by Frazer Lee
Mike and Alex helped the others unpack the food and drink provisions they had brought back with them from Drinton village.
Alex made appreciative noises about the bottle of single malt Kay had picked out for them, and Mike counted eight bottles of wine in total. They were in for a good night – or two at a push. As they placed dried goods in a cupboard together, Helen told him about her trip to the village and how the place seemed to be a snapshot of time stood still. That was exactly how Mike remembered the old place, with its tiny post office and grocery store. The local pub held particular appeal for Mike, and he felt a pang of alarm when Helen reported it had been shut when she and the others had passed by. Mike hoped it hadn’t closed down entirely, although he would understand if it had. Drinton got approximately two weeks of sun per year if it was lucky, according to Alex.
Helen talked on, describing how Meggie had shown them an artists’ studio at the far end of the lane that led out of the village. The owners of a smallholding were renting the space, previously a barn for livestock, to artists interested in staying and working in the area. Helen said most of the work on display was overpriced and unimaginative, but one piece had caught her eye. She took a low, wide box from the grocery bag and placed it on the counter. After removing the lid, she tore aside layer upon layer of thin white tissue paper until she had revealed the object inside. It looked to Mike like a black dinner plate, smoothly curved upward, creating a shallow bowl shape. Helen lifted it out, and Mike marveled at the sheer, black reflective surface.
“Meggie told me it’s a scrying mirror,” Helen announced. “Handcrafted.”
“It looks…cool,” Mike said, trying to sound convincing.
“It’s traditional to the Celtic healing arts,” Helen went on, oblivious. “Apparently if you gaze into it for long enough, you can enter a deep meditative state.”
“All that from a bit of black glass?” Mike said, his interest piqued. He was beginning to wonder what the effect might be if he smoked a blunt and stared into this mirror thing. It could be trippy.
Helen tilted the mirror to place it on the little wooden display plinth that lay folded up in the box, and her reflection stretched and elongated, growing thin. The image made Mike think of Meggie’s dead face under the loch. He shuddered. Maybe he’d be better off not looking into the damn thing after all.
“I think we should display it,” Helen said. “It’s far too pretty to keep in its box until we go home.”
“How about here?” Kay asked, standing at the bookcase where she was rifling through the dustier old tomes.
“I’d worry about it being knocked over and broken,” Helen said before crossing to the fireplace. “Here,” she said, placing it carefully on the mantelpiece. “It belongs here.”
* * *
“Listen to this, you guys!”
Kay was sitting cross-legged near the fire, poring over a tatty, old book on local folklore that she had selected from the shelves.
Mike was in the kitchen, washing the trout that Alex had landed while his friend peeled some potatoes. It was the boys’ turn to prepare a meal for the holidaymakers while Kay held court beside the fire. Meggie sat at the piano, idly fingering the keys.
“It says here that the last witch to be executed in Scotland was put to death near here.”
“That’s a cheery thought,” Helen said, peering over the top of a tourist map.
“Spooky to think, though, isn’t it? She was put on trial after several villagers died of a strange illness.… Oh, some of them were just poor wee kids.…”
“Learning to speak Scots already, I hear,” Meggie said. She didn’t sound too pleased at Kay’s appropriation of her accent.
Kay carried on, seemingly oblivious. “They blamed the woman for poisoning their water and making their crops fail. She confessed to being in league with Satan and begged for a merciful death.”
“Well, she would say that, wouldn’t she?” Helen suggested. “Poor woman was probably being tortured. That’s what they did back then, isn’t it? You’d say you rode a flying unicorn home every night if that would make them take the thumbscrews off. I know I would.”
“A woman with principles similar to my own,” Meggie chuckled. She began improvising a gentle tune on the piano that sounded halfway between a Celtic reel and a nursery song.
“The witch did not go quietly, according to eyewitnesses,” Kay read on. “She spoke in tongues.…”
“What did she say? Put the bloody fire out?” Helen giggled.
