As I said, I was a young lecturer at the time, a mere beginner, when, one day, to my utter surprise, I received a letter from Hawthorn inviting me to help him with the excavation of a small group of early bronze age burials on which he was already at work. Naturally I accepted at once. Hawthorn’s name will be known to you. He was a brilliant archæologist, with a European reputation. Here was my chance. But I wish I could have had some foreknowledge of what was to come.
I was met at a lonely wayside station. Hawthorn loaded my things on to an old army truck, and we drove off. But, after his first greeting, I found him strangely silent. My efforts at conversation drooped and dragged. I felt myself chattering, and gave up. ‘He’s looking much older,’ I thought. ‘Probably doing too much.’
Hawthorn turned the truck off the main road and followed a rough track across the moor. Mile after mile: and each mile taking us further into complete isolation in a bleak and desolate land. A white speck appeared in the distance. It was Hawthorn’s tent. He stopped the truck beside it and we clambered out. All around us lay one vast expanse of heather, bog and tussocky grass, studded here and there with the rough shapes of massive boulders which, in the half-light of the evening, became strangely menacing and looked like huge monsters, crouching, ready to spring. A few black-faced sheep moving and nibbling amongst them were oddly reassuring. I shook myself as though wishing to be rid of an uneasy burden.
‘I had no idea you were as isolated as this,’ I said, glad even of the sound of my own voice. ‘You must have felt pretty lonely.’
‘Yes,’ he answered slowly, and then, suddenly: ‘That’s why I asked you to come. Though I need your help too,’ he continued quickly. ‘There are possibly ten or a dozen burials. They all seem to be near the surface, but two workers are better than one.’
‘But did you come here all by yourself?’ I persisted. ‘Surely you had someone with you at the start.’
I had an idea that he glanced at me sideways, and then looked away. There was a perceptible pause.
‘Chalmers was with me for a while. In fact he came with me. But he had to go away. So I wrote to you.’
This time I was sure he gave me a quick, almost guilty look, before deliberately turning away and walking to the opening of the tent.
‘I am glad you did,’ I answered, following him. ‘I’ve seen two of three isolated graves, but I’ve never seen a collective group of them. Is there a stone circle of any kind round them? Anything in the nature of a temenos? They certainly chose a desolate place for their burials,’ I continued, looking at the wild expanse all around.
Again there was a pause until, turning from the tent, he said: ‘Yes, it is desolate. And the only living soul I’ve met is a shepherd who comes to see me every day. Every day, I tell you, almost as though wanting to be sure I’m still alive. And I am still alive,’ he added, fiercely.
I looked at him in astonishment.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice normal again. ‘Nerves. Never suffered from them before. But this place is becoming too much for me. Bring your traps into the tent. When we’ve had something to eat, I’ll make my confession. Did you bring the tinned stuff I suggested?’
‘It’s all here,’ I answered. ‘Can I help you with the meal? Where do you get your water?’
‘Over there,’ he said, pointing the way. ‘You’ll find a small burn and a pool into which you can dip the can easily. I’ll get it for you.’
He disappeared into the tent and came back with the can.
‘Don’t be too long,’ he cautioned, and then smiled wanly. ‘I’m not afraid of being left alone. Not yet, at any rate. But it’s nearly dark already, and if you’re too long you may find yourself floundering in and out of peat-bogs on your way back.’
I took the can, filled it at the burn (which I found without difficulty) and made my way back. He was awaiting me, standing in front of the tent and holding a lantern which he had lit. It was hardly yet dark enough for me to need the guidance of the light, but I appreciated his thought.
‘We’ll need it for our meal,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘You found the burn all right?’ I held up the can as witness to my success. He nodded approvingly. ‘Come then, we’ll get our meal ready.’
Shown where to find this, and where to find that, I half-hindered, half-helped in the preparations. In due course, however, we were sitting at the table of an upturned box and consuming an excellent supper. The meal over, we filled the dirty pots and pans with the remainder of the water and placed them outside, to be washed in the burn on the morrow. We closed the flap of the tent, sat on our respective camp-beds, and literally looked at one another.
