The Stone Dweller's Curse: A Story of Curses, Madness, Obsession and Love

by Jacqueline Henry

  The Stone Dweller’s Curse

  Jacqueline Henry

  The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identifiedas the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  Copyright © Jacqueline Henry as named on the book cover.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Glossary

  Erdin Valley, Shetland Islands - 1938

  Sydney, Australia – 2015

  Later That Afternoon

  The Following Weekend

  Friday Night, One Week Later – Annandale

  Friday, Six Months Later – Unst

  Saturday, Early Morning – Stayne House

  Saturday Afternoon – Over Ayres Kame

  Saturday Evening – Baltasound Hall

  Dylan

  Sunday – Alone in the Valley

  Later That Evening – By the Bay

  Monday Afternoon – Haroldswick

  Wednesday, One Week Later – Hart Croft

  Dylan

  Wednesday – Erdin Valley

  Thursday – Stayne House

  Friday – Stayne House

  Saturday Afternoon, Walking in Old Footsteps - Muddow’s Field

  Betarra – 792AD

  Sunday, in the Sea

  Dylan

  Sunday, Baltasound – Dylan’s Place

  Monday – Haroldswick

  Tuesday, Middle of the Night – Muddow’s Field

  Taran

  Tuesday, Dawn

  Tuesday Morning

  Tuesday, Early Afternoon

  Wednesday, One Day Remaining

  Thursday, Out of Time

  Dylan

  Thursday Afternoon

  Three Months Later

  One Week Later

  Two Summers Later

  Glossary

  Burn - Stream

  Byre - Shelter for livestock

  Fallow - Uncultivated land

  Gannett - Large white sea bird

  Gorse - Weedy shrub

  Kailyard - Vegetable garden

  Kishie - Handwoven straw basket

  Laird - Landed gentry - owner of an estate

  Loch - Lake or body of water

  Peat - Turf, found in marshy wetlands, cut, dried and used for fuel

  Quern - A stone tool used to grind cereal into flour

  Simmer Dim - Mid-summer twilight

  Tushkar - Spade used to cut peat

  Erdin Valley, Shetland Islands – 1938

  ‘Snow’s comin’ early dis year lassies,’ McLennan said, frost crunching under his feet. It was fine weather, the sky clear and ice blue, the frigid air stinging the tip of his nose and ears. He could feel the sun rising behind him, spilling over the crest of Burland Knowe a few steps above them.

  The old man and the two girls took the rise of the low hill, bracing themselves against the lacerating wind blowing in from the North Atlantic Sea. McLennan blinked, adjusting to the brightness of the vista. The light, the intensity of colour stabbed at his eyes as he scanned the tattered coastline beaten to shreds in its eternal battle with the sea. Headlands, protruding like the rugged arms of valiant heroes, protected submissive coves and inlets from the wild ocean beyond; tall granite stacks standing like forsaken lovers, abandoned, severed from the coast by the perpetual pitching and pounding assault of the sea. He watched the swell of the immense ocean for a moment as it heaved in slow deep blue breaths, the impact of its almighty force thumping like a heartbeat against the granite battlements of the coastline.

  ‘Look at dat, Granda!’ one of the girls exclaimed, exalted, ‘hiv ye ever seen anyting so lovely?’

  Over on the far headland of Muddow’s Table the air sparkled for a moment as water, forced up through a fracture in the rock face, exploded out of the ground, sprinkling back to earth like diamonds in the morning sun.

  ‘Aye, dat’s Muddow’s Glup,’ he said, his eyes turning inland, his view unimpeded by mountains or trees as he scanned the low green hills and shallow valleys of a landscape that had been worn smooth by the icecap covering the northern hemisphere during the last ice age. Colossal rocks and boulders carried on its glaciers from countries far away now littered the hills and valleys like shrapnel of an exploding mountain. It was a bare, desolate land, wild and treeless, its bedrock exposed like bones battered by wind, rain, and the white hell of winter. Some days. Other days were like this where its stark unadorned beauty could still take his breath away, the lushly green undulations dusted with a coating of frost. Lochs glittered like giant pendants in the distance, their coursing rivulets trickling like silver chains towards the heaving ocean.

