Voice in the Mist

by Nigel Cubbage

  Rebecca paused, to check Drew had registered the significance.

  “The Sanctuary, Drew! The same as the warrior said to me.”

  “Yeah but what is it? We still don’t know what he was on about”.

  “But I think I may do now, listen.” Rebecca took the journal out of her bag and turned to a page she had marked. She began to read.

  “ … You will understand that I was disquiet, that my fright at the sudden encounter with this terrible looking fellow had all but overtaken me. Yet, still I listened as his cold, chilling voice bade me follow him to the entrance to this Sanctuary, as he called it. I asked him where it lay.

  ‘You will find the door twixt the grave of your ancestor and the sword of burial. You must seal it from the invaders so that my lady’s rest is not disturbed.’

  Rebecca paused for dramatic effect. Drew looked at her impatiently.

  “Well? Did she follow him? Did she find this place?”

  “No. She was too frightened and the mist receded, just like with me. But that’s why we have to go to Stoul. Uncle Henry says that is where the family crypt is. We have to go to the church and find the crypt, the graves and this door.”

  She looked up at him, closing the book. Drew rolled his eyes.

  “Aw great! Not only do we have to go to the kirk, but we have to go poking about in the creepy part where all the dead people are. You sure know how to show a guy a good time, Rebecca McOwan.”

  He paused for a moment, before regarding Rebecca thoughtfully.

  “One thing though. Interesting choice of phrase used by this Norseman. ‘Your ancestor’.”

  Rebecca looked at him, puzzled, not comprehending his meaning. Drew elaborated.

  “Singular. Ancestor. It might be nothing but the kirk at Stoul has been the burial place of your ancestors for hundreds of years, I think, right back beyond William Wallace and Robert the Bruce. There must be loads of graves there. Seems odd to imply only one. Maybe there’s another one somewhere else.”

  “But he might just have meant a particular grave next to this sword. I’m sure we’ll find something, I just feel it.” Rebecca’s eyes burned brightly as Drew brought the boat alongside a small jetty.

  ***

  Walking fast, they climbed the path from the landing stage over the crest of a hill towards the small village of Stoul. The early morning sunshine caused the windows of the cold grey church to sparkle. Rebecca could see a smattering of people making their way from the direction of the village.

  “So just how are we going to do this with nobody seeing us?” Drew was frowning. She noticed his eyebrows nearly meeting in the middle again.

  “Do you know that when you –” Rebecca stopped in mid sentence. Drew’s frown was replaced by puzzlement for a moment.

  “What?” he asked, after a pause.

  “Nothing,” said Rebecca, hurriedly changing the subject.

  “Look, let’s sit on the back row and try and slip off unnoticed. This entrance or whatever must come out somewhere in the crypt, ‘cause that’s where all the McOwan chieftains are buried. We have to get in.”

  “We should wait until the end when everyone has gone.” Drew had reached the stone wall at the lane to the church. He peered over.

  “I expect they’ll all go off for a sherry with the vicar after the service,” said Rebecca.

  “That’s what mother always does at home.”

  Drew turned and scowled at her.

  “This isn’t England! No self-respecting Scot drinks sherry. And it’s not the vicar, either – he’s called the minister. Look, we’ll just have to duck under the pew at the end and wait until everyone has gone out.”

  “McHarg drinks sherry, I’ve seen her,” said Rebecca, smarting slightly. She made a face at Drew’s back.

  “She’s no’ a Scot, she’s from another planet,” muttered Drew. “She thinks Catholics are aliens. Come to think of it, she thinks Campbells are aliens”.

  They had arrived at the churchyard gate. People were standing around the entrance, talking in polite murmurs. They were all dressed in their Sunday best, among the gravestones. Rebecca scanned the outside of the church for signs of an entrance that might lead to the crypt.

  “Do you know where the crypt is?” Rebecca asked Drew.

  “Nope.”

  “Oh great!”

  “I told you – I don’t come to the kirk. There are doors inside but I don’t know where they go… Probably to the minister’s sherry store”.

  “Stop it!” hissed Rebecca.

  “If you make us laugh, we’re done for! We’ve got to be inconspicuous.”

