Black Cairn Point

by Claire McFall

  He paused, stared round at each of us in turn, as if ramping up the tension. I swallowed my giggle.

  ‘One night they got the traveller drunk on the local wine. Then, once he’d passed out – for it was strong stuff – they tied his hands and feet, and imprisoned him in the wicker man. And then … then they set it on fire!’

  There was a moment’s silence. No one spoke. We just waited. It was clear Darren wasn’t finished.

  ‘That’s not the end of the story,’ he said. ‘The traveller awoke as the flames started to take hold, as the smoke started to fill the air. He realised where he was, saw the Pagans standing round the fire chanting, robed in black with hoods pulled forward to hide their faces.’

  ‘How’d he know it was the same Pagans then?’ Martin muttered, but Darren carried on as if he hadn’t heard.

  ‘At first he tried to free himself, pushing against the confines of his wicker cage, hunting for a weakness, but the Pagans knew their business. The sacrificial statue was strong. Finally he had to face the truth: he was going to die.’ A pause; a quick flash of Darren’s teeth as he grinned devilishly. ‘And this is where it gets interesting. See, the Pagans weren’t the only ones to dabble in the dark arts. The traveller … was a Voodoo priest!’ Darren announced this with a flourish and Dougie coughed derisively beside me. I knew he wanted to correct Darren’s appalling mangling of history – even I knew Pagans were way before Voodoo, not to mention the fact that they originated on opposite sides of the globe – but he held his tongue. ‘He cursed the Pagans. Around his neck he kept a talisman of his faith, and as his flesh melted from his body he called to his Voodoo gods, demanding that anyone who ever set a fire in the same spot would be cursed to die a horrible death. When the fire smouldered down to ashes that melted into the sand, the curse was set in place. The next year, the Pagans once again made their sacrifice, stealing a girl from a nearby town, and each and every one of them died that night on the beach. Their bodies were swept into the sea. This sea, boys and girls, this beach. It’s cursed.’

  Darren sat back, obviously pleased with himself.

  ‘Of course,’ Dougie chipped in, breaking the silence, ‘in the sequel the hero comes along and saves the day, freeing the villagers from the curse before snogging the virgin sacrifice senseless.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve seen it!’ Darren laughed before chucking a handful of seaweed across the circle at Dougie.

  ‘Of course we’ve seen it! Mr Crooks makes everyone in fourth year watch it in RMPS, remember? You took some serious liberties with the storyline, though!’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Darren looked slightly crestfallen, to the hilarity of everyone around the circle. Except me. I hadn’t seen the film – I’d had glandular fever in fourth year and missed months of school.

  ‘I didn’t know there was a sequel,’ Martin said, head tipped to the side. ‘Any good?’

  ‘No!’ Dougie said emphatically, setting off another chorus of laughter like baying hyenas. ‘Don’t watch it, it’s bloody awful! Anyway –’ Dougie pulled his arm away from me and shifted to his knees until he towered over us – ‘you want a scary story, guys? I’ve got one that will make sure you never sleep soundly again. Because every single word is true.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Darren smirked across the circle.

  ‘Yeah,’ Dougie replied softly. ‘Because I hate to tell you, Darren, but there weren’t any Voodoo priests mincing about the hills of Dumfries and Galloway … but there were witches.’

  ‘Flying about on their broomsticks, were they?’ Darren asked derisively and Emma giggled.

  Dougie just smiled. And let the silence go on. And on.

  ‘Witches,’ he repeated at last, his voice so quiet I had to strain to hear it over the soft sound of the water behind me and the low pops and hisses of the fire. ‘Do you know how witches get their power?’

  It was a question, but none of us answered.

  ‘Sacrifice.’ The same word that Darren had used, but out of Dougie’s mouth it made me shudder. As if on cue, a sinister wind whipped around the campfire, making the flames snap and jump. For a moment the fire was almost extinguished entirely and we were engulfed in a shocking blanket of black. I gasped, but just as suddenly the light flared into life again, illuminating Dougie’s cheeks and jaw, leaving his eyes ghostly dark pits. The effect was frightening.

