‘That’s the point, isn’t it,’ I said, changing the subject with a cough. ‘There will always be coincidences, and those who wish to see some significance in them will do so. There are tunnels on this line and my stepmother and everyone else knows it. In any event, my stepmother foresaw danger, and while this interruption in our journey is tedious in the extreme, it is hardly dangerous.’
‘Ah,’ said the Woman in White. ‘But your journey is not over yet.’
She said these words in the same prim and proper way she said everything else, but there was an edge to them somehow.
I turned to look at my fellow passengers, once more willing them to wake, and when that failed I coughed loudly, but to no effect. The Farmer’s hands twitched a little, that was all.
‘All travel is fraught with danger,’ said the Woman in White.
‘We are only travelling to London,’ I said witheringly. ‘We are not trying to find the North-West Passage.’
She smiled at my sarcasm, and I have to say I was quite pleased by the quickness of my response.
‘You have not travelled much,’ she said, making it sound more of a statement than a question.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve never left the British Isles. In fact, come to think of it, I have never actually left England.’
This realisation made me rather depressed. England was a very fine place and surely the best country in the whole world; but even so, it would have been nice to test this theory by going somewhere else.
‘Scotland is a most Romantic place,’ she said. ‘Have you never wished to travel there?’
‘I can’t say I have,’ I replied.
‘I have a story about one of the islands of that country,’ she said, in total disregard to my stated lack of interest. ‘Would you like to hear it?’
‘Well . . .’ I began.
‘Excellent,’ she said.
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The Crotach Stone
The Western Isles of Scotland must have seemed like the edge of the world to our ancient ancestors as they moved ever northwards against the retreating ice. Even with our knowledge of the world as a circumnavigated globe, these islands can still seem as if they stand sentinel at the ends of the earth.
It was along a bumpy track on the western shore of one such island that a pony and cart made its tortuous way, an inconsequential dot against the wide expanse of moor, of dune, of sand and sea. A small group of houses was visible a couple of miles or so ahead on the shore of an inlet, huddled round a squat church.
Dr Fraser winced as the wheel of the cart he had insisted on driving himself juddered over yet another pothole. Davy turned away from his father and looked out over the wide bay of bone-white sand with blue-black mountains beyond, their summits wigged with woollen clouds. His father pulled the reins and called to the pony to stop, which it happily did, immediately turning its great head to munch at some grass.
‘We’ll take a wee walk,’ he said to his son. ‘Stretch our legs, eh?’
‘But won’t we be late?’ said Davy sulkily.
‘Come on,’ said his father. ‘I think we can spare a few moments to look at the view.’
Dr Fraser climbed down and Davy followed him over a low stone wall, his father rhapsodising about everything that came into view, from the wild flowers to the cloud-covered hilltops in the distance. Davy said little in response.
They crossed a patch of hummocky grass, close-cropped by rabbits whose burrows could be seen to the right and left as they climbed to the top of a mountainous sand dune and looked out over the wide Atlantic.
‘Nothing like this in Edinburgh, eh, Davy boy?’
Davy said nothing. What was there to say? Of course there was nothing like this in Edinburgh, just as there was nothing like Edinburgh in this empty wasteland.
But he had to admit it was dramatic. Even though it was a sunny day, the wind and sea roared so loudly that it blocked out most other noise, save for the hoarse shrieks of seabirds. Davy’s father had to shout to make himself heard.
‘What a place!’ he called. ‘What an extraordinary place!’
Davy still made no reply. His father’s smile slowly faded and he turned to walk down a cleft in the dune towards the beach. Davy let him get fifty yards ahead before he followed him.
Davy understood that his father had not been happy in Edinburgh since Davy’s mother had died. He understood that his father wanted a new challenge to occupy his grieving mind. But understanding did not make Davy forgive this move away from friends: away from the city he had grown up in, away from his mother’s grave in Greyfriars. A move to the Outer Hebrides was a move to a world of barren nothingness.
The Outer Hebrides: even the name had something mournful and final about it, like the name of some remote destination in a Greek myth or Norse saga. It sounded like a place people were banished to or washed up on.
