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

by Jacqueline Henry

  Stuart looked back at her, his eyes narrowing as he graced her with a tight-lipped smile. ‘We’ve got a comedian in oor midst I see.’

  Deidre giggled at her own joke. She’d made him look. ‘Well come on. For me it’s all a bit farfetched. I live in a world filled with I-Phones and 3D televisions. Science and technology.’

  ‘Aye, well you hang aboot in da valley long enough an’ you’ll find oot.’

  ‘Do you get good mobile phone reception out here?’ she asked half mockingly, pulling her phone from her pocket and studying its face. ‘No. No bars.’ Stuart regarded her phone with disinterest and walked on, the road tapering downwards and curving out of sight.

  ‘This is it lass, Erdin Valley.’

  Deidre slowed down, falling behind as Stuart continued onwards, taking in this moment as Erdin Valley came into view. After all the planning and preparation, after uprooting her life, after this long tortuous journey, she’d reached her valley. But this wasn’t how she’d imagined it at all. All those days she’d sat at her desk at work thinking of this moment. She’d had images of herself spinning around on a hilltop Julie Andrews style, on a bright sunny day, surrounded by verdant green valleys abloom with wildflowers and the scent of heather, her heart jubilant, filled with hope and in love with life. A new beginning. But that was before she knew about curses and crosses and Coffin Roads where people used to carry their dead on their shoulders.

  And Brud Stone.

  It stood on the edge of the headland above the valley, blurry and out of focus in the drizzle, but there was no mistaking its shape. She recognised it from George’s drawing, could feel its dark brooding aura, felt as though it was looking at her, into her, demanding her attention.

  ‘Brud Stone,’ she muttered quietly, mesmerised by this megalith standing up there like a suicide.

  ‘Aye, it’s a damnable thing. Who put it der naebody knows. How it hasnae been shoved aff da edge o’da cliff by noo…’

  ‘My God it looks huge.’

  ‘It is.’

  Deidre looked down into the bleak windswept landscape below her, the wide sloping lay of the land full of hillocks and depressions, mounds and indentations, a burn cutting across the valley floor like a black weeping scar. Headlands protruded out to sea forming a wide protected bay between them, Brud Stone staring down onto the ruined cottages populating the valley, their old fields marked by broken down walls.

  One of these is Hart Croft, she thought, slumping under the weight of her damp spirits, her gloom darkening to despair wondering why she had come here. Maybe this was why her father had never told her about this place, because there was nothing to tell, there was nothing here but the remnants of misery and she wondered now if every move she’d made since Douglas Hart’s death had been the wrong one.

  ‘See Dad, see what happens when you leave me to my own devices,’ she muttered to herself, feeling her eyes burn. She blinked hard and fast, forcing the tears back.

  Stuart was looking at her, leaning against a large protruding flat-topped boulder jutting out the side of the hill. The resting stone she assumed. Its surface looked wide and flat enough to support a laden coffin. She felt her melancholy compound in the sheer morbidity of this place; coffin roads and resting stones, madness and death, desolation, decay and poverty, people thrown from their homes and old women burned in their beds. The cold. The rain. The wind. It seemed to her this isle contained every abject misery of life and she’d chosen to come here. Dreary Deidre has found her corner of the world, she thought, shaking her head, blinking tears from her eyes as she headed towards Stuart.

  ‘Are ye alright lass?’ he asked. She nodded in response, unable to speak right now, the lump in her throat painful. Stuart gave her wary look, doubtful. ‘This is the resting stone, here,’ he said conversationally, slapping the palm of his hand onto the flat wet surface of the rock. ‘Dis is where da coffin bearers laid da coffin while dey had a rest.’

  Deidre nodded silently again, regarding the stone, imagining a coffin sitting there, the sadness involved, remembering her father’s coffin. His funeral, the pallbearers, all elderly men of her father’s era. They wouldn’t have been able to carry a coffin all this way over this track in this abysmal weather. She closed her eyes, feeling the frigid wind on her face, despair squeezing her chest like a vice.

  ‘Dat’s Hart Croft doon der,’ Stuart said quietly and Deidre opened her eyes, blinking, dislodging captured tears.