  ‘Just let me catch ma breath ‘ere a minute, lassies,’ McLennan said as he set the half-filled pail of milk he’d been carrying onto the Coffin Road, a rutted timeworn track that began its journey in the valleys north of the Beredale peat field. It then ambled its way up and down the comb of Ayres Kame’s low rolling hills, before turning southeast at Burland Knowe and on towards the kirk in Haardale.

  McLennan straightened, his eyes scanning Erdin Valley spooning out below them in a wide shallow basin, cupped, protected by the two protruding headlands of Muddow’s Table sitting low and wide on the far side of the valley, rising up like a wave from the moorland of Muddow’s Field.

  And on his left, close, contiguous: Erdiness.

  Unwillingly, McLennan found his head turning towards the headland, its high-plateaued edge dropping away in a sheer precipitous fall to the rocks and wild sea below. Brud Stone, an enormous oblong of granite, stood upright like a sentinel near the edge of the cliff, dominating the landscape, demanding attention. McLennan turned his eyes away from it, uneasy.

  His granddaughters, squealing against the cold wind, came to the old man’s side, latching their arms around his midriff. He’d never brought the twins to Erdin Valley before but Mavis had been insistent. She’d been listening in on the stories he guessed. Dot, less enthusiastic, had also tagged along, afraid she might miss out on something.

  McLennan held the girls close, his calloused fingers entwining themselves through their wavy red tendrils, massaging the smooth warmth of their scalp as they looked down into the valley. Tumbling remains of ruined crofts marked the landscape, the occupants long gone, their old fields and walled enclosures still scarring the ground.

  ‘Whit happened t’aw da farms doon der, Granda?’ questioned one of the twins, her small hands clutching his thick woollen jumper.

  ‘Everybody left,’ McLennan stated simply.

  ‘Why?’ the girl persisted.

  McLennan pondered over the answer. The Clearances of the previous centuries had emptied the highlands and islands of their people, the Scottish Lairds callously evicting their tenants from arable farming land and replacing them with the more profitable venture of grazing sheep.

  But not in Erdin Valley. People left this valley of their own accord. McLennan regarded the derelict cottage on the far side of the glen. His grandfather had lived there as a boy. The dry stone walls were still strong and intact, the thatched roof long gone, decaying lines of low stone walls still marking their infields. McL
ennan’s ancestors had left Erdin Valley over a century ago after they’d found their eldest son James lying at the foot of Brud Stone, frozen stiff after a blizzard had raged through the night before. The stories said James McLennan had been cursed by the cross. They’d carried James in his casket over the Coffin Road to Haardale to bury him in the kirk. After that, the McLennans moved far away from Erdin Valley, far away from Brud Stone, to the other side of Haardale where it was out of their sight. McLennan still had inheritance rights to farm that land down there but he would never move into this valley. He would never live here. Ingrained superstitions ran deep.

  ‘They found other places to live,’ McLennan replied to his granddaughter. Because this place is cursed, he thought to himself; because folk didn’t want to live in the shadow of Erdiness with its brooding watchman teetering on the brink.

  Only one cottage remained occupied, a squat, stony dwelling nestled into the slope of the rising valley floor, growing out of the ground like a wart on the landscape.

  Hart Croft.

  The Coffin Road meandered past the back end of George Hart’s neglected kailyard. McLennan had walked the track to Beredale peat field early last week with a half dozen ponies, two of them George’s, to collect peat cut and left to dry over the spring and summer. It had been a windless, dismal day, the heavy sky excreting a thick drizzle that saturated the air. A dense sea fog had rolled in later in the morning and McLennan packed up the ponies and headed home, depositing a number of the turf bricks onto George’s peat pile at the side of his croft as he passed by. McLennan had seen George then, heard him, his voice carrying in the fog. McLennan couldn’t make out the words, could just barely see Hart’s form on the very edge of his visibility. McLennan didn’t bother calling out to him. He unloaded the peat and headed on his way.

