Hearthstone Cottage

by Frazer Lee

  Oscar growled and gave a tense little bark. He darted between the table legs and emerged on the other side. He began scratching at the back door with frantic front paws, knocking over some Wellington boots as he did so.

  “Call of nature, is it, wee Oscar?” Meggie said.

  Oscar pricked up his ears and ran around in a little circle next to the door.

  “Wee-wee, Oscar,” Kay quipped tipsily.

  Alex smirked, then kissed Kay on the cheek. “Oh, well done, Yankee Doodle Dandy,” he said.

  “Effortless,” Mike added, smiling as Helen laughed, long and loud.

  Good, thought Mike, she’s loosening up.

  “Come on, Oscar,” Meggie said, opening the back door. She dodged to one side as Oscar made a swift and clumsy exit into the night air. “Anyone coming?” she asked the room. “It’s a lovely night.”

  Mike turned to Helen. “Fancy some fresh air, babe?”

  “Sure.” She smiled back.

  “What about you two?” Meggie asked her brother and Kay.

  “Oh, I’m a bit busy with the contents of this glass right now,” Alex chuckled.

  “Suit yourselves,” Meggie said, “but remember – it’s bad luck to look at the full moon through glass.”

  Meggie stepped out, leaving Kay looking puzzled.

  “What did she mean, bad luck?”

  “Superstitious bloody claptrap,” slurred Alex.

  Helen looked at Mike, clearly amused. He decided to play up to it.

  “Come on, Alex, Kay – you don’t want to be cursed by the full moon!”

  He made the last word into a howl for good measure. From outside, Oscar barked in reply. Even Alex laughed, hearing it, and they all headed out into the night air.

  * * *

  Helen had started snoring within minutes of her head hitting the pillow. Mike envied her ability to sleep on demand. He, more often than not, needed a smoke before he could sleep, and even then he’d have to listen to his heartbeat throbbing in his inner ear for at least an hour before he dropped off. The booze was still in his bloodstream, too stimulating – and entirely the wrong kind of buzz if he wanted some shut-eye. He turned over under the covers and let out a sigh of frustration. He heard a giggle, then low laughter through the wall. The sounds soon gave way to moans of pleasure.

  Great, he thought, now I have to listen to Alex and Kay shagging.

  He prayed that the amount of booze they’d put away would mean it would be over quickly, at least. As the muffled moans reached their climax, Mike rolled out of bed and crossed to the window. The full moon was high in the sky, painting the surface of the loch in silver light and making it look frozen. He knelt on the window seat and pressed his forehead against the glass, eager to feel its coolness on his hot skin. The drinks had given him the night sweats, and he relished the respite the windowpane was giving him. His breathing slowed as he watched clouds drift darkly across the moon, a halo of light dancing on the windowpane. The tips of fir trees moved against the invisible breath of a breeze, their shadows cast on the loch like the bows of ancient boats long since sailed for other shores. The tree nearest the window joined the dance, the tips of its branches skittering across the glass and making a faint scratching sound.

  As his breath fogged up the window, diffusing the moonlight, Mike wondered how many other sleepless souls had gazed out of this very same window in the middle of the night. The thought troubled him, somehow making him feel insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

  He heard another sound then, fainter and more distant than that of the branches. As it repeated, muffled yet shrill, it made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand up. He tore his gaze from the window and glimpsed a shadow breaking the dim light between the door and the floorboards. He grabbed his check shirt from the end of the bed and tugged it on over his t-shirt, then crossed to the door and opened it carefully so as not to wake Helen. Another shadow flickered across the wall down the hall from the doorway, and he heard the sound again – much clearer this time.

  It was the sound of a child’s laughter.

  He stood at the threshold between the bedroom and the hallway, uncertain whether he wanted to investigate. Another shimmer of youthful laughter came, from downstairs now, and he wondered if Alex and Kay were playing tricks on him, restless after their bout of obnoxiously loud lovemaking. He glanced back at Helen, watching the covers rise and fall gently with her breathing. She could sleep through a thunderstorm, that one. He felt too wakeful to climb back in beside her under the covers. He pulled the door shut behind him quietly, stole out of the room and padded down the hall to the narrow stairwell. His skin turned to gooseflesh as he heard a high-pitched giggle.