‘Do you mind if we have a drink?’ he asked, breaking the silence. ‘It’s not become a habit, I assure you. But I think it would help me to tell you the more easily why I asked you to come!
He produced a bottle of whisky and poured out two quite ordinary tots. I was relieved to notice their moderation.
‘Confusion to our enemies,’ I said, holding up my glass.
‘And knowledge as to who they are,’ came his odd response. ‘And now I’ll confess,’ he continued, putting down his glass and sitting to face me squarely across the upturned box.
‘I came here just over a fortnight ago, intending, as you know from my letter, to excavate this group of early bronze age burials. They are referred to in an old local history, published about 1820 — it was Ross of Aberdeen who gave me the reference — but nobody seems to have thought of excavating them until quite recently. In fact, when I came here, I thought I was going to be the first to open them. But I was wrong.’
He paused there, took another sip at his whisky and paused again, as though wondering how to continue.
‘It was the shepherd who told me of the other man,’ he continued. ‘Apparently last year another archæologist was here, and opened two of the graves. As soon as I examined the site I could see that two excavations had been made and then closed in again. But when, as my first task, I reopened those two graves, I didn’t like them one little bit. Yet in the end I succeeded in persuading myself that this is the middle of the twentieth century; that such “things” don’t happen; and that I wasn’t going to be put off anyway.
‘You see when I reopened the first of those two graves it looked exactly as though the burial had been made last year instead of, say, three thousand five hundred years ago. The bones lay there in perfect position — the usual doubled-up posture of a “short cist” with the knees drawn up to the chin — but they lay there in a new grave. The stones lining the grave and covering it in were not only in perfect position, but they were new and newly-laid. It was a new grave for old bones. There was no possibility of my being mistaken. In some way at which I cannot even guess, those old bones, dried, shrunk and friable as they were, had been carefully and reverently reburied in a newly-made cist.
‘But who had done it? And why? And how? It was certainly not done by my predecessor on the site. I tell you, he couldn’t have done it. It was then that I had my first wild thoughts which I strove to thrust aside. But can you imagine my thoughts when I reopened my predecessor’s second excavation and found that that, too, was a reburial in a newly-made grave? You may think you can, but you haven’t heard yet what the shepherd said.’
His voice was rising again. I put out a reassuring hand and said: ‘Some old wives’ tale, I’ll be bound. But why let it worry you?’
‘Yes,’ he replied more calmly. ‘I must keep a grip on myself if I’m to see this through. And I’m determined to see it through — if I can.’ He poured out another small tot of whisky and sipped it slowly, forcing himself into composure.
‘You see the shepherd insists that the place is holy. Has some sort of voodoo on it, if I may use that word in its vulgar sense. That no one can desecrate a grave with impunity, however old the grave may be. That the dead still protect the dead. And so forth and so on. He started the very first day I came. Scared Chalmers somewhat, though Chalmers didn’t le
ave me then. I’ll come to that later. He repeated it, with additions, when I’d reopened the first of those two graves. He repeated it, with more additions, when I’d reopened the second one, and was more than a bit scared myself. Then he told me of the other man. How he’d done his best to persuade him to leave the graves alone and to go away. Just as he was trying to persuade me to pack up and go away. But the other fellow refused to listen. Just as I was refusing to listen. So the dead took matters into their own dead hands . . .’
‘Steady,’ I murmured.
‘It appears that the day after the other fellow had opened the second grave the shepherd couldn’t find him on his daily visit. For that persistent shepherd, mark you, had looked him up every day — just as he looks me up! And the day after the opening of the second grave the shepherd couldn’t find him anywhere. He was not in his tent; he was not at the site. But he was found all right. Lying by a clump of heather within a stone’s throw of the graves he’d desecrated. Just lying there, dead.’
