The Exiled

by William Meikle

  Despite the apparent age of the gateway, a small tannoy system hung in a nook on one of the columns, just at the right height for a driver to speak into it if they wanted entry.

  Sandy leaned out, pushed a button and spoke.

  “We’re here to see the Baird brothers on urgent business.”

  At first Simon thought there was nobody home. The tannoy sat silent, and the mist swirling around the SUV was the only movement. Sandy spoke into the tannoy again.

  “It concerns Simon, and the Cobbe.”

  With a loud creak and groan the gate swung wide open.

  “I guess that’s an invitation?” Sandy said. “Shall we accept?”

  “Lay on, MacDuff,” Alan replied.

  They drove through the gate—Alan saw it close behind them when he looked back in the wing mirror. The driveway led into a long avenue of stunted oaks and chestnuts, all showing signs of great age; all bent and bowed, lending the avenue the air of a long green tunnel stretching into a dark distance. The road surface was dirt and gravel, and there were no tracks ahead of them to show that anyone had driven it anytime recently.

  After almost a mile the avenue opened out into a paved driveway through an overgrown garden of roses and rhododendrons. It led them up an incline to the dwelling itself—an imposing, almost cubic, tower of rough stone perched on a cliff edge overlooking a mist-covered loch beyond. It had been built with little regard for its aesthetics—the windows—only four of them visible—were small and thin, symmetrically positioned around a tall oak door above a short set of stone steps. There were no decorative features whatsoever and the whole thing looked as gray and uninviting as the mist itself.

  As Sandy brought the SUV to a stop in front of the entrance more mist rolled over the building, obscuring the highest parts of the battlements. She switched off the engine and they sat in silence for several seconds.

  “Nice to see that traditional Scottish hospitality is still practiced somewhere,” Sandy said dryly. “What now?”

  “We do what we came to do.” Alan got out the vehicle. “Let’s see if I can get a foot in the door.”

  He went up the stone steps and looked for a doorbell. There was only a heavy iron knocker in the shape of a serpent eating its own tail. Heavy dents and scarring showed that it had been in place on the door for a very long time. Alan added to the dents by rapping it, as hard as he could manage, three times against the wood.

  The door swung open noiselessly, revealing a long, empty hall beyond. Alan had a flashback to his first visit to the farmhouse, and having to grope around in darkness before getting ambushed.

  I’m not about to make that mistake again.

  He stood on the doorstep, listening. Sandy came up to his side. She had put a loose jacket on, and Alan wondered if the pistol was in a holster on her hip. He was also considering going back to the SUV to get himself a weapon when a voice spoke from inside.

  “Come away in,” a soft Highland accent said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

  With Sandy at his shoulder, Alan walked into the hallway—a tall channel of oak paneling festooned with hunting trophies, weaponry and faded oil paintings of rugged landscapes, deer and eagles. Tattered rugs that at one time might have been Persian and expensive partially covered scratched and tarnished floorboards. The whole place had the air of a country hotel slowly going to seed.

  “We’re through here,” a voice said. It sounded creaky, as if wracked with sickness or age.

  They turned a corner and walked through a doorway into a tall hall—all bare floors, tall candlesticks and ragged tapestries, the space being dominated by a huge roaring fire in a grate that took up much of the far wall. A semicircle of five armchairs surrounded the fire. Two men sat on either end, facing each other. Neither of them rose as Alan and Sandy entered.

  “Forgive us,” the left-hand one said. “It is a long time since we had visitors.”

  It was only when they reached the chairs that they got their first good look at the seated men. They were indeed Simon’s doubles, down to the thin, chiseled features and the slightly pointed ears. But where Simon exuded an air of rude good health, these two looked as ill as anyone Alan had ever seen in his life. Part of that was obviously age—both had liver-spotted scalps with little more than wisps of gray hair hanging lifeless over their ears and necks. Their mouths were thin-lipped and almost as gray as the hair, and their eyes, although deepest blue, were watery and rheumy as they gazed at first Alan, then Sandy.

  “Take a seat,” the one on the right said, waving a hand that looked almost translucent before letting it fall in his lap like a dead bird.

  Alan looked at Sandy. She shrugged.

  “We came to talk. Let’s talk.”

  They sat down, Alan on the left, within touching distance of the man on that side.

  “We need your help,” Alan started, but the man at his side raised a hand straightaway.

  “Before that, some introductions if you please. I am James, and this is my brother Jonas. We already know—or know of at least—Alexandra here. But we do not know you. Are you one of Ferguson’s acolytes?”

  Sandy’s reply caught Alan by surprise.

  “He’s one of the three,” she said. “As I am. Simon found us—all of us.”

  The man on the right—Jonas—laughed, then had to stop as it turned into a coughing fit that left him unable to speak for several seconds, and when he did, the sarcasm dripped in his voice.

  “The three is a myth,” he said. “A story told to comfort stupid people.”

  “But Simon says—”

  “Simon, is it? What is he up to this time?” the old man interrupted again.

  “He’s going to try to banish the Cobbe with our help. But we need you to get us back there—right away.”

  Both of the older men laughed.