  Kay, it has to be. The giggling continued, becoming maniacal as he made his way down the creaking stairs. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, buddy, he thought and swallowed against the dryness coating his throat.

  “Alex? Kay? This your idea of a windup? Well, it isn’t funny, you bastards,” he whispered. “You’ll wake Helen.”

  He reached the foot of the stairs and paused for a moment, clenching his teeth at the piercing sound of child’s laughter. As soon as his bare foot touched the stone floor, the sound stopped dead.

  “Alex? You there? Kay?” he called out, all the more conscious of the apprehension in his voice now that he was standing in the silence of the living room.

  No answer came, save the faintest crackle from the fireplace. Amber light pulsated on the stone floor, cast by the last embers of the fire. He entered the room and walked toward the light. The smell hit him before he saw it fully. A stench like salt meat burning on a spit.

  The enormous shape of the stag lying across the hearth made him gasp. Its ribcage rose and fell as it took a labored breath. The animal’s eye was open and its unflinching gaze upon him. Unable to speak due to the shock of finding it there, Mike watched the animal die all over again, just as he had at the roadside. As the weary animal breathed its last, Mike noticed a piece of antler in the grate. He walked over to the fireplace and crouched low to try to rescue it from the heat of the embers. It was the same broken piece he had brought back to the cottage. He reached out, tentatively because of the heat, and touched it with his fingertips. It felt cold to the touch, but how could that be? His fingers closed around the shard, and he retrieved it from the hearth, marveling at the cool sensation of it in his hand. But as he did so, the fire erupted in a sudden, angry ball of flame. The hot gust knocked him back from where he crouched. Sprawling to the floor, he sliced his hand open on the jagged end of the antler. Cursing, he tossed the antler aside and saw that the fire was out. Gray ashes littered the grate, cold and lifeless.

  Impossible, he thought, it was a raging bloody inferno a moment ago.

  He opened his hand and saw blood pumping from a deep wound at the center of his palm. The sight of so much blood made him gag. He swallowed his revulsion and smelled that salt meat stench again, felt hot breath ruffle his hair. The shadow of the beast loomed large over him. He knew it lived. Knew it wanted to exact its revenge upon him. The scrape of a hoof on the hard stone floor made his heart skip a beat.

  Mike woke up thrashing, a choked scream dying in his throat. He sat up, vaguely aware of Helen lying asleep in the bed beside him. His hand was gushing with blood, and his head swam at the sight of it. He was bleeding out all over the white sheet, which had become an enormous bandage to swab the relentless flow of his lifeblood. He tried to scream, but no sound would come. He tried to move his other hand, intent on rousing Helen. Try as he might to waken her to his agonies, he felt paralyzed. Helen slept on with her back to him, in the oblivion of dreams. He struggled to find his voice, to cry out for help, but still no sound would come.

  Breathe, he told himself, just breathe.

  It was difficult. There was so much blood. But he managed to focus and slow his breathing just enough to make a diff
erence. He felt a sensation like pins and needles passing through each of his limbs and then out through the extremities of his fingers and toes. Then the paralysis was gone. Able to move freely again, he looked in panic at his hand. There was no blood, no wound to be seen, nothing. He examined the bedsheets and found them drenched only with sweat, not a single drop of his blood.

  He lay back as the first light of morning flickered through the trees, casting its glow on the bedroom wall. Shadows of branches moved above him, phantoms haunting the ceiling. Helen stirred beneath the warm cocoon of the covers and murmured something softly under her breath. Mike tried hard to hear what it was she was saying. Unable to hold onto the conscious, waking world, he fell fitfully asleep.

  * * *

  Breakfast was a welcome tonic to Mike’s night of disturbing dreams and nightmare injuries. He had awoken to find Helen already gone and the delicious smell of frying bacon and fresh toast wafting up the stairs. After a quick shower to wash away the sweat of the night before, he joined the others in the conservatory and was welcomed with fresh coffee and a kiss from Helen.