  ‘They practised sacrifice. If a creature could bleed, if it could feel pain, then it had the ability to provide the witches with power. They used animals sometimes, if the spell was small. But when the enemy was great, when the witches needed to delve deep into the darkness of their souls – the sacrifice would have to be human.’ Dougie smiled at us softly, but there was no warmth in it. Despite that, I found myself leaning closer towards him, drawn by the cadence of his voice, the hypnotic gleam in his eyes. ‘Witchcraft began with the Pagans. More specifically, the druids. They believed in the power of sacrifice, that through it they could commune with the gods, drink of their might. Just across that water –’ he pointed to the sea with one ghostly pale arm – ‘that’s where it happened. Because one year men from the south came, armed with weapons and soldiers, intent on taking over the Pagans’ lands. Romans. Outnumbered, outmatched, the druids fled to one of their holiest places, Ynys Dywyll. An island, rocky and bleak. It means, ‘the Dark Isle’. There they set up their altar, chose their victim. Her name was Ygraine, and she was the daughter of the lord. With the Romans gathering round, with time running out, the druids slaughtered her as a gift to their gods.

  ‘First, they strangled her, taking her right to the brink of death. Then, calling upon their gods, asking them to strike down the cursed army that had invaded their lands like a plague, they slit her throat and watched her blood spill out upon the stone. As the life drained out of her, the leader cut open her chest and drank directly from her heart. It’s said her spirit screamed as she watched him do it.’

  Another pause. This time there were no interruptions. Dougie let the silence linger for almost a minute.

  ‘What happened?’ Emma finally managed to whisper.

  ‘The Romans stormed the island and killed them. Every single one. A mass sacrifice, the blood flowing so freely it stained the rocky ground red. And at last, at last the gods were appeased. The druids had lost their lives, but the gods let them return, as spirits, to guard the land. To haunt it.’

  Dougie finished exactly as he’d started: quietly, softly. Eerily. Seconds passed but the silence drew on.

  Eventually there was a tittering, then a confused bark of gasping and laughter as the tension that had gripped our little circle for the duration of Dougie’s story was dispelled. Martin’s face broke into a grin; Darren shook his head ruefully as he swigged from the bottle of booze. Emma was rubbing her arms, getting rid of imaginary goosebumps in such a way as to shove her cleavage higher up her chest, her side pressed against Darren’s.

  But not me. I was eyeing the inky landscape, sudden fear twisting my stomach. Not a single house light anywhere; not a single soul. Just empty blackness where, I now imagined, evil spirits lingered.

  Suddenly our campfire seemed far too small, far too insubstantial. Its glow barely illuminated our faces, close as we were to the flames. How near could evil get without us noticing?

  Beside me, Dougie rose and brushed the sand from his jeans, then yawned and stretched.

  ‘Right, I’m knackered. I say we sleep.’ His voice was back to normal and as he looked down at me, hand outstretched to help me up, all at once he was my friend again, his mouth tugging into a smile, dimples winking in his cheeks.

  There was a murmur of agreement. Only Darren looked put out, though I wasn’t sure whether that was because his story hadn’t had the same spellbinding effect as Dougie’s, or because of the sudden end to the night. He was holding mulishly to the remains of the whisky. No doubt he wanted to stay up till dawn, drinking. This probably wasn’t his idea of a party. Still, Dougie’s actual birthday wasn’t for another two days.

&nbs
p; I made my way wearily to our tent, chilled now that I was away from the flames. Teeth chattering, I pulled off my clothes and yanked on my warmest pyjamas before I turned on the torch, aware that my outline would be silhouetted against the faded red of the tent. Shoving my feet back into my trainers, I tripped back outside, toothbrush in hand. The boys were dumping spadefuls of sand onto the fire, trying to douse the final flames. At least, Dougie and Martin were. Darren stood to the side, his arms around Emma, lips locked against hers.

  They were still like that, glued together, when I returned from the bushes where I’d created a makeshift bathroom. I forgot, momentarily, about evil figures in the dark. I looked at them, half amused, half uneasy. I’d made it quite clear to Emma that the tents were single-sex. I hoped she hadn’t thought I was saying it just for the benefit of our parents. If she wanted to shack up with Darren, she’d have to sleep in his car.

