The Wicker Tree

by Robin Hardy

  'A voice like that is a gift for the gods,' said Lachlan with a sigh.

  'The Lord God gave me my voice, that's for sure,' said Beth. 'You talk about gods – plural. Are you really a heathen like Delia said? You're kidding us. Don't you think they're kidding us, Steve?'

  'He must know what he is, Beth,' laughed Steve. 'Talkin' of voices, what about yours, sir? That's some sound you've got there. I thought that Hallelujah thing you sang with your Glee Club – wow – that was awesome too.'

  Lachlan was hunting for a cd on a rack inside his fumed oak music centre.

  'Don't start him,' complained Delia, but Lachlan was already inserting the disc.

  'These are a couple of our Scottish songs. They were written by someone you might call a heathen. We'd call him a pagan,' said Lachlan. Both Steve and Beth recognised the songs instantly, and the voice. It was Lachlan himself singing 'The Foggy, Foggy Dew' and then 'The Homebody's Song'. But he had the volume turned fairly low and talked with them while the cd was playing.

  'These old folk songs. In a way they're our hymns, our anthems, our spirituals,' he said. 'Because they celebrate life.' Lachlan paused so they could hear the chorus, turning up the volume.

  'She jumped into bed boys, making no alarm,

  Thinking that a drover lad could do her no harm

  And she wished the short night

  Had been seven years long.'

  'Really Lachlan!' said Delia. 'Don't you think that's a bit raunchy for our young Redeemers?'

  Beth laughed. Now was not the time to preach. With luck, if these folk kept their promises, there'd be plenty of time for that later.

  'The Devil has all the best tunes, they always say,' she declared politely.

  The Inquiry Develops

  IT WAS AN unusually bright spring morning in Tressock when the telephone started to ring inside the Police Station for the third time since nine o'clock, its normal opening time. It went on ringing as one of the blinds was pulled up and the bleary face of Orlando peered out at the world. He was wearing a terry towel bathrobe and made his way unsteadily to his desk to answer the telephone.

  'Tressock Police Station,' he croaked and then held the phone well away from his face as if he was hoping to avoid the person at the other end.

  The severe voice of Detective Sergeant Murdo Campbell reminded him of the time of day and the fact that he had failed to answer three previous calls and that his mobile appeared to be switched off. Orlando visibly pulled himself together, painfully straightening his body from a stoop to standing more or less at attention.

  'Morning to you DS Campbell!' Orlando just managed to sound crisp and welcoming of this unexpected call. 'I haven't heard the telephone ringing. Not repeatedly. Not at all. Must be a problem at the exchange. I'll report it. As for mobile phones. They don't work too well down here and that's a fact. Sir Lachlan, the big cheese up at the Castle, doesn't like seeing those booster towers around here. This place is a wee bit feudal. Not so much Shangri-La, more Middle Earth…'

  'Not so much what as what?' bellowed DS Campbell, startling Mrs Menzies who was just letting herself in to start one of her futile attacks on the Police Station's grime of ages. 'You're making no sense laddie,' the sergeant was still shouting, 'have you gone native down there or what?'

  'Just the way a source I was interviewing last night described this community, DS Campbell,' replied Orlando, managing to sound quite calm. 'It'll all be in my next report. Anyway, this was your call. How can I help?'

  Campbell's voice had returned to normal. He was inquiring about certain missing persons.

  'Tad and Lucy Mae? Sound like Americans,' mused Orlando, spotting their names among the mostly young people listed alphabetically with their pictures and ages on the back of the door. Lucy Mae stood out. A beautiful girl with flame red hair.

  'What would Yanks be doing here?' grumbled Mrs Menzies loudly. 'Unless it's to come and see the Willies Walk? Disgusting, I call it!'

  She habitually and shamelessly eavesdropped. But hitherto Orlando had been tolerant of her. This time he lifted a heavy stapler from his desk, waving it as if about to throw it at her.

  'Och, you wouldna?' she squeaked and fled into the bed-sitting room.

