‘What an extraordinary . . . Did you . . .’
The men had moved away, and their voices were fading. I tiptoed as fast as I could to the window and strained my ears. But I could catch only a few more words.
‘And another queer thing — when I dashed out into the corridor in my bare feet it seemed to be soaking wet all along its length.’
QUIETA NON MOVERE
I HAD JOINED A GROUP in the Common Room and found Staunton holding forth on Black Andie’s ‘Tale of Tod Lapraik’.
‘That solan “pyking at the line”,’ he said, turning to Patterson, ‘is the finest touch in the whole tale. It’s part and parcel with the eerie nature of the Bass Rock itself.’
Patterson nodded. But it was Henderson, our mediæval historian, who spoke next.
‘Yes,’ he said, slowly. ‘I agree with Black Andie — and Staunton — that the Bass is an “unco place”. “Eerie”, as you say. But there’s another place, not so very far from the Bass, where there is also “the plash of the sea and the rock echoes”, but which, to my mind, is more eerie and more awe-inspiring still. I mean the ruins of Wolf’s Crag, on that precipitous and well-nigh inaccessible promontory of rock, with the cliffs rising sheer behind them. And while Stevenson could write a tale to fit the Bass, Wolf’s Crag, as you know, has its own tale — that queer story about Barbara Napier and the black dog. It, too, is a story which fits the very place itself, which could almost be a part of it, and which can be said to be even stranger than “Tod Lapraik”, for some of it is true and can be checked from contemporary records and accounts.’
‘Don’t know it,’ said Staunton, bluntly. And when it was soon evident that we were all equally ignorant, Henderson told the following story that is now haunting my mind to the exclusion of everything else — and for reasons that may sound fantastic but to me are only too real.
One or two of you — Aitken, I expect, for one — will know that in 1594 Logan of Restalrig, who then held the castle of Wolf’s Crag, made a formal agreement with Napier of Merchiston that Napier should help him to find a ‘poise’ of treasure supposed to be hidden in the castle or its grounds. Possibly Napier had in mind some form of divining — some early type of ‘mine-detector’, if you like — for the inventor of logarithms was an inventor in other ways too.
As the story goes, however, Logan soon poured scorn on Napier’s methods, and Napier abandoned the project. All that is probably true. The written agreement is still in the Napier MSS and has been printed, with a facsimile, in Mark Napier’s Memoirs. But, continues the story, as Napier left the castle (doubtless having drawn his ‘expenses’, as laid down in the agreement) he told Logan that if he wanted magic to help him to find his treasure, he should go to his kinswoman, Barbara Napier, and he’d get magic enough. Again probably true. Barbara Napier, as you know, was one of the famous coven of North Berwick witches who were accused in 1590 and 1591 of trying to raise a storm to wreck James VI’s ship, or that of his bride, when the King and his Queen were on their way to Scotland from Denmark. And while most of the witches were put to death, Barbara Napier was lucky enough to be acquitted — though the jury themselves got into trouble for their clemency.
The next bit, I agree, is less well authenticated; but you will soon see how closely it fits in with a well-known fact.
Logan, it is said, did consult Barbara Napier, who gave him a large black dog which, she averred, would scent out the treasure for him. More than that, she assured him that the dog would henceforth be the guardian of Wolf’s Crag, and would never cease to guard it until, so she said, ‘your bones find their last resting-place in your grave.’
Now witches throughout all history have been credited with double meanings in their words and prophecies; and if there is any truth at all in this part of the legend or tradition, here was a double meaning with a vengeance. For Logan’s bones never found ‘their last resting-place in his grave’. In 1609 Logan, then dead, was accused for ‘art and part’ in the Gowrie Conspiracy; his bones were dug up from his grave and brought into court for trial in accordance with the Scottish law of treason; and, since he was found guilty, his bones were not returned to his grave.