I gave a start.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it must have been Fairbairn. I haven’t checked up the dates, but they are close enough. And you have remembered as quickly as I did that last year Fairbairn was found dead on some excavation which he was conducting alone and that there was a somewhat unsatisfactory inquiry into the cause of his death. But I didn’t know it was here, on this very site.’
‘And you still want to go on?’ I asked slowly.
‘Yes,’ he almost shouted. ‘The whole damned thing must be sheer nonsense. I refuse to let a shepherd’s silly talk put me off. In fact I’ve already opened a third grave,’ he continued, more quietly. ‘Finished the excavation this morning before you arrived. As good a short cist as you’d ever hope to see, and nothing queer about it either. The stones lining it look as old as the hills, and the skeleton is all tumbled in upon itself. I tell you I shall go on until I’ve excavated the whole lot or until something else happens — to me.’
He paused there, and then went on. ‘But I must have some help. That’s why I invited you to join me. Though I can tell you I didn’t write to you without asking myself again and again whether it was fair of me to bring you here at all.’
‘But how did you come to pick on me?’ I asked, seeking to solve my own petty problem.
‘Well,’ he answered slowly, ‘in the first place I guessed you’d got good nerves. Had to have in the sort of job you did in the war. And in the second place, you’ve got a medical degree and,’ he continued, looking me straight in the eye, ‘if anything should happen to me, well, I’d have a fully qualified doctor on the spot — even if all he could do would be to sign my death certificate.’
‘Nonsense!’ I replied quickly, though somehow or other that one word didn’t sound anything like so convincing as it should have done. ‘But why did Chalmers leave?’
‘Oh, Chalmers. Poor beggar. He was looking over his shoulder before we’d finished reopening the first of Fairbairn’s two graves. That shepherd’s talk got on his nerves far more than it got on mine. He left when we had just started on Fairbairn’s second excavation — all because a stone fell on his foot. Said it couldn’t have fallen. It was against the law of gravity. Said it must have been pushed. And as I hadn’t pushed it, who had? For all he knew, the next one would be pushed to fall on his head and crack his skull. I think I lost my temper. At any rate, off he went. Forthwith. Rather childishly, I refused to drive him to the station. So he took just what he could carry and most needed, and marched away.
‘But I shall still go on. I’ve made up my mind. Possibly I shouldn’t have asked you to come. Perhaps I should have told you all this in my letter. But how could I? And what would you have thought of it, if I had? I’ve roughly filled in those first two graves. Better hide that evidence — whatever it may mean. But, as I told you, I’ve opened a third grave, and there’s nothing queer about that. You can see it for yourself tomorrow. The stones in that one are not newly-laid. No new cist for old bones there. Old stones and old bones — fallen, and scattered. You’ll stay to see that one, won’t you? Though if, after all you know now, you want to go back home first thing tomorrow morning I’d be the last to blame you. And,’ he added, with a ghost of a smile, ‘I’ll drive you back to the station with all your things.’
There was only one answer to that. I gave it. But I could not help thinking that had his letter told me even a little of all this, I might not have posted my acceptance as quickly as I had done only two days earlier.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘We’ll look at my third grave and the whole of the site tomorrow morning. But let’s change the topic. This queer business so dogs my mind that I could go on talking about it all night and for ever. And can you wonder? But now you’re here we can at least have some rational conversation even if other things seem to be wholly irrational. How is your work getting on? You were doing something on those ring-forts in Perthshire, weren’t you?’
For a while we talked of this and that; of my own work; of archæological studies in general. A little scandal; a little gossip. It was after midnight when we both turned in and Hawthorn blew out the lantern.
But although our concluding talk had been of other things, that earlier talk still dominated my mind. I lay awake trying to make sense of it all. Had Hawthorn — and Chalmers — just imagined things? Had Hawthorn been overworking? And was this the result? He was certainly in an excitable state and ‘living on his nerves’. A companion would do him good. A gentle sedative mightn’t be a bad thing either. But was it all imagination? Would I stay if anything else happened? And yet why should it?
How long I lay awake with these and similar thoughts I do not know. All I know is that I fell asleep at last, that I had no bad dreams, and that next morning I awoke in the strange light always caused by the sun shining through tent-canvas.
