by Anne Forbes
“Well, if it goes on like this, it could develop into a fully-fledged war,” her husband said with a slight frown. “Bruiton really seems to have it in for us. The East Coast fishermen are absolutely furious and the French fishing fleet is huge, you know. It outnumbers ours by at least three to one and, quite frankly, there’s not a lot our lads can do if the French trawlers gang up on them.”
“Can’t the Scottish parliament do anything?” queried Neil.
His father shook his head. “I don’t know, Neil. You’ll have to ask Sir James when you see him next. Now that he’s a Member of the Scottish Parliament, he’ll be able to tell you the ins and outs of it all.”
“Aye, he’s a good man, that Sir James! He certainly talks a lot more sense than that other fellow that got elected,” agreed Mr MacGregor.
“You mean the fellow with the long hair and fancy waistcoats — what’s his name — Ned Stuart?” Janet MacLean frowned disapprovingly.
“Come on, Janet,” excused the Ranger mildly, thinking back to the days of his youth, “Stuart’s young and most youngsters tend to dress a bit exotically, don’t they? From what I hear of him, he seems a pleasant enough chap.”
“Aye, but age makes a difference,” argued MacGregor, “and that Sir James has a much better head on his shoulders. I was reading one of his articles in The Scotsman only the other day. I didn’t know you knew him, though,” he added, curiosity tingeing his voice.
Although MacGregor knew nothing of their remarkable adventures with Sir James, the owner of a local distillery, he had, nevertheless, been unwittingly involved in their brush with magic and magicians. Mrs MacLean frowned warningly at her husband and quickly changed the subject of the conversation, for although all memory of faeries and magic carpets had been wiped from MacGregor’s mind, she was afraid that a chance word might recall his part in the adventure.
“You didn’t tell us about your anniversary dinner, Angus,” she remarked casually. “Maggie was telling me that you found a new Turkish restaurant in the High Street and went there.”
“Aye, we did,” he frowned at the memory.
“You don’t sound very impressed,” smiled the Ranger.
“Aye, well, there was nothing wrong with the food, you understand; we had a really good meal. I think it must have been the atmosphere of the place. It’s down one of yon thin, dark passages near the old White Horse Inn. An odd place for a restaurant and,” he struggled to express his feelings, “… it was very foreign.”
“Well, you’d expect that of a Turkish restaurant, wouldn’t you?” the Ranger remarked reasonably.
“Were there many people there?” queried Mrs MacLean. “A full restaurant’s usually a sign of good food.”
“Oh, aye, it was quite crowded and when I told the waiters it was our anniversary, they found us a good table and made us feel the most important people in the place! No one else got half the attention we did.”
“That was nice,” said Mrs MacLean, spooning more haggis onto his plate.
Mr MacGregor put his knife and fork down and pondered. “I wouldn’t say that,” he said slowly. “I wouldn’t say that at all. They were all smiles with their turbans and incense but all the time … it’s stupid, I know … but looking back on it, I realize that I felt uneasy the whole time I was there.”
The Ranger sat back in his chair and regarded Angus MacGregor thoughtfully. He wasn’t, the Ranger knew, the most imaginative of men and he wondered what had happened to cause him such disquiet. “Perhaps you should mention it to the local police and ask them to take a look,” he suggested.
MacGregor snorted. “Aye, if they can find it!”
There was a slightly stunned silence as they eyed him in surprise.
“I tell you,” he said defensively, “I was suspicious of the place and one lunch break I … well, I walked over from the school to take a look at it in daylight.” His voice sank dramatically and his accent broadened as he leant towards them. “Without a word of a lie, I’m tellin’ ye, I walked up and down yon bit of the High Street ten times over and do you think I could find the entrance to the close? It was a narrow entrance, I admit, but I couldn’t find it anywhere, and I haven’t found it yet, even though I look for it every time I pass. It’s no’ there, I tell you. It’s disappeared! Completely disappeared!”