“Listen,” Kay pleaded, “it says here the minister who said the last rites implored the dying woman not to curse them with her witchcraft, and she exclaimed, ‘You have all cursed yourselves!’ Kind of creepy, hey?”
“I find it kind of…typical that a man who was burning a woman alive at the stake only had a care for his own safety,” Helen replied.
“How times have changed,” added Meggie, with more than a hint of sarcasm. She beat out a few bars of punk rock to make her point.
“Us lads had better know our place – in the kitchen,” Alex chuckled. “They’re making ready to smash the patriarchy in there. How’s the main attraction coming?”
“Time to gut the beast,” Mike answered, “before we sacrifice it.”
Mike carried the heavy fish over to a chopping board. He took a sharp knife from a drawer and inserted it beside the rear lower fin. He pushed the blade forward.
The smell hit his nostrils so hard he thought he might throw up all over their dinner. He gagged at the sight and smell of a flood of thick black fluid that gushed from the incision in the fish’s flesh. Writhing maggots spilled with the noxious fluid, coating the chopping board in a living mass of corruption. The flesh inside the fish was charcoal black, and the stench that rose up from it made Mike retch. He stumbled back from the chopping board and lost his grip on the knife. Slicing his thumb open on the sharp cook’s blade, he cried out in pained surprise.
“Jesus, Mikey.” Alex was at his side, looking in shock at Mike’s hand.
Not just my hand, Mike’s mind raced, look at the bloody fish. It’s black inside. Foul, foul thing.
“Rinse it under the cold water, bud,” Alex was saying, though to Mike he sounded a million light years away. He felt cold, like the water of the loch, where he had seen Meggie’s dead eyes open—
“I said you’re not going to faint, are you?”
Mike’s nausea dissipated, and he found himself standing over the sink. Cold water ran from the tap onto his wound. A fuzzy spiral of blood coiled into the plughole, carried by the water flow. Alex passed him a clean tea towel, and Mike wrapped it around his thumb. Alex lifted Mike’s arm and told him to keep it above his head since that would stop the bleeding. As Mike walked numbly through the kitchen, he glanced at the fish and stopped in his tracks.
Impossible.
Where there had been a mess of black fluid and maggots just moments ago, now there was only a patch of blood – whether it was the fish’s blood or his, he couldn’t be certain – and the discarded knife that lay on its side against the chopping board.
“I.…”
“Hold on, Mikey, we’ll get you a bandage or something.”
“Don’t call me Mikey.”
“You’ll live. Mikey.”
Alex led Mike into the living space. The fire made it feel too hot in there. Helen had gone; only Kay and Meggie were in there. Kay was still engrossed in her book, and Meggie was tinkling away at the piano. It really was too hot in there, and too close, like being in a sauna. Mike wished he could go outside.
“Meg,” Alex asked, “have we still got the old medical kit?”
“Don’t call me Meg, you know I hate that,” his sister said. Then, seeing Mike’s bloodstained tea towel, her eyes registered her surprise. “Oh! Come with me, Mikey, it’s in the studio, I think.”
“Fuck�
�s sake. Don’t you call me Mikey, either. Where’s Helen?”
“Bathroom, I think,” Kay murmured, then noticed Mike’s hand for the first time. “What did you do?”
Meggie rolled her eyes at Kay and led Mike out of the room. “Come on,” she said.
Chapter Five
Mike stood outside the studio, smoking a welcome blunt. Meggie had patched his wound up with all the skill and care of a field medic. He glanced at the bandage she’d fixed around his thumb, after first cleaning the cut with saline solution from the little first aid box and then applying a small square of sterile gauze to the wound. It was a deep cut, and she’d told him that there’d be a permanent scar. If being an artist didn’t work out for her, Mike reckoned she had a bright future in medicine, and had told her as much. The early-evening air was fresh and invigorating and he felt a million times better already. He looked over at the cottage, warm lights glowing in each of the downstairs windows. Only one upstairs light could be seen, and that was the one in the bathroom. Mike heard water flowing down the outlet pipe that led to a drain just a few feet away from where he stood. He wondered if Helen was in the bathroom. Mike was glad she had missed out on all the carnage in the kitchen. He felt a little embarrassed now about how he’d nearly fainted when he’d cut himself. Alex would no doubt crack a few jokes later at his expense, particularly after he’d had a couple of drinks. At least his friend had been left to take care of prepping and cooking the fish. Alex did seem besotted by the slimy thing after all.