  ‘Night,’ I called to Dougie and Martin as I slithered for the final time into the tent.

  As I’d hoped, my farewell acted as a spur to Emma. She disengaged herself from Darren’s octopus grip and, after planting one final kiss on his cheek, ambled in my direction. She didn’t bother getting changed or brushing her teeth, but buried straight down into her sleeping bag, watching as I shoved clothes and toiletries back into my rucksack, tidying up the space.

  ‘That story was really spooky,’ she commented as I unzipped my own bag and crawled inside. ‘You looked totally freaked out.’

  ‘It was creepy,’ I replied honestly. ‘Dougie really knows how to tell a scary story.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Emma agreed. ‘Think it was really all true?’

  ‘Most of it,’ I replied. At least, I hoped it was only most of it. The idea of druid spirits haunting the land freaked me out too much to contemplate.

  ‘You reckon? How does Dougie know all that, then?’

  ‘Well, he’s really interested in that stuff.’

  ‘What, ritual sacrifice?’ Emma stared at me, her expression wide-eyed with put-on horror.

  ‘No,’ I scowled. ‘History and archaeology and things. He’s got loads of books on it. It’s what he wants to do at university.’

  ‘Oh, that’s right,’ Emma purred. My ears pricked up at the change and I turned to look at her. She was grinning slyly. ‘You’ve both applied, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I knew where she was going with this and I didn’t want to talk about it. I held my hand over the torch, ready to douse the light. ‘You all sorted?’

  Emma nodded and I hit the switch, plunging us into darkness.

  Everything was immediately different. Blind, my ears automatically tuned in to every noise, inside the tent and out. I could hear Emma’s quiet breathing, the rustling of her covers as she shifted, trying to get comfortable on the air mattress. Further away, I caught the quiet murmur of the boys, huddling down. Comforting noises, reminding me that I wasn’t alone. Below that, though, there were more eerie sounds: the rhythmic whoosh of the water, hissing like a whisper; the higher pitch of the wind through the reeds high up on the sand dunes like a scream. The distant bark of a dog, snapping and jarring at my nerves.

  Stop it, I told myself. You’re surrounded by people.

  Still, the haunting tones of Dougie’s voice murmuring his tale of druids and bloody sacrifice seemed to have followed me into the tent. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was being watched. That there was something out there in the dark, something other than Emma lying beside me or Dougie, Darren and Martin in the other tent …

  My scalp started to tingle and the alcohol I’d consumed churned uneasily in my stomach.

  ‘It’s a pity Martin’s here,’ Emma said, carrying on what I’d hoped was our finished conversation in a voice loud enough to carry to the adjacent tent.

  ‘Emma!’ I hissed. ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘Well, it is,’ she repeated, only a little more quietly.

  ‘What? Why?’

  I stared in her direction, though it was impossible to see her in the pitch black.

  ‘Think about it,’ she said, as if it was glaringly obvious. ‘If it was just the four of us …’

  If it was just the four of us, Emma would disappear with Darren, and Dougie and I would be left to look awkwardly at each other, trying to think of things to say. No, I was very glad Martin was here.

  ‘Wonder who it is Dougie fancies,’ Emma mused. ‘It’s rubbish that he wouldn’t answer that.’

  ‘Mmm,’ I replied half-heartedly. I wondered, too. But given that I wasn’t going to get the answer that I wanted, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to know.

  ‘Maybe it’s you,’ she suggested.

  ‘Doubt it,’ I shot back, not even wanting to discuss the possibility. No point getting my hopes up. ‘Maybe it’s you.’

  I tried to infuse my voice with indifference, like it was just a throwaway comment, but the words were bitter on my tongue.

  ‘Might be,’ Emma mused, not seeming remotely disconcerted or embarrassed by the idea. ‘I don’t think so, though. I’ve never seen him looking at me like that or anything.’

  ‘He was looking at you tonight,’ I pointed out, scowling at the memory.

  Emma’s laugh tinkled across the space.