3. Dance of the Dervishes
It was a dark night and raining hard. Although the street lamps threw streaks of flickering light over the wet pavements of the High Street, Neil felt a shiver of apprehension at a subtle darkening of the atmosphere that seemed to make the street narrower and the surrounding buildings taller, shabbier and more forbidding, as though they’d moved a hundred years back in time. He moved closer to Sir James and saw that Clara, walking under her mother’s umbrella, was also looking apprehensive; her hand clutching at the firestone pendant she was wearing round her neck.
“Do you think we’ll find the restaurant?” Neil whispered to Sir James. “Old MacGregor might have been exaggerating the whole thing. I mean, restaurants don’t just disappear, do they?”
Sir James smiled at him, his eyes alert. “I wasn’t sure when we started out but now …” he scanned a street that seemed strangely deserted, “now I’m pretty sure we’ll find it. There’s magic abroad tonight, Neil! Can’t you feel the change in the atmosphere? I’m not sure if your mother shouldn’t take you both home and leave your dad and me to deal with this.”
“No way!” Neil and Clara chorused. “We’re in this together. Even Mum doesn’t want to back out! Do you, Mum?”
Mrs MacLean shook her head, not quite knowing what all the fuss was about. “Of course not,” she said. “I think it was a lovely idea to come here. Angus and Maggie said the food was excellent.”
Neil looked at his mother sharply. Although she had been inside Arthur’s Seat and had met the MacArthurs, the magic people who live in the hill, she hadn’t been directly involved in their adventures and had never been given a firestone. Indeed, she had never needed one, but without a stone of her own she had no access to the world of magic that they enjoyed as a matter of course; for with their firestones they could call up magic carpets, become invisible and merge with people, birds and animals at will.
“Mum is the only one of us that isn’t wearing a firestone,” Neil said, meeting his father’s eyes. “I think it makes a difference. She doesn’t seem to feel what we’re feeling.”
Clara stopped suddenly beside a tall, narrow archway. Above their heads, an ornate, oriental lantern cast a dim light, illuminating a wooden plaque set in the stone wall.
“This must be it!” she whispered excitedly. “The restaurant does exist! What does the writing say, Neil?”
Her brother moved forward and looked at the flowing red script. “The Sultan’s Palace,” he whispered.
“Shall … shall we go down?” Clara questioned nervously, glancing down the alley that ran between high walls. At a nod from Sir James, she walked under the arch and even as she did so, she knew beyond doubt that this was a magic place. Excitement coursed through her veins and she felt the firestone hang suddenly heavy round her neck. Neil, too, drew in his breath with a gasp as he followed her through the arched way that gave onto a dank, narrow passage that sloped steeply before them. It was very quiet; the only sound being the steady drip of the rain. Wet cobbles gleamed dully and the high walls that seemed to meet overhead in the gloom, gave the place an air of mystery and romance. Gripped by a strange exhilaration, they felt as though they had stepped suddenly from the ordinary world into the pages of an exotic adventure story.
In the distance, lit by a sudden shaft of light that streamed from an open door, they saw that the passage opened out into a sizeable courtyard and, as they watched, the figure of a man clad in a turban and flowing silk robes appeared in the doorway. He saw them immediately and paused, still as a statue.
Sir James eyed the Ranger. “What do you think?” he asked. “Shall we go on?”
It was Mrs MacLean who ma
de the decision for them. Completely unaware of their misgivings, she sailed blithely down the alley, disturbing some pigeons that rose into the air, flapping in alarm, as she made her way towards the restaurant where the still, watchful figure of the Turk awaited them.
“Hang on, Mum!” Clara called, running after her. “Wait for us!”
As Mrs MacLean stopped and turned towards her, the Turk moved forward solicitously.
“Please be careful, Miss,” he warned Clara. “The cobbles are a wee bit slippery with the rain. We don’t want any broken legs, do we?”
All thoughts of magic promptly fled. The man was no more Turkish than they were. His accent was pure Edinburgh and now that they were nearer they could see that the silken robes that had looked so splendid and romantic from a distance, were actually creased and rather tawdry. Indeed, the restaurant now looked disappointingly ordinary, despite the whiff of incense that drifted from the ornate brass burners that lay inside the curtained doorway.