A flicker at the periphery of his vision jolted Mike from his thoughts, and he saw a shadow pass by the open doorway of the outbuilding. He took a few steps closer, and his blood ran cold when he heard the same childlike laughter he had heard in his dream, shrill as a bell, coming from inside. He stubbed out the joint and then peered through the nearby window to see if anyone was in there. He had not heard Meggie leave and assumed she was still inside. Maybe she was listening to the digital radio or something.
“Meggie? You there?”
The door swung back slightly on its hinges as he approached the threshold. He heard another giggle, more distant this time, accompanied by little footsteps.
“Who’s there?” he called out as he rushed inside.
Meggie squealed in alarm. She was standing over by the corner shelves with her back to him. He had clearly startled her.
“Made me jump out of my skin, so you did!” she exclaimed. Then, calming herself, she said, “You look white as a sheet, what’s wrong?”
“I heard—I mean, I thought I heard…”
“What?”
“…someone come in here. It sounded like a kid. You sure you didn’t see anyone?”
“No children around here,” Meggie said, “except for my man-child of a brother.”
“Well, I definitely heard laughter.”
“Maybe you heard Kay, or Helen, from inside the cottage?”
“Yeah, it could have been them, I suppose. But it really sounded like it came from in here.”
“The wind could be playing tricks on you, making noises from the cottage sound like they’re coming from somewhere else. I imagine all sorts of things while I’m working out here, especially at night. And Oscar barks at anything.…”
Mike saw a pang of regret at the mention of her pet’s name. “Still no sign of him?” he said.
“No. I’m trying not to be worried about him, but he hasn’t been gone this long ever before. Usually his stomach brings him back, so.…”
“I’m sure he’ll turn up.” Mike hoped he sounded convincing enough. He didn’t like seeing Meggie so upset about the dog. But he couldn’t help thinking the animal had got himself into some kind of trouble out there in the wilderness.
Meggie turned her attention back to a little box on the shelf. “Looks like this one will be okay, at least.”
Mike sidled over to her and knew then what had kept Meggie in the studio. She was tending to the crow, and he watched as she fed it water carefully from a clean artists’ pipette.
Meggie noticed him standing close by. “Here, want to try?”
“Oh, I don’t know if I—”
“It’s easy; you just have to hover the water over the wee beastie’s beak, and he’ll do the rest.”
Before Mike could protest, she took his hand in hers and placed the pipette between his fingers. The bird moved suddenly, startling Mike, but Meggie gently stroked the bird’s feathers, all the while shushing them both. She guided his hand until the tip of the pipette was above the bird’s beak. “Now give it a little squeeze,” she said softly to avoid spooking the bird.
Mike squeezed the plastic bulb of the pipette until a drop of water appeared. The bird took the cue and gobbled it up, snapping its beak thirstily. Mike squeezed again and repeated the process, with the bird eager to take more water from him.
“Thirsty little blighter, isn’t he?” Mike said.
“He is that,” Meggie said with a smile. “I find it quite relaxing, feeding animals. Makes you feel connected to them in the most primal way possible.”
Mike did feel connected to the little bird. The simple stuff of life – water – was flowing between his hand operating the pipette and the bird’s beak. He marveled at how fragile the bird looked in the box but also how startled he had been when it had moved. It was still vital and filled with life – and potential.
“How long do you think until it flies again?”
“Oh, a day or two at most,” Meggie said, and the bird snapped its beak, as if on cue. “You’re a natural.”