  “I can’t spell that – I’ll just stay out o’ the way.”

  Rebecca kicked him on the ankle.

  “Ow!” He grimaced. “Do that and we’ll certainly get spotted. People are looking.”

  Drew made an almost imperceptible movement of his head towards a small boy and his sister who had turned to watch them, alerted by Drew’s yell. Rebecca smiled sweetly. The girl smiled back and looked away. The boy carried on staring, so Rebecca put out her tongue instead. The boy giggled and nudged his sister. This made Rebecca laugh too.

  “Oh brilliant – now we’ve got an audience,” muttered Drew. “Come on.”

  He grabbed Rebecca’s elbow and led her into the dim interior of the church.

  It was very old, dating from the early 12th century, with plain white walls and a cold tiled floor. The pews were laid out in conventional style, a central aisle leading towards a covered altar at the front, beside a wooden pulpit. Three doors led off in different directions, one on either side, and in the rear corner a smaller door. Drew pointed at the door in the centre on the far side and gestured that Rebecca should inspect it, while he headed for the other. Rebecca looked quickly to check that nobody had followed them inside before rounding the end of the pews. She tried the heavy iron latch. It would not budge. Checking over her shoulder again, she rattled it as hard as she dared but still it did not give.

  Drew appeared at her shoulder.

  “Just the door to the minister’s room that side. Don’t worry, he didn’t see me. This won’t open? Let me try.” He grasped the latch in both hands and tried to force it up. There was a loud grating noise and it gave slightly but still refused to open.

  “It must be locked,” whispered Rebecca. “Where would we find the key? Maybe in the minister’s room?”

  The low murmur of voices drifted into the church behind them. Rebecca looked round.

  “People are coming in – leave it!”

  She dragged Drew away. The rest of the congregation was coming through the main door. As yet, nobody was looking their way. Rebecca and Drew slipped quietly into a pew at the back and sat down. Drew picked up a hymn book from the narrow shelf on the back of the pew in front and pretended to be reading.

  “Master Campbell, how nice to see you – you’ve not been a regular visitor.” A voice came from the doorway at the side of the church. Rebecca and Drew turned simultaneously to see who was speaking. Drew coloured, self-consciously. A dark-haired man in his late twenties, dressed in a dark suit was smiling at them. He was quite good looking, decided Rebecca, in an understated sort of way.

  “Hello, I’m Tom Gordon, the minister here.” He was smiling at Rebecca. She blushed. His eyes were wide and unblinking.

  “Oh! Er, Rebecca McOwan, I’m, er, staying with my uncle–”

  “Ah, yes, Henry. A fine golfer … a Sunday golfer, I think. And are you enjoying your stay in the Highlands?”

  “Yes, thank you, very much indeed.” Rebecca blushed again under the intense, smiling gaze, not sure if there was some sort of veiled reproof towards her uncle in the reference to Sunday golf.

  “So, have you picked out something you’d like us all to sing, Drew? Or are you catching up on the latest Good News?”

  Drew started, looking bemused. Tom Gordon pointed to the hymn book Drew was holding, his eyebrows raised.

  “Oh, er, that is, no�
� no, Mr Gordon – minister … sir.”

  “Well, you’re both very welcome.” Tom Gordon nodded and passed on. He shook hands with some of the villagers entering the church.

  Rebecca nudged Drew.

  “He’s young to be a vicar, isn’t he? I thought they were all old, grumpy and whiskery. They are where I live.”

  Drew made a face.

  “He’s very young, isn’t he?” he mimicked. “You blushed! You fancy him!”

  “I do not!” Rebecca jabbed him. “You can’t fancy vicars, anyway, can you?”

  “I certainly don’t,” smirked Drew. “The young zealot, my Da calls him. He’s from Fort William, went to St Andrew’s University and came back with a degree and God.

  Well, I guess we’re stuffed now, with you making eyes at him, we can’t go unnoticed any more, can we? We won’t get away without you two wanting to say goodbye.”

  “I did not make eyes at him!” Rebecca snapped. “You’ll just have to slip off during the service to look for the key and make sure he doesn’t notice – nor anyone else for that matter.”

