For the first few million years the Saurians had learnt, little by little, how to dominate others, adding to their store of superstition and prejudice, measuring their civilisation by how efficient was their domination of others, whether by brute force or the force of intellect.
And often the rational side of their nature would be overtaken by the emotional side — the animal would dominate the spirit. And then the time came when the Saurian philosophers started to integrate their emotional and rational sides, the animal with the spirit, so that they no longer kept the two sides of their nature separated.
And now the intelligence lay brooding. It was the last of its kind; the last of a chain stretching hundreds of millions of years from Saurian intellect to Saurian intellect. And now, it realised, that the years of Saurian philosophy had been blown away like chaff in the wind. Only its animal emotions dominated; these alone.
Yes, it could rationalise; it could think on the futility of vengeance; on the loneliness of its existence but, above all, it was a prisoner of its species. It was animal and it must come to the realisation that its rational was subservient to its emotional cravings and its emotional cravings gave weight and purpose to an otherwise futile existence. It would have vengeance on the breed of puny man-things who wore the cross symbol at their necks; and it would fulfil the driving desire and need to procreate its species before it died.
That was, indeed, the fulfilment of its life; that was, indeed, the achievement of its kind.
Procreation and death.
CHAPTER TEN
Mrs Murdo looked at Jeannie in surprise.
‘A telephone? Here? Oh no. The old laird did not agree with such things. He was something of a hermit, so you might say, Miss Millbuie. He did not believe in keeping things like radios, televisions, telephones or the like. Nor did he believe in encouraging visitors.’
Jeannie bit her lip.
‘He must have led an odd life.’
Mrs Murdo drew herself up.
‘Not everything which is modern is of benefit to the human kind, Miss Millbuie,’ she said with asperity.
‘You probably have a point there, Mrs Murdo,’ agreed Jeannie. ‘Nevertheless, a telephone would be pretty handy at the moment.’
Mrs Murdo was turning away when she suddenly looked back at the girl as if struck by a sudden thought.
‘Of course,’ she said slowly, ‘you can always try the village.’
‘The village? You mean Balmacaan?’
Mrs Murdo nodded.
‘It’s just a mile and a half south of here. It’s a pleasant enough walk along the shores of the loch, across the two hills.’
‘There’ll be a post office there, won’t there?’ queried Jeannie.
Mrs Murdo smiled.
‘I’m sure you’ll find what you want there.’
‘Very well. I’ll take a walk there after breakfast,’ affirmed the girl, settling down to the inevitable bacon and eggs.
The morning was colder than usual, crisp and clear, and there was a mist hanging low across the tops of the hills. Through patches of cloud, the sun managed to cast shafts of pale light. As Jeannie strode along the shores of the loch the pathway, which climbed southerly from Balmacaan Castle, began to turn slightly inland, crossing the gorse covered hills. Jeannie suddenly began to feel slightly ridiculous. In the night atmosphere of the old house her fears had appeared concrete and real but now, here in the daylight, among the spectacular scenery of the loch, she began to wonder whether her imagination was overreacting to events which could easily be explained away. After all, she realised, she was in a strange place and with people whose customs and ways were not those of the people she had grown up with — in spite of her grandfather. Perhaps she had mistaken or misinterpreted the things that were said last night. Perhaps the tales of monsters, which had seemed so amusing while sitting sipping port in Colonel Maitland’s library, had affected her imagination more than she knew. Still, she determined, it would be nice to see if Tim could join her. Perhaps she would not feel so apprehensive about people’s strange behaviour if she had a friend with her.
With terrifying abruptness a coldness enveloped her.
She pulled her coat tighter for warmth.
The low lying mists from the hill tops must have swept downwards, rolling with a surprising speed into the valleys. The mist gave an impression of having a cotton wool quality but she could barely see a couple of yards in front of her. She cast her eyes to the pathway and moved forward slowly, almost edging her way along the track.