  'Who the hell's that? DC Furioso?' DS Campbell could be heard shouting, for Orlando had put down the phone in order to shut Mrs Menzies into the bed-sitting room.

  'That was Mrs Menzies, my cleaner,' he now replied, as calmly as he could. 'She's about 109 and slightly crazy. But she knows everybody and can be a useful source. That's the only reason I haven't got rid of her. Yes, those two you mentioned are on my list. I'll make enquiries. As for the witchcraft thing. It's tricky. As you probably know, a few people all over the country are involved in Wikka. A kind of pagan revival. Its all on the web and quite harmless. I've raised it with people here and none of them have ever heard of it, and I believe them. But I do sense that there really is something else going on that I can't yet identify. What it needs, as you and DI McFadden said before, is solid police work, elimination of suspects, following up all leads, and that's what it is getting. I was interviewing someone last night who may turn out to be a very good source. It was necessary to at first gain her confidence. Pretty soon I think she'll talk.'

  There was a squawking sound from the detective sergeant that Mrs Menzies couldn't decipher, close though her ear was to the bed-sitting room door. What she did hear quite clearly was this:

  'I know what you're saying. They want some results soonest. Leave it with me.'

  The Road to Tressock

  HALFWAY THROUGH THEIR journey to this small town called Tressock, which Lachlan spoke of as if he owned it, Beth was surprised to see the countryside interrupted by a huge industrial complex; somehow not the sort of thing you expected to find in this corner of little old historic Europe. Armed police, the first she'd seen since they'd left the airport, stood outside the gates of what a sign proclaimed as the Nuada Nuclear Power Station. Nuclear! That was a shock. Where Beth came from, you could be Republican, Born Again, a Member of the Silver Ring Thing, anathematise Charles Darwin and still be quite green when it came to nuclear power.

  Beth and Steve, therefore, exchanged a surprised glance, but said nothing because Lachlan was being saluted by one of the police, who seemed to want to hold traffic so that the Rolls could enter the plant. Lachlan wound down the window and leant out to speak to the cop.

  'Afternoon Hamish,' he said genially. 'I'm not coming in right now. Going home.'

  'Oh very good, sir,' said Hamish, this time directing the traffic so that the Rolls could immediately continue on its way. Whereupon a motorcycle cop appeared, his siren blaring, and led their car through the Nuada plant's home-going commuter traffic. They cleared the vicinity of the power station, crossed an old stone bridge, and then the road led into a section of thick forest, where the motorcycle cop stopped at the roadside and waved them on.

  'You seem to be quite the famous guy round here, sir,' said Steve, smiling.

  'What makes him famous is that everyone works for him. He's the chairman of the Nuada board,' said Delia.

  'Infamous, more like,' laughed Lachlan. 'When things go wrong, I'm usually the villain.'

  'So is nuclear OK here?' asked Steve politely

  'Not with everyone,' answered Lachlan. 'But one day oil and gas will run out or become just too expensive. So we're working on making nuclear cost effective. When I was a boy, my science teacher held up a golf ball. Unleash the atomic energy in this object, he said, and you could drive the Queen Elizabeth liner to New York and back on that power. So far it hasn't worked out quite like that. But your American submarines, and ours, are circling the globe running on nuclear and hardly needing to refuel.'

  'Do you think your God approves of nuclear?' asked Delia rather unexpectedly.

  'That's a tricky question, darling,' said Lachlan, almost reprovingly.

  'Well, He disapproves of quite a lot. We're here to learn from Steve and Beth. So, if you don't
mind,' Delia said this with a smile, 'I would like to know.'

  'When asked tricky questions,' Beth remembered Terry saying, 'keep real cool. Never risk telling a lie, even if what you are saying seems likely to be true. To be caught out in a lie is to devalue your whole mission and possibly destroy it. Remember the Bible holds the answer to everything. If you are asked something you cannot readily answer go check it out in the Good Book and make sure you tell the questioner what he or she wanted to know before you go to bed that night.'