So the black dog, whether or not it had scented out the treasure (and the local tradition is silent on that), and whether or not it had ceased to watch Wolf’s Crag during the years that elapsed between Logan’s death and the exhumation of his bones (and on that too the local tradition is silent), again became the guardian of the castle in 1609. Logan’s bones, to stress Barbara Napier’s ipsissima verba, had not found ‘their last resting-place’ in his grave.
Of the holding and haunting by the black dog, I need tell you little. Tradition has it that for long the whole neighbourhood was terrified. At night, the dog could be heard baying to the moon — a chilling sound even when it’s an ordinary inoffensive dog that’s doing the baying, but unnerving in the extreme when it’s a hell-hound and the undying gift of a witch. By the day, no one dared to approach the place.
It is said that upon one occasion a cottar, living in the nearby steading at Dowlaw, who had been kept awake all one night by the dog’s baying, vowed the next morning that he would ‘finish’ the dog and be done with it. Despite all attempts to hold him back, the cottar went down to the castle on his self-appointed task. He did not return; and no one had the courage to seek him in the precincts, or even the vicinity, of Wolf’s Crag. Three days later, however, he was found far inland, wandering about the fields, half-naked, and a gibbering idiot unable to put two words together to make sense. More than that, although he lived on for several years, tended by his wife and children, the raw wound of a bite on his neck, perilously close to the trachea, would never heal, but continued to fester until the day of his death.
Even Cromwell’s troops avoided the place in 1650, despite all their outward assurances of spiritual protection.
Then, to stay in those parts, came the Reverend David Home, fearless covenanter and field-preacher — a man whom no decree of the Privy Council could silence in his preaching and, a fortiori, a man who could allow no agent of the devil to be at work in his own ‘parish’. Once again a man went down alone to face the black dog of Wolf’s Crag: and this time it was the minister, armed only with his Bible and his bands.
When, after many hours, the minister returned, the whole of his people, men, women and children, were awaiting him; and, sore afraid, they had stood at a safe distance, their hours of waiting being spent in prayer and the singing of psalms. Slowly, and with great effort, the minister climbed the path towards them. They ran to meet him and, as they drew nearer, they could see that his face was drawn and white, while his eyes shone within it like great coals of fire. But, to all their questionings, he would only answer with the same words: ‘The Lord hath prevailed. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’
It was a story well worthy of inclusion in Wodrow’s ‘Analecta’; it was no wonder his fellow preachers likened him to Benaiah, in the Book of Samuel, who, alone, went down and slew a lion in the midst of a pit in time of snow. Certainly, from that day onwards the black dog of Wolf’s Crag troubled the people no more.
Later, in his field conventicles, the minister spoke at times in slightly greater detail, but always in the language of the Old Testament. A few of his sermons were printed in the collection called The Head of the Corner, and there you will notice two interesting references. In the one, he says: ‘Even as Joshua commanded great stones to be rolled to the mouth of the cave that the five kings of Makkedah might be imprisoned therein, so did the Lord command me when I had overcome the beast of Baal’; in the other: ‘The Lord did deliver him into my hands, and like unto the king of Ai the stones were raised over him.’ Gradually it became known that when he had overcome the black dog of Wolf’s Crag (and the secret of his victory died with him), the minister had cast it into an aumbry in one of the castle walls and had sealed up the opening with stones.
And that aumbry is still there, in the ruins, and still sealed up.
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br /> ‘And you say the aumbry is still there, and still walled-up?’ asked someone.
Henderson nodded.
‘And no one has had the curiosity, and the courage, to remove the stones to see if there is anything behind them?’ put in Drummond.
‘No,’ replied Henderson. ‘At least, not so far as I know. Despite the National Education Acts, the march of science, and so forth, the local people still believe the story of the dog and, if you like, still think it better to leave well alone. Even the Ministry of Works may have had somewhat similar thoughts. Certainly when the ruins of the castle were placed under the guardianship of the Ancient Monuments Board, and various repairs were carried out, the aumbry was left as it was.’
So the talk went on, this way and that. And, amid it all, I little thought that within a few days Davidson and I would be opening up that aumbry ourselves — only to wish we had left it alone, and now to wonder where our folly will end.