It was some time before she felt herself ascending the hill, after a short downward journey. As she climbed higher, the mist began to thin.
It was through the opaque greyness that she saw the first of the squat stone houses as black shadows in the murkiness. This must be Balmacaan village. She heaved a grateful sigh. But it was some time before she came upon the next building … gaunt stone crofts with decaying thatched roofs and black holes for windows. She could see a row of four such cottages on one side of her path and there were several more further along, forming a rough square.
Something told her that this was not quite right. They seemed strangely deserted for, in spite of the mist, Jeannie could see no friendly lights winking from the buildings.
Again she felt a quiver of apprehension; shook herself and smiled ruefully. What a stupid emotional person she was, letting every little thing cause her mind to riot with ridiculous fears.
Where was this post office which Mrs Murdo had mentioned?
To one side of the farthest row of crofts she could see a larger building, a small square tower at one end. Through the mist, now swirling in sudden gusts of cold wind that were puffing across the loch, Jeannie recognised the building as a church. This must surely be John Telstan’s kirk.
She turned and peered around in perplexity. There was only one thing for it, that was to knock on the door of the nearest croft and ask her way.
She walked across the path, picking her way to the nearest building, and found a wooden door.
She had raised her hand to knock when she noticed that the door was of a wood that was damp and rotten. One hinge hung off and the door itself was slightly ajar. Looking down at her feet she realised, for the first time, that tall grass clustered around the bottom of the door. She leant forward and gave it a push. It creaked open a few inches and, at once, her nose was assailed by an earthy smell, the smell of cattle dung.
It was evident that no one had lived there for many years.
Frowning, Jeannie picked her way back to the path.
Perhaps this was not Balmacaan after all? Perhaps this was some deserted hamlet which Mrs Murdo had forgotten to tell her about which lay en route to Balmacaan? After all, the Highlands of Scotland were said to abound in such deserted villages and crofts … a silent monument to the greed of the great speculating landowners of Scotland during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries when they forced the people off the land, forced them to starve or emigrate) to allow for the creation of great sheep runs — for sheep, in those days, were more profitable than people. Whole communities were wiped out by what became known as the ‘Clearances’.
Resolving this as the likely explanation, Jeannie was crossing what had once been the village square, peering this way and that, when she tripped over a stone and nearly fell. The effect of regaining her balance caused her to spin round.
A scream rose in her throat as she caught sight of a black shape towering above her.
The scream died away a split second later as her mind registered a tall, stone Celtic cross raised on some sort of small plinth. Peering closely, Jeannie saw that it was a memorial. She studied the inscription at the base of the intricately worked cross, with its traditional Celtic loops and spirals decorating its stonework.
‘To the memory of the manhood of Balmacaan who gave their lives in the Great War of 1914-18 … ’
The list was headed by five Millbuies, two Maitlands, seven MacVeys, three Murdos, a Str
uan (Jeannie remembered to pronounce the name Strawn) and a Telstan. Jeannie felt a passing sadness that so many should have died from one tiny village alone. In a village of that size, it was almost an entire generation.
Then the thought struck her: this must be Balmacaan.
She gazed about her in bewilderment.
It was then she saw a faint light on the far side of the square.
Breathing a sigh of relief, and chiding herself for thinking the place deserted, she made her way towards it.
The light was fixed above the door of a fairly large building; it was long and gave the impression of several cottages being joined into one. It was obviously inhabited. Its walls smelt of new whitewash and the wooden door was varnished. A sign over the door proclaimed: ‘The Balmacaan Bar: prop. Miss Struan. Licensed to sell beers, wines, spirits and tobacco.’
Smiling with relief, Jeannie pushed against the door.
The room she entered ran the width of the building but was fairly narrow, with doors leading off to either side. At the far end was a large fireplace in which a big log fire was roaring and crackling and seemed to cast the only light in the room. Set closely along one wall was a bar with the usual array of drinks and glasses stacked neatly on shelves behind it. There were a few stools before the bar while a number of low tables and chairs were scattered through the rest of the room.