Looking into her smiling eyes, Mike couldn’t quite believe how long it had been since he’d first met Meggie, here at the cottage. She had changed a fair bit since then. Traveling must do that to a person, he supposed. She seemed more mature, more assured about what she was saying. She was no longer in her big brother’s shadow, as she had appeared when they had first met.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I, uh.…” Mike realized he had fallen silent and was staring at her like some kind of lunatic. He struggled to find the words and then faltered, realizing she was still gently holding on to his hand.
“Hello? Mike? You in there?”
“Shit,” Mike said.
It was Helen. In a clumsy reflex action, Mike wrenched his hand away from Meggie’s and, in doing so, dropped the pipette into the box, alarming both Meggie and the bird.
Mike turned to see Helen standing in the doorway. Her face looked flushed, and she was a little out of breath.
“How’s the patient?” Helen asked.
“Oh, I was just helping Meggie to feed him. I mean it,” Mike replied.
Helen looked from the bird box to Meggie and then threw Mike a quizzical look. “I meant you, you daft sod. Kay and Alex told me you mortally injured yourself in the name of fine dining.”
“Oh,” Mike said, “the fish.” He raised his thumb, proudly displaying the bandage.
“Looked like he might faint from the sight of blood at one point,” Meggie said, “but he’ll live.”
Helen laughed, and it sounded like a reflex action of her own. “That’s what Alex said.”
“Bet he did,” Mike growled, “the unsympathetic bastard.”
“Talking of which, I’d better check he isn’t murdering the vegetables,” Meggie announced, positioning the bird box safely on its shelf. “He always boils them into a soup-like nonexistence.” Meggie popped the pipette on the drainer next to the little sink unit. “See you guys in a wee bit,” she said on her way out.
“Nurse Meg saves the day,” Helen teased, admiring Meggie’s handiwork with the bandage. “Is she going to find a little cardboard box to keep you in too, Mike?”
“Bugger off,” Mike said in mock protest. “Thought I’d sliced my bloody thumb off, didn’t I?” He winced at the memory of the black fluid seeping from the fish�
�s innards, and the pulsing mass of writhing maggots that had seemed so real to him—
And the stench, oh, Jesus, the filthy stench of the thing.
“Are you listening to a single word I just said?”
“About the box?” Mike knew from the look on Helen’s face that he had zoned out again.
“Bloody stoner,” she said.
“Hey, don’t turn into Alex. One of him is already more than bloody enough,” Mike said.
“I was saying, before you decided to go on a mental trip to la-la land, that we need to talk.”
“How d’you mean? A talk talk?”
“Yes. A talk talk.” Helen looked serious.
“Well, can it wait ’til later? How about after dinner? I’m ruddy starving. Cutting my thumb like that, I think I lost a fair bit of blood.…”
Helen’s laughter echoed off the walls of the studio. “Mummy’s poor ’ickle soldier!”
“Well, let’s go outside, yeah?” Mike took Helen gently by the wrist and led her away from the shelves. “Don’t want to freak the bird out.”
Helen resisted, giggling all the while.
Mike tensed up. “Please, Helen, you’ll startle the bloody bird.”
At this, Helen shot Mike a look of exaggerated surprise. “Who are you, and what have you done with my boyfriend?”
Mike relaxed his grip and sighed. He needed to be out in the open. The studio seemed suddenly very small to him, still fuzzy with the atmosphere of the intimate moment that had passed between him and Meggie while they had tended to the bird.
“Let’s just get out of here, okay?”
“Good idea,” Helen said, her mood cooling along with her subsiding laughter. “We can have our chat down by the jetty.”
* * *
Mike sat next to Helen, their legs dangling over the black waters of the loch. The final, straggling rays of sunlight painted distant clouds in hues of burnt orange. A light breeze blew across the open water, bringing with it the wet scent of a season on the cusp of giving way to the next.
“I’m so glad we came here, to this special place.” Helen’s voice broke the silence softly but with purpose.