Voice in the Mist

by Nigel Cubbage

  “Must be. Those blokes are going to the Manse tomorrow to pick up some more stuff and take it to what they called the ‘loading point’. They didn’t say where that was. They mentioned Barradale and a cave. Maybe that’s the same cave we’ve been trying to find, if it’s the one your friend Knut keeps freaking out about. We’ve got to go to the old ruin and catch them red-handed. Hmmm…” He paused.

  Rebecca looked quizzically at him.

  “What’s the problem? We know, or rather you do anyway, where the old ruin is?”

  Drew bit his lip pensively.

  “For sure. Problem is, it’s a day’s walk at least to get there and the countryside isn’t a park. We’ll have to camp out. I’m not sure how keen Henry will be on that, given the speed storms whip up round here and your ankle. And besides, I’ve work to be getting on with for Henry on the estate.”

  “I’m sure Uncle Henry would rather you solved the problem of looking after his niece. Camping out sounds a bit of a lark.”

  “It might work if we get Dougie along with us,” said Drew, looking seriously at her.

  “I’m a bit nervous of what we’re getting into. Dougie knows the country round here better than anyone and Henry trusts him too. He mightn’t think twice if we said we were going off with Dougie, whereas I doubt he’d let you and me go alone. It’s been a laugh but there’s a lot of money at stake here and these guys sure won’t think it’s a game.”

  “Can you persuade Dougie, then? Will Uncle Henry allow it? I thought Dougie has a job to do, too.”

  “Dougie’s a cinch. He’s supposed to be heading up into the hills anyhow, tracking the McOwan deer, now he’s finished with Barradale’s. Once he hears about all this, we won’t be able to stop him.”

  CHAPTER 14 – The Pledge

  Bright August sunshine shimmered across the waters of Loch Nevis as Henry steered the boat carefully into the boathouse at Rahsaig.

  The journey back across from the Isle of Rum had been enjoyable but largely uneventful. Drew had bade them farewell in Mallaig.

  The cargo of props and costumes had been deemed too heavy for the Hebridean Princess to carry, when one took into consideration the theatregoers and the players themselves, who must also be transported. The Camden Players gallantly elected to stay on the island, to be picked up later on. Rebecca and Drew had thus been denied a further opportunity to make a positive identification of the man Rebecca had seen at the window of the castle. This had not caused them undue concern, however, since they knew the thieves intended to go to the old ruin the next day.

  Rebecca jumped onto the wooden landing stage and threw a rope around the forward landing rail. She pulled the boat up to the edge of the jetty and tied the rope off in a knot. She had by now become quite proficient in handling the boat and had earned her uncle’s praise on several occasions. There had even been hints that he trusted her sufficiently to allow her out alone.

  They made their way up the lawn and into the castle in casual conversation about the play and the events of the previous evening. Rebecca was careful to avoid mentioning the more dramatic occurrences during the night, or be tempted to divulge her theories about the art thefts. She was still unsure of her uncle’s reaction and wanted to be certain of her ground before she attempted any explanations.

  She was sure that Henry would have no hesitation in calling PC Lennie, once the truth revealed itself and from there, things would be sure to escalate. She had also learned from her uncomfortable experiences earlier that one had to have demonstrable proof before the police would take things seriously.

  As they went indoors, a hooded figure detached itself from a tree it had been leaning against and disappeared at a run into the woods.

  ***

  Rebecca went up to her room in the turret of the east wing, grateful to be able to change out of the clothes she had been wearing for the last two days. She reached up to open a window. As she did so, she felt a sudden rush of air behind her.

  The door to her room slammed shut.

  Rebecca turned round, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling.

  For the faintest instant, she felt as if she was being observed – then the feeling left her.

  She shook her head and smiled.

  “You really are imagining things, girl,” she muttered to herself.

  She busied herself with washing and changing, leaving her room for a few minutes to go to the bathroom.