  “Sleep well?” she asked, taking a bite of buttered toast. “You were still out for the count when I got up, so I decided to leave you to it. Knew the smell of brekkie would wake you up, if nothing else. You’re like Oscar.” She laughed, and he shrugged, smiling before taking a few welcome gulps of strong black coffee.

  “Save some bread for us, lassies,” Alex said. “Mike’s going to need to make some sandwiches. Long day’s fishing ahead of us. Hungry work, and thirsty too.” As if to illustrate his point, Alex tapped the lid of a beer cooler he had placed on top of the counter.

  “Make your own bloody sandwiches,” Mike replied.

  “I’ll make the sandwiches the day that you can row us out onto the loch. Remember last time? You had us going round in circles for so long it was like being trapped in a bloody whirlpool.”

  Alex and the girls laughed, entirely at Mike’s expense, but he had to relent. Alex was right; he really was lousy at rowing.

  “All right, all right, I’ll make the frigging sandwiches,” Mike said. “Then I can eat them all while I watch you doing all the rowing.”

  Alex threw a tea towel at him, and Mike caught it.

  “I’m having some bacon and eggs first, though; they smell amazing.” Mike loaded up his plate and took a place at the table opposite Kay. He shoveled food into his hungry mouth and watched Meggie wander in, toweling her hair.

  “Breakfast?” Helen asked, offering her the last of the bacon.

  “Oh, no, no thanks,” Meggie said, looking more than a little horrified. “I’m vegan.”

  Alex rolled his eyes. “Not that shite again. Have some bacon, you need the bloody protein.”

  “I get all the protein I need, thank you very much,” Meggie replied. She crossed to the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of orange juice. On her way to the table, she paused and patted her brother’s stomach, using her free hand. “You could do with a bit less saturated fat yourself, Captain Cholesterol.”

  Alex scoffed, red-faced, making Kay and the others laugh. Meggie sat down nearest the window, the morning light adding an orange glow to the red curls of her hair.

  “Good first night?” she asked the table.

  “Oh, yes,” Helen was the first to reply. “Slept like a baby.”

  Mike felt himself wince at the memory of the child’s laughter from the night before. Dipping his toast into his fried egg, he put his nightmares to one side, focusing instead on the view over the loch. It looked to be a fine day for fishing.

  Meggie gulped down the rest of her orange juice and placed the glass on the table, idly turning it around and peering at the fragments of fruit coating the inside of the glass.

  “We wondered if we could ask a favor, Kay and I,” Helen said.

  “Ask away,” Meggie replied.

  “Well, we don’t want to spend the day watching this pair of lummoxes fishing.” Helen ignored Mike’s and Alex’s noises of protest, adding, “Can’t think of anything more boring, to be honest.”

  “I’m with you there, ladies,” Meggie replied, with a twinkle in her eye.

  “We wondered if we could borrow your car, go and explore the village?” Kay said rather bluntly.

  “We’d walk, but it’s a bit much after a big night,” Helen explained apologetically, “and we’d like to get a few more provisions. Maybe there’s something you need?”

  “I’ll drive you,” Meggie offered.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that,” Helen said.

  “Oh, no, no. It’s no bother at all,” Meggie replied.

  Mike saw a flicker of discomfort on Helen’s face. She looked more than a little uncomfortable at the prospect of spending time with Meggie. Or perhaps it was merely reluctance to ask a favor from a relative stranger. Mike couldn’t be sure – Helen could be pretty tightly wound and was nothing short of impenetrable at the best of times. Her ‘lawyer’s poker face’, as he liked to call it.

  “Really, it’s no bother,” Meggie said. “My car is a bit…temperamental anyhow.”

  Alex chuckled dryly. “One way of putting it,” he joked.

  Meggie ignored him. “So it’s probably best if I drive. And I know the way. I can be your tour guide for the day. Not that there’s so much to see in Drinton, of course.”