I had picked up Davidson in my car and we had driven out to Dunbar to look at the old town wall which was under a threat of demolition. We had seen what we wanted to see; we had spoken to a number of people who were in favour of preservation; we had had lunch; and it was still early afternoon. It was then that Davidson suggested a visit to Wolf’s Crag, and I readily concurred. I simply wanted to see a walled-up aumbry and nothing more.
On the way there, I again heard the story of the black dog — exactly as Henderson had told it. I knew I would, for Davidson has forgotten more about the ruined abbeys and castles of Scotland than the rest of us have ever learned. But I wasn’t prepared for what followed.
‘I’ve often felt like removing those stones,’ he concluded, ‘just to see if there’s anything behind them. I’m willing to wager that whatever may be there it won’t be the skeleton of a dog.’
And with that I made our first mistake.
‘I’ve got an old entrenching-tool in the boot of the car,’ I said, rashly.
‘Goodl’ he cried, with enthusiasm. ‘We’ll do it this very afternoon. I’ll shoulder all the responsibility with the Ancient Monuments people. Though if we replaced the stones I doubt if anyone would be any the wiser.’
It was settled as easily and as unexpectedly as that. These things usually are. We regret our temerity afterwards.
So, on a sunny afternoon in June, the two of us stood before a walled-up aumbry in the ruins of Wolf’s Crag. And I had an old entrenching-tool in my hand.
Everything seemed peaceful enough, with a calm water and the sea-birds wheeling overhead. Though I’ll admit I felt more keyed-up than I would have been had I been standing ready to remove any other walling in any other ruined castle. Almost certainly Davidson felt the same. It was natural it should be so. We both knew the story of that aumbry too well.
Then Davidson reached out his hand. He took the tool from me and inserted its smaller pick-like end in between two of the stones in the topmost course. That was simple enough, for it was ‘dry-stone’ walling, tightly packed with stones of smaller size; but although Davidson picked out the packing fairly easily and could bring a good pressure to bear on his chosen stone, somehow or other it seemed immovable. Muttering to himself, he chipped out more of the packing and tried again. Still the stone refused to move. I remember thinking that if the Reverend David Home had laid those stones he had laid and packed them well.
In the end we took it in turns. Both of us had the feeling we were not going to be defeated. Possibly it was that which deflected us from the wiser course. As it was, we levered and prised at that stone for perhaps half an hour, sweating and grunting as we worked, until at last it began to move.
Yet even when the stone appeared loose enough to be drawn out easily, it seemed to come unwillingly, almost as though someone or something were contesting it with us. Then, suddenly, it came out, so suddenly that it slipped through our hands and fell to the ground with a thud, leaving an opening in the wall, perhaps nine or ten inches square. And at once we both stepped back and looked at one another.
‘What was that?’ asked Davidson, sharply.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered.
We were both shaken. Both of us had distinctly heard a rustling sound coming from the back of the barrier which we had breached with the removal of one stone.
‘Maybe a bit of paper inside which moved with the change in the air,’ said Davidson, though I could catch the lack of conviction in his voice. He knew as well as I did that the rustle of a piece of paper could not have reached our ears through that one hole in the topmost course.
Nor was that all.
Still looking tensely at the opening we had made, we saw something curling out, something like a wisp of black smoke, which rose in the air and, strangely, seemed to stay there, gathering itself together into a rough shape. And, with it, there came a stench I can never describe. It was not of this earth of ours and, because of that, man has never invented the words to define it. To say it was foul, like the stench of a vast mass of corruption, would still be an understatement.
On the instant both of us bent down for the fallen stone. Both of us had the one thought and the one thought only. That opening must be blocked up again — immediately, quickly, at once. Somewhat to our surprise, the stone went in easily; and we packed it as tightly as we could. It looked very much as it had looked before.
‘Never again,’ said Davidson, wiping his brow. ‘Henceforth I shall keep to the motto: “Let sleeping dogs lie.”’