  As she came back through the door, she noticed the journal lying open on her table. Puzzled and certain that she had left it closed in her bedside drawer, she picked it up. In Rebecca McOwan’s beautiful flowing script, the page was entitled

  The Voice

  Intrigued, Rebecca took the journal over to her favourite window seat and began to read.

  The most dreadful foreboding has overtaken me. For some days and weeks now, I have been assailed by a man with a chilling voice, who seems to know me. He speaks to me from out of the dark and dreich mist but will not reveal himself. His voice is strong and I feel that I know it, though I know it not. It is as though I am in a dream, for when he leaves me, I have not been asleep but neither has he been with me. I fear I am losing my mind.

  Rebecca was gripped. She thought immediately of her own voice in the mist.

  Today he came to me as I stood at the edge of the loch. I could hear the stroke of oars in the water and once more he bade me guard his lady’s resting place from the English soldiers. He calls this place “Sanctuary”.

  There it was again – the Sanctuary.

  Each time, it is the same. I know not who he is, nor his lady, nor why he calls on me. I ran from the Loch and hid myself indoors, barricading the door behind me. Thinking I was safe, I went up to my room and looked down. From out of the mist at the edge of the loch there came the most chilling howl, from what manner of beast I knew not, until I saw a ghastly white wolf leap from the waters. The terrible creature launched itself at the castle gate and clawed at it with such ferocity that I felt sure it would give way.

  And then, as quickly as it had come, the beast was gone. All at once, I heard the voice crying out to me.

  “Becca! Becca! You must protect my lady! Keep the invader from her door! Only you can do this! Only you know the secret. The Sanctuary, Becca, the Sanctuary!”

  And then the voice was gone and all was tranquil as before. I cannot rest. I understand not what the voice wills me to do, nor from where he comes to me. And I fear the dreadful beast. I am lost in a nightmare. Reason says it cannot be real. And so would I believe, were it not for the livid clawmarks of the beast gouged on the castle gates.

  Rebecca paused, shaken. There could be no doubt that Becca was describing the same experiences as she had herself undergone. The coincidences were too strong to mean anything else. The same voice that beckoned her had called upon her namesake back in the eighteenth century. The reference to the “Sanctuary”; even what Becca wrote about the wolf seemed to describe identically the beast she had seen at the edge of the loch.

  What Rebecca could not fathom was why they had been singled out?

  And who had opened the book?

  Even if one accepted, just for a moment, that something supernatural was at work here, and Rebecca was not prepared to admit that yet, why was it that the warrior called upon her and Becca? What would he have them do? In speaking of “my lady” he must mean Princess Immelda. “Disturbing her rest” suggested that her grave was being violated in some way. But where was the grave and who was violating it?

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

  Local legends were contradictory on the location. She now knew it was not in the family crypt beneath the church at Stoul. Henry knew of no burial place on the estate, although he admitted that was unusual for noble Scottish families. Perhaps discovering the location of the grave might unlock the secret and find the answers to her question
s.

  Rebecca turned back to the journal and flicked over the page. To her great consternation, she found that but for a few more words, Becca had written no more. The last entry was a few simple lines and read:

  It is a few days since my last entry. Were I to write here what I believe to be true, people would say it is too fantastic and would question my very reason. I must discover more and find some proof to affirm the imaginings of my mind. Tonight I will venture out and, God willing, find my answers.

  And here, the journal came to an end.

  Rebecca leafed through the remaining pages but they were all blank. A mixture of sadness, frustration and unfulfilment overcame her, as she realised that she could now learn no more. It was as if a voice had been switched off.

  She looked out of the window, the very same window from which Becca had looked down and seen the beast leap from the loch, all those years ago. How calm and peaceful it now seemed across those same waters, how very different from that night.

  “So now it’s all up to me,” she whispered to herself, staring out at the mountains.

  “I must find the answers for both of us, Becca. I promise I will not let you down.”