  'Delia, I just cannot recall the subject being mentioned in the Bible,' Beth said, after a pause. 'So I guess it is probably OK. But I will check and let you know. '

  To Beth's relief, and as she thought she heard Delia murmur, 'I'm not sure I can stand the suspense,' this was the moment when a diversion appeared in the shape of a young woman on a beautiful black horse. They had left the woodlands behind and were once more in open country with the outskirts of a small town appearing ahead. 'Tressock Welcomes Careful Drivers,' a sign said.

  Steve was staring hard at the young woman, who Beth thought was certainly borderline attractive, her hair blowing and cheeks reddened in the chilly wind and all. She looked to Beth as if she pretty much lived on that horse. She knew the type. There were plenty of them that hung out by the cowboys' stables at the Dana Ranch where Steve had worked at one time. More fixated on the horseflesh than the cowboys, to hear Steve tell it. Beth rather doubted that. Lachlan had lowered the window and shouted across to the young woman as she galloped her horse parallel with the Rolls.

  'Hullooo Lolly! And how's my Prince today?'

  'He's been missing you.'

  'Lolly, Delia and I are giving a rather special party on Sunday – up at the castle,' said Lachlan. 'Everyone is invited, so spread the word. Beth here will be our very special guest. She is a famous American singer. Lolly is our head groom, Beth.'

  'Hi!' Beth said, and gave her the smile. Lolly waved her riding crop in reply.

  The Rolls had slowed as it reached Tressock's 30 mile an hour speed limit area and Lolly trotted alongside. She was returning Steve's stare.

  'What a beauty!' said Steve.

  'Steve!' Beth's reaction was one of surprised irritation.

  'The horse, Beth. Did you ever see such a beauty? And rare too. You don't hardly see black horses like that.'

  'That's right, Steve,' confirmed Lachlan. 'Quite rare. I collect black horses for the Queen's household cavalry. Apart from those, you don't see many. I'm sorry… and this is Steve. He's from America too,' he glanced sideways at Steve. 'How'd you like to ride him?'

  Lolly, still taking in the rugged attractions of young Steve, pretended to think Lachlan's question was addressed at her.

  'I'd like it fine,' she said, laughing. 'But I expect yon Beth would kill me first.'

  'And you'd deserve it,' said Lachlan severely. 'I'm asking Steve. Would you like to ride Prince?'

  'Ride that horse? You bet.' Steve suddenly looked more energised than he had all day.

  'Then you shall, Steve. Preaching is hard work I've no doubt. But you must have a little recreation while you're here.'

  Lolly was cantering ahead into Tressock, Prince's hooves echoing sharply from the macadamed street as the whitewashed row houses with the brick-lined windows and doors started to appear on either side of the advancing Rolls.

  Beth was wondering why she had thought that Steve had to be staring at that woman, when it seemed to have been the horse – well of course it was the horse – all along. How dumb of her. Not that she felt entirely comfortable with the thought that he might get to go riding with Lolly. There was something slightly suggestive about that name. She trusted Steve absolutely, she told herself. Being lovers was a bond with a man, there was no denying that. But it wasn't what the Lord wanted, so other ways to bind must be found. Working together in this alien atmosphere would help. Although Lachlan and Delia were being so friendly and helpful, Beth knew that Steve shared her sense of isolation when everything around them, every new encounter, was so – so foreign.

  Lolly was practically obscured from view for a few minutes by a wheeling, cawing mass of black birds.

  Tressock

  TRESSOCK IS DESCRIBED in the very short entry it gets in the Michelin Green Guide to the United Kingdom, under Local History:

  Tressock is located close to the border between Scotland and England. Founded sometime before the departure of the Romans from a still Celtic Britain, its inhabitants had originally been British speakers; the language that still survives in the Principality of Wales. Some place and family names are still evidence of this. Myth and History are mixed in the local custom collectively called the Border Ridings which extends to neighbouring towns too. Each town has its special ritual, but they generally involve the election of a king for a day who is hunted over hill and dale, ending with his presiding over a feast. Tressock's is known as the Riding of the Laddie.