They were building a great herring-packing site and Davy’s father was to be employed as doctor to the workers and to the rest of the population. But Davy found it hard to marry the idea of a modern fishery with this backward place. He would be less surprised to see a Viking ship round the headland than he would a steamer.
This impression was only compounded when Davy and his father noticed a tall stone stabbed into the top of the nearby dunes like Excalibur. As they walked towards it, the sunlight shifted theatrically, a spotlight beam rushing over the tussocks and lighting the stone as if it were an actor on a stage.
The stone was very tall – Davy thought it must be well over seven feet – and bent over. There was something human about the way it seemed to lean into the wind. Davy had the disconcerting feeling that were he to tap it, the stone would turn to face him.
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He could see that the stone was a long block of granite or some such, salmon pink and grey, with quartz crystals twinkling here and there, though there was little of the rock visible. It was covered in all kinds of lichen: pale blue-grey, white, blotches of egg-yolk yellow and light seaweed-like tufts; the whole thing looked like a stone one might find at the bottom of a rock pool, hauled up and set on end to dry in the incessant wind.
There were bird droppings on the top and dripping down the sides, and fragments of mussel shells at the foot.
‘A bird has been using this as an anvil,’ said his father with a smile. ‘They break the shells to get at the food.’
Davy nodded absent-mindedly. His father had spent his boyhood on the island of Mull and was always trying to interest Davy in the natural world – a world in which Davy had not the slightest interest whatsoever. He longed for the smoke-blackened walls and cobbled streets of Edinburgh.
Davy’s attention moved to the ground on the other side of the stone, for there were more things there than just pieces of shell. He crouched down for a better look.
Half hidden in the tussocks of grass was another stone set into the ground. It had a cleft in it and stuffed into this gap was a strange collection of objects. Davy’s father had come round and also noticed the things at the stone’s base.
A brass candlestick glinted in the sunlight next to a piece of lace; a silver spoon lay next to those, and behind them Davy could also see a book, something that may have been a hat pin, a silk scarf, a brooch and various other items of jewellery.
‘You there!’ shouted a man some way off, standing on the track. ‘Come away!’
Davy stood up straight away and saw his father bristle at the manner of this address, but like Davy, he had seen that the man was carrying a shotgun and was pointing it in their direction.
‘Come on, Davy,’ said his father hoarsely.
They walked back across the grass towards the man with the gun. He did not lower it until they had scaled the small drystone wall and were back on the track.
‘I do not take kindly to having a gun pointed at me,’ said Dr Fraser, frowning at the stranger. ‘Nor at my son.’
‘You have no right to be on that ground,’ said the man, who Davy could now
see was old, grey hair peeping out from under his cap. His nose was red and had the look of worn leather about it. He was quite the most unfriendly-looking person Davy had ever met.
‘I apologise if we’ve done something wrong,’ said Dr Fraser. ‘We are new to the island. But still we –’
‘Stay away from here,’ he growled. ‘You have no business on the dunes.’
‘But I am the new doc—’ began Davy’s father, but the old man sniffed and walked on.
‘How extraordinary!’ said Dr Fraser. ‘What a spectacularly ill-mannered creature.’ He chuckled and shook his head. ‘Let’s hope they’re not all like that, eh?’
‘I wish I was in Edinburgh!’ hissed Davy.
Davy’s father sighed, and looked from his son’s down-turned face to the standing stone silhouetted against the sea.
‘Aye, well, we’re here and that’s that,’ he said. ‘Come on. Mr McLeod will be wondering what’s become of us.’
He turned and walked back to the pony and cart, and after a moment’s hesitation, Davy followed him. The wind blew at his back and all at once it seemed to carry on its breath the sound of whispers. Davy turned round, but there was nothing to see but the dunes and the stone.
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It wasn’t long before Davy and his father arrived at the house that was to be their home for the foreseeable future. As they climbed down from the cart and walked up the path, Davy turned and, looking back, could still make out the stone on the horizon.
The house was considerably grander than most of the houses round about, and a palace in comparison to the low, turf-topped crofts they had passed en route from the harbour.