  It sat on a low curving nook set between the valley floor and the rise towards Erdiness. The cottage itself, its thick stone walls, its two chimneys, looked intact, the thatched roof blown away in the winds of time. Deidre gazed down on the croft. She hadn’t expected this, this thick palpable grief that swamped her. She felt the sudden urge to turn and run all the way back, all the way back to yesterday, to last week, last month, to go home to the time when Douglas Hart was still alive.

  ‘Are ye alright Deedree?’ Stuart asked again.

  She nodded her head, staring down at Hart Croft reining her emotions in before she spoke. ‘Yes,’ she said, glancing at Stuart. His cheeks were rosy red, his white woolly hair in tight wet curls. He wore a heavy undyed woollen jumper that must’ve been soaked through by now, Deidre thought. ‘I’m sorry for dragging you out here Stuart. I didn’t realise it was so far away.’

  ‘Dat’s awright lassie. Ye were itchin’ t’get here an hiv a look. Especially after aw dat talk yesterday. I couldnae let ye come aw da way oot here by yerself in dis wedder. Wid ye have found it, dae ye tink?’

  Deidre shook her head, gazing down at the derelict farmsteads. She wouldn’t even have known which was Hart Croft.

  ‘Shall we go doon an hiv a look?’

  They veered off the Coffin Road and headed downhill. To Deidre the building looked as though it germinated out of the soil, growing one boulder on top of another like a stone anemone to form a squat, rectangular dwelling, another small room attached to the back, stone gables rising up, peaking in two short square chimneys. It looked as it did in the photograph, although now the yard was bare, long grass and heather encroaching up to its walls. A doorless entry gaped in the middle of the building, its empty windows like two hollow eyes that had seen too much deprivation and despair, resigned to spending the rest of its days in quiet decay.

  Stuart stood outside the doorway awaiting her entrance. Deidre headed towards him, reaching out and touching the cold, damp stone as she passed by, feeling its reality, the walls thick and solid as though they’d been here forever. She stepped inside the empty roofless shell, the laden sky depositing its fine drizzle onto the weeds and thistles as tall as her shoulders growing up through cracks in the stone flooring. The bare gables gave the sensation of height and space, but it looked barely ten feet across from wall to wall and maybe thirty lengthways, an empty doorframe opening up into the equally empty byre at the back.

  I’m here, she thought with a sense of unreality, fireplaces like two black maws mirroring each other at each end of the building.

  One of these chimneys, she thought, glancing at Stuart standing just inside the threshold. She smiled wanly, wrapping her fingers around the small torch in her pocket, wondering what to do next. She couldn’t go rummaging up chimneys with Stuart here, and she couldn’t tell him to go away. She stepped over to one of the fireplaces to get a closer look, sticking her head under the flue and looking up to the small grey square of sky above.

  ‘Whit r’ye daen lassie! I wouldnae be stickin’ ma heed up der. Dat lum could come tumblin’ doon aroon yer heed.’

  Deidre removed herself speedily from the fireplace. ‘What? What do you mean? It looks pretty solid,’ she said, looking up at the triangular formation of stone rising above her.

  ‘Aye, but ye never know.’

  She looked at Stuart. It was payback for Brigadoon, she thought. She scanned her surrounds, the space they stood in. ‘It’s so small,’ she said.

  ‘Aye, entire families lived in places like dis aw across da highla
nds. Plus der animals; coos an’ chickens. Lambs. Dey used t’bring dem inside fer da heat in winter.’

  ‘My God, my one bedroom flat in Sydney was bigger than this,’ she responded with a sense of awe.

  ‘Aye, well it wouldnae be hard.’

  Deidre shook her head, barely able to imagine living like this.

  ‘So whit are ye tinkin’?’ Stuart asked.

  Deidre looked across at him standing by the entrance, the view beyond framed in the empty doorway. She could see Brud Stone standing on the headland like an exclamation point.

  She was thinking she was going to have to come back here alone. At least now, she knew how to get here. She said, ‘I’m thinking it’s time we started the trek back. I’m freezing.’

  Deidre followed Stuart around to the back of Stayne House, entering through a porch at the back of the kitchen. They stood in a small room that appeared to be as old as the rest of the house; the stone flagged flooring worn by hundreds of years of footsteps. Coats hung suspended from hooks lined along one wall, different sized wellingtons, shoes and boots cluttered on the floor below. Fishing rods, buckets and nets took up space on the other side of the room, a wooden bench set against the back wall that resembled a small church pew.