  Tressock's history has been closely linked to the castle and the steeple of its now ruined church of St Ninian is inhabited by a rare branch of the Raven family (Corvus Corax). These birds, which elsewhere do not live in colonies, have for centuries been cared for at the expense of the Morrisons of Tressock Castle. A Guardian is appointed to feed the birds which are carnivorous. Similar to the legend attached to the ravens at the Tower of London and the apes at Gibraltar, it is believed that were the birds to depart then the Morrisons of Tressock would be no more. The river which flows through the town, a tributary of the River Tweed, is still known by its pre-Roman Celtic name Sulis.

  Had Beth and Steve been conventional tourists and had they read the admirable French guide book they would probably have been particularly pleased to find that they had arrived in Tressock just as one of the ritual feedings of the birds was taking place. This was a twice daily rite and was timed to coincide with 'opening time' at the pub. Michelin didn't mention the fact that, in parts of Scotland, bars open for business very much at the convenience of innkeepers rather than customers, and that to have them open at all after 10 p.m., in parts of the kingdom, is but a recent innovation.

  Lolly had cantered through the town well ahead of the Rolls, and all those citizens who happened to be on the streets then dematerialised almost at once into the inn or their nearby homes. As she passed the inn, the feeding of the ravens was sufficiently interrupted by the clattering of Prince's hooves for the birds to take off in a wild fluttering, whirling flight before settling down again outside the inn's front door where their feeder patiently awaited them.

  A small man with tight curly fair hair had a flat baker's basket on his arm, upon which appeared to be dozens of blind baby mice. They wriggled and made squeaky, mewling sounds as he threw them one by one into the air for the wheeling, flapping ravens to catch in their lethal yellow beaks. It was as this process occurred that the Rolls pulled up outside the inn's front door.

  Beame, clearly used to the ravens, could be seen braving the still fluttering, excited birds, taking Steve's case out of the trunk of the Rolls and handing it to him. Beth had also got out of the car, but her luggage had not been fetched. Lachlan held the door open and Delia remained in the car.

  'So when do I see you?' said Steve to Beth, unaware of dozens of faces watching them from inside the pub and through the windows of adjacent houses.

  'You can see her any time you like,' said Lachlan, answering for Beth. 'She'll be just down the road. Tomorrow you'll both have to rehearse how you're going to handle the prayer meeting on Sunday.'

  Beth did not care for this separation at all. Nor, she knew, would Steve. So she leant back into the car to address Delia:

  'Couldn't I stay here at the inn too?' she asked.

  'Of course,' said Delia calmly. 'But Mary Hillier's house is where the girls mostly hang out. Staying there will give you a chance to meet some of the young women you may want to convert.'

  'Delia has been to a lot of trouble,' interjected Lachlan, 'to arrange things with your mission in mind.'

&
nbsp; Steve's expression was really troubled, but Beth climbed back in to the car, deciding that it was too early on this gig to start arguing with the organisers. 'It's cool Steve. That's a great idea, Delia. Thank you,' she said.

  Steve was left standing outside the inn as the Rolls drove off. He paused for a minute, fascinated by the man feeding the ravens. He thought them ugly birds, a little like vultures with their balding heads. Curiously, the man seemed equally intrigued by the sight of Steve, who thought it might be because of his cowboy hat. He'd noticed quite a few folks here stared at that. The man's basket of food for the birds was now empty and the birds were flying away, up to the church tower, except one particularly shiny black fowl that sat now on the basket as if hoping for seconds, his head wobbling sideways as he eyed his feeder. Then the man spoke. He seemed to be addressing the bird, but his quick side-glances showed that he was aware of Steve watching him.

  '"Prophet," say I, "thing of evil! Prophet still, if bird or devil!"' The man's voice was sepulchral, theatrical, his accent not Scottish.

  '"Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

  Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –

  On this home by Horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –

  Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!"

  Quoth the Raven…'

  And then an astonished Steve seemed to hear the bird, the raven itself, in a croaky, unearthly voice, say: