Voice in the Mist

by Nigel Cubbage

  “My, we are the feisty one, aren’t we? English too, as I feared. Aye well, I’m your uncle’s ranger, Andrew Campbell, at your service, moddom.” He made an exaggerated bow, came into the room and promptly sat down on a chair by the other window.

  “You’re young to be a ranger, aren’t you? What does a ranger do, exactly?”

  “Looks after the estate and the animals – wild as well as tame. Actually, it’s just a summer job helping out. My brother is the real ranger.”

  “So why are you here in my room, Andrew Campbell?” Rebecca had not sat down in a vain hope to persuade him not to linger. She soon realised that this wish was hopeless.

  “I’m filling in for my brother Dougie – he’s away to Barradale, helping the absentee English landlord, Gordon, count his deer. You ask an awful lot of questions, if you don’t mind my saying. I thought it was we folks from the sticks who were supposed to be nosy, not you sophisticated London types.”

  He picked up a clock on Rebecca’s bedside table, examined it briefly before replacing it.

  “Your uncle asked me to show you around today, while he was off picking up yet another Englishman.”

  “You don’t seem to like the English very much, do you?”

  “Nothin’ personal, Rebecca McOwan. I’m sure you’re fine, Your name is decently Scottish enough, I’ll agree. Just hundreds of years of persecution, injustice and toffee-nosed tourists. My father would say we belong to a nation of downtrodden bog-trotters, whose national sport is shifting the blame. Don’t mind me any.”

  Rebecca was rather bemused by this combination of part-insult, part self-deprecation.

  “Well I can’t say I’m that impressed with your country either,” she eventually replied.

  “Not a lot to do is there, other than count the raindrops on the lake?”

  “Loch,” he corrected her. “Lakes are what they have in the rest of the world; in Scotland we have lochs. More phlegm. Lochhhhh! And you should call me Drew, everyone else does, apart from the witch McHarg. I’m ‘Young Campbell’ to her, with lots of disapproving emphasis on the Campbell bit. She thinks we’re shallow and ungodly. I think it goes back to killing all those McDonalds in the Glencoe massacre. She was probably there.”

  “At least where McHarg is concerned, we can agree,” said Rebecca, stepping into the middle of the room and putting her hands on her hips.

  “So, if you’re supposed to be looking after me today, you haven’t done much of a job of it so far. It’s the middle of the afternoon and you’ve only just found me.”

  “Well if you will go gallivanting over the hills all morning, what do you expect? I’ve found you now, though, so what do you want to do?”

  “Do? I’m not sure I want to do anything with you. Anyway, it’s raining, so just what do you propose we can do that doesn’t in some way involve getting soaked to the skin?”

  Rebecca hoped her sarcasm would not be lost on him. He paused for a second, looking out of the window thoughtfully. “We could go over to the island in the boat. Henry said you wanted to see the grave.”

  This was not the response Rebecca had expected. Surprised and her interest kindled, she looked out of the window and across to the island.

  She tried to sound nonchalant and unimpressed.

  “All a bit bleak, though, isn’t it?”

  “Beautiful,” countered Drew, looking outside and nodding as if in confirmation.

  “D’ye want to go or not?”

  “Well … okay … as long as you will promise we won’t get soaked.”

  Drew jumped to his feet and headed for the door. Over his shoulder he said

  “This is Scotland, Rebecca McOwan. Rain will fall as surely as night follows day.”

  CHAPTER 5 – On Shadow Island

  Rebecca barely had time to grab a coat and scramble into her boots on the way out of the West Door. Drew was striding down the lawn toward the boathouse at the edge of the loch, without a backward glance. The rain drove against her face as she hurried after him. Rebecca pulled the hood of her jacket down, for once oblivious to who might see her. Inside the boathouse, Drew was already aboard a small motor cruiser, untying ropes. Rebecca was glad to see that a small wooden canopy at the front of the boat did suggest some shelter from the elements.

  “Today we travel in style, since the Laird is away,” shouted Drew above the noise of the engine, as he jumped down onto the deck and took the wheel. Rebecca climbed aboard. Seconds later, they were emerging onto the calm waters of Loch Nevis.