  ‘Of course he was, I was half-naked! You should be more worried if he wasn’t looking.’

  ‘Shhh!’ I growled. If we could hear the boys, they could hear us.

  ‘Stop worrying,’ Emma replied, refusing to lower her voice. ‘Besides, don’t you want him to know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How’s anything supposed to happen then?’

  ‘It’s not going to,’ I snapped. ‘He likes someone else, remember?’

  ‘It might be you, Heather,’ Emma reminded me.

  It might be. But I doubted it.

  ‘I’m tired,’ I said, shutting down the conversation. ‘Let’s go to sleep.’

  I turned my back on her sigh of frustration. Shutting my eyes, I tried to lull myself to sleep with thoughts that Emma was right, that I was the one Dougie had his eye on, but instead my dreams were filled with formless black shadows, swooping down with glowing eyes and gaping mouths.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I woke much earlier than I wanted to. The sun was rising on what would be yet another glorious day and its penetrating rays turned the tiny interior of the tent into a sauna in a matter of minutes. One moment I was snuggled tightly in my sleeping bag, covers up over my face to warm my nose, the next I was sweltering, fighting my way free of the thick cocoon, pyjamas sticking to my body. I didn’t hesitate but scrambled across the space and yanked the zipper to open the door.

  At once frigid air poured in through the gap. I gulped it gratefully, oblivious to Emma’s mewls of protest.

  ‘What time is it?’ she muttered groggily.

  I reached for my wristwatch, abandoned in a corner, and peered at the dial. Whoops.

  ‘Just before six,’ I admitted.

  ‘Heather! What the hell is wrong with you?’ Emma flopped over in disgust, bashing her pillow into a more comfortable shape before burrowing back down. ‘Shut the door or get out,’ she griped, her voice muffled by the thick padding of her covers.

  It was stupidly early but I knew I wasn’t going to sleep. Snatching up my jumper and shoes, I stole outside. Stretching the stiffness out of my back – and trying not to grin about the fact that my disappearance had shifted the air in the half-deflated air mattress, dumping Emma on the floor – I saw that I wasn’t the only one up early. Martin sat perched on one of the folding chairs, watching the lightening sky and sipping at a bottle of water.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep?’ he asked as I wandered over.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Me either, too hot. Plus, Darren snores worse than my dad.’ He grinned. ‘How’s your head?’

  ‘It’s –’ I stopped short of saying fine. ‘Bangy,’ I realised.

  ‘Here.’ He handed the bottle of water to me. ‘Booze makes you dehydrated. This
your first hangover?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I took a gulp, sat down on another of the chairs. ‘It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.’

  ‘I think it varies in strength relative to your alcohol consumption,’ Martin said sagely.

  ‘I see.’ Another grin to smother. Such a Martin answer.

  Taking another large mouthful of water, I leaned back in the chair and sighed. Yanking my jumper on over my head, I contented myself staring in the same direction as Martin. We sat in companionable silence. It wasn’t awkward the way it would have been with Dougie. Or uncomfortable like it would have been with Darren – and it would be damned impossible with Emma! It was relaxing, listening to the rhythm of the waves – a nice sound now that daylight showed it was nothing more sinister than the gentle stroking of water on sand. I shut my eyes and leaned my head back. I might even have fallen asleep again if it hadn’t been for the taut fabric of the chair, digging into my neck.

  No one else emerged until almost eight. By that time Martin and I had succumbed to hunger and dug out the little gas-fired burner. He was slathering slices of bread with butter and ketchup while I prodded half-cooked rashers of bacon around the frying pan with a spatula.

  ‘I thought I smelled something,’ Darren commented, scratching his head. ‘I’ll take two.’

  He gave me a wink to solidify his order, then disappeared into the privacy of the long grass behind the tents.

  ‘Would it be wrong of me to spit in his sandwich?’ Martin asked me in an undertone.

  I laughed. ‘Only if he catches you.’

  ‘Need any help?’ Dougie emerged from the boys’ tent fully dressed, only his feet bare, a toothbrush hanging from his mouth.

  ‘We’re just about done.’ I smiled brightly at him. ‘You could dig out the orange juice?’