife? I need you to stand beside me should I falter in what needs to be done."

  Before Jack could enquire further the man led him out of the kitchen and upstairs to the door of a bedchamber.

  "The missus is inside," the man said, looking Jack in the eye. "She stayed abed this morning."

  Jack was starting to get a bad feeling, and the coffee roiled in the pit of his stomach as the man pushed the door open.

  The man's wife lay on the bed, her face ashen.

  "Shall we send for the doctor?" her husband asked, but there was little concern in his voice.

  "No," the woman said, her voice weak and thready.

  The man nodded.

  "I have sent for your friends. They will be here presently. But first... I need to take a look at your right hand."

  The woman snuggled deeper under the covers, cowering away in protest, but the man was insistent and forced her arm out from beneath the eiderdown. He motioned Jack forward for a look. There was no hand on the end of the arm... only a bloody stump where Jack’s silver knife had done its job.

  The man nodded.

  "I done recogn
ised the stone in yon ring, he said. And well I should... for I bought it for our wedding day."

  The woman made to rise out of the bed.

  "Show her your knife, Jack," the man said softly.

  Jack did as he was bid, and as soon as he took out the weapon the woman scurried back beneath the sheets, eyes wide in fear, mewling like a frightened cat. There was a knock on the bedchamber door. The man opened it to show eleven women standing in the hallway beyond.

  "Come in, ladies," he said with a smile that showed no hint of humor. "Your mistress is waiting."

  Two or three were loath to enter, but quietened down right smart like when Jack showed them the silver knife. Soon all eleven stood around the bed, all staring straight at the silver in Jack’s hand. Jack had seen those twelve sets of eyes before.

  "Sop, doll," he said, and grinned. The man shooed him out and the pair of them closed the door tight and locked it. The mewling started up from inside right away, and the house shook as if buffeted by a storm. But the door held. Jack followed the man to the kitchen and helped him spread the pitch all across the floor. He stood well back as the mill-owner started the fire.

  The flames took fast, and soon Jack and the man were forced out into the yard where they stood watching as the upper-floor took hold. The man smiled grimly as the screams of the burning witches reached a crescendo and their bones popped in the heat of the blaze. They waited there all day, until the house fell in on itself and the wind started to sift the ashes.

  The next day the man set to starting work on a new home and Jack went back to working the mill.

  He stayed there all summer, and never saw another cat.

  ~-oO0Oo-~

  Total Mental Quality

  I’d never heard him so excited. Not even when he got his first CD player.

  "Ye’ve goat tae come and hear this," he said on the phone. "Total dead mental, so it is."

  I was used to John’s enthusiasm, but I couldn’t prevent a small sigh escaping. He caught it, even over the crackling line.

  "No. Ah mean it man. It’s pure dead brilliant."

  On the way over I wondered what it was this time. Last time it had been the new speakers - the ones which let you hear the band breathing. Before that it had been laser discs, before that quadraphonic and so on, as far back as eight-track cassettes.