  “If it were that easy, do you not think we would have returned long ago?”

  “Simon said you were in exile because of the growing power of the bird…”

  “Yes—it is true that the bird prevents us from returning. It is too strong.”

  “And getting stronger,” Sandy replied. She quickly told the old men about Galloway—they’d guessed large parts of the tale already and it did not take long.

  “We cannot help you,” Jonas said after hearing her out. “We are weak and enfeebled.”

  “Surely there are more of you?” Alan asked.

  James replied this time.

  “Several thousand, or so we think, scattered across the globe,” he said. “But like us, they have grown used to their position. We meet some of the others every few years, but please do not infer that there is anything of a movement for us to cross over. We have no incentive—not when we are comfortable here and the only fate on the other side is certain death. We have taken what we can from that place. There is nothing more for us there.”

  “It is not certain,” Sandy replied. “Not now that the three have been gathered. Simon is…”

  “…an old fool,” Jonas said bitterly. “Let the Cobbe have its way.”

  “But the three…” Sandy said.

  “…is no more than a story, as I have already said.” Jonas replied. “You, my girl, found your way to the other side by chance—an accidental crossing. You know that, don’t you? There is nothing special about any of us—it is all just chance. Or bad luck, in the case of the two of you.”

  “And yet I can cross—and come back, at will,” Sandy replied, almost shouting. “Nobody else can do that.”

  Jonas laughed again, cold and harsh. He pointed at Alan. “This one can. And his brother if the truth is being told here. You do not need our help.”

  “But we do,” Sandy said softly. “And Simon does.”

  “Simon chose his path years ago. As I said—there is no longer anything in it for us.”

  Alan couldn’t contain himself any longer.

  “Maybe not for you—but my brother is over there right now, putting his life on the line for Simon
—for all of you. I won’t leave him to rot. Help me get back.”

  James raised both his hands, palms upward.

  “It is not that simple, I’m afraid,” he said. “You cannot get there from here. That’s why we settled in this spot—for even as there are thin places where it is easy to pass through, there are also thicker spots where the Cobbe cannot reach us.”

  He opened his arms to encompass the hall and the rest of the building.

  “This is such a place.”

  25

  Grainger woke to find water at his lips—too salty with a metallic aftertaste. He tried to spit it out, but the flow was too insistent—he gulped and swallowed, then spluttered half the water back out in a gush as he came fully awake with a start.

  “I thought I’d lost you, copper,” Galloway said. Grainger blinked, having to force his eyelids open through a partially dried layer of blood that felt like wet glue. The big man loomed over him—though he scarcely looked like a man at all now, more like a grotesque clay statue that had been left out in the sun and elements for too long. Galloway stood back, turning a circle on his heels to show the full extent of his metamorphosis.

  “I feed the bird, and it feeds me,” he said in a singsong voice that sounded more like the rumblings of a cement mixer than anything human. “Only one to go now, and I will be complete.”

  Grainger spat at the thing’s feet.

  “That promise to see you in hell first still holds,” he said.

  Galloway reached out and, with a finger as stubby as a Cuban cigar, poked hard at the recently stitched wound on Grainger’s shoulder. Grainger couldn’t help but scream as fresh pain coursed through him.

  “I stitched you up real good, copper,” Galloway said. “Would you like me to do a matching job on the other side? Play nice—if you know what’s good for you.”

  The big man turned his back and walked away. Grainger screamed after him—curses, imprecations and finally wordless rage. None of it did any good. Galloway kept walking until he turned away out of sight into the nave where the dead girls hung.

  Grainger strained against his bonds, again and again, but there was no give to be had in them, and the pain, while severe, was bearable enough that he could not even dive into the mercy of unconsciousness.

  What wasn’t bearable was the worry about what might have happened to Alan and the woman.

  Did they get free? Or does he have them, back in the nave—is he stitching them up even now?

  “Hey, Shrek, or whatever you’re calling yourself now,” he shouted. “Get your fat arse back through here. We need to talk.”

  Heavy footsteps echoed through the building, and Galloway came out from the nave.

  “Do I need to feed another bit of you to His Majesty—or will you shut the fuck up and give me peace?”

  “There’s no peace to be had here, Galloway,” Grainger said. “Not from me, or from those wee lassies—they’ll haunt you to your grave.”

  “Oh, it’s haunts you want, is it?” Galloway said, and laughed. “Well just you wait. It’ll be dark soon. We’ll see if you’re so keen on haunts then.”

  Galloway moved away, out of sight again, and no amount of cursing from Grainger was enough to persuade him to return. The building fell quiet—so much so that Grainger heard the clashing of waves on rock in the distance—and he was left alone with far too much time to think.

  * * *

  His first thought was of escape, and he spent a long, frustrating period concentrating on the details of the farmhouse as he remembered it. All he succeeded in doing was giving himself a pounding headache to match the pounding in the wound at his shoulder.

  All magic is an act of will. Maybe my will isn’t strong enough to take me over to the other side—but how about somewhere closer?