  Stuart sat down pulling his wellingtons off, heaving the wet heavy jumper over his head and throwing it into a large basket before sliding into a pair of slippers nestled near the kitchen door. Deidre removed her own outer layer and wet boots and followed Stuart through to the kitchen, her feet padded in socks, the aroma of something thick and hearty hitting her stomach immediately.

  A number of people sat around the long table, the twins, Vee, the Twitchers Olivia and John, and a dark haired, chubby cheeked boy at the far end, a splint on his arm, writing in a notebook. She guessed this was Gregory, Vee’s son.

  ‘Where hiv you two been?’ one of the old women asked, her tone sharp and annoyed.

  ‘Oot t’da croft,’ Stuart replied.

  ‘Da croft?! In dis wedder?’

  ‘Settle doon, Aunty Mavis,’ Stuart said, heading around the counter and switching the kettle on.

  Vee pushed herself up from the table, heading for the stovetop. ‘Sit doon Da, I’ve got soup here,’ she said, lifting a lid from a large round pot and stirring the contents.

  ‘We were startin’ t’get worried,’ Mavis continued.

  ‘I told ye dat’s where dey’d be,’ Dot added with a self-satisfied nod.

  Stuart pulled a chair out for Deidre indicating she sit down.

  ‘It’s a bit of a long walk,’ Deidre offered apologetically.

  Mavis graced Deidre with a stern look before turning to the Twitchers. ‘Deidre’s folk used t’live in Erdin Valley,’ she explained. ‘Dey worked a croft der. It’s right oot in da middle o’naywhere on da udder side o’Ayres Kame.’

  Vee placed hot steaming bowls of thick soup in front of Deidre and Stuart, replenishing a basket of cut bread.

  Mavis turned back to Deidre. ‘Well, ye’ve satisfied yer curiosity noo. Der’ll be nay need t’go back der again.’ Deidre chewed on a slice of bread waiting for her soup to cool, gazing across the table at Mavis. ‘Ye should go wi Olivia an’ John da next time dey go t’Hermaness,’ she suggested.

  Deidre continued chewing, silent, annoyed by the old women’s insistence on telling her what to do, where she could and shouldn’t go.

  ‘We didn’t get there today after all. The weather,’ John said, indicating the heavy skies outside.

  Deidre offered him a lopsided smile. ‘Yeah, it was a bit damp.’

  ‘But we will be going tomorrow, regardless of the weather,’ Olivia cut in. ‘We heard a white-tailed eagle was spotted there this afternoon.’

  John smiled sympathetically at his wife. ‘Yes, very annoying. The one day we choose to kick our heels up and a rare white-tail is spotted. Magnificent species,’ John began, suddenly animated. ‘An enormous wingspan as you would expect.’ He spread his hands apart to indicate width.

  ‘Oh Deidre,’ Olivia interjected, ‘I’m sure if you saw a white-tailed eagle flying in the sky it would change your opinion about birds.’

  ‘It would be a shame for you to come all this way and not make the trip to Hermaness,’ John advised. ‘We caught sight of a Thick Billed Warbler on our visit last year,’ he continued, a conceited smile bending his lips. ‘Definitely a mega tick. Very exciting.’ He closed his eyes momentarily as he said this, as if savouring the memory.

  ‘We’re moving onto Fetlar next week to see the Red Necked Phalarope,’ Olivia said. She turned to her husband and they exchanged a secret smile. ‘We’re hoping for a life tick on that one.’

  Deidre nodded, her eyes glazing over, but still admiring the fact that these two people were perfect for each other.

  ‘Deidre’s comin t’da Hall wid us da night,’ Vee said, winking at her from across the table.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Deidre said, refocussing. ‘It’s fiddle night.’

  ‘So she probably won’t be fit t’go anywhere tomorrow,’ Vee added. ‘It can get a wee bit wild.’

  Saturday Evening - Baltasound Hall

  Light streamed in through the tall narrow windows of Baltasound Hall as if it was still mid-afternoon. It was almost seven o’clock at night. People packed the small room, the air saturated with the manic energy of fiddles and guitars emanating from a group of people on stage at the front of the hall. Deidre felt her face stretch into a smile stirred by the concentrated exuberance of life in the room as the audience clapped, hooted, nodded their heads and stomped their feet in time to the music.

