Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  They watched the drama unfold as the eagle withdrew and dived again, beak open and talons outspread as it used its great wings to try and panic the deer over the edge. Just when it seemed as if it would strike, the eagle swooped upward, calling harshly. Without making contact, it drove the stag ever nearer to the lip of the summit, pushing it toward the sheer drop. The stag retaliated with its antlers, ducking its head as it retreated.

  ‘Only another few assaults and the deer’s gone,’ Meigle said. He felt an unaccountable insignificance, for however powerful he was in the business world of Edinburgh, here was a life and death struggle between two dominant animals, neither of which cared anything for his existence. He watched as the eagle made a final sortie, screamed a last challenge and the deer broke, but instead of tumbling down the cliff, it jinked forward, its antlers nearly grazing the outstretched talons of the eagle, and trotted into a gully. Brown heather shrubs shielded the animal from their view.

  ‘Trust the red deer to know its own territory,’ Drummond sounded quite relieved. ‘It’s safe now; the eagle can’t reach it there.’

  Meigle nodded. He watched as the eagle attacked again, its beak wide with frustration, and then it spiralled upward, screaming its harsh challenge to any other bird that dared intrude on its air space. Two creatures, each supreme in their own environment, each destined to dominance, meeting on the border between land and air. It had been an elemental encounter, with neither loser nor victor, and he had been a mute observer. But now he must be prepared to take charge again, to take responsibility for his own affairs.

  ‘So the eagle’s chicks might go hungry,’ he said quietly. ‘We had better learn that lesson, and ensure the safety of the Clach-bhuai. Whatever method we have to adopt.’ He looked over to Kenny. ‘We might have to call on your family expertise, if that’s all right?’

  Kenny shrugged. ‘That’s what we’re here for. Just say the word.’

  The sound of voices broke his reverie as a party of walkers clambered up the steps.

  ‘Time to return,’ Meigle decided. Up here with a slight wind skiffing the mist and the rock gleaming wet beneath him, all the business worries of Edinburgh seemed insubstantial. Balance sheets and interest rates, international deadlines and self-important clients all thinned into nothingness beside the eternal presence of the mountains. When companies and banks vanished, these hills would still be standing, unemotional, solid, seemingly serene yet home to more drama than existed in any company take over or financial crash. The hills were the heritage of every person of Scottish descent; it was Scotland’s duty to preserve them, as it was his duty to guard the Clach-bhuai.

  A group of walkers clattered onto the summit, exclaiming at the view as their garish coats contrasted with the subtle shades of Perthshire. One man plumped down beside the summit cairn and unfolded a map, while a woman produced a plastic packet of sandwiches. Their loud voices chased the peace from the hills.

  ‘The Society will soon be arriving,’ Meigle said. ‘We’d better be there for them.’ He nodded to Drummond. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting your Andrew again.’

  Drummond nodded. ‘I have not told him much,’ he said, jogging down the path. He waited for Meigle to catch up. ‘Just that it’s a family tradition that he has to attend.’

  ‘Nicely put.’ His time at the summit of Ben Vrackie had strengthened Meigle for the descent so he negotiated the steps with more ease. Although his knees complained at every jolt, he kept pace for pace with Drummond all the way back to Loch Choice. For all his apparent lack of muscle, Kenny had no difficulty in holding his position. After stopping to slide his whistle between the straps across the front of his pack, he caught up within a few dozen paces.

  ‘What’s this all about, Sandy? I’ve never been to a full Society meeting before.’

  ‘I’ve never held one before,’ Meigle said. ‘But you’ll know soon enough.’ He halted to rub at his left knee. ‘I’m getting too damned old for all this.’

  ‘Just a short stroll now,’ Drummond encouraged. He had walked slowly, but Meigle knew that he was impatient to increase his stride. Although climbing Ben Vrackie was a major expedition for Meigle, Jamie would consider it a casual jaunt, a warm-up for greater things. He scanned the loch for ducks, nodded as a coot bustled away from the bank and allowed Drummond to move in front.