  “Usually, I don’t get much further than rowing the dinghy, being your hired help and all that. Love your clothes, by the way. Henry said you were looking to get into some boots and waterproofs.”

  “Oh, just tug your forelock and shut up, hired helper,” said Rebecca, not looking at him and thereby missing the huge grin that broke out all over his face. Henry had warned him about the sarcastic edge of her tongue, a character trait which Drew considered quite admirable when well delivered.

  “What is a Laird, anyway?” asked Rebecca. “Is it like the old Lord of the Manor?”

  “Aye, pretty much,” answered Drew. “Supposedly the Scottish Lairds were a bit more caring about people who lived on their land and worked for them. More of a family approach. They were supposed to look after them if times were hard. Some folks still think like that today. Why else would he keep McHarg on?”

  They looked at one another and shared a grin.

  The boat chugged slowly across the loch towards the island. From out on the water, the loch seemed to extend much further than when viewed from the shore. Rebecca was able to see along its entire length, which was not possible from the castle or her room.

  “Bleak,” said Rebecca.

  “Beautiful.”

  As they drew closer, the island loomed larger than Rebecca had expected. It was at least two hundred metres long, and the taller of the two rocky outcrops was high enough to blot out most of the hillside behind.

  “Eilean Dubh in the Gaelic… Shadow Island to you and me. It gets its name because the sun never falls on it. They say it’s a haunted place.” Drew turned to look at Rebecca, who looked back, slightly alarmed. “Not that any ghost would want to try and scare you, Rebecca McOwan. Even a ghoul would respect the lash of your tongue.”

  Rebecca considered this a deliberately backhanded compliment and favoured him with a contemptuous look.

  “So have you heard the wolf, Hakon, howling in the storm, then?” she asked sarcastically, not looking at him.

  “Aye... I have.” Before a startled Rebecca could respond, he gestured towards the water.

  “We must mind the depth round here,” he said, slowing the boat to a crawling pace. Keeping one hand on the wheel, Drew leant out over the side of the boat, scanning the water for jagged rocks lurking just below the surface.

  Rebecca leaned over to do the same. There were a couple of gentle bumps as the bottom of the boat brushed something. By now they were practically ashore. Drew killed the engine and leaped out, clutching a rope, landing deftly on a low shelf. He pulled the boat alongside, looped the rope over a large boulder and made it fast with a secure knot.

  “Should be safe enough here,” he said, cheerfully, leaning forward to grasp Rebecca’s hand and help her out.

  Once ashore, they climbed a few short yards to the top of the taller hillocks. The rain had stopped at last and the sky had started to clear, the clouds lifting off the top of the hills. Ladhar Bheinn was still covered away to the north but the rest of the glen had brightened.

  Rebecca followed Drew down a small gully round to the far side of the island. They climbed along the shoreline and rounded a great, blackened rock. Here, there was a small sandy beach with an area of smooth grass leading off. A small cluster of stones formed a symmetrical cross at the edge of the sand, partially buried in the grass.

  “There lies the Viking Princess… reputedly,” said Drew.

  Rebecca hurried forward to examine the cross but there wa
s very little to see. It did not seem Christian, simply two lines at right angles, crossing in the middle. She had expected something more significant and was a little disappointed.

  “It’s not much is it?” she said, pulling a face.

  “Aye, well it’s been here for about thirteen hundred years, so they say, which I think is quite impressive in itself. The weather will have eroded any inscription there might once have been. And the times were pretty godless, so don’t expect crosses.”

  “Do you think she really does lie there?” Rebecca looked sceptically at the grave.

  “Who knows? There’s any number of small islands she could be buried on. Eilean Dubh is hardly an uncommon name for an island in Scotland. Not terribly imaginative with place names, I’m afraid. There’s a mountain over there called Bheinn nan Lochan… sounds lovely but it means hill of the loch.”

  “You said you had heard the wolf. Did you mean it?” Rebecca looked at him intently. Drew paused and looked out across the water, his eyes suddenly distant.