  “Why me? This was your idea.”

  “Because …you’re the male.”

  “Oh, and what ever happened to equality, then, Ms modern London lady?” It was Drew’s turn to sneer.

  “Women are the brains, men are the brawn. Behind every man, there’s a woman telling him what to do – so my Aunt Kitty says,” Rebecca said airily, smiling to herself. “And you’re Scottish and downtrodden, as you’re so fond of saying. Anyway, I thought you weren’t scared?”

  “Aw hush, will you?! I’ll go, I’ll go!” Drew held up his hands in resignation.

  “Wouldn’t want you to show yourself up in front of lover boy, anyway.”

  He ducked quickly to avoid a swipe from Rebecca. Since the congregation was now seated in front of them, Drew shuffled slowly along to the end of their row, nearest the wall and the door in the corner. As the organ struck up and the minister stepped forward, the congregation rose for the first hymn. Seizing the opportunity, Drew ducked below the level of the pews and scuttled on hands and knees towards the door.

  Rebecca watched him go, nervously. She darted a look at the minister but neither he nor anyone else seemed to have noticed anything amiss. She watched the door close behind Drew. Turning back to her hymn book, hoping desperately that he would be back before anyone noticed, she tried to join in with the singing. However, when she opened her mouth, only a hoarse croak came out. She shut it again, rapidly.

  The hymn ended and the congregation resumed their seats. Now, surely, the minister would see she was alone. Rebecca looked down at her hands, not daring to raise her head in case she caught Tom Gordon’s eye. He began his sermon.

  Rebecca was certain that at any moment they would be found out. She strained her ears to listen out for the door opening behind her. Every so often she glanced over her shoulder but the door remained resolutely closed.

  She noticed the little boy was watching at her again, smiling. She put her tongue out at him, hoping it would cause him to look away. Luckily at that moment, his mother pulled him sharply round by the collar, scolding him through clenched teeth.

  “Hsssst!”

  Rebecca started at a sudden noise. Drew was at the part-opened doorway, beckoning to her to follow him. She made a face and shook her head quickly, turning back to check nobody had observed.

  “Hsssssssssssst!” This time Drew was much louder. He beckoned insistently.

  Rebecca realised the only way to stop him was to do as he asked. Fortunately, just then, the organ struck up for the second hymn and the congregation began to stand.

  It was now or never.

  She took a deep breath, dropped to the floor as Drew had done and crawled quickly along to the end of the pew. Checking that nobody was looking back in her direction, she scurried round the corner and through the door, verse one ringing out behind her.

  The door closed with a dull thud.

  “Come on, I’ve found it!” Drew was hurrying down a low passageway towards another door at the far end. Behind this, a stone staircase spiralled down into the gloom. The only light came from an arrow-slit window, the ceiling barely inches above their heads. Unhesitatingly, Drew headed down the steps two at a time. Rebecca followed him, more slowly, arriving in a slimy underground passageway. She uttered a cry of annoyance as her face was instantly covered by a huge cobweb.

  Drew took a torch from his pocket and switched it on. The beam illuminated an iron gateway to another chamber. Drew was already at the gate. As he pushed it open, there was a loud grating noise that Rebecca felt sure must be audible from upstairs, although the hymn-singing was now muffled.

  She winced and followed.

  “Mind your head just here,” came Drew’s voice, as the torch beam was suddenly swung round into her face.

  “Mind, I can’t see with the torch –ow!” A sharp thump on her forehead told her she had come into sudden and painful contact with whatever Drew had been trying to help her avoid. “Ow!” she glared at him. “If you hadn’t been shining that flippin’ thing in my face, I might have seen that!”

  “Sorry! Look here, this is the crypt – see the inscriptions … William Stuart McOwan, Laird of Rahsaig, born August 14th 1836, died June 21st 1898 … and here’s his wife Mary, nee Balfour. What does nee mean?”

  Her eyes growing accustomed to the gloom, Rebecca made out headstones and graves numbering upwards of thirty in this low chamber.

  “It’s French. It means that was her maiden name. It’s eerie down here,” she said, shuddering and drawing her jacket about her.