I looked at my wrist-watch. It said almost eleven o’clock. I sat up at once and looked across the tent to Hawthorn’s bed. It was empty. Good fellow! He had left me to do the sleeping while he did the chores.
I dressed slowly and strolled out of the tent. It was a lovely day — blazing sun, clear sky, and a refreshing, slight north-east wind. Then my eye caught something on the ground just by the tent. Our dirty pots and pans. Well, at least I could wash those out in the burn. But where was Hawthorn? Probably gone to look at his graves, I thought. Should I try to find him? Or should I just wash the dishes and wait for him to come back? We’d need them for breakfast anyway.
Breakfast! With a start, I suddenly realized we ought to have had breakfast long ago. Hawthorn ought to have awakened me. Where was Hawthorn? A sentence from our talk flashed through my mind. ‘The dead still protect the dead.’ And at once, pursuing it, came a second searing sentence: ‘Let the dead bury the dead.’ Even as they had reburied the dead of those two desecrated graves!
I was nearly in a panic then. But not quite. Calling myself a fool and pulling myself together, I decided I’d be certain to find Hawthorn at his excavation and probably completely oblivious of the time. Well, I’d find him first, and then we’d have breakfast together. But where was his excavation? He’d never told me last night. I’d need to look for it.
I found his excavation, and I found him there. He was lying huddled-up beside a newly-opened grave, and I knew at once that he was dead. I went down on my knees beside him, but I could find no cause of death. He was unmarked: and his face was serene.
Then, as I bent to lift him up, my glance fell upon that newly-opened grave. Hawthorn’s third. The one he was to show me this very day. Startled, I looked again; for that grave was far different from the description he had given me only a few hours before. The bones lying there were in perfect position, and the stones lining the grave were clean, new, and newly-laid.
THE CASTLE GUIDE
MANY YEARS AGO, in the deepening dusk of a June evening, I was strolling past the Castle of St Andrews when I noticed that, strangely, the admission-gate was still open. Attracted by the grey and sombre ruins, silhou
etted against the darkening sky, I stopped at the open gate. If I were to venture inside, what strange shadows would I see? How different would those broken walls and towers appear?
Sauntering down to the pend, I passed through its deep-black vault and out into the castle-close. There, spell-bound by a beauty and mystery that were enhanced by the fading light, I stood for a while motionless. Below me I could hear the rhythmic plash of the sea on the rocks that bore the castle’s weight, while the light sough of the wind could have come from the ancient stones themselves, whispering to one another their memories of the past. And soon, caught in the magic of the place, I began to give words and meaning to the sounds that came and went:
‘Beaton, proud Roman Cardinal, murdered and defiled.’
‘Guns, French guns, breaking down block-house and tower.’
‘Knox, John Knox, toiling at the galley’s oar.’
So I let my fancies free until, upon an instant, every fancy fled. A man, in the dress of a mid-sixteenth century man-at-arms, was standing in front of me.
Startled, I stepped back; for the man had appeared as suddenly as if the shadows themselves had formed and fashioned him. And why was he dressed like that? Then came sudden relief. I remembered that a pageant was to be held on the castle-green. I had intruded at the close of a dress-rehearsal, and here was the last of the actors about to leave. And that, too, explained the open admission-gate.
Recovering myself, I said: ‘Good evening.’ The man answered with a nod and then, in the broadest Scots I had ever heard, offered to show me the eastern block-house that had fallen beneath the battery of the French guns. Somewhat puzzled — for I knew that nothing was left of the eastern block-house, and that even its site was conjectural — and not sure that I had understood his invitation aright, I stammered politely: ‘Why, yes; certainly’; and then could have kicked myself. The man would probably be both an ignoramus and a bore. However, I would get away from him as quickly as I could. I glanced furtively at my watch. The time was five minutes to ten. I would give him until five minutes past ten, and would then make some excuse to escape.
Dark Encounters: Ghost Stories Page 9