  Meigle sighed. There was always something sad about leaving a hill. This meeting of the Society bothered him, for the full responsibility descended on his shoulders, and at his age he was not sure if he could cope. His whole world might alter before he returned to Vrackie. So might the world of everybody in the Society. He checked the path, to see Drummond watching him with his deceptively mild eyes and Kenny rolling along with his hands deep in his pockets, humming. Maybe he was not so alone. That was the essence of the Society; a supportive group of varied talents dedicated to one objective.

  Rebuilt at the height of Victorian Scottish Baronialism, Tummel House was only a couple of miles from Pitlochry. Set in nearly a hundred acres of informal and formal gardens, its profusion of bartizans, towers and turrets overlooked the town and enjoyed splendid views across the River Tummel to the Perthshire hills. The house and its predecessors had belonged to James’s family since the early 1530s, when King James V had rewarded an earlier Drummond for military support on a Border expedition.

  At first Meigle had thought to book a hotel for the Society conference, but on reflection he had decided that Drummond’s house was more private and certainly large enough. With the Society paying for the catering and equipment, the only problem would be some disruption to James’s family, but James solved that by sending them to Paris for the weekend.

  Meigle had worded the invitations in person, and had insisted that everybody foregather beneath the portraits and hunting trophies in the great hall. He knew only some of them, and this was the first full gathering for nearly seventy years, so there would be many introductions to make.

  ‘All right, Sandy?’ Drummond was at his side, looking every inch the country gentleman with his tweed suit and tie beneath the walnut brown face.

  ‘All right, Jamie.’ Despite his years of experience in chairing board meetings, this event was going to be difficult. Things were always more serious when the subject matter was close to one’s heart.

  He stood outside the varnished doors, glanced at Drummond, took a deep breath and entered. The Society stood in small knots, engaged in the awkward, desultory conversation of strangers. There were men dressed with the casual ease of the truly wealthy, and men uncomfortable in off-the-peg suits that were probably only released from the wardrobe for weddings and funerals. There were women in faded denims and cheap jackets and women whose power clothes would impress the least impressionable of City merchants. All they had in common was the topic of their conversation as they discussed every possibility that they could conceive for their presence in Tummel House.

  Meigle moved easily from group to group, reacquainting himself with people that he had met only once or twice before but knew well from their membership papers, renewing friendships with men or women that he had known since childhood and gripping the hand of new members.

  ‘I am Sandy Meigle,’ he said, looking hard into the eyes of a middle-sized man with a Hunting MacPherson tartan kilt and the most determined chin that he had ever seen.

  ‘Lachlan MacPherson,’ the man crushed Meigle’s hand enthusiastically, ‘from Halifax.’

  Meigle disengaged his hand. ‘Good to have a Nova Scotian here,’ he said. ‘How is the timber business nowadays?’

  MacPherson grinned widely. ‘Fine, Mr Meigle, just fine.’

  ‘You are very welcome, but the name’s Sandy. We’re all friends here.’ Meigle moved on, paying particular attention to the younger faces. He had met most members individually, but never collectively, and recognised the newcomers from family portraits and the photographs that were an essential prerequisite of membership. He crossed the floor to greet the tall young man at Drumm
ond’s side.

  ‘Andrew, man you’ve grown.’

  Andrew Drummond was as tall as his father, but perhaps three inches broader in the shoulder. ‘Mr Meigle. You’re looking well.’

  Meigle shook his hand and pointed to the collection of decanters, bottles and glasses that stood on a side table. ‘The drink is free, Andrew. Covered by Society funds.’

  ‘The Society must have plenty money to spare then,’ Andrew said frankly, ‘for there are a lot of thirsty people here.’ He widened his eyes that seemed an even more youthful copy of his father’s. ‘I don’t really know much about this Society that I seem to have inherited,’ he said. ‘Dad hasn’t told me much.’ He deepened his voice in a bad copy of his father’s brisk bark. ‘You’re too young yet. Plenty of time for that.’

  Drummond’s frown could not hide the pleasure in his eyes.

  ‘Your father is quite right,’ Meigle said solemnly. ‘But you’ll learn more today. In the meantime, mingle freely. We’re all friends as well as members.’

  Andrew grinned. ‘I wouldn’t mind making friends with that member there,’ he nodded toward a confident looking woman in a flowing blue dress.