  “Like some spooky ghost film.”

  “One of those ones where vampires emerge from the graves and start sucking your blood, you mean?” said Drew, waving his arms above his head as if about to swoop down on her. The torch beam danced wildly.

  “Stop it! I mean it, this place is really creepy – and it’s cold and smells of mouldy corpses. Let’s find the entrance to the Sanctuary and get out of here. I don’t want to hang about any longer than we have to.”

  Rebecca and Drew examined the gravestones for names and the walls for anything resembling a doorway. As they searched, there were inscriptions going back to the Middle Ages, barely legible in places but recording the names, births and deaths of McOwans who had lived their lives long, long ago. There were others too: McDonalds, McLeods, Stuarts; all of them people who had amounted to something significant in their time.

  “Not too many poor people in here,” said Drew in his habitual mocking manner.

  “You had to be at least a laird or a laird’s wife to get your bones in this chamber.”

  “Well I can’t see a doorway next to a sword anywhere,” said Rebecca, dejected.

  She sat down heavily on a gravestone. At that moment, there was a muffled grating sound at the door through to the church upstairs. It closed with a dull thud, followed by what seemed to be the sound of a key turning.

  Drew jumped up and dashed through the chamber to the door.

  “Hey! Wait!” he cried out.

  “Shhh!” Rebecca rushed after him. She grabbed him, trying to stop him from hammering on the door.

  “It might be the thieves, following us!”

  Drew regarded her for a second then shook his head decidedly.

  “We’d have seen them in the kirk, or on the loch. No, look at the time! It must be the minister locking up after the service. We could be stuck in here for hours.

  “HELP! OPEN THE DOOR!”

  He hammered on the thick door, shaking the latch to see if it was indeed locked. It would not give.

  “Whatever happens, we’re in trouble,” said Rebecca, biting her bottom lip.

  “Reverend Gordon is going to be none too pleased when he finds us down here.”

  “Why shouldn’t you visit the graves of your ancestors?” asked Drew, a sudden impudent smile breaking out over his face. They heard the key being reinserted in the lock and the door slowly
opened again. Tom Gordon’s face peered through.

  “Young Campbell … Miss McOwan … you’d best be coming out.” He paused for a second, clicking on a light. “And then you can be telling me what you were doing down here in the middle of morning service.”

  Rebecca swallowed nervously, glancing sideways at Drew as she passed through the doorway, not daring to look at Tom Gordon. To her amazement, Drew made no move to depart and was, instead, smiling at the minister. She feared the worst as he launched into his defence.

  “I was showing the laird’s niece where her ancestors lie. She was keen to visit the graves to pay her respects.”

  Rebecca closed her eyes, expecting a sharp rebuke to follow.

  “Is that so? You did not mention it when you arrived. I would be happy to show you the crypt myself, Miss McOwan, follow me, please. The history is just wonderful.”

  To Rebecca’s astonishment, Tom Gordon was now smiling at her. He placed a gentle hand on her back to invite her back into the crypt. Rebecca stole a quick glance at Drew, who smiled smugly back, out of sight of Tom Gordon. For the next few minutes, the young minister explained the history of the crypt and recounted the details of some of its inhabitants. He was most affable and was extremely well informed. By the time they re-entered the church upstairs and emerged back into the daylight, Rebecca was completely disarmed. She felt bold enough to ask the question which had been burning inside her.

  “Do you know of somewhere called the Sanctuary, minister?”

  Tom Gordon looked blank.

  “Most churches are places of sanctuary. As to one place with that name, no, sorry.”

  As they made their way back over the hill to the boat, Rebecca was conscious that Drew was chuckling to himself. Guessing at his thoughts, she frowned and favoured him with a cold stare. He looked up innocuously.

  “What?” he said, mustering as much innocence as he could. Rebecca was not taken in.

  “You know very well what. You are going to tease me about the minister, only you probably can’t think of anything sharp enough to annoy me.”

  “Ouch! Doesn’t look as if I need to! Methinks the lady doth protest too much! And while we’re at it, I would point out that it was only my incredibly quick thinking which dug us out of the hole you had got us into.”