  ‘D’ye want us t’carry da pail, Granda?’ One of the twins looked up at him, her big blue eyes watering in the wind.

  ‘Naw, it’s a wee bit heavy fur yer wee arms t’carry. You n’Dot can carry da empty pail back again.’

  ‘I’m Dot, Granda,’ the girl said, pulling at his jumper, dimples forming in her rosy cheeks.

  ‘Aye, so ye ur,’ he teased. It wasn’t hard to tell them apart, he thought, glancing down on the other twin. They were two opposing personalities. Dot was Dot, dotty and mad for the boys. Mavis quiet, contemplative. A thinker. Smart. She would go places McLennan hoped. She would leave the island. Right now, she clung to his midriff. McLennan could see that she was giving George Hart some thought as she stared down at his croft, a wrinkle forming between her brows.

  ‘How can Mad George no come an’ milk ‘es own coo, granda?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s because George did’nae milk da coo in da first place dat we’ve got it,’ McLennan replied mildly. He’d found Hart’s cow bellowing in misery at the side of Tumshie Burn a couple of weeks ago. George, Mad George, had gone wandering again to who knew where and the poor beast hadn’t been milked for days. McLennan had been forced to relieve the cow right there, appalled by the wasted milk squirting into the ravenous, churning water. Milk they could ill afford to waste, but he couldn’t allow the animal to stand another moment of pain. It made him angry, made him want to get hold of George and shake all the lunacy out of him. But Inverhall Lunatic Asylum couldn’t do it and they’d tried for six years.

  ‘We saw Mad George last week o’er in Muddow’s Field,’ Dot said, yanking the sleeve of the old man’s jumper, demanding his attention.

  ‘Whit were ye doin’ in Muddow’s Field?’ he asked.

  ‘He wis pullin’ big boulders ootta da grun an rollin’ em doon da hill,’ Dot continued, ignoring her grandfather’s question. ‘He wis talkin’ away t’himself like a loony. He wis shakin’ ‘es heed an’ wavin’ ‘es arms aboot. He wis scary Granda.’

  ‘Och, dat’s dist George. Der’s nay need to be scared o’ him. He’ll no hurt ye,’ McLennan advised, bending down, picking up the half pail of milk and starting the gradual descent down the Coffin Road towards Hart Croft. ‘Careful o’da frost,’ he warned the girls. ‘It’s slippy.’

  ‘They’re gonna send him back t’da loony bin noo dat ‘es Da’s deed,’ Dot announced, clutching the old man’s free hand, almost unbalancing him.

  ‘Dot, be careful,’ McLennan admonished. ‘Where d’you hear talk like dat?’ he asked, knowing full well she’d heard it earwigging in on the grown-ups, an ample source of information that ranged from fact to fiction, young ripe ears always around, listening. It was the way it was here; a source of entertainment, family and friends gathering in their small stone homes sitting around peat fires in the dark of winter talking and chattering, exchanging stories and gossip, George Hart’s latest antics frequently the source of fresh conversation.

  ‘I heard Aunty Blanch talkin’ t’Ma,’ Dot continued, a possessive grip on the old man’s hand demanding his full attention. ’She said folk couldnae keep supporting George noo dat he’s Da wis deed. Folk could hardly afford t’pay der ain rent.’ McLennan regarded his granddaughter, parroting adult talk, thinking how she couldn’t wait to grow up. ‘She said he wis eeder gonna have t’start earning his keep, ur go back t’da loony bin.’

  They continued down the track, McLennan casting a critical eye over Hart Croft below. It was of great concern to him how George would cope this coming winter on his own. Since Thomas Hart’s death a few months ago, George had been living alone, and without his Da’s direction, George wasn’t coping and it was starting to show.

  The thatched roof was in good repair, its edges weighted down with a line of boulders and the small peat stack at the side of the cottage would be enough to get him through the winter, but with the animals gone; the pigs, the chickens, the cow and the ponies all dispensed among the neighbours, the byre now looked derelict. His infields had grown a carpet of clover, the crops never planted and the vegetables in his kailyard had gone to seed. At least the rent had been paid until the end of the year and he still had credit at Walters Store, but McLennan knew it wouldn’t be long before George found himself in small debts court. Unable to fish or farm the land on his own, they would declare him a pauper lunatic and ship him back to Inverhall. This time he would stay there and Alistair Hart, George’s younger brother, would leave him there.