  CHAPTER 15 – The Last Great Wilderness

  “The last great wilderness in Europe.” Drew Campbell stood on a high, sunny hillside, surveying the great expanse of rugged, open country stretching for miles around. He spoke in the manner of one bestowing a gleaming nugget of information.

  “That’s what they call the Highlands. And they’re not wrong. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you can get into real trouble out here. Eighteen people die each year on the mountains, you know.”

  “Well that’s a nice, comforting thought as we head into the middle of nowhere, Drew, thanks!” Dougie Campbell spoke softly, clapping his younger brother on the back.

  “Bleak.”

  “Beautiful.”

  From her seated position just below them, Rebecca studied the Campbell brothers with detached amusement. The camping expedition, sanctioned by Henry when he had been told of the inclusion of Dougie, had begun a few hours ago and already Rebecca had found much to amuse her in the way the two brothers interacted.

  Dougie Campbell, by several years the elder, was very different from his lively, disrespectful brother. He exuded dependability and confidence, which no doubt explained how he had come to rise so far at such a young age, to be an estate ranger. It was a position of no little responsibility and, Henry had told Rebecca the previous evening, was normally only reached after many years.

  There was no doubt that Drew looked up to his elder brother and respected him but he missed no opportunity to joke at his expense. Rebecca found Dougie’s dry, subtle wit greatly to her liking.

  “What is this Glen called?” she asked, looking at the ridge they had just climbed and somewhere behind which she had her first experience with the mist and the Warrior.

  “Glen an Dubh Lochan,” replied Drew. “Glen of the dark loch. Dark lake valley to the English.”

  “So Drew has told me a bit about what’s been going on.” Dougie sat down on a rock opposite Rebecca and slid his pack off his shoulders.

  “You seem to have got our kid into a bit of a mess. Girls, hey? You’d better tell me what I’m getting myself into – and don’t leave anything out.”

  Rebecca related the full account of her experiences at Rahsaig, aided by interjections from Drew.

  They divulged all their theories about the thefts, Simon Sibley, the Camden Players, the divers, Becca’s journal, the Warrior and the mists. When finally they finished, Dougie was lost in silent thought.

  “You guys have been pretty busy,” he said at length, a wry grin on his face.

  “If half of your theories are right, then we are going to have to be on our guard. I’m not sure what I think about the ghostie part but you seem sure enough that something, shall we say ‘odd’, has been going on. Should be fun, though.”

  He paused for a moment.

  “One thing we need to get straight right now is this: out here, I am in charge, okay? I don’t want any arguing if I say we are going in a particular direction or complaining if you get tired. You only got this trip because Henry put me in charge. If you want my help, you do things my way, understood?”

  Rebecca and Drew nodded readily, secretly quite glad to have somebody else taking the lead.

  “And we are doing nothing remotely risky without involving the cops. Okay?”

  Rebecca and Drew nodded again.

  “Okay. So, I guess we’ll be heading for the old ruin. Catch ourselves a forger.”

  Dougie swung his pack onto his shoulders and stood up. His eyes narrowed for a moment as he looked up the Glen towards the mountains, before he began to stride off along the rough stalkers’ path. Drew and Rebecca picked up their own rucksacks and fell in step behind him. The camping trip had been planned quite hurriedly but, with Dougie’s help promised to be an experience. Rebecca’s previous contact with camping was limited to a wet week on the Isle of Wight. A few nights in the open in the wild, remote Highlands of Scotland might not be quite the same thing.

  ***

  The route Dougie had laid out over breakfast would take them along the shore of the ‘dark’ loch of the glen’s name. Dougie had decided to camp at its northern end. Next day, they would continue a few miles further to the Old Ruin, the main objective as far as Rebecca and Drew were concerned. From here, they would climb steeply up to a high ridge between Ladhar Bheinn and the neighbouring mountain Luinne Bheinn, from where they would descend into Glen Barradale and call Willie McHarg from a phone box near the shore, to arrange to meet his boat. Rebecca had reasoned that the area could not be too remote if there was a phone box, only to be told gently by Dougie that it was a Mountain Rescue Post. If this caused her concern, Rebecca’s pride was not about to let this show.