  He concentrated on Simon, and the high balcony where they had stood, what seemed like an age ago. The result was immediate—the walls of the tumbled building shimmered, showing Simon’s room beyond. The tall man stood there—wispy and unsubstantial, but the shock on his face all too apparent as he stared, straight at where Grainger lay.

  “Help me, man,” Grainger shouted. “Get me out of here.”

  He tried to force himself through by force of will alone, but although the walls continued to shimmer, Simon grew no more substantial.

  “Help me!” Grainger shouted.

  The sound of heavy footsteps came from the nave, at the same moment as Simon shook his head and turned away.

  “Bastard!” Grainger shouted, but Simon wouldn’t hear it. He had gone, and the walls of the cathedral were solid again. Grainger wailed in frustration, even as Galloway’s mocking laughter echoed around him.

  26

  “We will not come through with you,” Jonas said from the backseat of the SUV.

  Alan turned to look at the two old men.

  “You’ve made that very plain already—and I won’t ask you to. But you promised to help us get over…”

  “And we will keep our word,” James replied.

  They were approaching the Perth ring road just as the skies darkened into dusk. It had taken them some time to persuade the exiles to help, but in the end the old men relented to Alan’s appeals to their honor. James had been the one to make the decision, and Jonas still didn’t seem entirely happy with the idea, even now several hours later.

  “This is folly,” he said. “The Cobbe is too strong.”

  “So you keep saying,” Alan replied. “Yet both Sandy and I have been to the other side, and returned to tell the tale. All we ask is that you help us get back again—we will worry about the Cobbe when we get there.”

  Alan turned back in his seat and leather squeaked against leather. They’d changed clothing before leaving the Bairds’ keep. “Putting on the battle gear” as Sandy had called it. It no longer felt as outlandish as it had previously—indeed Alan felt reassured by its solidity—it was a tie to his brother, a reminder of where they had to go and what had to be done.

  Thinking about John brought the tension flooding back again—he’d already left it too long and his thoughts were filled with images of Galloway battering and bludgeoning the older brother. By the time they pulled into the car park of the bird sanctuary Alan was little more than a bundle of nervous energy, just waiting to be unleashed.

  Sandy brought the SUV to a halt in what was now almost total darkness and put a hand on Alan’s shoulder.

  “We need to decide where we’re going,” she said.

  “What do you mean? We’re going to get John away from that bastard Galloway.”

  “I meant, do we go straight to the cliff top, bursting in, firing on all cylinders—or do we go back to the fortress first, and regroup with Simon?”

  “Bugger that for a lark. We’ve no time—John has no time.”

  “I thought you’d say that,” Sandy replied with a grim smile. “Let’s get tooled up then.”

  The old men stayed in the backseat while Sandy and Alan got out and went to the trunk. Besides their luggage, there were several other items packed away—the gear they had purchased from the outdoor supply shop. They had a pair of hunting crossbows, two quivers full of quarrels, and a small box of safety flares used by sailors lost at sea. Sandy packed two handfuls of the flares in her flak jacket; Alan tucked two away in each pocket of his tunic. They took a crossbow and quiver each, hanging the bundled quarrels across their shoulders.

  “Ready?” Sandy asked.

  “As I’ll ever be,” Alan replied, hefting the bow. “I couldn’t hit a glass bottle with a catapult at five paces as a lad—just stay behind me if I have to use this bugger.”

  Sandy looked up at the dark hill ahead of them.

  “How far to the thin spot?”

  “Less than a hundred yards—there might be a night watchman around somewhere…”

  “We’ll deal with him if we have to. Get Jonas and James out—let’s get this thing done.”

  * * *

  It seemed the night watchman eith
er hadn’t turned up for his shift yet, or that the idea had already been abandoned. The bird sanctuary was empty and quiet—and the gate hadn’t even been locked. The four of them walked along the twisting uphill path, with Alan trying to remember exactly where he had come upon his first encounter with the other side.

  Six Canada geese squawked and barked at them and would have launched an attack had they not been caged—an unsettling reminder that the Cobbe would give them more of the same on a much grander scale on the other side. Alan gave the caged geese a wide berth and continued up the slope.

  “Round about here, I think,” he finally said, and brought them to a halt. His eyes had adjusted to the dark and he saw the empty cages around them and the thin deer track that led off up the hill. Behind them the lights of Kinross twinkled and danced in reflection on the loch, and a cloudless star-filled sky hung overhead.

  “Load your bow,” Sandy said, then had to show him how the mechanism worked before he could get a quarrel locked in place. “And be bloody careful—these things are lethal at close range.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping for,” Alan said softly.

  James stepped forward and put a hand on Alan’s shoulder.

  “It is not too late. Come back with us—the police will never find you and we can promise you a peaceful—if not exactly exciting life.”

  “What kind of man would I be if I left my brother to die?”

  “A man much like me,” James said, almost a whisper, and turned away—but not before Alan saw the single tear that ran down his left cheek.

  The four of them stood there in the dark and silence. Alan looked up the deer trail—it was solid, real. It showed no sign of drifting away to any other place.

  Sandy came and stood shoulder to shoulder with him. She looked back to where the two old men stood several steps away down the slope.