‘Dr Fraser, I presume?’ called the wiry, weather-beaten man who stood at the front steps.
‘Aye,’ said Dr Fraser, shaking his hand. ‘And you must be Mr McLeod.’
‘At your service, Doctor,’ he said. ‘Come away inside.’
They walked through the stone-flagged hall into the parlour, and McLeod introduced his mother.
Davy hadn’t even noticed the old woman sitting wrapped in a shawl by the fire when he’d entered the room. She looked like an owl, slightly startled by the intrusion.
‘Mrs McLeod,’ said Dr Fraser.
The old woman smiled and nodded.
‘This fine-looking lad must be your son,’ said McLeod.
‘Shake hands, Davy,’ said his father. ‘Where are your manners?’
Davy held out his hand and McLeod shook it warmly.
‘I trust the crossing was not too rough,’ he said, looking at Davy’s sour expression.
‘Not at all, Mr McLeod,’ said Dr Fraser. ‘The sea was as calm as a mill pond.’
‘Well now,’ he said. ‘That’s a blessing. And your journey here?’
‘Aye,’ said Dr Fraser. ‘We had a little meeting with one of the locals. Not an especially friendly one.’
‘Is that so?’ said McLeod, his smile fading. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that.’
Dr Fraser explained what had happened and McLeod listened intently, nodding all the while and sighing every now and then.
‘That will be Murdo,’ said McLeod.
‘He looks after the auld folk,’ said Mrs McLeod. ‘He’s a good man.’
‘I hadn’t wished to suggest he wasn’t, madam,’ said Dr Fraser with a smile.
‘He can be – how shall we put it now? – lacking in the social graces,’ said McLeod. ‘But he means no harm.’
‘I’m sure he’s a fine fellow. He told us in parting to stay away from the dunes,’ said Dr Fraser. ‘We were just looking at the old standing stone there.’
McLeod took a deep breath and put his hands together as if in prayer. Davy saw him cast a nervous glance towards his mother, but the old lady stayed silent.
‘That would be the Clach Crotach,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Dr Fraser.
‘Do you not have the Gaelic, Doctor?’ said McLeod.
‘A long time ago, aye, when I was a lad,’ Davy’s father replied sadly. ‘I’m hoping it will come back while I’m here.’
‘Well, that would be grand, wouldn’t it?’ said McLeod. ‘Clach means stone. Crotach means, well, hunchbacked. The Hunchback Stone.’
‘But why was this man Murdo so incensed at us being there?’ said Dr Fraser.
McLeod looked uncomfortable. Davy could sense a nervousness in him; his father sensed it too.
‘The Crotach Stone is from the days before the Word of the Gospels reached the island, Dr Fraser,’ said McLeod after a pause.
‘Aye?’ said Dr Fraser. ‘Well then. I’m surprised to see that sort of thing still standing here. I had heard that the people of these islands were God-fearing folk. Can you not strike it down, Mr McLeod?’
McLeod’s eyes widened a little.
‘Strike it down?’ he echoed quietly, almost to himself.
‘Aye, man,’ said Dr Fraser. ‘I reckon you and your sons –’
‘I could not do that, Doctor,’ said McLeod emphatically.
‘Och, the auld folk would not like that,’ said Mrs McLeod. ‘They wouldn’t like that at all.’
‘Hush now, Mother,’ said McLeod.
‘But surely –’ began Dr Fraser.
‘You’re new to the islands, Doctor,’ said McLeod as if he had suddenly realised he was only talking to a child. ‘We do not take kindly to change. If you’re to get on here, it would be best to understand that.’
Though it was said with a smile, Davy felt there was the hint of a threat in McLeod’s tone of voice.
‘There were objects near that stone,’ said Dr Fraser. ‘Valuable objects, some of them. I hope that the people hereabouts are not in thrall to that heathen thing.’
McLeod smiled.
‘Och now, Dr Fraser,’ he said. ‘Do not sound so shocked and put out. Some folk leave offerings at the Stone, that is all.’
‘Good Lord. For what purpose?’ asked Davy’s father, frowning.