The waiter stepped forward, grinning at them cheerfully and with a polite bow, he gestured towards the entrance. “Welcome,” he intoned, “to the Sultan’s Palace!” And ushering them through a deeply-carpeted, dimly-lit foyer, led them into the restaurant itself.
As the restaurant doors closed behind the little party with a decisive click, the two pigeons that Mrs MacLean had disturbed, sailed down to the cobbles.
“That’s torn it,” snapped one. “They’ve gone in!”
“We couldn’t have stopped them, Jaikie! Not without showing the Turks that we were watching the place.”
“I know, I know, but this is serious, for goodness sake!” Jaikie flapped his wings in frustration. “Look, you’d better fly back to the hill and tell the MacArthur what’s happened. I’ll hang on here, just in case. Go on! Get moving!”
“Right, I’m off!” nodded the other and with a clap of wings, the pigeon soared skywards, heading towards the dark, misty bulk of Arthur’s Seat; the hill set in the middle of Edinburgh that looks for all the world like a sleeping dragon.
Jaikie watched him go and then turned once again to the restaurant. He eyed it anxiously, his mind taken up by the sudden, totally unexpected, appearance of Sir James and the Park Ranger. How they had got wind of the Turks he had no idea, but to take Clara and Neil into such danger defied belief. He groaned inwardly as he realized just how much they had complicated matters; the MacArthur was going to have a fit when he heard the news!
While Jaikie sat outside the restaurant, trying hard not to panic, Sir James and the Ranger were looking round the inside with interest as they made their way through chattering groups of diners, to their table. The decor was opulently rich; a dazzle of ornate gold wallpaper, red velvet curtains and crystal chandeliers. By far the most striking feature of the room, however, was an assortment of tall mirrors. Set in heavy, iron frames decorated with birds and flowers, they stretched along the walls from floor to ceiling, reflecting the white table linen and the sparkling glitter of candles and crystal.
At one end of the room, a band of musicians played on a raised stage, while a tall woman, dressed in flowing purple satin, sang into a microphone. Behind her, a backcloth depicted a rather garishly-painted country scene, so crudely done that it looked like the work of children. Its bright, blue sky framed a road overhung by trees that seemed to lead to a distant castle while, in the foreground, a village of thatched, peasant cottages lay in lush, green meadows dotted with improbably-coloured flowers.
Neil looked at the band with interest as many of the instruments were unfamiliar to him. Violins and flutes, he recognized, but they were mixed with strange hand drums, long penny whistles and what he thought might be zithers. Clara, however, more interested in the musicians than their instruments, thought them a decidedly fearsome lot.
“They look more like bandits than musicians,” she confided to Sir James as he unfolded his napkin and reached for the menu.
Sir James was inclined to agree. They were certainly colourful. The men wore baggy trousers, flowing red tunics and jewelled turbans, but it didn’t take any great flight of the imagination to visualize them clutching rifles or even barbaric scimitars. However, they certainly knew how to play and the music, although strangely discordant, had a haunting charm of its own.
Sir James did the ordering and the table was soon overflowing with a variety of dishes that tasted delicious. The waiters hovered attentively, helping them to spicy kebabs, stuffed vine leaves and roasted aubergine dips.
Finally, they could eat no more. “That was a truly delicious meal,” Mrs MacLean said, patting her lips with the napkin as the waiters removed their plates.
“Mmm,” agreed her husband, “I ate far too much!”
They sat back in their chairs, relaxed and happy. Clara sighed as a feeling of complete contentment stole over her. The music seemed to be sending her into a gentle dream, or perhaps, she thought, it was the drift of incense that wafted over their table from the smouldering coals in the iron braziers that now burned with peculiar, greenish flames.
Idly she looked at the garish backcloth at the back of the little stage and wondered how she could ever have thought it tacky. It now seemed incredibly beautiful and even as she gazed at it, a strange longing rose within her. The blue sky and green trees behind the cottage spoke of lazy summer days, and the road that led to the castle promised a new world of adventure, magic and excitement.