  “Aye, I meant it, right enough. Some round here might say I’m odd but I don’t discount the legend. I don’t mean I believe in ghosts and fairies and the Easter bunny, but this land hides its secrets. They say it’s the spirits of people who have died but are not at rest.”

  “So what did you hear?” she asked, sitting down on a rocky shelf and tucking her knees up. The gully gave them some shelter from the breeze and with the rain stopped for the moment at least, it was quite warm. Drew pulled absently at a tuft of grass.

  “The last time was during a storm, and only a few weeks ago, actually. Dougie and I were on our way home – we probably should never have set out in the boat, but we did. It was swelling up a bit just along the coast, so we decided to try and put in on a little island until the worst of it passed. Well, we ended up swamping the boat’s engine and got stuck overnight ‘cause we couldn’t get it started again. That was when I heard him.”

  “Wasn’t it just the wind?” Rebecca asked.

  “No, Rebecca, it was not the wind. What I heard came from the mouth of something living – you may say it could have been a dog but I’ve never heard a dog howl like that. It chilled my bones, I don’t mind saying. What convinces me and what I will swear to you is true is this … it was on the island somewhere. Now Dougie and I didn’t take a dog with us and unless some clever collie swam across in the storm, it wasn’t a dog.”

  “What did Dougie think?”

  Drew threw a small stone into the loch. “He was asleep. Reckons I dreamt it.”

  Rebecca paused for a few seconds, before taking a deep breath.

  “If I tell you some odd things that have been happening to me, will you promise not to make fun of me?”

  For once Drew looked almost serious. “Of course. You tell me yours, and I’ll show you mine, that sort of thing.”

  “I’m serious!” glared Rebecca. “Weird things have happened to me and if I don’t tell somebody about them, I’ll go mad.”

  Drew’s eyes focused on her. He nodded. “Tell me. I won’t mock – promise.”

  Scanning his face cautiously for some reassurance that she could trust him, Rebecca took another deep breath. She related the entire tale of the mist on the hillside, the voice calling, the attic, the chest and the key, the painting, the journal and the coincidences of the lives of Becca McOwan and herself. When she reached the end, Drew was silent.

  He did not tell her she must have been imagining or dreaming anything.

  “That is some story,” he said, at length.

  “But do you believe me?” Rebecca asked, not entirely convinced.

  “Why shouldn’t I? It’s not the first time there have been weird stories, you know. People will tell you of strange happenings round here for hundreds of years. Some tell tales of a Ghost Ship, a great Viking Longboat.” He paused for a few moments.

  “I’d like to see this journal. How much have you read? There are a lot of tales about your ancestors that your grandfather used to tell us. Becca McOwan died young, threw herself off a cliff and drowned in the loch way down by the lighthouse there, in a violent storm. They said the demons had taken over her mind. She had strange dreams and hallucinations. Of course, at that time, anybody like that was called a witch. Nobody believed her and they locked her away in the old manse, way up the glen near Ladhar Bheinn. She did those weird paintings you’ll see all over the castle. People say they are so strange because she was mad.”

  “How old was she when she threw herself off the cliff?”

  “Not that old – eighteen maybe.”

  Rebecca shivered. She stood up and stood next to Drew, staring across the water.

  “Well I hope that’s not going to happen to me,” she said.

  “Don’t worry, there’s a fence by the cliff and the old manse is a ruin now.” The smirk had returned to Drew’s face. “And anyway, they’d never put an English lady anywhere she didn’t have room service.”

  Rebecca hit him on the arm. She looked down at the grave again.

  “So what were these dreams about?”

  “Nobody really knows, other than some mention of a huge beast howling and trying to break down the door of the castle. And you’ve only had me trying to get into your room so far and the only beasts around here are deer… unless you count McHarg.”

  “We must find out more,” said Rebecca, her eyes bright. “Whatever it is, it seems to involve me, it’s all very curious and I have to find out more about Becca and what happened to her.”

  It was starting to get cold again, so they returned to the boat to make the short return journey across the loch. Just above the boat, Drew’s attention was drawn to something out on the water. He narrowed his eyes.