  After a long day walking through highland heather and rock, they reached the end of Loch Dubh in the late afternoon and set about pitching camp. They chose an area of flattish grass between two small rivers which flowed into the loch itself. Dougie was carrying lightweight tents, which he now began to unravel and spread out on the ground.

  “Firewood, you two!” he said, briskly, pointing towards a small forest at the foot of the hillside close by. Although tired from a hard day’s walking in the rocky terrain, Rebecca and Drew set off and began to build a pile of wood.

  Pausing to catch her breath for a moment, Rebecca took in the surroundings. They must be the only people for miles. All day they had not seen a single person. There were several groups of wild deer roaming the hills and panoramic scenery. Out here, there was a sense of complete solitude.

  Within minutes of their arrival, Dougie had erected both tents; a larger one for himself and his brother; and a single for Rebecca. Rebecca was a little doubtful that it would be big enough but, on opening the flap, discovered that its size was deceptive. She could lie fully extended with still a foot at either end. Dougie put down a bed roll as a cushion against the ground, onto which she now laid the sleeping bag she had been carrying in her pack. She lay back and briefly closed her eyes. Overcome by sudden tiredness, she was unable to stop herself falling asleep.

  When she eventually emerged outside, an hour had passed. Drew sat a few feet away, busily coaxing the fire into a strong blaze.

  “Where’s Dougie?” asked Rebecca.

  “Evening, sleepyhead. Away seeing to the food,” replied Drew, his eyes not leaving the flames roaring away before him. Rebecca raised her eyebrows in puzzlement but did not reply. She looked down at Drew’s rucksack, into which, earlier, she had watched McHarg pack copious provisions for the trip. Drew had complained about the weight on his back several times that day. Moments later, Dougie reappeared, two bright silver fish hanging from a string in one hand. From the other, he dropped a black fishing rod to the ground.

  “Very impressive!” said Rebecca, smiling. “I didn’t see you carrying a fishing rod, though, I’m
sure?”

  “Secrets of the trade. The rangers keep some bits and pieces in a shed up there in the trees, for when we’re out here. You can’t always carry everything with you. Stove too.”

  “What are they?” Rebecca asked, sitting down next to the fire.

  “Trout – when the estate was a gentlemen’s retreat, they were kept for the visitors to catch. There haven’t been any visitors here for a number of years so the stocks are good. We always have fresh fish for supper when we’re up here.”

  Dougie sat down and set about slicing and gutting the fish in expert fashion. A frying pan was produced and it was not long before the delicious smell of cooking wafted across their little camp.

  “So is this still Uncle Henry’s estate then?” Rebecca asked, looking up at the peaks and ridges of the mountains that surrounded them.

  “Aye – just,” answered Dougie, not looking up. “Most say Rahsaig ends at the Old Ruin, although Henry calls Ladhar Bheinn the boundary. Centuries ago there was a battle on the ridge between the McOwans and the McLeods of Barradale. The McOwan, Hugo, cornered the McLeod chieftain and threw him off the top. I think that made him the winner. They say Hugo was seven feet tall, so nobody was going to argue. The McOwans have always claimed the summit. There’s a place up there called Dead Man’s Crag, where it’s supposed to have happened.”

  They enjoyed a supper of fresh fish and bread, huddled around the fire and whiled away the evening talking and watching the sun set over the purple mountain tops. Rebecca did not even mind being the butt of some of the humour. There was an honesty and refreshing directness in the way the Campbells spoke.

  “So, tomorrow we’ll dig a bit further into this mystery,” said Dougie, turning over the coals with a stick to put out the fire.

  “I’d almost forgotten,” said Drew, laughing.

  “Now don’t move suddenly, but there are a couple of people over the other side of the river,” said Dougie, softly. “Might be your thieves, off to the ruin.”