  ‘Another new face.’ Meigle watched the woman for a minute, mentally searching through his photographs. ‘If you would excuse me?’

  ‘I am Sandy Meigle,’ he thrust out his hand to the woman. ‘The chairman of this Society.’

  ‘Doctor Eileen Wallace.’ Her grip was firm and cooler than her intense grey eyes. Experience had taught Meigle that he could find out a lot by examining the eyes and mouth of a person. The eyes were said to be a window into the soul, but people fashioned their own mouth. Eileen’s lips were held tight, suggesting a resolute personality.

  ‘You are very welcome, Eileen.’

  ‘I prefer Doctor Wallace, on first acquaintance.’ Eileen’s gaze did not waver. ‘And I would like to know what this meeting is all about.’

  Meigle smiled. ‘I quite understand that, Dr Wallace, but everything will be revealed in the fullness of time.’ He could place her now. Dr Eileen Wallace, the daughter of Mr and Mrs Wallace of Stonehaven. She was born into the Society from her mother’s side, the late Emily Wallace, nee Rutherford.

  ‘I hope so, Mr Meigle.’ Eileen did not drop her eyes as Meigle moved on, winking to Andrew.

  ‘Good luck with that one,’ Meigle whispered, and Andrew grinned.

  ‘I like a challenge.’

  ‘Sandy!’ Drummond slid up, his brogues silent on the marble floor. ‘Everything is set up in the ballroom.’ He ushered Meigle to a huge room where rows of seats faced a platform intended for a dance band. ‘I’ll get them moving.’

  Drummond had directed the members of the Society to their seats before Meigle mounted the three steps to the platform. He expected the stir of interest as he entered, and lifted a hand in acknowledgement to the nods of respect and recognition. Checking that everybody was present, Meigle took his place in front of the white screen that stretched across two of the room’s tall windows.

  He waited until the murmur of conversation died, pushed the button that closed the curtains behind him, and raised the level of lighting. The twin chandeliers emitted a soft glow, light that permeated into every corner of the room and highlighted the original oil paintings that graced the muted colouring of the walls. Drummond walked to the double doors, ensured that they were shut and stood with his back to them, facing Meigle across the room.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Meigle started in the traditional manner, ‘members of the Society. If only because we have never all met in the same place before, you know how unusual this gathering is. For that same reason, you will realise that it must be important.’

  He surveyed the faces. ‘You are all welcome, especially Lachlan, Andrew and Dr Eileen Wallace.’ Extending his hand in their direction, he invited them to stand. ‘As the next generation, you do not yet know the responsibilities that will be heaped on your shoulders. You are about to learn.’

  There was a ripple of laughter from the older members, and one or two began to clap, or stand and hold out their hands to Lachlan, Andrew and Doctor Wallace. Meigle allowed the noise level to rise as the new members were received into the Society. He hid his satisfaction as Andrew and Doctor Wallace leaned across to formally introduce themselves to each other, and nodded as Drummond lifted a single finger. Of the three, Lachlan seemed most pleased to acknowledge his membership, grinning broadly to everybody that shook his hand. That was how things should be. Only when the members sank back into their seats did Meigle continue.

  ‘As a reminder, this Society has existed for many centuries, in many different forms. We adapt to suit the era in which we live, but our function remains the same. We are here to help each other through life, but our primary reason for existence is to ensure the security of the Clach-bhuai.’

  As he had expected, Andrew and Lachlan looked mystified. It was unlikely that either had ever heard the name before. Andrew looked to his father, who gave a solemn nod, while Doctor Wallace straightened her back and looked attentive. She held up a hand.

  ‘May I ask a question?’

  ‘Of course,’ Meigle believed in encouraging the young. ‘But I will explain everything.’

  ‘Is that not rather an outmoded concept?’

  Meigle knew the background and occupation of every member of the Society. He was aware that Eileen Wallace was a lecturer in Celtic Studies at an Aberdeen university. ‘To which concept do you refer?’

  ‘The name Clach-bhuai is Gaelic,’ Doctor Wallace spoke with all the authority of her education, ‘and it could mean Stone of Power or Powerstone. I presume that you are referring to the Stone of Destiny, which, despite the colourful legends, most experts believe to be a chunk of Scottish sandstone with no mystical powers whatsoever.’