Jeannie pushed the door to behind her and strode across to the fire, standing for a moment revolving her body to the warmth of the blaze. She took off her coat and peered round.
The place seemed deserted.
She spied a hand bell on the bar which had the legend ‘Please ring for service’ inscribed on a label attached to its handle.
She obeyed; sending a jangling peel echoing through the building.
A door creaked open and a pair of frightened blue eyes gazed at her.
‘Good morning,’ greeted Jeannie, brightly.
The eyes opened wider but there was no response.
‘Can you get me a drink?’
Good Lord! thought Jeannie. These people are really weird. It will be a relief to get back to London.
‘Do you understand?’ she pressed as there was still no response.
A girl entered the room. She must have been about twenty years old. Jeannie admitted to herself that the girl’s face was really beautiful. It was pale, heart-shaped with a delicacy which reminded Jeannie of the fragility of a porcelain doll. It had that translucent quality to the skin and a hint of freckles. The mouth was full, the lips were naturally red. The eyes, blue, had a quality of innocence in them though they seemed to stare with almost an imbecilic air which Jeannie could not fathom.
It was the rest of the girl’s appearance which caused Jeannie to wince. The girl’s fair hair was matted and dirty as if it had not been washed or combed for years. Her clothes were old and ragged. She wore a once white but now dirty blouse, a cardigan full of tears and holes and a skirt whose hem was ragged and uneven. On her feet were a pair of worn carpet slippers.
The girl came further into the room and it was then that Jeannie noticed that she walked with a slight limp, her head forward and her back stooped.
Without saying anything, she walked slowly across to Jeannie and stood staring at her with a look of bewilderment on her pretty features.
Jeannie felt uncomfortable.
‘Hello … ’ she tried again. ‘Er, can you get me a drink?’
The girl cocked her head to one side, as if listening, all the while staring at Jeannie.
Then she raised a hand slowly towards Jeannie’s face, letting her finger tips gently stroke her cheek.
Jeannie tried to control her facial muscles, wondering whether the girl was deranged in some way.
‘Er, is there anyone else here?’ she asked, nervously.
A dark look swept the features of the young girl.
She opened her mouth.
Whatever Jeannie was prepared for, it was not the stream of animal grunts which came from those pretty lips. She started back, unable to control the horror on her face.
The young girl now grew agitated and waved her arms, the grunts grew in their intensity.
Jeannie looked round desperately, wondering how to pacify the poor creature.
‘Rhona!’
A harsh voice cut across the room. The girl fell silent and looked round with such an expression of fear on her face that even Jeannie blanched to see it.
A tall woman stood in the doorway. For one wild moment Jeannie thought it was Mrs Murdo, so similar was her bearing to that of the housekeeper at Balmacaan Castle. She had the same gaunt carriage, the same black hair and severe look. But there was a slight difference, and there were grey streaks in her hair. But surely this woman and Mrs Murdo were related?
‘Rhona MacVey!’ snapped the woman again. ‘How many times have I told you that you are not allowed in here when there are customers? It is not your place. Go on, get on with your chores.’
The girl turned with a suppressed whimper and went to the doorway through which she had entered. As she pushed through it she paused, and cast a look back at Jeannie, a look of such heart rending appeal that Jeannie felt a surge of sympathy for the poor creature.
‘Good morning, miss,’ the gaunt woman continued, taking her place behind the bar.
Jeannie nodded to her uncertainly.
‘I’d like a gin and tonic, please.’
The woman poured the drink, opening the bottle of tonic and leaving it by the glass.
‘It’s early to get tourists in these parts?’ There was a question in the woman’s statement.
‘I’m not actually a tourist,’ Jeannie responded.
‘Indeed?’
The woman had all the mannerisms of Mrs Murdo.
‘Excuse me,’ said Jeannie on impulse, ‘are you related to Mrs Murdo at Balmacaan Castle?’