  ‘Well, fur noo, we’re gonna try an’ keep George ootta da loony bin for a long as we can,’ McLennan said.

  ‘Was he always mad Granda?’ Dot asked, still holding McLennan’s free hand in a tight, relentless grip.

  ‘No he wis not. He used t’caper aboot wi da udder lads, hanging aff cliff edges an’ stealing gannet eggs, terrorising da lassies. He wis a wee bit cheeky. I’m bettin’ you widda been sweet on ‘im Dot. George Hart wis a good lookin’ lad.’

  ‘Och, get away wi ye Granda! George is an auld man. An’ he’s mad!’

  McLennan smiled indulgently. To a ten year old girl George Hart did look like a mad old man although he would be barely thirty years old.

  ‘Is it true aboot da cross Granda?’ Mavis asked, pulling up the rear of their small convoy, stepping carefully on the slippery ground, the terrain on either side of the track strewn with boulders and rocks, the thick tussocky grass and gorse crusted with frost. ‘Who’s Donald Dunbar?’ she questioned.

  McLennan glanced over his shoulder to look at the girl. She walked behind them, her eyes fixed on Hart Croft, apprehension darkening her impish little face.

  McLennan slowed, stopped, resting the pail of milk on the ground and disengaging his hand from Dot’s possessive grip. ‘I don’t know, hen,’ he lied, his eyes glancing to the ruined cottage on the lower side of the valley, closer to the shore. Donald Dunbar’s old croft. McLennan remembered Donald Dunbar very well. McLennan had only been a boy himself when Dunbar used to trample around these valleys ranting and raving to the wind, a shiny black cross bouncing against his chest. He and the other lads, Thomas Hart as well, used to come over from Haardale and watch him, following him, throwing small rocks at him to catch his att
ention.

  Dunbar had disappeared, never seen nor heard of again, his wife and four bairns kicked off the land and left destitute. Like all the other abandoned crofts in this valley, Dunbar’s fell into decay. No one wanted it; no one wanted to live in this glen and Erdin Valley lay empty for decades.

  Until Thomas Hart married Moira Anderson and took claim of the old Anderson Croft.

  The croft had been offered to McLennan four months earlier when he married Moira’s sister Janet. He’d declined. He’d tried to persuade Thomas to make the same decision, reminding him of Meggie Anderson, another cursed soul who’d been lost, never found, just like Donald Dunbar. They said she’d worn the cross around her neck.

  All stories and fireside talk, Thomas had argued as he signed the lease. He would have more land for less rent as well as the expanse of the entire valley at his disposal for grazing.

  George was born in their first year in Erdin Valley, and three years later, Alistair. The seasons turned and uneventful years passed by. It was George’s twelfth year before McLennan saw the cross hanging from the boy’s neck. The memory of that day could still invoke feelings of deep unease at his core, an aftershock of something persistent and unrelenting, something unknown that had blown through his soul and touched something primordial in him, ancient, and the fright he felt that day had never left him.

  It had been a fine spring day, the beginning of the peat cutting season, the wet slabs of turf cut and laid out to dry in the sun over spring and summer, a necessity to keep their fires burning over the cold dark winter months. The sun had been bright, dazzling, the air chilled by a crisp breeze blowing in from the sea, cooling the sweat on his brow. He’d seen George striding across the field towards them coming from Swabbie Bog, his shoulders back, his chin pointing towards the sun, jubilation lighting up his young face. At first McLennan had been shocked by how filthy he was, his clothes, his skin covered in muck, his hands encrusted in thick black mud, but there was a beatific quality emanating from the lad’s face that McLennan had never seen before, and had never forgotten. It was then McLennan saw the cross hanging heavily on a leather cord around his neck, swaying across the boy’s thin chest as he marched up to them, triumphant.