  ‘Der’s Malcolm up der,’ Vee said loudly in her ear, pointing to the stage before grabbing her hand and towing her away from the door to a table in the centre of the room. Deidre was surprised to see Stuart already seated at the table, in deep conversation with a petite, curly, grey-haired woman, his arm around the back of her chair.

  ‘Here ye go, hen,’ a man said, standing and offering his chair to Deidre before hooting loudly near her ear and clapping, fully absorbed in the music. Deidre stepped out of range of the man’s flailing arms and took possession of the chair, grinning, feeling the atmosphere soak through her, infecting her, and she quickly found her own head bobbing in rhythm to the frenetic beat.

  A disembodied arm reached over her shoulder depositing a large glass of beer in front of her and she smiled, thanking this person she’d never seen before; a tall, thin, red headed man, his translucently white skin in sharp contrast to his red lips. She picked up the glass and clicked it against those nearest her before taking a gulp, a warm glow flowing through her that didn’t stem from the alcohol.

  The band fell into a lull between reels causing a momentary quiet and Vee seized the moment to make a general announcement to those around that her guest’s name was Deidre and that she’d come all the way from Australia. Deidre took note of the fact that Vee hadn’t mentioned her surname or her reason for being here and so taking this cue, Deidre also deleted this detail in following conversations of why she’d come to one of the remotest townships on earth. She was just travelling around, she said, just a tourist. She’d heard there was a lot of birds around here. A large, barrel chested man with short cropped hair and a flushed face had asked her if she was gay, stating that if she’d come here looking for birds of the female variety then she’d come to the wrong place. He found this very funny. Deidre assured him that it was the feathered variety that interested her.

  It was hard to gauge time when the room remained so light but she knew she’d had two large glasses of beer and a great time, relaxing, clapping along with the music, her feet stomping, expelling her own alcohol induced hoots.

  Malcolm and his band left the stage and a calm settled upon the crowd, the chatter ceasing across the room like a breeze rippling over a body of water. Deidre assumed the night was over, that it was time to go home until she glanced around to see no one had moved from their tables, all heads turned towards the stage, their eyes lock
ed onto a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, as she stepped up towards the microphone. There’d been no introduction, but Deidre could feel the anticipation in the room. They knew this girl; they’d been waiting all night for her. She began to sing on an unadorned stage, a single piano accompaniment, and it was the most beautiful sound Deidre had ever heard. The sentiment of the melody, the haunting tone of the girl’s voice captivated her, singing to her soul and bruising her heart and she felt her nose sting, her eyes filling, the tears running down her cheeks, leaving her afraid to move, afraid that one movement would crack the fragile hold she had on this sudden burgeoning of emotions.

  The song finished and there was a moment’s pause, a silence, as if the audience was waiting for the very last echo of the girl’s lament to dissipate before the room broke into applause, a different kind of applause than she’d heard throughout the night, this was a respectful thanks and gratitude. Reverence. This girl was one of theirs. They had something special in their midst and they knew it. Deidre wiped the tears from her cheeks, her eyes meeting Vee’s at the other end of the table and she felt a bubble of crying laughter burst from herself and she stood up. It was her turn to visit the bar.

  The standard order seemed to be five pints of beer and two cokes so that’s what Deidre ordered. She seldom had more than two glasses of red wine and now she was just about to embark on her third large glass of beer. They seemed to assume that because she was Australian she drank a lot of beer. She didn’t. She was beginning to feel quite drunk. She was also tired, still suffering from jet lag and the long walk she’d been on earlier in the day. Steadying herself against the bar, she watched the barman fill each glass one by one and although the band was in intermission, the chatter in the hall was quite loud.

  ‘You looked as though you were quite moved before,’ a voice said close in her ear.

  Deidre pulled away, the speaker’s breath tickling her ear, and she turned to look at the person speaking to her. A man, marginally shorter than she was, stood inside her personal space and she took a step back, her eyes focussing on him. He was thin and wiry with dark, close-cropped hair, balding on top. As always, she took note of his eyebrows, immediately envious of their sculpted shape complimenting his long lashes that framed a set of beautiful eyes. Pretty, she thought, he’s prettier than I am, the features of his clean-shaven face delicate, almost feminine. Small, perfectly shaped ears.