The woman’s eyes narrowed as she stared at Jeannie.
‘Mrs Murdo?’
‘Yes. You look so similar in appearance.’
The woman continued to examine Jeannie’s face carefully and then her grim lines relaxed a little.
‘Ah, I see. You would be Miss Millbuie. Well, I am Miss Struan. Mrs Murdo is my sister.’
‘That explains it.’
There was an uncomfortable silence while Jeannie toyed with her drink.
‘That young girl … who is she? What’s wrong with her?’ Miss Struan sniffed.
‘She is the daughter of one of the villagers, Lachlan MacVey. She does odd jobs for me. A charity on my part, really. The girl is mute.’
Jeannie gave an exclamation of sympathy.
‘Yes,’ continued Miss Struan, with the voice of one who is a martyr. ‘I’m afraid it has made her a little simple. Her father is a scoundrel and wastrel, a drunk. If it wasn’t for charity, the child would have died in the cradle.’
‘Poor thing,’ sympathised Jeannie.
She finished her drink and stood up.
‘Would it be possible to use your telephone?’
Miss Struan shrugged.
‘I’m afraid we have no telephone here.’
‘Oh,’ Jeannie said. ‘Then could you tell me where the post office is?’
Miss Struan’s mouth quirked.
‘A post office? In Balmacaan? I’m afraid we don’t run to such luxuries. I take in any letters and deliver them to Foyers once a fortnight and bring back any letters for the village. Not that there are any letters … ’
Jeannie frowned in annoyance.
‘But Mrs Murdo said there might be a telephone … ’
‘There are no telephones in Balmacaan,’ interrupted Miss Struan.
Jeannie sighed.
‘Perhaps you can tell me which is the nearest place from where I can make a phone call?’
Miss Struan pursed her lips.
‘Probably in Foyers.’
Jeannie glanced at her watch and bit her lips in suppressed anger. Her futile expedition had cost her most of the morning.
She would have to walk back to Balmacaan Castle and collect her car to go into Foyers. Why had Mrs Murdo sent her on such a fruitless journey? She must have known that there was no telephone in Balmacaan. And why had she said that there was a post office there? It just did not make sense … unless … suddenly all her apprehensions of the previous evening set her nerves tingling again.
‘Very well,’ she said, trying not to let Miss Struan see her agitation. ‘Thank you very much.’
She picked up her coat and left, followed by Miss Struan’s unemotional: ‘You are welcome, Miss Millbuie.’
Outside the mist had cleared from the land and was now lying, like some thick blanket, low across the waters of the loch.
The sun was shining warmly from a white speckled sky.
Balmacaan now stood revealed to Jeannie for the first time. The sight made Jeannie catch her breath. Apart from Miss Struan’s bar, the other crofts, and there must have been about a dozen of them, stood deserted. It was obvious that most of them had been unoccupied for years. They mostly stood without windows and doors and several had no roofs on them at all.
Jeannie took a nervous step forward and surveyed the ruins of the little hamlet which stood in a hollow of the hills, one side of which faced a slope which led down to the muddy shoreline of the loch.
Of course, her mind raced to rationalise, there was no earthly reason why Balmacaan should not be a derelict village. No one had told her that it was a thriving community. It was just that an impression had been given that the village still existed … and then, after all, Miss Struan’s bar did exist. And what was the use of that in a place where there were no people? She could not see even a roadway leading to the village apart from the old earthen track along which she had come from Balmacaan. Surely, then, there was no tourist trade to support the bar? The whole place was crowded with weeds which grew in profusion across what had once been the village square, around the old war memorial and across the enclosure around the old church.
If that was John Telstan’s church, why was it merely a crumbling ruin? For now, with the mist gone, she could see the ancient building quite clearly. Surely there must be another part of the village, some other group of buildings, some other church? But, then, if there were, would Miss Struan not have told her about them?
The Curse of Loch Ness Page 10