‘And so shall I,’ came my immediate response. ‘More than that, though I’d hate to be called a coward, I have a feeling I’d be glad to be back in the car.’
‘So you feel that way, too?’ he answered, looking me straight in the face. ‘I don’t know what it is. I’ve been here often enough before, but now I want to be away and out of it. And what’s more, out of it quickly.’
Without another word he marched straight out of the ruins, while I followed closely at his heels. Once, I looked back. I could no longer see that strange shape of black smoke. It had gone.
We were perhaps half-way back to the car, with Davidson striding ahead, when, behind me, I heard the steady pat-pattering of a dog! Following us! Barbara Napier’s dog! Losing all control of myself I ran for the car, calling out to Davidson as I passed him on the path. Reaching the car, I pulled open the driver’s door and tumbled in, shutting the door with a bang. Only then did I begin to recover.
Feeling safe again, and, perhaps because of that, feeling also somewhat ashamed, I looked back to the path. Davidson was still plodding steadily on. Hadn’t he heard that dog pattering behind us? Had I simply imagined it all? Nerves, and nothing more? Or was it merely an ordinary dog that had run up for a moment towards us and had then turned off on its own intents and purposes?
‘Running that last bit for exercise?’ asked Davidson as he opened the door beside me but, I noticed, quickly shutting it behind him. ‘I don’t blame you. I felt like running myself. But I was damned if I would. And don’t ask me why I felt like running. I don’t know.’
‘You didn’t hear anything, then?’ I queried, slowly.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Only the beating of my heart. I heard that well enough. But again don’t ask me why. All I can tell you is that I didn’t like the atmosphere down there one little bit. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” did I say? Somehow I have a feeling that I wish we had.’
‘We’ll go,’ I said tersely, starting the car. I did not tell him of the pat-pattering that had put me to shameful flight.
We removed that stone a week ago. And today, by post, I received from Davidson a copy of the East Lothian and Berwickshire Advertiser in which he had marked two passages. I can now recite them by heart:
LOCAL NEWS
Wolf’s Crag
Yesterday two visitors to Wolf’s Crag were savagely attacked by a large black dog which appeared to have assumed the duty of guarding the entrance to the ruins. Fortunately both of them had walking-sticks and they were able to some extent to protect thems
elves. As it was, however, one of them had to be treated by a doctor for a severe bite in the shoulder, and both of them are suffering from shock. (See Editorial Comment, p.3.)
EDITORIAL
Wolf’s Crag
Under our Local News we print an account of an attack by a large black dog on two visitors to the ruined castle of Wolf’s Crag. Our readers may be interested to know that according to local tradition Wolf’s Crag was at one time long defended by another ‘black dog’ which was the terror of the countryside and which was reputed to have been given by a witch to Logan of Restalrig, the then holder of the castle. Fortunately we live in the twentieth century and have no longer to contend with witches and their spells. We understand that the Ministry of Works and the S.S.P.C.A. have been informed of this attack, and it should not be long before the dog now at the ruins is either trapped or killed.
In this second paragraph the words ‘another black dog’ were heavily underlined and following the final sentence were the words, in Davidson’s handwriting: ‘I hope to God he is right!’
LET THE DEAD
BURY THE DEAD
‘HAS AN ARCHÆOLOGIST ANY QUALMS when he is excavating an early burial?’ asked MacEwen, turning to our Professor of Prehistory. ‘Do the bones ever give you the creeps?’
Abercrombie paused before answering. A long pause.
‘Sometimes,’ he conceded at last. ‘I had a grim experience when I was still a young lecturer. And, to be frank, that’s why I concentrated on iron-age forts and, for some twenty years, left burials severely alone.’
‘Tell us more,’ put in Drummond, settling himself in his chair. ‘And don’t spare the gruesome details.’
‘Not gruesome, but tragic,’ Abercrombie replied. ‘And since the whole affair took place some thirty years ago I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you about it.’
Dark Encounters: Ghost Stories Page 8