  “To be frank, there’s more to see on the loch,” Alex said, and Kay elbowed him softly. “Still, it’ll be an adventure, taking your chances in Meggie’s old rust bucket.”

  “It’s in better shape than your four-by-four,” Meggie said pointedly.

  Alex grimaced and turned his attention to the coffee pot for a refill.

  “I still can’t shake the image of that poor stag,” Kay said with a frown, the shadow of a memory darkening her eyes. “I had a dream about it last night. I could hear it breathing. Poor thing was in agony, and I-I just couldn’t do anything to help it.” She looked sorrowfully around at the others. “Did any of you dream about it too?”

  Mike felt cold all of a sudden. The breakfast sat heavy in his stomach, and a bead of sweat trickled onto his brow. He gazed out of the window, once again willing away half-remembered fragments of his nightmare. The stag looming large, the sickening scrape of hoof on hard stone floor. He felt his heart beat faster, just as it had during his bad dream. No one said anything, the conservatory now quiet and the atmosphere no longer convivial but strangely somber. Then a sudden and enormous bang shattered the silence as a black crow smashed into the conservatory window.

  Kay shrieked with fright at the sound, causing Alex to startle and spill hot coffee down his shirt. Alex’s unfettered cursing prompted Oscar to bark loudly. The panicked dog began clawing at the door, desperate to get out. Mike reached out and grabbed Oscar’s collar, pulling him back from the door and trying to calm him down. As he did this, Meggie opened the door and dashed outside. Oscar turned on Mike, barking at him and snapping his jaws. Mike let go of the collar, narrowly avoiding being bitten.

  “Oscar!” Alex exclaimed and gave chase, forgetting about his coffee burns for a moment.

  Mike followed and stumbled outside. He saw Oscar run straight for Meggie, who was crouched beneath the section of glass where the bird had hit. She stood up, and Mike noted that she had the feathered bundle cupped safely in her hands. Seeing Oscar, she sidestepped the crazed animal and shouted at him until he backed off, turned tail and ran full pelt away from the garden and under the fence until he was out of sight.

  “Is it still alive?” Helen had emerged from the conservatory, followed by a queasy-looking Kay. Alex put his arm around Kay to comfort her.

  Mike and Helen followed Meggie as she carried the bird to the outbuilding studio. Mike held the door open so Meggie could enter, still cupping the bird’s body in her hands. Helen followed her inside, and then Mike. The air in the room was c
almingly cool and the cluttered space filled with old crofter’s tools, furniture, and a collection of boxes over-spilling with assorted ornaments. An unfinished watercolor painting, depicting an ancient stone circle set in a twilight landscape, sat atop an easel. The artwork was accomplished, even though it was incomplete.

  “Empty out one of those, could you?” Meggie asked Helen, nodding toward a couple of small cardboard boxes filled with tubes of paint.

  As Helen set about her task, Meggie nodded at another cardboard box, this one resting on a pile of old magazines and newspapers. “You’ll find plenty of ribbon in there,” Meggie instructed him.

  Mike grabbed a roll of pastel green ribbon at random. Meggie carefully lowered the bird onto her workbench and, gripping it with one hand, used the other to take the ribbon from Mike.

  “Thanks. Now, tear some of that newspaper into strips, will you?” she asked.

  Meggie carefully bound the bird’s wing with the soft, green ribbon as Mike walked back to the stack of old newspapers. A cloud of dust billowed when he took the topmost one from the pile. The dust made him cough and sneeze, and he dropped the newspaper to the floor. He glimpsed part of the headline – ‘DISASTER’ – then succumbed to a coughing fit again.

  “Clumsy,” clucked Helen, pushing past him and grabbing a newspaper from the pile. She began tearing strips of the paper, which she then placed in a lattice work of layers inside the empty paint box.

  “Thanks,” Meggie said, lowering the bird into the makeshift nest of torn paper.

  Mike absentmindedly stroked his hand where Oscar had almost bitten him as he watched them fussing over the crow.

  Meggie noticed him doing this. “Oscar didn’t hurt you, did he?” she asked.