  “What is it?” Rebecca tried to follow his gaze but could not see anything.

  “Now what do you suppose those guys are up to?” said Drew and pointed. This time, Rebecca could make out some shapes in the water.

  “Aren’t they seals?” she asked.

  “No seal I know of wears an air tank. Or flippers – look!” As he pointed again, Rebecca could just make out the unmistakeable shape of a frogman before he dived below the surface and disappeared from view.

  “Aren’t they just out diving?” asked Rebecca. “People do, you know.”

  “Not in Loch Nevis, if they have any sense. It has awful, strong undercurrents and dangerous waters. The water is dark and the visibility very poor. Even an experienced diver can get into trouble. Plus it’s so very dark that there’s nothing to see. They normally avoid Loch Nevis. There are much better places along this coast.”

  “Another part of being a ranger?” asked Rebecca. “You do diving as well?”

  “No, not me. But you meet a lot of them and when I’ve worked the boats with Willie McHarg, we often take divers out for the day. Some of them are even English.”

  As they neared Rahsaig, Drew suddenly whistled to Rebecca. He pointed to the shore. For a second Rebecca was puzzled, and then she grimaced. McHarg was standing on the landing stage, gesticulating at them and calling out something she could not make out. As the boat came closer, Rebecca could make out the familiar pursed lips and cold stare.

  “Ah! So, young Campbell. Where there’s mischief, I might have expected to find you. The master has just called from Mallaig. He and the gentleman from London are waiting for the boat. And you gallivanting about the loch like some day tripper.”

  “Oh great – let’s go and get them, Drew.” Rebecca put down the rope she had been preparing to throw onto the landing stage and pointed back across the loch.

  “Not you, Miss Rebecca, please!” McHarg’s strident tones rang out from the shore.

  “You’ll be needing to dress properly for dinner. Young Campbell can go alone. I dare say even he can manage that.”

  “Oh I can dress when we get back, Miss McHarg, honestly,” said Rebecca, grabbing Drew’s arms and helping him turn the wheel back around.

  “Come on, get going” she his
sed at him, under her breath. The boat turned and as they pulled away, they could hear McHarg still calling shrilly from the shore, but could no longer make out what she was saying.

  “See?” said Drew. Rebecca looked at him, not understanding his meaning.

  “I told you I’d heard the wolf howling on the breeze.”

  CHAPTER 6 – The Face At The Window

  Simon Sibley of Holborn Passage, London was a short, plump man whose sandy hair was receding quite dramatically. As if to compensate for his shiny bald head, he sported a bushy moustache, the ends of which he enjoyed twirling between the first two fingers of his left hand. Rebecca endured just a few seconds of this mannerism before she found it extremely irritating. He ventured his opinion on every subject discussed at dinner, with a conviction that obliged his audience to listen with appropriate gravitas. At one point he had leant towards Rebecca to impart some nugget of wisdom and she had almost passed out in the accompanying blast of foul-smelling, whisky breath. Viewed alongside a tendency to sweat copiously and pick at a bulbous, red-veined nose, it was fair to say that Rebecca took an instant dislike to Simon Sibley.

  If Uncle Henry sympathised with Rebecca’s reaction to their guest, he did not make this apparent. He appeared to listen attentively to Sibley’s views on mobile phone signals in the Highlands and a discourse on the standard of catering in privatised railway companies. Indeed, it was the dessert course before the subject of the McOwan collection was raised. Sibley was in full flow, his conviction reinforced by his own belief in his expertise and his satisfaction in finding an apparently willing and grateful audience.

  “… Yes, I have only hitherto concluded my initial and quite superficial examinations of what you possess here, Mr McOwan, but I am greatly excited by the possibilities. The painting of The Flight of the Bonnie Prince hanging in the library is probably a Mcleish – the great Gordon McLeish of Perth – certainly most interesting and accords, if genuine, of course, with his other oils in the castle on Rum. I shall be visiting there too during my stay in the Highlands, as I told you, along with a few other notable houses and castles. And indeed you may have another genuine McLeish in your gun room.”