Suddenly, the restaurant’s lights darkened, spotlights blazed on the stage and the music shrieked to a piercing crescendo as, into their dazzling brightness, leapt a group of strangely-clad young men wearing the red fez of the Turk. Their baggy trousers were covered by long white dresses whose finely-pleated skirts started to billow out as they circled the stage, whirling like spinning tops. As the music quickened, so the dancers whirled faster and faster until they became a moving blur of white that held the audience dazzled and enthralled.
How long the dance lasted they never knew but as the incense in the braziers flared fiery red and its magic seeped insidiously through the room, the dancers beckoned them forward. Lured by the unseen forces that now captivated them, the Ranger and Sir James rose from their chairs and started to walk, as though in a dream, towards the stage. Clara followed and found herself pulling at Neil’s hand in her eagerness to reach the painted village that promised such untold delights. Mrs MacLean, startled at their sudden departure, picked up her handbag and tripped anxiously behind, not quite sure what was happening.
The music rose to an eerie climax as, on reaching the painted doorway of the rustic peasant’s hut, Sir James and the Ranger bent their heads and followed the dancers unhesitatingly into the gloom beyond. Neil and Clara followed them in but Mrs MacLean hung back in sudden horror as she realized that the door to the cottage was not really a door at all. It was a huge mirror similar to those that lined the walls of the restaurant and even as Clara walked through it, the dim interior of the cottage vanished abruptly, leaving Mrs MacLean staring horrified at her own reflection.
4. The French Connection
Count Louis de Charillon, the French Consul in Edinburgh, turned up the collar of his coat against the rain and looked at the taxi in distaste as he paid off the driver. Like so many of the taxis and buses in Edinburgh these days, it was painted in a particularly vicious-looking tartan that did much to offend his sensibilities.
He pursed his lips and shook his head slightly. What was it with the Scots these days that made them parade themselves, and their city, in tartan? Princes Street was awash in it and George Street … he shuddered at the memory of the dreadful banners that looped the street. Thank goodness, he thought, as he looked searchingly up and down, that the craze hadn’t yet reached the refined elegance of Moray Place, whose Georgian façade swept before him in a gracious curve. Pocketing his change as the tartan monstrosity drove off, he turned and mounted the shallow steps that led to the door of an imposing town house, scattering a couple of pigeons as he did so. Even as he raised his hand to
the knocker, however, the door swung open and a fair-haired young man greeted him warmly.
“Monsieur le Comte! Welcome!”
“Mr Stuart, how are you?” Monsieur le Comte de Charillon entered the tiled hall and shook hands with his host as the butler closed the great door against the wind and driving rain.
The two pigeons, fluttering back down to resume their vigil on a stretch of railings beside the house, fluffed their feathers against the cold and eyed one another speculatively as the door closed.
“Monsieur le Comte?” repeated one. “Now, that’s interesting!”
“It’s French,” contributed the other.
Hamish regarded Archie sourly. “I know it’s French,” he said irritably, shifting on his claws. “But why would Kalman be entertaining a Frenchman? That’s what I want to know. Aren’t we supposed to be at loggerheads with the French these days?”
“And he called Prince Kalman, ‘Mr Stuart’,” added Archie. “Let’s hope the MacArthur can work that one out!”
Hamish nodded. “It’s a pity the prince has put a protective shield round his house,” he mourned, looking longingly at the curtained windows. “I’d give my eye teeth to hear what’s being said in there.”
“Pigeons don’t have eye teeth,” Archie grinned and promptly wilted under Hamish’s look of scorn. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Just a joke!”
“Will you try to remember that this is a serious mission,” hissed Hamish, “and give it some attention! We’ve been hanging round here for days and this is the first time we’ve managed to pick up anything at all valuable.”
“Can we go back to the hill, then and tell the MacArthur?” asked Archie hopefully. “I’m frozen solid.”
“No, no, we’d better not,” Hamish said thoughtfully. “We’ll wait here and follow this Frenchman home. The MacArthur will want to know who he is and where he lives.”