  Meigle allowed the murmur to die down. He could see that Andrew Drummond was looking intently at Doctor Wallace. No doubt he was calculating his chances of impressing such a knowledgeable woman. ‘Your translation is correct, Dr Wallace. The name is Gaelic, although of an archaic form, and it can mean either Powerstone or Stone of Power. However the object in question has no connection with the Stone of Destiny.’

  Doctor Wallace lowered her eyes, obviously unsettled.

  ‘Nevertheless, I thank you for your point. It is always good to meet somebody with independent knowledge.’ Meigle glanced at Drummond, who took his cue nicely and smiled over to Eileen.

  ‘That’s the ticket, Dr Wallace; keep the old man on his toes!’

  The resulting laugh removed most of Doctor Wallace’s embarrassment. When Meigle saw Andrew lean across to speak with her, he thought that the incident had passed without rancour.

  ‘Our stone is rather smaller than the Stone of Destiny,’ Meigle continued. ‘For you members who know this story already, please forgive me for blethering on. For those members who know something of it, please bear with me, and for those newcomers to the Society, please listen with great attention.’

  Further dimming the lights, Meigle flicked the switch of a projector and an image of the Honours of Scotland appeared on the large screen at his back. ‘These are the Scottish Crown Jewels,’ he said. ‘They comprise the Crown, the Sword of State and the Sceptre. There are also a number of rings and the Mace.’

  As most of the members leaned back, Andrew and Doctor Wallace fidgeted slightly in their seats. Meigle continued. ‘Beautiful, are they not? Mediaeval workmanship of the highest quality. Nobody is exactly sure of the age of the crown but we know that an Edinburgh jeweller named Mosman reworked it for King James V in 1540. The Sword of State and the Sceptre were both Papal gifts, dating from 1507 and 1494 respectively. In themselves, each is intrinsically priceless and historically invaluable. All have survived war and raid. When Cromwell invaded in 1650, the Honours were smuggled to safety from Dunottar Castle, by the wife of the minister of Kineff.’

  Meigle fixed his eyes on Doctor Wallace. ‘She was a member of the Society.’


  Doctor Wallace looked up. Her eyes were remorseless.

  ‘When the Union of the Parliaments occurred in 1707, one clause of the document stipulated that the Honours were never to leave Scotland. To ensure that the Westminster parliament kept its word, the Society persuaded the powers of the time to lock them up in the Castle. They remained there, safe, for over a century. Only when the Society deemed that Westminster might be trustworthy after all, did Walter Scott, another member, reveal their existence.’

  One of the English members gave an ironical cheer.

  Andrew Drummond opened his mouth to speak, but when his father shook his head he relapsed into silence. Doctor Wallace covered her yawn with a slim hand.

  ‘Only last century, when Hitler’s War broke out, the Honours were again in danger. Hitler wanted Edinburgh Castle as his summer residence, so he did not bomb it in the early years. In 1941, however, he knew that he could not invade the country, so the Castle, and the Honours, were endangered.’

  Doctor Wallace looked up. ‘By what?’

  ‘Aerial bombardment.’ Meigle said. ‘What Hitler could not get he tended to destroy, and the Castle was a target. The Society met and the Honours were buried for safety.’

  Doctor Wallace shook her head. ‘Are you saying that the Society was more concerned with pieces of jewellery rather than the well being of women and children? It was all right for Hitler to bomb the houses but not the Castle?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Meigle was slightly surprised at the venom of the attack. ‘The Society’s function is to protect and preserve the Clach-bhuai. That is what we do. Individual members were, of course, serving in the forces.’

  ‘In that case, Mr Meigle, your terminology is incorrect,’ Doctor Wallace said. ‘Even if you persist in using Gaelic, the crown jewels are not the Clach-bhuai.’

  ‘Indeed not.’ Meigle agreed. ‘The term relates to one stone.’ He flashed an image of the sceptre onto the screen. ‘This is the sceptre, and this,’ he pressed again for a close up of the polished crystal that sat on top, ‘is what we are dedicated to protect. This is the Clach-bhuai. The Stone of Power, the Powerstone.’