McLeod shrugged.
‘Och, you know the kind of thing,’ he said, as if leaving offerings at a standing stone were the most natural thing in the world. ‘They are going across the water to the mainland and want a safe journey; their daughter is having a baby and they want her to have a happy labour . . .’
Davy saw his father bristle slightly.
‘There are those who do continue to follow the auld ways,’ McLeod explained. ‘We are simple folk here, Doctor. You must forgive us our eccentricities. I’m sure the people of Edinburgh are far too sophisticated for such things.’
‘You must have respect for the auld folk,’ said Mrs McLeod.
‘Mother, please . . .’ said McLeod. ‘Dr Fraser, I beg you not to think too harshly of the folk hereabout. They are good people, I promise you. You’ll not find more God-fearing souls in all of Scotland.’
Dr Fraser took a deep breath and looked at his son.
‘Will you not have a dram with me, sir,’ said McLeod. ‘I often find things seem less shocking after a dram.’
Dr Fraser smiled despite himself and put his hand to his forehead, rubbing it gently.
‘Aye, Mr McLeod,’ he said. ‘A dram would be very welcome.’
McLeod went into another room and returned with a bottle of malt whisky and two small glasses, together with a pot of tea and two cups and saucers.
‘I took the liberty of having a bottle brought to the house,’ said McLeod. ‘I hope that was all right?’
‘It is very kind of you. Will you not join us, Mrs McLeod?’ asked Dr Fraser.
‘Och, no, Doctor,’ said McLeod. ‘Mother does not drink. Do you, Mother?’
‘What’s that?’ said Mrs McLeod. She turned to Davy and smiled. ‘You’re a good boy, aren’t you? You’ll mind the auld folk, won’t you now, eh? You’ll leave them be, won’t you?’
‘Aye,’ said Davy, not seeing what else he could say. If the ‘auld folk’ of the island were all like Mrs McLeod, leaving them be would be no hardship. McLeod handed him a cup of te
a.
‘There’s a good lad,’ said Mrs McLeod. ‘He’s a good boy, Alasdair. A fine boy.’
‘Hush now, Mother,’ said McLeod. ‘You’re embarrassing the poor lad. Slaandjivaa, Doctor.’
‘Slaandjivaa,’ said Dr Fraser, raising his glass. ‘That’s a fine drop of whisky.’
The two men talked and Davy drifted away in his imagination to the streets of Edinburgh and to their old life there. He was brought back to the present by the sound of his father putting his glass on the table with a clink.
‘Tell me more about the people hereabouts, Mr McLeod,’ said Dr Fraser. ‘I am keen to hear more about my patients and their superstitious ways.’
‘Why, Doctor,’ said McLeod, ‘when you have lived here a wee while you might understand why it is that people still have a bond with the water, the sea and the weather . . .’
‘And a pagan stone,’ said Dr Fraser with a raise of his eyebrow.
‘Aye, well,’ said McLeod. ‘On that subject, I’m afraid I must ask you to stay away from that particular part of the island. And young Davy there as well, of course.’
‘Or shall we be shot?’ said Dr Fraser with a grin. ‘Will old Murdo come after us with a shotgun?’
McLeod sighed deeply and smiled wearily.
‘Don’t be too hasty to make judgements, Dr Fraser,’ he said. ‘We are all very grateful for the new laird and his fishery and for the employment it will give the young men of the island, but this is not the mainland, Doctor. We are not so quick to brush away our heritage and our traditions here.’
‘I didn’t mean to give any offence, Mr McLeod,’ said Davy’s father quietly, clearly wishing he had not been so eager to tease. ‘The whisky has loosened my tongue and my manners. Forgive me.’
McLeod smiled and said that there was nothing to forgive and that he was sure they would all get along famously, given time. He poured them both another drink.
‘The Stone is important to the folk here,’ he went on. ‘I couldn’t really explain it fully to someone like yourself who has never lived here. It is something you just grow up with on the island.’
‘What are you telling them now, Alasdair?’ said McLeod’s mother, frowning.
Tales of Terror from the Tunnel's Mouth Page 8
